King of Korriban
Mid Rim;
Mytaranor Sector;
Near Kashyyyk Space.
Well, needless to say that was a rather silent grouping of hours spent alone. Nejaa had been unable to completely refuse his padawan's help out of the docking bay before, the rough-soft touch of human skin having shocked upon contact. That said, it didn't take Nejaa long to shake himself free and merely exist in his stubborn state of self-help-only. Beyond that, Nejaa had shut himself away from the human almost entirely, avoiding conversation at all costs and only reappearing now and again to check their destination arrival times-- but it was in the cockpit, out of the cockpit, and without much smiling involved. As he saw it, Torin had violated Nejaa's first and only test, an adamant proof of his lack luster trust worthiness. Sure, the padawan held power with his blade, and a clear determination to do right by the damed council, but the trade offs were not equal.
Each thought tossed about in his head without much control, somehow too real yet not tangible enough to yank them out all at once. His crossed legs, straight back, and folded hands were unmoving. Only his eyes, eyes which were closed, flinched like stormy waters as if awake for a nightmare. The recycled air, the smell of cleaned durasteel and polished desh metals. The hummmmm of his own Scimitar, and the overpowering sucking of hyperspace. Anything and everything seemed to tug at his attention, poking him repeatedly until his eyes would open, scan, relax, and close again.
Void. Emptiness. These was never the state of his mind, nor did he believe they ever would be. Instead, violence clashed swords with justification therein, each trying to take hold of the young Clawdite and push him further towards whatever perversion they offered. Violence boasted of power and fearlessness, so much a desired outcome though hardly an easy path to travel. Justification clung to his code, his love for peace, and his admiration of the order's elders. No one side of things was ever able to grip Nejaa completely, aways hanging him out to be vulnerable to everything instead of impervious to anything.
Voices and images all seemed to collage together without meaning or pattern. Images, images of people he had never seen before. Images of people he might one day meet, and the faces of those he had placed into eternal slumber. Screams, a low reaching grumble of pain-- his voice, his own voice calling for help and the sound of a female laughing behind it. Black hair became blackness and his mind devolved into chaos once more. It had to mean something, everything had to mean something.
Although it was just the next excuse, a bump of turbulence shook him into consciousness and out of concentration once more, eyes opening and a large breath of exhale clearly depicting annoyance. Eyes which hung now half open touched on a growing frustration. Perhaps it was time to check on their progress again-- for the third time.
Pushing up and off the metal bench and unraveling from the meditative position, he walked light footed to the door, opened it, and made his way towards the cockpit. The dual toned ssschht sound of the hatch closing behind him felt louder and less comforting than he had remembered. This Scimitar was large. Large enough to have storage space and two levels, holding cells and passenger chambers, yet small enough to remain agile in its movement-- a true beauty in aerial combat when given to the hands of a master. Certainly not himself, that is to suggest. Pausing just a minute before entering the same space as his learner, and swallowing three times consecutively, he pushed forward. He would not initiate conversation, as had been the case previously, only scan for the information himself. It wasn't that Nejaa was afraid of speaking with the human, it was more that he feared repulsing himself further-- he was less a fan of his own thinking than Torin might even be, had the padawan some strange way of knowing Nejaa's mind.
[member="Torin Varik"]
Mytaranor Sector;
Near Kashyyyk Space.

Well, needless to say that was a rather silent grouping of hours spent alone. Nejaa had been unable to completely refuse his padawan's help out of the docking bay before, the rough-soft touch of human skin having shocked upon contact. That said, it didn't take Nejaa long to shake himself free and merely exist in his stubborn state of self-help-only. Beyond that, Nejaa had shut himself away from the human almost entirely, avoiding conversation at all costs and only reappearing now and again to check their destination arrival times-- but it was in the cockpit, out of the cockpit, and without much smiling involved. As he saw it, Torin had violated Nejaa's first and only test, an adamant proof of his lack luster trust worthiness. Sure, the padawan held power with his blade, and a clear determination to do right by the damed council, but the trade offs were not equal.
Each thought tossed about in his head without much control, somehow too real yet not tangible enough to yank them out all at once. His crossed legs, straight back, and folded hands were unmoving. Only his eyes, eyes which were closed, flinched like stormy waters as if awake for a nightmare. The recycled air, the smell of cleaned durasteel and polished desh metals. The hummmmm of his own Scimitar, and the overpowering sucking of hyperspace. Anything and everything seemed to tug at his attention, poking him repeatedly until his eyes would open, scan, relax, and close again.
Void. Emptiness. These was never the state of his mind, nor did he believe they ever would be. Instead, violence clashed swords with justification therein, each trying to take hold of the young Clawdite and push him further towards whatever perversion they offered. Violence boasted of power and fearlessness, so much a desired outcome though hardly an easy path to travel. Justification clung to his code, his love for peace, and his admiration of the order's elders. No one side of things was ever able to grip Nejaa completely, aways hanging him out to be vulnerable to everything instead of impervious to anything.
Voices and images all seemed to collage together without meaning or pattern. Images, images of people he had never seen before. Images of people he might one day meet, and the faces of those he had placed into eternal slumber. Screams, a low reaching grumble of pain-- his voice, his own voice calling for help and the sound of a female laughing behind it. Black hair became blackness and his mind devolved into chaos once more. It had to mean something, everything had to mean something.
Although it was just the next excuse, a bump of turbulence shook him into consciousness and out of concentration once more, eyes opening and a large breath of exhale clearly depicting annoyance. Eyes which hung now half open touched on a growing frustration. Perhaps it was time to check on their progress again-- for the third time.
Pushing up and off the metal bench and unraveling from the meditative position, he walked light footed to the door, opened it, and made his way towards the cockpit. The dual toned ssschht sound of the hatch closing behind him felt louder and less comforting than he had remembered. This Scimitar was large. Large enough to have storage space and two levels, holding cells and passenger chambers, yet small enough to remain agile in its movement-- a true beauty in aerial combat when given to the hands of a master. Certainly not himself, that is to suggest. Pausing just a minute before entering the same space as his learner, and swallowing three times consecutively, he pushed forward. He would not initiate conversation, as had been the case previously, only scan for the information himself. It wasn't that Nejaa was afraid of speaking with the human, it was more that he feared repulsing himself further-- he was less a fan of his own thinking than Torin might even be, had the padawan some strange way of knowing Nejaa's mind.
[member="Torin Varik"]