Resolution

[Fen]

Entry no.1 -

They tell me a journal will help. They must think me faye. Perhaps one day I will incorporate this into a holocron, but for now it is merely the journal of Ryan Korr, bedridden Jedi Master. It has been two weeks since Telti, but the wounds have yet to heal. I've not been wounded this sorely since I was a padawan at the Third Fall of Coruscant. I can only suspect that the sorceress' claws had some poison or dark spell upon them when she nearly ripped out my innards. Bacta won't repair severed intestines. The medical droids had to do it by hand. They say I'll make a full recovery in the next week, but those sidelong glances tell me something else is amiss.

The Republic has launched another raid today. I was unable to participateI cannot think of anything more wretched than sitting here twiddling my thumbs and smelling of decay and urine, while my brothers and sisters go off to die. It seems all we Jedi are good for is creating divisiveness amongst ourselves only to perish at the end of Sith blades. In a mere hundred years we've lost the galactic respect our ancestors built for millennia.

Nothing has been more ruinous to our cause than the creation of the Silver Jedi. They gave their reasons for leaving years ago, but I can only think that they were driven away from us by Selena Halcyon's legacy of violence. Since then they have proven more apathetic to our cause than I would have thought possible. I should have known what was coming the day Coruscant fell and they deserted us in our hour of need. The memory still stings, like salt on a wound that has never fully healed. Little else in the galaxy causes me such heartache as their betrayal.

Perhaps that is what makes my caretakers anxious. No doubt they feel the seething rage trembling just beneath the surface. This placating mask of stone I wear is cracking. How long can I pretend to keep a visage void of emotion when there is so much anger in my heart? I'm standing at the edge of a precipice, staring down at all the destruction and death dealt to my Republic. Nothing but darkness resides in that abyss. Nothing but darkness and hate. And I can feel myself slipping.

 

[Fen]

Entro no. 2

The pain is less today and my spirits are higher. We've received word of a skirmish at the Phaeda-Ithor corridor. Our pilots proved superior, but losses on both sides were light. A mere drop in the bucket, but the kind that can prove invigorating. These minor victories instill new hope. Perhaps we will have a victory in pitched battle against the One Sith. Perhaps this will change the tide. Our martial record is naught but a string of brutal defeats. It makes me wonder if Selena Halcyon is really the fool I thought her to be. Her methods were harsh and divisive, but the results were undeniable. The combined force of the Protectorate, the Republic, and the Mandalorians united to bring the Sith Empire down. But then I think of Ossus and remember the way my Master fled to see to some portend of the future, leaving myself and three other padawans to be slaughtered by a Sith knight. The years have dulled the clarity of that rain-soaked day and for that I am thankful, but I can remember every drop that splashed on her face as she died in my arms.

I still can't even bring myself to say her name.

*a short, bitter chuckle is heard*

Hm, even when the sun breaks through I can still find a way to darken the day. They tell me I don't laugh, but I'll have time for laughter after this war is over.

The wounds are healing well. The bacta has rid me of any festering and now I merely smell of that blue gel, sickly-sweet. They'll leave scars, of course. More for my collection. This marks the third time I've escaped death by a narrow margin. I've survived the Embrace of Pain, two lightsabers through the back, and nearly been disemboweled, yet I can't help but think that fate still has worse to throw at me.

 

[Fen]

Entry no. 3

​While I've lain here with naught else to do, I've read over various reports from Jedi outside of the Order to get a sense of how far we've spread and how those in self-imposed exile fair. One of the names caught my attention. Jaxton Ravos. A Jedi of great prowess and one who had served at Grandmaster Teferi's command. I was only a child then, but I still remember the wave of mourning that swept through us at the Grandmaster's death. Ravos was the one who stood beside him and fought Moridin. It seems since then that Ravos' repertoire has only grown, for among rare abilities such as the White Current, it also seems he has taken up a blade that can hack through beskar. The reports are vague at best and received third hand. I'll need to send him a missive. Aside from this matter I still have to thank him for his aid on Prakith. Without him Quinn and I would have surely perished.

In the meantime, I've sent for several copies of ancient holocrons in our vast repository of knowledge. Fighting against the Yuuzhan Vong and other beings who wear armor impenetrable by lightsabers has left us all at a sore disadvantage. Our greatest asset besides the Force, the blade that is supposed to be our life, is useless against such metals. Perhaps Master Ravos' new saber will give us the edge we need.

