A massive cataclysm has struck the universe, and destroyed most everything in its wake. The survivors are now trying to pick up the pieces, and figure out exactly what has befallen them. Gather together, lightsiders!! The darkness has shattered the peace and calm of the galaxy...and they will do anything to stop anyone from finding out exactly what has been done! This is our first sitewide RP plotline. Lightsiders, you are looking for the source of this massive event. Clues must be found, lackeys tracked down, and bits of memory discovered. Darksiders, you guys don't want that to happen....because of the one behind the whole thing is furthering his ultimate goal. Mandalorians, and non-force users, you guys can decide where you stand on this line....do you side with the Jedi, and try to discover the reasons behind the ruined universe, or will you side with the darkness, and protect those secrets. Will the secret of the cataclysmic reaping be kept under wraps? Or will the Jedi and their allies find out the truth? Your RP and writing will decide the outcome!
BATTLE ARENA
Welcome to The Saga Continues. We have a section called the Battle Arena. Here you can use your characters to fight other characters. Hone your skills and see what you are made of. Don't worry, anything that happens here, does not effect your characters in posts, so if your character dies, you can still use them over and over. Have fun and check it out!
The Saga Continues is the product of the mind of ADMIN ADI; all contents are copyright their original owners. All characters belong to their original creators, and may not be used or replicated without permission. All images are copyright their original owners. This skin Operation Mindcrime was made by pharaoh leap of Pixel Perfect and put together by ADMIN KRYSTAL
Concord Dawn had at least three moons. Around 3 BBY, the Mandalorian group known as the Journeyman Protectors were using the third moon of the system as their base.
Daybreak. Golden rays of light peeking over treetops at the edge of a field illuminate rows of soil. Among them, a man carefully treads, slowly casting his gaze about his handiwork. It rained last night, each lumbering step produces the sound of displaced liquid. It rained last night, the noise of the ground and the sparkle of the dew and the clarity of the sky and the scent of the air all testify to this fact.
It is early, but nonetheless Toryn Vizsla patrols his fields. What he sees is a mystery. His crystal blue eyes are unable to peer into the depths of the earth itself, yet still he searches. Why look, then, if there is nothing to be observed? Signs of disturbance, signs of tranquility, signs that all is according to plan, signs that the harvest will or will not bear fruit, signs of warning to keep watch over until the moment to act arrives. And time; time to meditate, time to walk. Time to breathe fresh air in the company of himself. The creases of the old man's skin are worn ever deeper and his hair bleached ever whiter with every meeting of the clans. Hands that used to hold a blaster, fingers that used to twitch with anticipation to pull a trigger, now fall to the task of picking through the dirt. Plucking a small sample, he straightens back up slowly and rolls the clump between his thumb and index to produce a fine smear, and holds his hand up to the light while staring intently at it. Apparently satisfied, he wipes his hand on a pant leg and continues on his route. What he sees is a wonder.
The hour waxes, he will be expected soon. But not just yet. He lingers a while longer.*
*The farm over which Toryn Vizsla walks is located on the second moon of the Concord Dawn system. It is home to a single settlement. Slate is the name of this village.
The town of Slate was founded at Toryn's request, during the rule of Mandalor the Architect. After the war, before the crusade. Soldiers who age beyond the point of battlefield fitness return to their homes and pursue the dreams they had clung to to keep their spirits high during crisis. A farm for himself and his family. This was where Toryn had wound up.
The first attempt Toryn made was on the planet proper. Farming there is difficult. He did research, and performed a survey in the off-season. The conclusion he came to was that this moon would be more amenable to agriculture. After three years of effort on Concord Dawn, he relocated his family and associates to Dawn II and began anew.
The arrival moon-side was a nondescript landing of a small company of Firesprays and the foundation of Slate was an unceremonious erection of prefabricated homes. Fifteen people in all -- Toryn, his wife, three children; former squadmate Bron Rau, his wife, and son; medical officer for the company, Jay Vizsla; and six hired hands. As pioneers in a new territory, the steps to be done were obvious. Establish shelter. Clear land. Cultivate food. Survive.
Slate grew, but it took time. When he is alone, Toryn occasionally allows his mind to drift to the memories of the original days. The first years, with the struggles that came with them. The first campfire. Running through their supply of liquor in two weeks' time because he and Bron partied every single night. Having to disassemble the hatch on Jenna Ordo's Firespray because they managed to get the harvester into the bay but couldn't for their lives manage to pivot it just right for removal. Tilling the fields for the first time -- how could there be so many boulders in one location? Planting their first crops. The birth of Bron's daughter. The time his son, Ben, fell down the canyon and broke his arm. The first harvest, more bountiful than any they'd seen on Concord Dawn. Sending Jenna and Karth Rau off, her hold stocked to the brim with food, to sell the surplus. Their return with the first newcomers. Growth over the years. The time they held a town meeting -- all thirty-something of them. A few years down the line, when they agreed on hiring a construction crew from Concord Dawn to build the municipal building. The town center back then, with Vin Skirata's shop right across the way opening its doors for the first time. The first wedding -- Jay and Jenna, plus dozens more to come, including his boy, Ben, to Ashli Wren, his daughter, Bryn, to to Karth, and his youngest child, Beren, to Tess Ordo. His son being elected the first Alor of Slate. The shops and houses sprung up all around, and before they knew it, the village had grown to around 5,000 in all. Those were the days!
And invariably he recalls the night of the plague.
When the cataclysm broke, twelve hundred in Slate were infected immediately. The screams and blaster-fire had awoken the ever-light sleeper Toryn. By the time he made it downstairs from his bed, the rooms were illuminated by the flickering light of flames rising from Skirata's shop a few doors down. He'd hoisted his old E-11 when a knock came at the door, which he opened only to find Bron, eyes wide, blaster in hand.
In that moment, Toryn only caught a glimpse of the corpses in the background, littered around the town square. Their features, grotesquely twisted by the sickness, would haunt his dreams for years to come.*
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*When all had been accounted for, the total loss incurred by the plague was over three thousand. There followed a miserable couple of months after the last of the infected were neutralized. The possibility of a resurgence or some kind of aftershock to the calamitous event held suspense and distrust over everyone's heads, but even forced vigilance was no match for the true crushing knowledge that they had had no choice to kill their friends, neighbors, loved ones, in order to remain alive.
Those who hadn't had joined them, simple as that.
Even now, months later, the first tilling and sowing of the land after the event tore fresh at the stinging wound of absence. But what could they do? Only shake their heads in helplessness, only continue to survive as they had always done. To live on is to carry the memories of those departed.
Toryn trudged back to the farmhouse from the fields and glanced at the time as he came inside. 06h17. He pulled out a chair and sat at the table, considering. Just enough time to refresh and make it into town for the meeting, if he wanted to. He had told a number of those who inquired that he probably wouldn't make it. He doesn't go into town much these days, and of all things, today's meeting to select a new Alor was something he would rather miss.
He draws a deep breath through his nose, and stands, tugging at his shirt as he readies to shower.*
[/font][/span][/ul] *Comes the response as he makes to claim the chair. So he adopts another smile, and then heads across the way to the next candidate place. That one has no owner, and Toryn sits down.
As Toryn situates himself in his newfound spot, he becomes aware that the speaker at the podium has paused his delivery, and that nearly all faces in the space have turned toward him. This realization sinks in, and as it does he slowly closes his eyes.*[/ul] [/font]
