Jun 5, 2018 2:07:31 GMT
*It is unavoidable, or at the very least, I am unwilling to expend any effort to avoid it. The Vengeance will, without a doubt, crash into the orbital docking station. I deem this an acceptable loss. You might not be aware of this, but I have crash-landed on plenty of occasions. Somehow, I always manage to get to where I need to go, and to date I've yet to experience any adverse health effect caused by doing so. I predict the same to hold true here: by virtue of my meditation levitation, and the optimal choice of location here in the mid-levels of the ship, there will ample space for the ship to perform a high-velocity docking procedure while I shall remain inertially unaffected.
That is the idea, anyways. Practical application always suffers from the unexpected. And, as surely as the Force lives, as we approach the final resting place of The Vengeance, I sense it. Sense him. My True Son. The betrayer. He sought my demise, and I defied it. As I recognize his presence, a smile creeps across my lips. Yes, he is there, observing the catastrophe in progress. And I accept this incursion—for his sake, if he would ask, I would even move mountains for him.*
*Devient is the name of the mask I wear. She was made with a ruthless purpose, and follows it through to the letter. Blind though I am, the Force allows me to see. Too well, as it turns out. Long ago, in my desire to surpass myself, I realized that I must strive to do away with any strength that I relied too heavily upon. And so I fashioned this mask from arcane metallurgical methods, thoroughly infused with the Dark Side, so that my senses are dulled when I wear her. The result of my Force Sight, filtered through Devient, is visual perception on par with any average being. I have since become accustomed to this impediment, and should I choose to apply some effort, I can use the Force to enable myself to see with the same level of perceptivity as I did before I ever put on the mask.
Thus, at my command, while I remain levitated, Devient lets me see. But she is as crude as ever, and cannot permit this without a rebuttal.*
*I've generally found it best not to reply when she gets like that.
With a blur, the colors of the dark and blue palette of the ship fade away from my perception like smoke, to be replaced with a thousand shades of silver-grey. A nostalgic sight—being rare these days that I make the effort to use this high of a level of Force Sight, or that I take Devient off, I do not get to see like this very often. But it used to be the only way I saw anything, which I do miss from time to time. In my world of chrome I see into the darkest corners of this vessel as if they were lit up by brightest day, for all is laid bare before the Force. Through walls as if made of a gray film. My boundless vision is free to roam, through the heart of the malfunctioning systems of the ship, beyond her battle-stricken hull, into the emptiness of space, across the ever-narrowing gap separating this ship from the station, past the boundaries of the orbital station itself, limited only by how far I am willing to push my focus.
All is not shaded in gray, however. As my view passes around and through the ship, innumerable tiny splotches of vibrant color seek to distract me. Any Force Sensitive can tell you what those are: the best way to describe them that I've heard is that they're like wounds in the Force. Not large ones, not Nihilus-sized ones. No, certainly not; but when a traumatic event occurs, the Force feels it. The Force remembers it. Have you walked into a room and gotten a chill? Known, somehow, without really knowing how you know, that something bad happened there? That's what these are; little scars. Evil deeds, curses, feelings of rage and hatred, even the sheer regret sometimes felt by those who lay dying can cause these impressions on the Force. You've felt them, but I see them. There are some who are able to reach out to the Force to ask what event it was that caused it such pain, and the Force will show them. That is yet another example of the mysterious ways of the Force.
Another source of color to this world I perceive is living beings, because the Force interacts with all things. You, me, the tree, the ship. But it interacts with you and me differently from the tree, and differently still from the tree and the ship. And all who can bend the Force to their will leave it a different color than they left it. Their aura, their shade: I see it. A different color, a refreshing color, from this world of silver gray. True to form, that is the case here, with the one who came to greet me. There he is, standing like a spectator at a sporting event, watching from the nosebleed seats, perhaps even subconsciously having positioned himself above me. There he is, in the main hangar of the station. Fortuitous—since this ship isn't headed to the hangar, he has ample distance between himself and the upcoming point of impact, yet still The Vengeance passes close enough to the open hangar bay that he can quantify the carbon scoring on the hull of his old ship. Yes, there he is, with a vibrant green hue that I could sense from so far apart, even without heightening my senses to see clearly through the mask. Lapay no Tal.
Because it is him, I want to look forever, to savor what I passed on.
It IS, unmistakably, Tal. The body may have changed, but the spirit remains the same. The feeling of you in the Force is as unique as your voice, to those attuned to tell the difference. And I, with my scarlet-silver aura, am no exception to that rule. Imagine! If he had sensed me from the edge of the gravity well, and used the time it took this ship to limp from there to here to await my arrival, how much more so can he feel my gaze piercing him this very second? Now that I am affixing all of my attention to see this man as clearly as you can see the person just to your left, accordingly my presence, my imprint in the Force, will surround him where he stands.
But he stands shaken. It IS, unmistakably, Tal. But it is not HIM. Where his will used to shine brightly with taciturn and unwavering resolve, now he flickers like the flames aboard this ship. While his new body—spirit transference, I guess—has overcome his physical frailty, now his mind quavers. What happened to the man I left?*
Though I do not yet fully grasp the situation, I have seen as much as I need.*
"What an odd thing, gloating about your power while riding passively on a ship flying headlong into a space station. You know he can't hear you, right?"
"Even if he doesn't hear my voice, he can feel me. Even if my words fail to reach him, those thoughts must already be welling up in his mind."
"If he's already thinking it, then what is the point of saying it? Are you a moron?"
"... ... ..."
"And besides, haven't you noticed?"
"I've noticed a lot. What are you referring to?"
