| abstract | - Gold Beaches - Coronet City The crash of the surf here is not so loud as the engines of the Port, but they carry the same strength and promise of power, more magestic than any artificial energy. The deep blue of the water is complimented royally by bright gold sand beaches, stretching north-south of the City. It is a fine sand, glittering underfoot, and residents of the city as well as visitors relax in its warmth. The occasional CorSec officer patrols here, for the safety of the public. Simon: Of average height and fair coloring, the young man before you has dark brown hair and eyes of a color somewhere between blue and gray. His hair is parted and cut short. His eyes are deep-set, looking more ready to draw his brow into a deep frown than a warm smile. For facial hair he wears a well groomed goatee and mustache, trimmed short and of the same deep color as the rest of his hair. All in all, the man's demeanor can be summed up in a word: intense. Simon is dressed in earth tones. Light tan, loose fitting trousers are tucked into soft leather boots that come up to just under his knees, and are tied tight with brown, leather chords. Tucked into the top of his pants is a simple shirt of a matching color. Over this is a loose wool tunic of dark brown, covering his arms completely and hanging down below his waste. It's comfortable clothing, suitable for most climates and cultures. Strapped diagnolly across his chest and back is what appears to be some sort of harness. It's worn in the way some people wear a bandolier, yet there is nothing attached to the device. A long shaft of cylinder rises over his left shoulder, a rod sheathed where some warriors sling their sword. Orson: Too short, not handsome, and a little too old. What's lacking in looks has to be made up for with something strong on the inside: determination and persistence, a certain grit evident in the look sent by his slate gray eyes. Lines around this human male's mouth and eyes tell of hard days and decisions in his past, each one a new crease in an otherwise young man's face. He is smaller framed, though quite stout with a barrel chest and strong shoulders. Still, he's not overly muscled, simply in good physical shape. Dark hair is kept in a simple style but is more often than not in a disheveled state. A few lonely gray hairs touch his temples. He might be around forty standard years old. He has a larger nose, on a round-shaped, bold face that is quick with a grin but usually caught up in a shade of thoughtful. He is wearing a tight-fitting suit of duraprene, the dark rubbery material snug on his broad shoulders but covering him from neck to wrist and down to his ankles without an obvious seam. A dark green band of color runs vertically up his short body. Other than the uniform wetsuit, he is unclothed, save a thick band of dark metal on one wrist. The man appears to be in decent shape, though is a certainly past the boyish years and firmly in his middle years. Jessalyn: The composure of this young human woman is probably the most striking thing about her. Though otherwise unassuming, her expression is one of surprising coherence and calm, belied only by the slightly mischievous gleam in her leaf green eyes. Shining dark red hair falls in unruly silken waves down to the middle of her back, framing her wide cheekbones and smooth, pale skin not as fragile as most redheads'. She is relatively tall for a human woman, with long-boned limbs and a natural grace amplified by her skills. Jessa is dressed in a drab green sleeveless shirt, and a pair of kakhi pants with plenty of pockets. Around her waist is a black leather utility belt. Her hair is held back from her face and clipped behind her head, though stray curling locks continue to fall into her eyes. The fit of her trousers and the sturdy brown suede boots on her legs emphasize her narrow waist and the long-legged rhythm of her strides. Han Solo: This tall, rangy man moves with the loose and confident motions of a fighter, someone accustomed to getting into tight situations... and getting quickly right back out of them. His brown hair is cut pragmatically short, but is thick enough to hold a hint of a wave, framing a set of ruggedly handsome features that have finally lost the last traces of youthfulness and are solidly into weathered maturity. A long scar crooks across his chin, adding another touch of ruggedness to his face. Sharp-gazed hazel eyes, prone to shift tint depending on his clothing, miss very little that crosses their line of sight, and he typically speaks in a resonant, gravelly baritone. He is currently clad in a simple black vest over a white shirt, tucked into military-blue