Played by Talverin
There were always limits. Edges. Everything was bounded in some form, delineated, enclosed. Walls that could not be climbed, or burrowed beneath, or even broken through in some cases. Everything had their limits, which you could not find until you pushed. How else could you know? How could you know what was glass and what was stone until you pushed against it? He had always believed in pushing. Always. Exploring, finding the boundaries, evading them, outsmarting them, or battering them down with concentrated willpower. He had never shied away from it, not even when it brought him pain and strife. Such suffering was simply the price demanded by progress. Everything had a price.
Everything had limits.
Right now, Vendryn could feel his own limit fast approaching. His end. Nothing existed beyond it. What could? A half-existence as a shadow in the Force? A whispering shade, muttering snatches of stolen wisdom to uncaring acolytes? Nothing worthwhile lay beyond the veil, when nothing worthwhile was being left before it. How could he dare dream of the eternity after his death when he had barely made use of the life which came before it? Darth Cenotas, he had called himself. Such hubris.
Darkness. A yawning void where awareness had been a moment before.
He would've laughed, if laughing wasn't the harbinger of such agony. He felt the air bubbling in his lungs, staring up at the drying slick of azure blood that clung to the metal he was impaled upon. He had been there, transfixed like a butterfly, staring up at the implement of his own undoing. No grand battle this had been, not for himself, anyway. Even more galling, it wasn't even personal. It was an ambush, plain and simple. They had been betrayed, though the traitor was on another ship entirely; their squadron had simply been lured into an ambush and struck from the skies. A battlefield far too vast for any one man, even himself, to make a difference. He had simply been in transit, between one place and another. The wrong place, the wrong time. Even his own powers had been insufficient to turn aside the killing blow. A single proton torpedo that had passed their defenses, and nearly struck the nose of the ship. In a desperate surge of power, Vendryn had sent the torpedo spiraling off course, pushing it away from the armored cockpit where he had stood. His death was not the instant boiling furor of an explosion, snuffed out in an instant. Instead, the torpedo had sheared the engines from the ship, and sent them tumbling down to the planet's surface. He wasn't even sure what planet he was going to die on.
The crash, uncontrolled, had been barely survivable. Of all those standing on the bridge, only he still drew breath. The ship struck and tumbled, and his seat had been shorn from the floor, throwing him free and... onto a jutting piece of broken railing. The metal was twisted around a buckled piece of hull from the first impact. It stuck forth from the mess of the navigator's console like a flagpole, awaiting a cause to dress it in finery.
Darkness. A pitch black absence of thought. They were coming more often, now. Was it blood loss? Would he simply slip into darkness and never rise again?
He knew he could simply pull himself off of it. Simply wasn't quite, perhaps, the correct word for the effort he knew it would took, the agony that would steal what breath his single remaining lung could draw. Just thinking about the sheer blinding bolts of pain that followed any adjustment was enough to make the action unpalatable, but worse was that he knew it would kill him. Healing had never been his strongest art, and often numbered amongst his weakest. He knew something of the art of drawing the life force from another, but the guttering candles that had occupied the bridge with him had only given him enough strength not to fade into a sleep from which he would not awaken. Once he assessed that they would be unable to affect his rescue, Vendryn simply drew the life from their bodies, sustaining himself. Their sacrifices would not be in vain.
Even though he had no plan, no hope, he simply could not allow himself to resign to the inevitable and let himself die. He would fight to the last moment, to the very last breath, hanging on tooth and nail to that moment, unwilling to relinquish his tenacious grasp upon life.
A flicker of the dark, cloying, clinging, grasping at the edges of his vision. Had he blacked out again? Had he slipped? How long had it been?
But he could see his limits. There were always limits. Edges. Everything was bounded in some form, delineated, enclosed... Even his own life. It was a line, was it not? It had a beginning, but only when it had an end could you identify the middle. An end. And he could see it.
Even as his mind nearly drowned itself in another cycle of introspection, an ostrich burying its head in metaphor to deny the cold blade of reality plunged into his chest, he heard something. Movement. Someone living, someone... Not hurt? Not part of the crew, then; there had been only ten or so aboard his small courier when it was shot down, and five of them he was certain were dead. The rest he could only assume; when the engines were vaporized, no one back there could have survived. So who? Who could it be? Who wandered the halls of his tomb?
He lifted his head, marginally, trying to turn and face the direction the sound came from. Reaching with his mind, searching for a flicker of life or-
Darkness, a deeper black this time, sticking to his thoughts like tar. He could not shed them. This darkness was absolute, encroaching. Where was his lightsaber? Where was his blade? If only he could find it, he could strike back against the darkness. He could drive it back, just for a moment. He knew it wasn't at his hip; he had reached for it when he first realized his plight. He couldn't even sense it amongst the ruins. He was alone.