*entry resumes timestamped as several hours later*

The holocrons haven't yet arrived, but thoughts of Prakith have dredged up uncomfortable memories. I am unable to sleep. The prophetess Isolda spoke into my mind and though she be the author of much of my suffering, I cannot shake a strange sense of kinship with her. There was something in her thoughts and looks that reminded me of... of what I do not yet know. An old memory. I couldn't have been more than a year old. It is hazy, but still I sense a presence in that memory that reminds me of her. They could not be the same?

I must admit the anxiousness this has sent through me. I'll have a sample of my blood analyzed immediately. Ancestry is a dangerous subject for a Jedi to tamper with, but I cannot think of another way to quell my restless thoughts.

 

[Fen]

Entry no. 4

Ravos sent me a brief outline of the components he used. Research into the holocrons we have on file has likewise helped me in mentally shaping a vague schematic for what a beskar-rending blade would look like. Ravos based his designs on a proto-saber, using the power pack to bolster the weapon's cutting power is a stroke of genius that I cannot hope to recreate. I have no mind for such creative architecture, nor would such a blade suit me. The cord connecting the blade to the power pack would hamper my movement and void all my years of training and experience in the more mobile forms of combat. I must look to other avenues of approach.

The blade of Exar Kun was said to be capable of rending through beskar on the highest power setting. Such a feat means that the power cells in his double-bladed saber could put out enough energy to do so without being instantaneously drained. A saber staff is an unwieldy weapon, in my opinion. And a light pike would perhaps be even more hindrance to my mobility than would a proto-saber. Yet my research along with a Jedi librarian's compendium of different hilts and blade styles shed some light upon the long-handled variant. Perhaps if I filled the hilt with diatium power cells and created a powerful focusing lens it may yield the results I seek. A crude method, when compared to Ravos' masterwork, which by his report is forged from Mandalorian iron and contains only the very best crystals. Still, it would be an improvement on seeing my current blade thwarted against such metals.

I've oft wondered how the caretakers of our libraries could spend such vast amounts of time scouring old tomes and holocrons. Now, confined to the medbay until I heal, I have taken a strange solace from this work. I may not be out there fighting alongside my fellow Jedi, but at least now I am engaged in some productive act rather than bemoaning my fate and the state of the Republic.

 

[Fen]

Entry no. 5

I feel ready to walk again, if not run. Maybe I can venture to Ilum and find a crystal there. It has been years since I've done the trial. In my current state they would no doubt try to dissuade me.


Still, there are few enough who can order about a High Councillor, though the title is something I never asked for. I cannot but wonder if I am becoming that which I hated. The Council, a group of high-saddled fools enclosed in an ivory tower shouting down commands to those below while they guide our sinking ship away from rocks that the rest of us cannot see. And yet, now I am a part of them, through no wish of my own. I thought I might change them, but in truth I feel as if I am only growing more impotent in that chair. Is it my fate, to become that which I felt was responsible for the death of so many friends? Some days it feels that way.

The Order is eroding before my eyes, our days of glory and splendor long-ended. What little renown we once had is tarnished by those whose hands hold too tight a grip, or too little. We walk the tight rope over extinction and we are losing our balance. That sensation I felt before, of slipping... I don't think it is just me.

 

[Fen]

Entry no. 6

The bay is crowded with the wounded. I cannot sleep for the sounds of them. The raid was repulsed and we suffered heavy losses. To have my hopes dashed yet again and I still helpless here burns me beyond my own comprehension. I tremble at the mere thought. My presence would not have turned the tide, but at least I would not feel guilt upon my throat as bitter as bile.

I am finished with this infernal confinement. Today, I will go to the cavern and find a crystal for my blade. I have already gathered all the components, it's just a matter of the crystals that's at stake. In my time here I have assembled two other sabers to replace the old one, but they too lack crystals. It's time I left. My wounds still ache, but the pain of the flesh is passing. I have endured worse and survived. In time, this will be nothing more than a memory of anguish.

The bay became my own personal hell in the last seven hours since the wounded arrived, but their whimpers of pain will no doubt torture my mind for months to come.