pants, notable by the single red stripe that runs down the side of each leg, and scuffed black boots. All of his clothing appears to have seen better days, although it's perfectly serviceable. Around his waist is slung a blaster belt, tilted down slightly at an angle towards the holster riding on his right thigh. Luke: Shrouded in ebon clothing as black as night, this thin young humans sky blue eyes sparkle from beneath his hooded cowl. Shaggy locks of disheveled sun-bleached hair poke out above, defying even the blackness of his clothing. His right hand also is clad in a black tight fitting glove occasionally clenching in its prison, as if recalling some ancient memory. Despite the moody attire, his face is jovial, kind and expressive, if not now showing the early lines of coming age and a well worn tan. Faint laughlines at the corners of his eyes, a barely detectable scar in the crease from his nose to his mouth create character to his face. Yet something deep lingers behind his visage, a thoughtful brooding not found in most men his age. The cloak he wears typically has the hood up to conceal his features. After all, in a dangerous galaxy, incognito is a good bet. It is open in the front showing a dark tunic underneath, going nearly to his knee high and jet black military style boots. The only other object visible as his robes move is a silver metallic object twelve inches in length and clipped to his belt. Sitting cross legged on the sand well away from the crash of water and surf is Simon Sezirok, with his hands resting on his knees and his eyes closed. Sitting directly in front of him, mirroring his stance, is Jessalyn Valios. A wooden staff is plunged into the sand several feet behind Simon, an intricate rose carved into the end sticking into the air. A few sea birds circle in the sky over head, and the peaceful sound of the waves rolling in washes over the pair. Taking in a deep breath, Simon lets it out slowly, then opens his eyes and says, "Thank you, Jessa, for letting us do this here. It seemed a fitting place, since this is where you first opened your eyes to me. Where our souls first... touched." From where she sits cross-legged across from Simon, Jessalyn gives a small smile to the Selas, eyes peering from between half-closed lashes. She sits perfectly still, the ocean winds lifting her hair and clothing in gentle caresses, reminding her strongly of the last time they were on this planet. When she had first woken up to find this unlikely group of people willing to rescue her soul from an eternal trap. The thought makes her remember her gratitude and she reaches to touch Simon's hand lightly, even while allowing the Force to flow through her and between them. "It was a good suggestion," she says with a comforting smile. "I only want you to try this when you're ready, of course. But it's nothing to be afraid of, I promise." "I am tired of being afraid," Simon says, quietly. He shifts left and right as he sits in an effort to make his back even more straight than it is, and presses his eyes closed. He takes another deep breath in through his nostrils and lets it out through his mouth. It was very much like a position he'd learned long ago for meditation. In many ways, this was the last step of one of the oldest Selas mantras: mastery of body leading to master of mind leading to mastery and peace of the spirit. If only he could convince himself he was ready for it. Fear was the mind killer, and he would not let his self doubt stop him. He says, his voice a little stronger, "Let us begin." And with that, he opens himself completely to the True Source, the All Mother from which all souls were born and connected. In the back of his mind, a still small voice speaks a quiet prayer. A prayer for forgiveness. Ironically, he who might be considered Luke's brother, emerges from another part of the city, his right hand lazily slipped into his belt, as he strolls to the beach. Han Solo. Casually, he comes to a stop, and just stands about, his head turning this way and that. And then, he spots Luke, and sets a path towards that man. "Hey, Kid," He offers up simply as he nears the other. Eyeing her companion a little warily as she watches him slip into a deeper state of concentration, Jessalyn finally closes her eyes as well, taking several slow steady breaths to calm herself. It was easy enough for her to open up, stretching across the short distance to the Selas, her mind brushing his with a gentle touch, wanting to extinguish any lingering fear with her own reassurance. She grows bolder, allowing more glowing threads of her being to unravel towards Simon, her outward expression betraying nothing of her internal