Inyri Takan
Moonstruck
(n) spanish - 'living together', in the sense of living or working closely with other people with whom you share
Eadu, The Bastion, Midnight | Thousand Eyes
Deep in the bowls of the Sovereignty's mighty Citadel, Inyri lay lost in dreamscape.
At first, these experiences had been terribly unpleasant. Uncomfortable, awkward, and she'd wake up in a cold sweat with little to no distinct memories except the feeling of being rattled to her very core. Now, like someone who had grown complacent to abuse, she too had gotten used to the vivid scenes she would see whilst drifting, and had even learned to recall them in her waking hours.
Alarms and shouting, panicked civilians, the silence of oblivion associated with a quick but violent death. The pain of a nameless grave, never to be remembered or honoured. The selfish desire to live. Why was that selfish? The boundless anger afterwards. So much hate. Too many regrets. After the eighth night, she realized she was experiencing someone's last moments, over and over, like a broken holotape playing the same scene in a vid. It was always the same, always so brutal, and so sad.
"Inyri."
Laying there in her quarters, the Guardian felt her body tense. It was a sort of tense you felt whilst you were certain something was watching or observing you, something not entirely there. Perhaps she hadn't fully awoken, the lull of sleep still dulling her senses and faculties as that almost sounded like--
"I'm disappointed. You haven't even tried to decipher my messages. I had hopes, you know..."
"Master Yrsa." In two simple words, Inyri's world shifted around her, a paradigm shift of such proportions that at once she was fully awake and upright in bed, groggy eyes scanning her room. But there was nobody there. At first, she might have written it off as a tired delusion. Her mind still held in the influence of her dreams, unreliable to what she might hear or see.
But when that unmistakable tone came again, her heart practically crawled into the pit of her stomach. It had the same lilt, her manner of speaking; if it was a trick, it was a meticulous one.
"Child, did you not even deign to look into what became of me? The violence and injustice dealt? No, of course not. No matter. Do you see now?"
She did. A verbal reply wasn't needed, the dark realization was written all over Inyri's face. Finding the courage to speak was difficult, but it came after a passing moment, "I'm sorry. I am. But you left--"
"Dwell on the past and it consumes you. Dwell on the future and it kills you. Focus on your present, apprentice."
Even from the grave she seeks to teach me, Inyri mused privately, hiding the well of emotions she felt at being referred to as a mere student again. It seemed as though there was a pause before the strange, disembodied voice of her dead Master continued, "I have much to atone for as well. Forces beyond my control separated us, and the war was the final nail in my long-empty coffin. But you. Your training was never complete, and for that I grieve. You're a half-finished piece." Yrsa didn't leave much time for Inyri to process those words, unsure whether to feel sad at the true revelation of her master's passing, to feel insulted that even in death she still regarded her as an incomplete project, or to feel a general peace at the answers this communication brought. The combination of all three at once was too disorientating, though. Before Inyri could reply aloud the voice had begun again.
"I can feel my influence slipping away on this plane. I've only had enough energy remaining to speak like this before I wane into silent observation. Let me be blunt. I cannot-- Will not --find my peace unless your education is concluded to my satisfaction."
Now there was uncertain hubris. I'm that important to her? Even in death?
"I can practically see your ego swelling. This is more for you than it is me. If you are to remain my mortal link in life, then you must be correct. Nobody shall say I never finished a task."
The pride deflated.
"I never educated you as a Jedi, nor did I seek to, but neither did I look to the Sith for their wayward teachings. You're the one in between, as I was, but sometimes we lean. Sometimes we reach into shadows while grasping for a torch. Consider this your brief... Flirtation with the truest light, my apprentice. Complete the Jedi trials as I did, dictated in their traditions, and construct your own weapon so you will not rely on my own so heavily. It will serve as an adequate rite of passage for you, to become a true Knight."
There was a noticeable hitch in the disembodied voice before Yrsa continued with a noticeable touch of emotion in it now, one that only served to make Inyri's heart heavy, "Only then will I be able to join the Force without regret. I will be watching you, and I will be with you, even if you don't believe so. Even if I feel far away."
Like a passing breeze, Inyri felt her master's ethereal presence leave both her body and spirit. It was sharp and sudden, like being punched or concussed. She reeled from it all the same, putting her head in her hands for the briefest of shaken moments. It was a flash of weakness, one that was necessary but intolerable, and she was quick to stamp it out like a brewing fire. A few laboured breaths later, and she felt the last of her hesitation sliding away. She got up, wrapping her night shift closer around her body as she padded over to the small desk tucked into the corner of her meagre quarters. Picking up a comlink, one she had been given on a particularly ocean-esque world, that had been sitting there for God-knew-how-long, Inyri keyed it with a simple button press. Indicating to, whoever it was on the other end, that they had an inbound communications request. In the palm of her still-shaking hand, she held the means to speak across the galaxy; she only hoped he would pick up.
[member="Aryn Teth"]
