The Embrace of Darkness.

[Alkor Centaris]

Seven years ago...

Corellia lingers only as a distant memory. Master says the thoughts will fade with time, but doubt looms like stormclouds. Muunilnst is nothing like home. The skies are charred from volcanic ash and the air tastes like fire. The freedom that dwelled in that azure domain mocks every labored breath.

He calls it training, but this is torture.

C'thulu Plaga is a monster more than a man. Built taller than most men, his presence is like ice. The fetid odor of death lingers close wherever he goes, and his spirit screams from within the flesh as though imprisoned. There is nothing normal about Master.

Only a fool would ever call those who walk the path of Darkness "normal."

"Alkor." His voice resonates with an eerie dissonance. "Your mind is your weapon just as much as the lightsaber in your grasp. Without focus, it is nothing more than a dull blade in that hands of an infant." He often chides, goads, and seeks to incite anger. The Sith called such a use of verbal assault Dun Moch, but Master has warned against rising to such bait in the past.

Constant tests. This is beyond irritating. Master has had apprentices in the past. He has trained prodigies and veterans alike. A good student would recognize his talent for instruction and fall in line submissively.

His bloody hued blade thrums low, sways to and fro. Sunken orbs of pure and inky black watch carefully my every move. "You have such anger, such hatred," he mocked. Or was this praise? I was jaded long ago on the difference. "Will you not give yourself over to them?"

"Emotion is a tool," came the rhetoric in response. Master frowns, and like a hurricane, the blade rushs foward. Flesh tears and welds together, and blinding hot pain erupts.

"Yet still, you are no master of that tool," he spat. "Four years, yet still you rise to every taunt."

"Not every taunt." He sees the wry smile, and the crackle of electricity permeates the room. Plaga stretches out his hand, and in an instant, the world goes white.

 

[Alkor Centaris]

The world is numb. Rather, everything feels numb. A crackle and hiss every so often acts as the constant reminder that reality still hangs overhead. In the distance Master stares down implacably, the expression he wears a dire one. "You have still not rid yourself of that incessant urge to bite back like a spurned pup," he sneers. "A Jen'jidai does not need to feel vindicated. You have merely to take that which you desire as your own. You are the architect of your own fate. Be free from manipulation, or live as a victim."

His footsteps echo until they are no more. The room grows quiet, and the light slowly ebbs away as daylight burns down. The shock is gone but the pain lingers still. A foul stench wafts across the room, and I am suddenly violently aware of the puddle of urine. "Damn it!"

The effort to stand is draining. Just out of reach, the door is open and the sounds of merriment fill the halls. "Come and get dinner, boy," the voice of another master calls out. They are not all cruel, but they have their own students.

"Don't you touch any of that food," a familiar voice commands sternly. In the hallway now, Master watches his hobbling apprentice with a stern shake of his head. "You have to earn that privilege. You are nothing more than a worm, crawling on your belly and subsisting on dirt. Beg, and you may scavenge for scraps when the meal is finished."

"Sod off." At this point, hunger is little more than an afterthought. A low rumble of protest gurgles from below, but indignation has given rise to action. "You say not to give in to emotion, but then preach that a Dark Jedi should carve his own path. Make up your damn mind."

The words are far from careful, but I am beyond caring. The snap and hiss of a lightsaber elicit a dark smile on Master's face. "Come and take your dinner, if you can." His crimson blade blossoms to life, but there is no going back now.

"Suffer," he bellowed as our blades stormed furiously together.

"You... first!" One, two, three strikes in rapid succession glanced off as Plaga parried, countered, and struck with relentless skill. His contempt is palpable. He feeds off of it, and his body moves with inhuman agility. Until now, that was indiscernible.

Right up to this point, mindless rage was the only reality in battle. This can only be described as surreal. Unlike before, the world is moving at a snail's pace. Everything is so vivid, right down to the anger and hatred that drives this conflict.

Two fiery weapons collide again and again, but neither side loses any ground.

All the while, master smiles.