perceptions. The essence he is already familiar with, the bright, faceted colors, the suggestion of sweet, running water, lined with fragrant flowers that bob their heads in the sun, they all surround Simon with warmth and comfort, the more gentle aspects of her soul. _See, no need to be afraid_, she whispers softly into his mind. The familiar images are a comfort, and Simon lets out a relieved sigh. The tension rolls out of his shoulders, and slowly, he begins to completely lose track of his physical form. A shoulder muscle that had been sore, strained from an overzealous workout, stops twinging as if anesthetized. His heartbeat slows, his mind reaches out. The True Source flows through him, and into Jessalyn. Reaching to the redhead, following along the golden lines of energy between them, he begins to share with her all that he carries with him. Images and feelings move from the Selas, images of a wooded land. Hardfaced strangers look toward Jessalyn, curious yet fearful at first, then smiling warmly. The scent of trees and sap, the feel of a wooden staff, the exhilaration of running along a dear path through the forest with the wind blowing across your face. These things and others flow from Simon into Jessalyn, slowly at first, then with a quickening pace as if a heavy burden was at last being let down. Almost so completely lost in the familiar feelings from Jessalyn, Luke loses himself for a moment. Envy wells up inside of him for the purity of her soul, for his own seems dark and tainted by comparison. Less familiar is the wash from the other participant, and in trying to pick out the individual threads Luke suddenly realizes he was spoken to. "Han!" he exlaims, coming out of his reverie. "There you are, I have been looking all over. Leia asked me to find you." He nods towards the group of young Jedi a distance off, "I am amazed. I warn them of the risk of learning themselves, and yet, they strive to do nothing else. Sometimes I have to remember my own eagerness in training." His eyes slide off the face of his own friend to watch the two again, eyes straining to beat the summer sun. "I was off talking with some friends," Han muses to himself as he peers towards the focus of Luke's attention. Blinking several times, the identity of the woman flashes through his mind. She was familiar. But... who was she? He knew her, most definately, from somewhere or another. And yet, it eluded him so much. "Who is -she-?" He finally relinquishes the question to Luke. And then he puts on his suave debonaire look, and leans against the air. As the images pour over Jessalyn's consciousness, she experiences them with Simon, weaving herself around and through the strands of his soul, and giving of herself in the same way; a lonely childhood, a search for purpose, the discovery of the Force that had changed her life. The sharing only takes a moment, but seems as if an eternity has passed as Jessalyn experiences nearly the entirety of Simon's being at once. And yet, there is some secret part of her that she keeps protected deep inside herself, guarded by strong emotional bonds. The feeling surrounding those shields is that she fears discovering what's inside almost as much as she fears them being found by another. Indeed, her conscious mind might not even be aware of its existence, for all the joy that she feels at sharing what had always been forbidden to Simon before. Simon lets out a sigh as the bond between he and Jessalyn increases. This was a forbidden thing that they were doing. Forbidden, yet certainly pleasurable beyond anything that Simon had ever known. Perhaps it was because it had been forbidden to Simon that he enjoys the closeness so much, yet what could be more intimate than the exchange of the heart and the soul on such a spiritual level? Perhaps it was forbidden because it was pleasurable. Perhaps Jessalyn was right, and the soul was strong and resolute, rather than ephemorous and fragile. In drawing upon the experiences Jessalyn shares with him, he begins to thirst for the rest. He senses that she is withholding... something. He lets go his darkest secrets to her... the disappointment and sadness he'd felt upon losing Mira to Markus Lisardis... the sickly sweet satisfaction of finding new power and strength in Cort's teachings. He shares these things like a confession even as he reaches deeper into Jessalyn's soul, trying to pry out that which she is holding back. "Jessalyn," Luke murmurs to his old friend. "My apprentice?" He doesn't look up to see if the recognition registers in Han's face. "Actually, I should call her a Jedi Knight, now, for that is what she has become." His voice trails off towards the end as