Well, I'm sorry for my absence everyone. That underway sucked.
Right after my last post, I got pulled into my boss' office and lectured about bandwidth usage. My ship (CVN 70) is pretty strict about these kinds of things, so I ended up essentially being "grounded" from the Internet.
It doesn't help that I know the head of the combat systems department (who is a huge douchecanoe) and he loves to start shit for people.
It'll take a bit of catching up, but I can have a post up within a day or two. That is, of course, if I haven't been killed off/kicked out by now, or if you guys think I should just drop out. I know that unexpected absences are kind of off-putting, but I honestly had no idea that I would get an official write up banning me from a specific roleplaying website. :/
So, I'll catch up on the story thus far, and make another post if you'll still have me. If not, I'll just creep back in every once in a while and see how the exiles are doing. ;)
SonofJET
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- SonofJET 12 yrs ago
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Bio
Long time Guild member. 5-year Navy vet. Roleplaying since 2004 (MSN Groups, oh dang!). DMing D&D Since 2010 (3.5 until 5e was released, been doing that since then).
Most Recent Posts
I'm going to be slow posting for a while. Work is weighing me down. I expect to get a post up about every day or so, but feel free to kill off or bring along Alaric as you see fit.
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 must find him. 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.
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 must find him. 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.
I'm sorry I haven't been able to post. I'm underway right now, and they're keeping me pretty busy, but I'll pregame and get a post up later today.
Posted. I would have dropped one earlier, but I was pretty busy today. My weekend was secured for reasons above my pay grade.
Alaric was panting heavily, having just passed the midpoint of his exercise routine and coming to a stop in the middle of the training area. Sweat dripped from his deep blue skin at short, regular intervals, tickling the long tendrils that grew from his head before falling. The light sound the individual beads made as they dropped to the floor gave him something to focus on, and he seized the opportunity quickly, finding the rhythm of the drops, losing his conscious thought to it, and settling his body down for the rest of his exercise.
The rhythm reminded him somewhat of an intravenous drip, something he had seen quite a lot of recently...
The young Feeorin had been traveling with his Master, an elderly human named Yorik, for the past several months, completing various humanitarian missions in systems affected by the ongoing wars, and they had stopped back at Coruscant for a break. Yorik had raised concerns that Alaric was growing too focused on the morbid nature of their work, losing himself as they delved into those tragic environments.
The man was not far off. Alaric had noticed that his waking thoughts were always focused on the mission at hand, or on the horizon, and rarely in any hopeful way. Dark thoughts occupied his mind, ranging from the anticipation of encountering emotionally devastated individuals to trying his inexperienced hand at various emergency medical procedures.
He still had the occasional nightmare about his first time treating what was so clearly a doomed victim. The look of hope in their eyes, and the eyes of their children, at the realization that the mythical Jedi had come to their rescue, and the eventual dawning of heartbreak as it became evident that they would not survive. The wailing of survivors as he stood from beside the body, thick hot blood absolutely covering his hands and clothes.
Shaking his head, Alaric brought himself back to the present, no longer feeling fatigued, at the expense of his cheerful attitude only a few moments prior. In fact, he quickly began to feel sick, and his sweat immediately went cold, just as a wave of pure, relentless anguish ripped through his core. He fell to his knees, feeling hot, unfamiliar tears leap to his eyes as he began to understand what had happened.
As one familiar with death, and the pain it caused among those who cared for the deceased, Alaric quickly pieced together the morbid puzzle. He had been overcome by the Force, resonating with the death of many friends, teachers and those who were as close to family as many Jedi would ever know. Shortly thereafter, he felt the following grief, a far more subdued, sickening shudder that went through him.
They are dying... He thought, horrified as he heard the distant sound of blaster fire, of shipboard cannons laying waste to the temple he had called home. Of rolling thunder as structure failed and fell to the ground.
"Master!" Alaric gasped, realizing that Yorik had been speaking with a tribe of younglings, and that he would likely be defending them from whatever was assaulting the temple. Moving with a burst of Force-assisted speed, the Feeorin grabbed his belongings and raced towards the training halls, where he hoped to find his Master. Surely, he would know what to do.
Alaric only hoped that he could help to save as many lives as possible, and that they would all survive to see another day.
The rhythm reminded him somewhat of an intravenous drip, something he had seen quite a lot of recently...
The young Feeorin had been traveling with his Master, an elderly human named Yorik, for the past several months, completing various humanitarian missions in systems affected by the ongoing wars, and they had stopped back at Coruscant for a break. Yorik had raised concerns that Alaric was growing too focused on the morbid nature of their work, losing himself as they delved into those tragic environments.
The man was not far off. Alaric had noticed that his waking thoughts were always focused on the mission at hand, or on the horizon, and rarely in any hopeful way. Dark thoughts occupied his mind, ranging from the anticipation of encountering emotionally devastated individuals to trying his inexperienced hand at various emergency medical procedures.