 

[Alkor Centaris]

To call it sublime would undermine the sheer magnitude of the experience. In a drive of effort, student and master became mortal enemies. Plaga bears down like the monster he is, and despite all of the intensity and surprising effort, the behemoth commands the situation with all the finesse of a younger, fitter man. His body is a lie. Sloughing sheets of skin flop with each practiced motion, and the otherworldly power swelling beneath is suddenly made apparent. "You're using the Force," comes the dumbfounded observation.

"Did you not notice before?" he asked with a snide chuckle. "As usual. Blinded by your own arrogance. Something so obvious as Force induced speed should not have escaped your senses. Do you always forget things you have been taught? What good are you?"

At this point, his goal is clear. For the past several months, he has been seeking to provoke anger. Plaga has tried to twist and turn his apprentice, and he has punished every failure to learn. What he wants is not hatred- not innately, at least. Hate is a powerful tool, but alone it simply causes a man to implode. No, what Master seeks is to instill understanding. Every ounce of pain has culminated to this realization.

Words are worthless, now. He smiles more broadly now than before, his wicked teeth yellowed and rotten. "Finally," is all he says. Instead of running headlong into the blade like so many times before, the pain and anger augment my movements. Plaga is far more seasoned with this power, and his body rattles less under the duress of each successive blow, but neither side gives any quarter.

Much more of this, however, will spell doom for me.

"Enough," he steps back watches the blade pass harmlessly in front of his face. "You have learned. Go and clean yourself up, then you may join dinner."

It was more praise than he ever gave, but a smart apprentice knows better than to indulge in such things. "Thank you, Master," a stiff bow, and nothing more. He nods approval at this. Both blades banished, master and apprentice part ways with a newfound and unspoken understanding. One of the teachings, and the other of his pupil. The hallway is less kind, however. The stumble toward the student chambers seems to shift and turn until finally exhaustion takes hold.

The darkness feels so gentle.

 

[Alkor Centaris]

"Wake up."

Twilight had come and gone by now, and the intoxicating violet skyline of Muun night shone just beyond the window. The lights are all out and a steady stream of cool air circulates through this room in particular. The infirmary stinks of sterility, isopropyl alcohol and salve. "You slept for ten hours," Plaga states, though his voice is bereft of contempt. "It took a fair bit longer than expected, but the results were well worth the wait."

"That was..." The sensation is still vivid. Acute spatial awareness and heightened sensitivity. It almost feels like coming down from a stim high. Wakefulness after such a feeling is almost morose.

"A combat state," he explains. "The state that differentiates a Dark Jedi from a Jedi. Subscribers to the path of light reject emotions and push them aside in combat. They remain unaware of the constant turmoil and cling to their training alone. It is a form of denial, Alkor. Do you understand?"

"Yes." It sounds so simple, yet in practice there is much to be understood.

"In a world filled with strife, they deny themselves access to the most base aspects of their humanity. Emotion is a fact of life. The Sith embrace this, yet they lose themselves to it. They preach freedom, unchecked. A path toward power for its own sake. This too is fallacy." Plaga turns to stare pensively at the night sky. "The Dark side of the Force is not one singular path. There is no simple walk. As opposed to the Jedi, who fear the darkness, and the Sith who reject the light, the Jen'jidai simply accept the world as it is. Not as we want it to be."

"So more than combat, this understanding is meant to apply to all things?" Standing is less of a chore, now.

"Yes," he nods slowly. "And it is why you are not punished for your emotions. You were punished for allowing them to rule you, but never for having them." A strict lesson on subjectivity to be sure, but a necessary one. "But now that you understand, not through words but through actions, it should be a simple thing to remember."

"And the combat state? Is that something to be tapped at will?"

"In time, yes. There are many ways to do battle, Alkor, and most of them require the eye of a skeptic. The ability to sift through your emotions and seize control of them is paramount to victory. As you learn, you will become increasingly able to enter a heightened state at will. The Jedi call such trances Battlemind." The word sounds foreign, yet the state itself is a cherished memory. "It is key to your training in particular."