he concentrates on the ebb of emotions that he is on the edge of. Nothing clear, not near the intensity that he can feel and yet he opens himself up more, passive, not alerting others to his presence and yet keenly concerned. The Force speaks to him of impending danger, and yet, he can not see how. "That's it," Han states simply, "Jessalyn something or other. I remember now." He pauses. "Didn't you two have a thing going, or something?" He leers at Luke quietly, before moving his glance back to whatever it was they were doing. The unnatural and fetid things they were doing. Quite vile. Unfortunately, Han doesn't know about them. So he just stands there. For a few heartbeats Jessalyn's soul does feel strengthened by the bonding with Simon's, the combined powers melding, the things that she has come to love about him complementing her own swirling energies. But the next thing she knows, those dark things she had resisted admitting seem to swarm her mind, and she almost recoils out of the mental embrace. She steadies herself, re-weaving what was lost in her startlement, trying to send comforting images, even at the same time as she begins to become aware of his goal. Prodding deeper, into suppressed realms she doesn't even want to admit exist. She struggles, frantic, not wanting him to see, and strengthening the shields that protect her. _Simon, wait._ She manages to form the words in his mind. On a not so direct path, Orson Tighe approaches Simon and Jessalyn. Their location isn't far from the Force cataclysm that had rocked this very beach just a few weeks ago. It was a storm that had been summoned to spin, crash, and break, opening and stirring whatever it touched. It was a storm of awakenings in many ways. It had kindled Simon and Jessalyn's love. It had brought Jessalyn from her perfect coma. It may have sparked Orson's improbable discovery of his own ability with the Force. He had rented his own room on the beach some distance from Simon and Jessalyn's hotel, a long day of surf having released some of the tension from his mind and body. Training and simple Focus had already begun to trim the mechanic's muscle and ambiguous intent, removing that which was frivolous and replacing it with much harder stuff. It hadn't been obvious that Simon and Jessalyn were around, but even Orson with his basic abilities could feel something going on. First, from the hotel to the ship -- then a quick chat with Mira -- and now back to the hotel for some privacy, returning with a forbidden prize. The plan had been to walk back along the beach to check on the break of the waves, not run into his companions. Still, the mechanic puts some emphasis to his step, gouging foot-sized craters into the packed sand near the water's edge. Too eager, too thirsty for what Jessalyn held within her, Simon pushes past her barriers. Lustfully, he poors all his strength into keeping the bond between them even as he drives his perceptions into the heart of what she was hiding. Simon's eyes snap open and his breath catches in his throat. His face goes ashen. He starts to scramble back and away from Jessalyn, yet he is unable to pull himself away from the union of their minds through the True Source. With his mind's eye he sees Luke's visage, and his own memories begin to assault him with terrible images. He sees Jessalyn reaching to caress him on a starlit night on Myrkr, only it is not Simon's face that her fingers touch, but Luke's. His stomach churns acid as his mind conjures the image of Jessalyn leading not himself into a wooded copse, but the Jedi Master. "No..." he says, his voice quivering. Tears well up within his eyes and run down his cheeks like a stream cutting through a gorge. "You used me. This..." he finishes drawing his senses away from Jessalyn, and its then that he notices the familiar life energy of Luke Skywalker off in the distance. His fear turns to anger. "This was all a lie! You wanted to corrupt me. You wanted to make _me_ a Jedi!" Scrambling to his feet, he stands, wobbling next to where his staff is still plunged into the sand. His ice blue eyes stare fire at Jessalyn, disbelief and horror evident on his face. There is no Irony; there is only the will of the Force. Yet, at the same moment that Simon pentrates Jessalyn's shield, Skywalker says to his friend, "No. We did not." He smiles weakly at his old friend, "A teacher I am, and nothing more." Suddenly, the change in Simon's emotions ripples through the Force like a rock suddenly dropped in a previously serene pond. Outward, the Jedi remains calm and he says to Han, "Something is not right.. watch my back, okay? This is a Jedi affair..." He leaves off that his friend would be unable to help, if it came to that. And so, he stands, throwing back the cowl to his hood, and yet another realization rocks him to his foundation. That is Simon standing before Jessalyn, not Orson as he had thought. Hastily he shrugs off his cloak, letting it fall to the sand, and begins to move towards the pair with apprehension riding on his brow. Han shifts in his leanings, and offers, "Yeah. Sure." And as he offers that, his hand gravitates towards his blaster, just lazily hovering over it like a falcon, ready to pounce on its prey. