[member="Evard L'Rik"]
((A beer? Really? Do you have
any characters who aren't alcoholic?
))
The ancient battlefield of Bothawui, left mostly untouched, was silent. No wildlife, no locals, nothing.
Well, not exactly
nothing. There
was a ghost.
And what a ghost she was. Wandering around for the umpteenth time, the ghost walked with a purpose. Several, actually. None of which were new to her.
The first one, to await a response to the Force probe she had sent out, one of millions over the centuries. Though she had never gotten a response, the ghost never gave up hope. The galaxy was a big place, filled with Force Users. Soon, her time would come.
Her second purpose was to keep an eye out for people, and protect the place where her lightsaber was buried. The ghost had no wish to have someone destroy her, not out of malice, but out of ignorance.
Her last purpose was to relive the events of that fateful day, picking out things on the battlefield.
There, where a crater was.
An armoured being whose head was masked, but whose face she knew well -- a young Cathar male, half of his striped face bald from a previous battle; one eye blind, the other a constant yellow flame of merriment. He struggled to pull a limp body behind their lines, a symbol with two crossed lightsabers on his shoulder. The body had one, too. Less than five feet from where the two had been, a grenade landed and blasted them off their feet. Other soldiers stopped and hauled the two (still alive, miraculously) to safety.
See there, where a rock was, weathered down by time and war.
A slightly dirty yet very much alive version of the ghost ran alongside an older Cerean male, their lightsabers lit: hers, two lines of blue iciness; his, one bold line of forest green. "Master! Do you think we will be able to repel them?" the Padawan called.
"Bah, General! Have faith in us!" another soldier shouted, clearly a member of the same squad as the Cathar. "We'll have these Imps running away with their tails between their legs!"
The Cerean and the human laughed at the man. "It seems you have enough confidence for everyone, Jarvis." Under his helmet, Jarvis laughed, too. Laughter was how the three, and others, made it through this dreadful war; it was what kept them from going insane, thinking about the deaths of their friends.
The ghost paused at a spot that, at first glance, was unremarkable. But to her, it was the most important spot of all.
She stood there, watching in bemusement as an Imperial squad turned their guns on a young Pureblood girl. She didn't understand -- was the squad defecting? Was the girl? She turned to ask her Master, but before anything could be said a great force pushed her back, knocking her onto her back. Dazed for but a second, the Padawan leapt up, calling her sabers to her.
Her Master was engaged in battle with another Sith, presumably the Pureblood's Master. Based on the noxious taint of the dark side, she assumed he was most likely a Darth.
Running forward, she leapt at the man, intent on helping her Master. The trio fought, two against one, but it was always a stalemate. He could not get the upper hand, and neither could they. Guns fired around them, grenades exploded, and the cries of the injured could be heard for miles.
A sudden spike in the Force stole the Padawan's attention, and it was all the Darth needed. With a vicious snarl, his lightsaber tore through the woman, and she collapsed. Gasping. Wheezing. Clutching her lightsabers. Oh, the pain!
The ghost sighed, kneeling down on the exact spot where she died. For many years now, she had continued to relive these memories, her only companions in a place where none knew her and she knew none.
