Placeholder 04
Character
Sullust was one of the last places in the galaxy that Cyril would have expected to find himself. Yet here he was on, this volcanic mess the Sullustans called a planet. The planet's exterior reminded him far too much of Mustafar and all the unhappy memories that went with it. Sullust, of course, only resembled that terrible place. The Jedi Master found that world beneath the planet's surface was far more agreeable.
The Galactic Alliance had drawn his attention. The promise of something better - something he could fight and perhaps die for - was far too tempting. The Republic had not so much failed him as it had ceased to be his home. In truth, it never really was, though he'd tried to make it so. His Jedi brethren had been an entirely different breed than his own. They had different teachings, beliefs, and values. Their love for inexperienced leadership, the kind that allowed one who had been a Sith Lord just months ago to ascend to the Council, had soured the former lord of Ession's disposition. They were Jedi, but they were not his people.
Now Naboo and Ession both stood on the precipice of attack. It would be a simple move for the One Sith to turn its attentions to the world his sister and niece called home. Especially given its current state - the death of his mother had left Naboo without a leader. Ession was waiting to be razed by the Primeval. It was only a matter of time.
So Cyril Grayson had pledged himself the Galactic Alliance, as well as its own sect of the Jedi Order. As of now, there were no great battles to fight, or political ties to be made. The galaxy needed a new generation of guardians. Men and women with a different view on things and an open mind. It was only natural that he volunteered to train whatever force sensitives the alliance could throw at him, be they Jedi hopefuls or otherwise.
He stood in what passed for a training area. In reality it was an old Sullustan's gym that he'd opened up for the GA's use. The various pieces of equipment that formerly inhabited the massive room were either swept to the side, or stored away in another section of the facility. In their place stood a myriad of combat droids, ranging from replicas of the ancient B-1 battle droids to the more advanced hand-to-hand proxy units. Cyril would have commissioned something more modern, but the alliance could not afford to spare what few combat droids it had.
He watched the doors intently from his place on the floor; awaiting his supposed students. One might mistake him for a personal trainer rather than a Jedi, save for the four lightsabers hanging from his belt. He was clad in a sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, and some very comfortable sweatpants. Excessive clothing restricted movement, and you rarely got the chance to dress casually as a traditional Jedi.
He'd tried to meditate, but peace eluded him. He was too anxious to meet these strangers. He hadn't trained anyone since Armand; would he be able to slip back into the swing of things?
There was only one way to find out.
[member="Chevu Visz"], [member="Nyx"] [member="Roth Tillian"]
The Galactic Alliance had drawn his attention. The promise of something better - something he could fight and perhaps die for - was far too tempting. The Republic had not so much failed him as it had ceased to be his home. In truth, it never really was, though he'd tried to make it so. His Jedi brethren had been an entirely different breed than his own. They had different teachings, beliefs, and values. Their love for inexperienced leadership, the kind that allowed one who had been a Sith Lord just months ago to ascend to the Council, had soured the former lord of Ession's disposition. They were Jedi, but they were not his people.
Now Naboo and Ession both stood on the precipice of attack. It would be a simple move for the One Sith to turn its attentions to the world his sister and niece called home. Especially given its current state - the death of his mother had left Naboo without a leader. Ession was waiting to be razed by the Primeval. It was only a matter of time.
So Cyril Grayson had pledged himself the Galactic Alliance, as well as its own sect of the Jedi Order. As of now, there were no great battles to fight, or political ties to be made. The galaxy needed a new generation of guardians. Men and women with a different view on things and an open mind. It was only natural that he volunteered to train whatever force sensitives the alliance could throw at him, be they Jedi hopefuls or otherwise.
He stood in what passed for a training area. In reality it was an old Sullustan's gym that he'd opened up for the GA's use. The various pieces of equipment that formerly inhabited the massive room were either swept to the side, or stored away in another section of the facility. In their place stood a myriad of combat droids, ranging from replicas of the ancient B-1 battle droids to the more advanced hand-to-hand proxy units. Cyril would have commissioned something more modern, but the alliance could not afford to spare what few combat droids it had.
He watched the doors intently from his place on the floor; awaiting his supposed students. One might mistake him for a personal trainer rather than a Jedi, save for the four lightsabers hanging from his belt. He was clad in a sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, and some very comfortable sweatpants. Excessive clothing restricted movement, and you rarely got the chance to dress casually as a traditional Jedi.
He'd tried to meditate, but peace eluded him. He was too anxious to meet these strangers. He hadn't trained anyone since Armand; would he be able to slip back into the swing of things?
There was only one way to find out.
[member="Chevu Visz"], [member="Nyx"] [member="Roth Tillian"]