Alaric tore through the halls of the Jedi Temple like a raging beast, avoiding combat wherever he could, and overwhelming the foes he could not avoid. He refrained from using his lightsaber, for the most part, preferring instead to barrel into errant clones, rolling over them and dispatching them with mighty stomps and blows to the weak points in their armor. He must have crushed a dozen spines and windpipes en route from the training hall to the place he had last seen Master Yorik.

So fast did the Feeorin Jedi fall upon stray clones, they had little time to react. Nonetheless, their training proved superb, as he had come away from several encounters with smoking, stinging wounds. Glancing blows, yes, but the only reason he had not been crippled by them was through considerable focus on the practice he had been introduced to by Yorik; Tutaminis.

His grasp of the technique was firm, but the application was where he fell short. Alaric always seemed to either focus too much on the technique, at the cost of situational awareness, or vice versa.

As such, he had slowed considerably by the time he reached one of the many classrooms, limping with each step on his left leg, and holding onto his right side tenderly.

[i]I must find him.[/i] Alaric thought, searching rooms quickly, and reaching out with his senses for the familiar presence of his master.

“Alaric!” The old man croaked feebly. The Feeorin perked up at the call, and hurried to find the source, following his ears as much as his Force sense.

Alaric found his master lying against a wall, right hand clutching a pattern of charred blaster wounds in his chest. A number of clone troopers lay around him, dismembered with the unnervingly clean strokes of his lightsaber, which lay on his lap.

“Master!” He cried, rushing to his side and dropping to a kneel, placing his hands on the old man’s shoulder and his knee, surveying the damage that had been done by the clone trooper’s weapons.

“We are lost, I fear… My time is coming to an end.”

“No, we can get you to the medical ward, and… And…”

“Even if the facilities were intact, which is surely not so, too much damage has been done. I have only managed to remain conscious this long by strenuous effort… You must escape, my Padawan… There are others, fleeing through the secret passages. Give them whatever aid you can...” Yorik was growing pale, and cold. And Alaric could feel his pulse slowing.

“Master… Why did this happen?”
“The Dark Side has concealed our enemies… And they have revealed themselves now. There is nothing to be done, except to flee, regroup, and rebuild. The time will come again for the Jedi to bring peace to the galaxy, but it is going to be almost impossible… This was an admittedly brilliant stroke…”

Alaric raised his hands from Yorik, furrowing his brow and feeling the unfamiliar tears return to his eyes as he clenched his fists against his thighs.

“Take… My lightsaber… And my datapad… They are yours now, son…” Yorik gasped, holding said items out with weak, shaking hands.

Alaric opened his eyes, vision blurry with tears, and gently took the items from his master.

“You will be avenged, master…”

“Seek only peace… Alaric…” Yorik grunted, giving him an impressively sharp stare for a man on his deathbed. The Feeorin opened his mouth to speak, but decided against it.

“Good… Now run… And save any survivors you find…”

Alaric stood, bowed his head, and turned to leave, feeling a great, frigid hollow space growing within his gut.

As he left the room, Alaric felt the presence of his master fluctuate within the Force, before going out. The Feeorin choked back his anguish as he staggered to the closest set of secret passages, passed into them, and hurried to find an escape route, as well as some other survivors.