 

[Fen]

Entry no. 7

As I travel to Illum, I have time to pour over the results I received from my blood sample. In all the excitement over creating a new blade I'd nearly forgotten about it. The analysis proves disconcerting. I am not a pureblood human, as I thought. I am a Vahla, resembling humans in nearly every way save having a more elastic body structure. It is an oversight of our medical department that this was not discovered sooner, though they doubtless saw before and thought that I knew of my heritage.

*a snort*

And what a heritage it is. A nomadic people, who travel the galaxy never resting for too long in one place. I wonder where they are now, or if Isolda has enslaved them all beneath some spell. Quinn says the sorceress is still alive, but I've heard nothing of the woman's activities for years. Perhaps she was crippled in the aftermath of Prakith, or perhaps she is merely biding her time.

The texts I've read on the Vahla say that my kind has an innate inclination to the Dark Side. Mere conjecture, I'm sure. To believe that an entire people suffer from urges over which they have no control is ludicrous. Still, it would explain much of the turmoil I have felt. I often wonder why other Jedi do not suffer the same struggle as I. It would be so easy to give in to the darkness and wield that power against our foes. But the rest seem impervious to the Dark Side's clutches, until they suddenly and inexplicably fall in some battle or another. I feel alone in my struggle. Mayhap that is why I am so bitter.

There is an indescribable emotion inside my heart at the thought that I may have some family out in the galaxy other than the Jedi. It is slippery and vague. For once in my life, the notion of leaving the Order has flitted through my mind. Leave it to find these others. A passing thought, nothing more than an idle flight of fancy. Yet, I cannot grasp the feelings it sends throughout me, save confusion. I will need to meditate to clear my head. I cannot venture into the caves being pulled in two different directions.

 

[Fen]

Entry no. 8

I've arrived at the caves. They could not be so horrid as when I was a padawan. All I seek are a trio of crystals, their resonance harmonizing with my own presence. A tall task, to find so many. Force willing I shall finish before the day is out. But-

*entry cuts out*

Cold winds buffeted Ryan Korr's clothe-bundled form. Beneath his hood, frost coated both lock and brow. Amidst the arctic outcry, Korr barely heard the roar of a gorgodon as it sprang from some the snow, claws extended. A tremor of premonition tingled along his spine and he whirled, only to be batted aside by one of the monster's massive claws.

Korr tumbled through the snow. He arose shakily to meet a second charge. More prepared for this assault, Korr moved with the speed and grace one might expect from a Jedi Master. He ducked under a vicious swipe and delivered a bare-handed jab to the creature's eye. It bellowed in anger and suddenly Korr found himself enfolded in a crushing embrace.

As his bones began to bend, perilously close to breaking, the Jedi gathered what little strength he had into a repulsive wave of telekinesis that broke the creature's grasp and sent it in turn tumbling backward. He took up a fighting stance, features resolute, belying the pain and exhaustion he felt.

The creature charged a third time, arms spread wide to seize him. Ryan pushed off from the ground, springing high over the monster with the aid of the Force. He felt long claws rake across his back, then he was behind the creature. Ryan slammed the heel of an open-handed palm into the base of the creature's neck. Crack. The monster fell to the ground limply.

Korr collapsed to his knees, panting heavily. Fresh blood rolled down his lacerated back. He grimaced, trying to stand up. If he didn't move more would come. Against a pair or more he stood little chance, especially without a lightsaber. Ryan stood and stumbled toward the entrance of a nearby cavern, where he'd found his first crystal.

* * *
Several hours later...

The scar-kissed Jedi sat in a grotto deep inside the cavern. The walls of the cave were a smooth, black stone. Unmarred save for the coveted Ilum crystals. In the dim light provided from those gems of adegan and pontite, Korr had laid the disassembled hilts of two lightsabers made of an unremarkable silver-hued metal. Two crystals sat next to the smaller hilt, while one sat next to the larger.

Clearly engrossed in meditation, Korr's cross-legged form remained motionless save for a few twitches in his face. Slowly, the hilts rose along with the crystals and the components began to snap into place in perfect harmony. When it was finished, Korr released a gasp and his eyes flared open, full of grey-eyed consternation. He seized the hilts and left without a word, throwing only a single furtive glance behind him.