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that, but you never knew. Besides, with Luke around, there was always trouble. The bond is broken between them most violently, sending a Force shock through her mind that nearly numbs Jessalyn as she struggles to gather up the fragments of her being. She's amazed that he can even speak or stand, doubling over in agony as she mentally bleeds... every thought and desire and emotion that she had tried to hold inside now pouring out, humiliating her. When she can open her eyes she looks up at Simon with terror in her eyes. "It's not like that," she begins, her voice low and frightened. "I swear, Simon!" He was misunderstanding, projecting his own fears into what he found in her heart, she had to make him believe, she couldn't give him up to the Dark Side -- He was already on the Dark Side. The shock of finally accepting that hits her just as hard as the sudden dissolution of the Force-bond. But she can barely move. She tries to kick herself back away from Simon, her boots digging into the sand. "All a bunch of hocus pocus by insane people," Han mutters to himself as he watches, "Insane. All of them. On some bad Jizz or Spice." Orson touches a strong hand to another's shoulder, parting a group of a few beings taking a more leisurely stroll down Gold Beaches. He reorients his shoulders and breaks into a casual jog as he divides the already distant group, coming up on the pair. "Jessalyn?" he calls out with some trepidation. "Simon? Everything okay?" They were probably tired of him walking in on them. Then again, they were in the middle of the beach. He comes to a stop a few meters off of Jessalyn's flank, huffing out a tired breath. "No more LIES!" Simon bellows at Jessalyn, stumbling a step back with the intensity of his cry. The tears still ran down his cheeks in streams, but there was nothing left of fear there any longer. The betrayal he felt... the degree to which he felt dirtied. He let this woman... this _Jedi_ touch his soul! He staggers, falling to one knee and grabbing the wooden staff to his right for support. He bows his head in shame, and all at once, a realization comes upon him. He had loved Jessalyn more deeply than he had loved any other, had trusted her more resolutely then he ever had, and it had all been a lie. She had used him, and he had failed. She had cut deeply, fouling his soul with her touch. He was... Fallen. "NOOOOOOOOO!" Rage and hatred tear the cry from his throat and he throws his head back. As he does, he savagely takes hold of the True Source. It twists within his grasp sharply, and his anguished cry becomes a howl of pain. His bones crack with the power of the True Source raging through him. The bones in his cheek break through the skin, peeling back white flesh like a hot poker through snow. The bone twists into blackened horns, turned inward like a spider's mandibles. His scream stops, and his gaze, frightening in a monster's visage, looks toward Jessalyn. His wooden staff begins to glow with an eerie light even before he rips it from the sand and holds it before him in an en garde position. This woman... this whore... had taken away the last of his hope. She would be the first to know his wrath. (Simon's new description): Before you is a young human male of average height and narrow build. His hair is a deep brown, parted and cut short. A strong jawline and deepset eyes of blue-gray look out over high cheekbones, which are accentuated by dark gray horns of bone. The horns are shaped almost like teeth, curved inward like a spider's mandibles. A goatee and mustache decorates the lower half of his face. All in all, the man's appearance and presence could be summed up in a word: fierce. Simon is dressed in earth tones. Light tan, loose fitting trousers are tucked into soft leather boots that come up to just under his knees, and are tied tight with brown, leather chords. Tucked into the top of his pants is a simple shirt of a matching color. Over this is a loose wool tunic of dark brown, covering his arms completely and hanging down below his waste. It's comfortable clothing, suitable for most climates