Was he alone?
The noises, the movement, drew closer.
Lumiya Dara
Everything had limits.
Right now, Vendryn could feel his own limit fast approaching. His end. Nothing existed beyond it. What could? A half-existence as a shadow in the Force? A whispering shade, muttering snatches of stolen wisdom to uncaring acolytes? Nothing worthwhile lay beyond the veil, when nothing worthwhile was being left before it. How could he dare dream of the eternity after his death when he had barely made use of the life which came before it? Darth Cenotas, he had called himself. Such hubris.
Darkness. A yawning void where awareness had been a moment before.
He would've laughed, if laughing wasn't the harbinger of such agony. He felt the air bubbling in his lungs, staring up at the drying slick of azure blood that clung to the metal he was impaled upon. He had been there, transfixed like a butterfly, staring up at the implement of his own undoing. No grand battle this had been, not for himself, anyway. Even more galling, it wasn't even personal. It was an ambush, plain and simple. They had been betrayed, though the traitor was on another ship entirely; their squadron had simply been lured into an ambush and struck from the skies. A battlefield far too vast for any one man, even himself, to make a difference. He had simply been in transit, between one place and another. The wrong place, the wrong time. Even his own powers had been insufficient to turn aside the killing blow. A single proton torpedo that had passed their defenses, and nearly struck the nose of the ship. In a desperate surge of power, Vendryn had sent the torpedo spiraling off course, pushing it away from the armored cockpit where he had stood. His death was not the instant boiling furor of an explosion, snuffed out in an instant. Instead, the torpedo had sheared the engines from the ship, and sent them tumbling down to the planet's surface. He wasn't even sure what planet he was going to die on.
The crash, uncontrolled, had been barely survivable. Of all those standing on the bridge, only he still drew breath. The ship struck and tumbled, and his seat had been shorn from the floor, throwing him free and... onto a jutting piece of broken railing. The metal was twisted around a buckled piece of hull from the first impact. It stuck forth from the mess of the navigator's console like a flagpole, awaiting a cause to dress it in finery.
Darkness. A pitch black absence of thought. They were coming more often, now. Was it blood loss? Would he simply slip into darkness and never rise again?
He knew he could simply pull himself off of it. Simply wasn't quite, perhaps, the correct word for the effort he knew it would took, the agony that would steal what breath his single remaining lung could draw. Just thinking about the sheer blinding bolts of pain that followed any adjustment was enough to make the action unpalatable, but worse was that he knew it would kill him. Healing had never been his strongest art, and often numbered amongst his weakest. He knew something of the art of drawing the life force from another, but the guttering candles that had occupied the bridge with him had only given him enough strength not to fade into a sleep from which he would not awaken. Once he assessed that they would be unable to affect his rescue, Vendryn simply drew the life from their bodies, sustaining himself. Their sacrifices would not be in vain.
Even though he had no plan, no hope, he simply could not allow himself to resign to the inevitable and let himself die. He would fight to the last moment, to the very last breath, hanging on tooth and nail to that moment, unwilling to relinquish his tenacious grasp upon life.
A flicker of the dark, cloying, clinging, grasping at the edges of his vision. Had he blacked out again? Had he slipped? How long had it been?
But he could see his limits. There were always limits. Edges. Everything was bounded in some form, delineated, enclosed... Even his own life. It was a line, was it not? It had a beginning, but only when it had an end could you identify the middle. An end. And he could see it.
Even as his mind nearly drowned itself in another cycle of introspection, an ostrich burying its head in metaphor to deny the cold blade of reality plunged into his chest, he heard something. Movement. Someone living, someone... Not hurt? Not part of the crew, then; there had been only ten or so aboard his small courier when it was shot down, and five of them he was certain were dead. The rest he could only assume; when the engines were vaporized, no one back there could have survived. So who? Who could it be? Who wandered the halls of his tomb?
He lifted his head, marginally, trying to turn and face the direction the sound came from. Reaching with his mind, searching for a flicker of life or-
Darkness, a deeper black this time, sticking to his thoughts like tar. He could not shed them. This darkness was absolute, encroaching. Where was his lightsaber? Where was his blade? If only he could find it, he could strike back against the darkness. He could drive it back, just for a moment. He knew it wasn't at his hip; he had reached for it when he first realized his plight. He couldn't even sense it amongst the ruins. He was alone.
Was he alone?
The noises, the movement, drew closer.
Lumiya Dara