 

[Fen]

Entry no. 9

The gorgodon on Ilum nearly killed me. I took its fur as a trophy. But it was not the most dangerous presence on Ilum. The spirits that haunted my meditation nearly drove me to insanity. I saw faces of dead friends and felt the sting of hurled accusations. My composure suffered nearly as much as my body, which now bears another trio of wounds upon my back where the beast flayed me.

Despite what I saw, felt and fought, I have not accomplished my goal. True, I built two new lightsabers, but the third is yet unfinished. My visions on Ilum told me to go to Hoth. I know not why. I shall follow the will of the Force and see what lies at the end of this path.

 

[Fen]

Once more, a tall figure braved the tundra of an inhospitable planet, though this one bore a different name. Ryan Korr trudged ankle-deep in snow, senses questing out as he followed the Force. Like a sixth sense, the sensation guided him forward until he happened upon a cave. He glanced around with no small amount of apprehension. Ilum had gorgodons, but Hoth had wampas. And Korr was in no condition to seek another fight, still recovering from his many wounds, for if the talons of the sorceress made five, then the gorgodon's three-clawed hand made eight. And he was almost out of bacta patches.

With a tight-lipped expression, Ryan ventured into the cave, one hand clutching his newly-built shoto. He need not have feared, for no living presences lurked within this cavern. Though he did find a strange harmonic resonance coming from around the corner of this glacial cavern.

Rounding it, Korr was greeted with a startling sight. The corpses of two beings lay in the middle of a pool of blood, the vitae long frozen. Ryan approached warily, looking over the Wampa, which had been hacked to bits, but not before it had torn out the throat of a young Rodian. Leaning closer, Ryan recognized the face of a padawan who had gone off on his own vision quest not three months prior. He had been listed as missing for some time now. A pang of sorrow flashed briefly within Ryan before he walled off the grief.

The Rodian appeared to be holding something in one hand. After prying apart the padwan's fingers, Ryan found the source of the harmonic resonation, an icy blue crystal. Korr slumped down, staring at the coruscating surface. All of this, for one colored gem. He shook his head wearily, then pocketed the crystal and threw the corpse of the padawan over one shoulder.

Every step back to the shuttle was a lesson in pain, but he had had a better tutor in Marcello than to give into the aches of the flesh so easily. Besides, he owed it to this padawan to see his body returned to the Temple, where they could hold a proper funeral.

* * *
"The crystal is the heart of the blade.
The blade is the heart of the Jedi.
The Jedi are the hearts of the Force."

Korr spoke the words aloud as the pieces of the elongated hilt slid into place. The words were his own take on the oddly phrased incantation muttered by most Jedi. To him, these words were more in line with the first Jee'dai code.

His hands moved with slow, methodic gestures. The ice-blue permafrost crystal floated slowly into the crystal mount, followed by interlocking diatium power cells, which resembled short rods rather than the more common rectangular shape. An extra-thick layer of inert power insulator went over the diatium rods. The last thing Korr wanted was for the blade to melt in his hand.

The energy gate, blade channel and circuitry all fit snuggly into place. Around them all slid the cortosis-woven durasteel casing. The hilt was large. Larger than anything he'd ever constructed. The detailed use of telekinesis taxed him, but the effort was nothing compared to the coming trial.

When all the pieces were finally in place, Ryan entered a deep state of meditation and sought attune the crystal with the Force. Should he fail, the blade would explode in his hand.

Willing away his pain and frustration over the recent raid along with the hallucinations he'd seen on Ilum, Korr settled into the trance. The last vision to go before he entered complete harmony with the Force was that of Padawan Roscha's unmoving features.

 

[Fen]

Entry no. 10

I'm staring at the hilt of my new blade, just as I stared into Padawan Roscha's pyre this morning. Would that I could but will away the weapon in trade for his life and make all right again. But death is a natural part of life, or so we Jedi tell ourselves. Is my creation destined only to take life, or to defend it? Such a question haunts every Jedi, from morning through night. The only reprieve being the feathery darkness of sleep. But even then, are we ever truly freed? Or are we chained by the fetters of our regrets?

The hilt is smooth, smoother even than the lines on Roscha's face as I helped lay him down to rest on the unforgiving bed of wood that we erected. Soon, though, it will become grooved with the blood, sweat, and tears of myself and my enemies. Life is too short.