Every moment here felt like another moment wasted. To put all the pieces back together from whence they were shattered. To shape it all back together, a fervant, meticulous task on part of Treicolt. Aimless at where to begin, oblivious to the path that awaited him. But for now, the New Jedi Order and their scion by the means of Auteme sought answers.
For now, he'd have to repair what was broken in himself before he could continue as his whole mortal being. The wounds of war were still heavy on his features. Fading burns and lacerations dug into his skin, pits of exhausted anguish dug into his gaze. That once hopeful, bright eyed hot shot ace was long dead. He'd died time and time again, Harnaidan, Bastion, Dantooine, Felucia, Ziost. All that was left was all he ever had to begin with. The will to endure.
Auteme was clear in that there was little in negotiating this process, not by threat but by the decisiveness of her words. He glanced the way of the Nautolan. He'd never met this Jedi in earnest save for the briefings prior to Dantooine and Ziost. Now, they were expected to delve into this fray of navigating forgotten torment. He relented to reach forward with his right hand, assuming immediately the cybernetic might not be able to channel the desired effect, before reaching out with his other hand, grasping ahold of the stone.
What followed, the darkness that lingered within.
These 10,000 days in the fire.
They all emerged in brief flashes, clear visions shrouded in anguish.
It began where it all did for him, Concord Dawn.
The feeling of loss was as powerful then as it was now. That feverish need to protect those who he'd ever cared about only compounded once he was able to forge those bonds again.
That close brush of death passed over him in Harnaidan. He nearly let her go. Nearly lost the reason he continued this horrid march to begin with.
So emerged the raid unto Dantooine, that sent Maynard, not too dissimilar to the state he was in now. Only barely straining himself to continue the march, grasping tightly of what remained. Thus began the stretch that made up the incriminations of himself now. His saber in hand meeting the flesh of the disciples of the Sith Brotherhood, their neophyte fanatics, the acolytes. He never saw children, he never hurt children. Children don't raise their arms with the screaming hate and will to bring ruin in their eyes. When Aradia approached him with fire in her hands, he offered quarter and in return, she offered cinder and he lurched into the fray all the same.
It was a tale as old of time in the war of light and dark. The fight to exist. It would be his mercy and her wrath that would've saw him among the ruins on Dantooine. Or he would've struck first, as he did. As he always did.
So then emerged...the totality of the fall on Ziost. He sought the death of who would soon be known to be responsible for the warping and demented transformation of his lover,
Loske Treicolt
in the onset of the campaign on Felucia, but his anger became paramount in New Adasta.
Under the veil of The Lie, he roamed less the Wolf and more the Demon in bloodied defiance of the Sith. That mercy he offered on Dantooine, gone in the wake of cruel brutality. Death forced by his own hands in the fray, the infernal envelopment that he willed unto the enemy, the banner of the Wolf rising above the ashes, the piling corpses around him. There was nothing resembling any 'Jedi' within him save for the weapon he wielded.
With that, he severed the stream of memories to Loske, leaning back once more as his hazel gaze snapped open to life once more.
"Anything else you're lookin' for?" He asked outright.