He still had the occasional nightmare about his first time treating what was so clearly a doomed victim. The look of hope in their eyes, and the eyes of their children, at the realization that the mythical Jedi had come to their rescue, and the eventual dawning of heartbreak as it became evident that they would not survive. The wailing of survivors as he stood from beside the body, thick hot blood absolutely covering his hands and clothes.
Shaking his head, Alaric brought himself back to the present, no longer feeling fatigued, at the expense of his cheerful attitude only a few moments prior. In fact, he quickly began to feel sick, and his sweat immediately went cold, just as a wave of pure, relentless anguish ripped through his core. He fell to his knees, feeling hot, unfamiliar tears leap to his eyes as he began to understand what had happened.
As one familiar with death, and the pain it caused among those who cared for the deceased, Alaric quickly pieced together the morbid puzzle. He had been overcome by the Force, resonating with the death of many friends, teachers and those who were as close to family as many Jedi would ever know. Shortly thereafter, he felt the following grief, a far more subdued, sickening shudder that went through him.
They are dying... He thought, horrified as he heard the distant sound of blaster fire, of shipboard cannons laying waste to the temple he had called home. Of rolling thunder as structure failed and fell to the ground.
"Master!" Alaric gasped, realizing that Yorik had been speaking with a tribe of younglings, and that he would likely be defending them from whatever was assaulting the temple. Moving with a burst of Force-assisted speed, the Feeorin grabbed his belongings and raced towards the training halls, where he hoped to find his Master. Surely, he would know what to do.
Alaric only hoped that he could help to save as many lives as possible, and that they would all survive to see another day.
Whoo! :D
I can't wait.
I can't wait.
Acknowledged. I figured it'd be more of a deflection assistant, for the aspiring medic running to aid his allies under fire. And I figure the actual healing powers would be something to train in later. ;)
Name: Alaric
Age: 16
Gender: Male
Species: Feeorin
Appearance:
Level:Padawan
Class: Guardian
Force Abilities: Force Speed, Telekinesis, Force Sense, Basic Mind Trick, Tutaminis
Non-Force Related Skills: First-Aid, Unarmed Combat
Lightsaber Forms: Form III, Form V, Tràkata
Lightsaber hilt and colour: A slightly elongated, blue-toned hilt with a large ring set into the pommel, Alaric's lightsaber produces a slightly shorter, wider blade than those of many of his counterparts, which glows a deep, rich orange.
Other Equipment: Personal Datapad, Medical Kit, Training Remote
History: Born to immigrant parents on Coruscant, Alaric spent the first few years of his life in the slums, growing increasingly jaded as he began to understand the world around him.
Shortly after his fourth birthday, however, he was taken away from his pitiful life. Discovered to be force-sensitive by the Jedi, he was quickly taken into the temple, where it was hoped that his demeanor could be changed for the better, in order to undo the damage that a hard life may have done to his young mind.
After being initiated as a Jedi, Alaric discovered an enjoyment of the healing arts, although his prowess in physical combat could hardly be denied. As such, he tends to split his free time between study of various medical techniques, and rigorous physical training.
It often seems that he is apathetic to his own problems. In truth, he prefers it to be so, feeling that his emotions may be overcome simply by dismissing them from his mind. He will soon find that this is not the case...
Age: 16
Gender: Male
Species: Feeorin
Appearance:
Level:Padawan
Class: Guardian
Force Abilities: Force Speed, Telekinesis, Force Sense, Basic Mind Trick, Tutaminis
Non-Force Related Skills: First-Aid, Unarmed Combat
Lightsaber Forms: Form III, Form V, Tràkata
Lightsaber hilt and colour: A slightly elongated, blue-toned hilt with a large ring set into the pommel, Alaric's lightsaber produces a slightly shorter, wider blade than those of many of his counterparts, which glows a deep, rich orange.
Other Equipment: Personal Datapad, Medical Kit, Training Remote
History: Born to immigrant parents on Coruscant, Alaric spent the first few years of his life in the slums, growing increasingly jaded as he began to understand the world around him.
Shortly after his fourth birthday, however, he was taken away from his pitiful life. Discovered to be force-sensitive by the Jedi, he was quickly taken into the temple, where it was hoped that his demeanor could be changed for the better, in order to undo the damage that a hard life may have done to his young mind.
After being initiated as a Jedi, Alaric discovered an enjoyment of the healing arts, although his prowess in physical combat could hardly be denied. As such, he tends to split his free time between study of various medical techniques, and rigorous physical training.
It often seems that he is apathetic to his own problems. In truth, he prefers it to be so, feeling that his emotions may be overcome simply by dismissing them from his mind. He will soon find that this is not the case...
I'm interested, if you'll have me.
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