To live, to serve, to die for the First Order (Castor Ren).

[WolfMortum]

A great many things had changed since the first expedition to Lothal in which they had been instructed to retrieve a supplement of crystals for the use of the Knights of Ren, Caehl Ren's first mission following his initiation and one in which he had hoped to prove himself of worth as a Disciple of Ren. While they had been intercepted by the Jedi Order of the Galactic Alliance, even back then at his level of inexperience he had come away better off than the recent war that had ravaged Bespin in the Alliance's attack on the First Order worlds in that sector. It was the first duty that he had shared with prominent members such as [member="Castor Ren"], Samka Derith, Ara Ren and Kaalia Voldaren; known associates and all superior to him as full fledged Knights under their secretive Order and dare it be said, had he the emotional attachment he may have even felt loyalty to them that went beyond duty to the Supreme Leader. An unnecessary sentiment though a testament to his preference in his choice to work with out within the battlefield.

Recovery had come with great difficulty, though thanks to the assistance of Kayla Wylen the deformed disciple was able to move about the Bastion upon Virgillia cloaked in the black robe that covered his cybernetic enhancements beneath the Armor of Ren that he wore. His face remained exposed, not yet having acquired himself an appropriate expression for his place among them, a mask like many others used to convey their alienation from the rest of galactic society and to mask any premise of a background before the First Order's fight for supremacy and Order across their territories, his wounds were evidently still taking their toll as he moved slowly walking the halls of the great facility carved into the great rock and deterring anyone not of their immediate circle of Ren from making eye contact with him.

Enough time had been wasted residing within his quarters upon bloody sheets, his pain was not going to cease any time soon yet laying there with nothing but his memories to envision the Jedi had had fought, over and over and over again, his anger had become beyond rational and it had finally gotten to a point where if he had not moved and focused instead on the stabbing pain that came with walking with the new cybernetic limbs, he might well have cast his belongings about his quarters and put his phrik fists through one of the medical personnel. Such a rage and the reminiscent failure of the Hilikan facility; part of him felt as if he truly had died back there. Part of him was glad to be rid of it, no longer chained down by his past ambitions and selfish rivalries, the proof that the Alliance's invasion had brought him was enough to solidify his faith in the First Order even further.

He had found his way within the main hall of the Bastion, a place where he had first been introduced to the Knights of Ren, a place where he had been encouraged to take a weapon, the dirk of which had served him well. The Impact weapon, the edge of steel had been his first gift handed down to him by the new life within their regime and trained to use it day in and day out he had become a fitting assassin for their Order. Now with the addition of cybernetics and the weight that he carried in his step because of it, he was no longer quite the assassin but rather more staunch and intimidating in his movements, better the vanguard than the rogue assailant any longer. Tracing his fingers across the weapon racks, he walked alongside them eyeing the spears, the swords, flails and daggers all with a wild look of admiration towards their make. Such beauty carried within the simplicity of their purpose, made to kill and nothing more, he could respect such a concept, marred not by outside influences, a purpose one could not question.

 

[Progflaw99]

Time. It was the enemy of all, though even from an enemy much could be learned. Time had taught Castor many things, temperament, patience, skill - and yet he still sought more. Not unlike the disciples, he too thirst for knowledge and power, though his methods were far less reckless than those newest initiates. Evidenced not only by his lack of cybernetics, but his generally unmarred appearance, Castor had avoided major trauma or the need for cybernetics and prostheses. Brennan or Caehl as he now had dubbed himself, had not avoided such a consequence. The young man had seemed almost a boy when the Knight had first laid eyes on him even if only an outward observation. Through time he had seen that a boy was only part of the story. He'd served his purpose well enough, if a bit rash at times - Skor came to mind. They'd only just managed to escape that confrontation with their lives, surprisingly their weapons.

Booted feet stalked quietly through the halls as Castor made his way towards the training hall. The rumor was, Caehl had force himself from his bed of recovery. An admirable trait, stubbornness, strength of will, but foolish should the effort prove to be too much for the young man. It was a practiced routine for the Ren, training day in and day out, mastering their craft with a wide variety of weaponry and though Castor was easily more capable with his sword, he too sought to expand his repertoire. Even as he approached the doors to the large room he felt a presence within - it was as he'd suspected, the man turned partial machine resided within. *Interesting.* he mused.

He stepped inside.

[member="Caehl Ren"]​

 

[WolfMortum]

To say that the Disciple had made his share of mistakes was an understatement, Skor II had been far less debilitating though had proven his emotions and eager drive for bloodshed could get the better of his judgement and had left him on the back foot throughout the mission. He had managed to salvage some of his credibility through keeping the Squib away from the possession of their armaments yet had been forced to be excluded from the meeting with their leader and thus being the support to his superiors that he had been assigned to the objective for. Bespin had been far worse, resulting in the death of one of their own and only by the intervention of the First Order had he been kept from the grip of deaths embrace. The shame of coming back from a fight with such a failure being left in his wake was far worse than the glorified death he could have earned and given up for Sieger Ren. His recovery had been of great torment through their neglect of pain relief, it had been a lesson he had earned and one he recognized to be a consequence for his short comings yet too fueled his anger at both himself and the Galactic Alliances ridiculous notion of what the Jedi were to represent. Dark-Siders wearing masks to earn themselves the small comforts of the peoples support, there was little else to separate them from the Sith, these would be heroes creating wars and claiming to be fighting for freedom and democracy, it disgusted him to know that he had come to face such a facade and lost to its regime.

Reaching out to one of the larger knives upon the weapons rack, he recognized the make as the same of his original choice the day of his initiation until the Disciple body of Ren. The Dirk had been his choice, close quarters combat with a blatant disregard for civilized technologies, to bleed out and viciously lacerate his enemy, in his mind his cybernetics held the same prospective purpose. Why else would he have been kept alive other than to be transformed into such a weapon. He was nothing of the former person he had stood within this place as, though still lacking in social behaviors and his ability to comprehend such pursuits, he had otherwise been removed from his former weaknesses. His body possessed a strength and resilience that hadn't been there before, phrik and poly-alloy traced his skeletal structure reinforcing every movement with a weight that could break bones upon the practice of melee combat, a great desire he held towards those responsible for his loss.

At his back across the hall the sound of the doors closing awoke him from his nostalgia, turning at the waist to glance back across his shoulder to find [member="Castor Ren"] having entered. The confirmation of his presence leading Brennan to turn to face him, his left hand sweeping his hood back while the right held the Dirk down at his side, his gaze dropping to the floor as he offered the man a respectable nod in acknowledgement, pausing to give weight to the gesture before descending from the few steps that held the weapon racks upon high to where the disciples would typically gather and moving to step closer into the center of the area to which he spoke up in open question. "Very few times have I seen you outside of active service, Castor. Has my inability marred the Supreme Leaders faith in me to such a degree that you would be positioned to watch over my progress?". He had witnessed Castor leading groups of Ren into battle or out on missions of importance to their order yet to be retracing Brennan's steps struck the Disciple as a waste of his talents and did not seem to understand the motive behind it. In speaking, his tone seemed to suggest that he treated the affair as a matter of duty as opposed to personal interactions or incentives away from the immediate progression of the First Orders fight against the criminal empire known as the Alliance.