"When was the last time you came to Korriban? Was it always this deserted?"[/ul]
*While still in the middle of forming a reply to Devient, my thoughts are interrupted with a snap back to reality, and likewise a deliberate relinquishment of Force Sight, as the conical nose of the DP20 begins her forceful intersection with the front plane of the space station with a sound that contends for definition as the furthest possible example from 'pleasant'.*[/font]
That is the idea, anyways. Practical application always suffers from the unexpected. And, as surely as the Force lives, as we approach the final resting place of The Vengeance, I sense it. Sense him. My True Son. The betrayer. He sought my demise, and I defied it. As I recognize his presence, a smile creeps across my lips. Yes, he is there, observing the catastrophe in progress. And I accept this incursion—for his sake, if he would ask, I would even move mountains for him.*
*Devient is the name of the mask I wear. She was made with a ruthless purpose, and follows it through to the letter. Blind though I am, the Force allows me to see. Too well, as it turns out. Long ago, in my desire to surpass myself, I realized that I must strive to do away with any strength that I relied too heavily upon. And so I fashioned this mask from arcane metallurgical methods, thoroughly infused with the Dark Side, so that my senses are dulled when I wear her. The result of my Force Sight, filtered through Devient, is visual perception on par with any average being. I have since become accustomed to this impediment, and should I choose to apply some effort, I can use the Force to enable myself to see with the same level of perceptivity as I did before I ever put on the mask.
Thus, at my command, while I remain levitated, Devient lets me see. But she is as crude as ever, and cannot permit this without a rebuttal.*
*I've generally found it best not to reply when she gets like that.
With a blur, the colors of the dark and blue palette of the ship fade away from my perception like smoke, to be replaced with a thousand shades of silver-grey. A nostalgic sight—being rare these days that I make the effort to use this high of a level of Force Sight, or that I take Devient off, I do not get to see like this very often. But it used to be the only way I saw anything, which I do miss from time to time. In my world of chrome I see into the darkest corners of this vessel as if they were lit up by brightest day, for all is laid bare before the Force. Through walls as if made of a gray film. My boundless vision is free to roam, through the heart of the malfunctioning systems of the ship, beyond her battle-stricken hull, into the emptiness of space, across the ever-narrowing gap separating this ship from the station, past the boundaries of the orbital station itself, limited only by how far I am willing to push my focus.
All is not shaded in gray, however. As my view passes around and through the ship, innumerable tiny splotches of vibrant color seek to distract me. Any Force Sensitive can tell you what those are: the best way to describe them that I've heard is that they're like wounds in the Force. Not large ones, not Nihilus-sized ones. No, certainly not; but when a traumatic event occurs, the Force feels it. The Force remembers it. Have you walked into a room and gotten a chill? Known, somehow, without really knowing how you know, that something bad happened there? That's what these are; little scars. Evil deeds, curses, feelings of rage and hatred, even the sheer regret sometimes felt by those who lay dying can cause these impressions on the Force. You've felt them, but I see them. There are some who are able to reach out to the Force to ask what event it was that caused it such pain, and the Force will show them. That is yet another example of the mysterious ways of the Force.
Another source of color to this world I perceive is living beings, because the Force interacts with all things. You, me, the tree, the ship. But it interacts with you and me differently from the tree, and differently still from the tree and the ship. And all who can bend the Force to their will leave it a different color than they left it. Their aura, their shade: I see it. A different color, a refreshing color, from this world of silver gray. True to form, that is the case here, with the one who came to greet me. There he is, standing like a spectator at a sporting event, watching from the nosebleed seats, perhaps even subconsciously having positioned himself above me. There he is, in the main hangar of the station. Fortuitous—since this ship isn't headed to the hangar, he has ample distance between himself and the upcoming point of impact, yet still The Vengeance passes close enough to the open hangar bay that he can quantify the carbon scoring on the hull of his old ship. Yes, there he is, with a vibrant green hue that I could sense from so far apart, even without heightening my senses to see clearly through the mask. Lapay no Tal.
Because it is him, I want to look forever, to savor what I passed on.
It IS, unmistakably, Tal. The body may have changed, but the spirit remains the same. The feeling of you in the Force is as unique as your voice, to those attuned to tell the difference. And I, with my scarlet-silver aura, am no exception to that rule. Imagine! If he had sensed me from the edge of the gravity well, and used the time it took this ship to limp from there to here to await my arrival, how much more so can he feel my gaze piercing him this very second? Now that I am affixing all of my attention to see this man as clearly as you can see the person just to your left, accordingly my presence, my imprint in the Force, will surround him where he stands.
But he stands shaken. It IS, unmistakably, Tal. But it is not HIM. Where his will used to shine brightly with taciturn and unwavering resolve, now he flickers like the flames aboard this ship. While his new body—spirit transference, I guess—has overcome his physical frailty, now his mind quavers. What happened to the man I left?*
Though I do not yet fully grasp the situation, I have seen as much as I need.*
"What an odd thing, gloating about your power while riding passively on a ship flying headlong into a space station. You know he can't hear you, right?"
"Even if he doesn't hear my voice, he can feel me. Even if my words fail to reach him, those thoughts must already be welling up in his mind."
"If he's already thinking it, then what is the point of saying it? Are you a moron?"
"... ... ..."
"And besides, haven't you noticed?"
"I've noticed a lot. What are you referring to?"
"When was the last time you came to Korriban? Was it always this deserted?"[/ul]
*While still in the middle of forming a reply to Devient, my thoughts are interrupted with a snap back to reality, and likewise a deliberate relinquishment of Force Sight, as the conical nose of the DP20 begins her forceful intersection with the front plane of the space station with a sound that contends for definition as the furthest possible example from 'pleasant'.*[/font]