Aran Finn
Redeemed
SPACE - AURIL SECTOR
Aboard the Pathfinder-Class Long Term Exploration Craft Alida
The Alida was a big ship for just one man. The company of a singular droid was not much of a comfort.
Alen Na'Varro didn't need comfort. This ship was decked out with the bare necessities to go forth, explore, salvage and survive in deep space. It was dead silent out here with the stars; that silence was what Alen needed. He was now in the twilight of his life. He knew it. He knew it almost as instantly as the tremours in his hands had begun; and the holocrons had only confirmed it. The Force had gotten decades of service out of Alen Na'Varro, both for the dark and in his later years, for the light. But now it was done with him. A Force sickness, in his fifties ... there had to be a better way to go than that.
Alen meditated on his own mortality for days. Days that he didn't have.
The conclusion he came to after his days of meditation and fasting was obvious. He was a warrior, and always had been. He wasn't meant to die on his sickbed. He was meant to die with his lightsaber in his hand, and he was meant to right his countless wrongs. He needed to do that.
So he reached out to his old comrades; the men and women he had fought beside for decades before. He reached out to people he had once thought close to him (except for Kitt Solo, he'd done enough to her already). He reached out to his flesh and blood.
But the galaxy was emptied of them. For once in his existence, which stretched over eight hundred years, he felt alone.
He felt ready to die.
And so he waited on his ship, named after his errant daughter who he had never truly understood, and trusted that the Force would steer him on the right path.
He would do it alone.
[member="Alida Ember"]
Aboard the Pathfinder-Class Long Term Exploration Craft Alida
The Alida was a big ship for just one man. The company of a singular droid was not much of a comfort.
Alen Na'Varro didn't need comfort. This ship was decked out with the bare necessities to go forth, explore, salvage and survive in deep space. It was dead silent out here with the stars; that silence was what Alen needed. He was now in the twilight of his life. He knew it. He knew it almost as instantly as the tremours in his hands had begun; and the holocrons had only confirmed it. The Force had gotten decades of service out of Alen Na'Varro, both for the dark and in his later years, for the light. But now it was done with him. A Force sickness, in his fifties ... there had to be a better way to go than that.
Alen meditated on his own mortality for days. Days that he didn't have.
The conclusion he came to after his days of meditation and fasting was obvious. He was a warrior, and always had been. He wasn't meant to die on his sickbed. He was meant to die with his lightsaber in his hand, and he was meant to right his countless wrongs. He needed to do that.
So he reached out to his old comrades; the men and women he had fought beside for decades before. He reached out to people he had once thought close to him (except for Kitt Solo, he'd done enough to her already). He reached out to his flesh and blood.
But the galaxy was emptied of them. For once in his existence, which stretched over eight hundred years, he felt alone.
He felt ready to die.
And so he waited on his ship, named after his errant daughter who he had never truly understood, and trusted that the Force would steer him on the right path.
He would do it alone.
[member="Alida Ember"]