"So, that will be the focus of training for the foreseeable future?"

"Patience, Alkor," he cautions. "Patience. For now, we will attend the present. A gift, to commemorate your success."

 

[Alkor Centaris]

Heat and ash assail the senses as the dusty forge rumbles to life. Fire illuminates the room in an instant, and the sound of metals clashing drowns all thought. "A Dark Jedi is a warrior as much as a scholar," he declares loudly, above the hammer strikes. "All of the Order has their own prowess in combat. In an effort to cultivate an understanding of every aspect of battle, the long standing tradition of dueling gauntlets is gifted from one Master to the next."

Ah.

"But simply crafting a pair does not teach a Dark Jedi to respect his craft," Plaga continues. "To that end, you must create your own, unique gauntlets." He gestures toward the forge, then grins wickedly. "What sort of metal suits you, Apprentice?" His eyes are set intently, and he waits for a response. It is clear that he is gauging for a suitable response.

"The intention is to nullify the advantage of disarmament in lightsaber combat, I'm sure." C'thulu merely smiles his approval. "Durasteel suits, for a base," he waits with a cocked eyebrow. "It serves to protect more from weapons that carry greater weight. Lightsabers are not the only weapons in the galaxy, after all." He can see the merit in the words, and he nods slowly once more.

"Wise words," Plaga praises. "But to make them suitable for your purposes?"

"Neuranium." His yellow teeth shine brightly. "Plating, of course. It does not fully resist a saber, obviously, but it can deal with a glancing blow. And with the sheer weight it carries, they are deadly in their own right."

"That can be arranged." He snaps his fingers, and two Noghri that were previously working the forge snapped to attention, then filed out of the room hastily. "Neuranium sheets," he called after them. "Two of medium size. Bring them here quickly."

His gaze returns. "You will need to become stronger still to wear them regularly," he drawls.

"Always."

The laughter that followed was filled with mirth.

 

[Alkor Centaris]

The process of collecting Neuranium in raw form was a painstaking and long-winded one.

Even if you ignored that the metal's density made it prohibitively heavy to carry in large quantities, forging it into a form that could be utilized required immensely high heat and specialized tools. The mental image of two Noghri carrying a sheet of it, let alone two instills a great deal of conflict. Would forging it be a plausible task, especially for someone with no prior training? Master seems to have read my mind, however. "Fret not, Alkor. All Masters among the ranks have experience folding and forming metal. You will not be committed to the task alone."

That knowledge does offer a small amount of relief. It would take time for them to collect the stronger metal, so the Durasteel will have to come first. Master gestures toward the forge itself, and a hammer rises from the anvil and gravitates forward without visible aid. "Take it," Plaga urged, "feel the weight. Familiarize yourself with it." Easy enough. A quick snatching motion, and the hammer seems to go from weightless to heavy in an instant.

"Woah," comes the surprise. C'thulu belts a laugh. "Hardly expected that."

"Take a few practice swings at the anvil. It can withstand that." The hammer strikes metal, and a shudder lances up the hammer arm. "Good! Again!"

Once more, the hammer screams. Once more, the recoil rips upward. "Now, let us find you some Durasteel, shall we?" Plaga disappears from the room for several moments. The armory is in the next room, so his purpose seems clear enough. The possibility of stockpiling raw Durasteel was far from impossible. When he returned, he did so with a full piece of torso armor. "This will suffice," he states as he throws the armor. It nearly crumbles to the floor.

"Heavier than you'd think." The armor clatters onto the anvil. "What is this for?"

"You need to learn to work metal," he informs me, "so start by breaking this down. Come now, let's heat the forge." Plaga indicates the forge, and explains its inner workings. From where each foot needs to be, to where to stand to avoid sloshing super heated metal, right down to how to turn and how to handle metal as it is formed. "Dip the armor into the pot."

It begins to redden immediately, and the heat prompts sweat to drip into the forge.