and cultures. Strapped diagnolly across his chest and back is what appears to be some sort of harness. It's worn in the way some people wear a bandolier, yet there is nothing attached to the device. A long shaft of cylinder rises over his left shoulder, a rod sheathed where some warriors sling their sword. Definitely not Orson. Luke's mood twists from apprehension, to fear, to near panic as Simon under-goes his metamorphosis. His own fear revels in the dark energy floating out from Simon, reverberating like a taut drum. No, not like this. Serenity, with a sense of urgency, flood the Jedi's emotions. His black boots, no longer hampered by the sand, churn heavily as he begins to move with super-human speed. A quick motion brings his saber to hand, and soon the familiar hissing sound of ignition fills his ears, mingling with the pounding of his own blood, his own power. "Jessalyn, get back!" he calls, giving an un-needed warning but hoping to attract the newly created demon onto himself. "Damnit, Luke. You always go and turn people into strange monsters," Han muses, as his blasters is moved from its holster, and he wavers forth slowly. Though not too close. If Simon could grow mandibles, he might be able to spit acid or eat people. And Han most certainly did -not- want to get eaten. He'd leave that to Luke. Terrified, Jessalyn only stares up at Simon, not believing what she is seeing. She screams as his face suddenly transforms, the Force itself mutating his skull right before her eyes. This couldn't be happening. She was going to save him from the Dark Side, why couldn't he see the truth? Guilt tears through her that she's responsible. She created this monster by trying to love him. She couldn't bring herself to blame him for wanting to strike her down. "No!" She screams out toward Luke, scrambling to her feet with a flinch of pain and holding out her hands. "Don't hurt him! Please!" She turns her pleading, tear-filled eyes to Simon, becoming aware of Orson's nearby presence, as well. "Simon, this is not what you are! Don't believe it!" she cries out to him. "I never deceived you! Never!" An earlier conversation from aboard the _Uwannabuyim_ is the inappropriate thought that flashes through Orson's mind. Twice he's discussed the importance of caution and discretion with Simon. Twice the Selas had agreed. And now, twice, the man-creature had dramatically illustrated his ability to find new and unique ways to be anything but discreet. "Er," is the flavor of the gasp that escapes Orson's mouth. Along with whatever else he thought about Simon, seeing him on the opposite side so clearly -- so powerfully and obviously wrapped up in his own foibles -- is disheartening. His own broad hand goes to the metal cylinder he's borrowed from Mira for study. Orson withdraws it but lets the lightsaber lay loose in his hand, feeling suddenly conspicuous. "Simon," he calls out, shaking his head. "Control? Right?" It's not too late for hope. Not for Orson. Three Jedi, lined up in front of him. The Jedi Master himself wiedling his lightsaber of emerald that blazed brightly enough to shame the sun. Jessalyn, still trying to draw him into their fold with her honeyed words. That he wanted to believe her only made the ache in his heart worse. And Orson, holding in his hand what was most obviously the weapon of the Jedi. He too, tried words, but they were akin to Jessalyn's, falling on deaf ears. The sound of blaster fire echoes across the beach, and with dizzying speed, Simon's staff moves. The wooden weapon, glowing almost as keenly as the lightsaber in Han's hands, catches and deflects volley after volley as Simon's arms pump. Finally, spinning to his left, Simon deflects two quick blasts with his staff only in his right hand as he points toward the Corellian with his left. Reaching through the True Source, Simon strikes with an invisible fist into Han's charging face. The thought of something else, a killing move he'd tried once on Valak, flicks through Simon's consciousness momentarily, but he dismisses it. This man was a nuisance, but a stranger. He could be one of the masses that were swayed by the lies of the Jedi. He did not need to die this day. Spinning back toward the three Jedi, Simon's energy enhanced staff whirls, buzzing as it cuts through the air, still spinning in one hand. With his other hand, he reaches over his shoulder and grasps his lightstaff. Hurling himself toward the Jedi, there is a double snap-hiss, and with unheralded speed, lightstaff and empowered wooden staff are brought to bear against the Jedi, starting with the Jedi Master himself. Han continues to run forward, blast after blast, screaming now. Rather remiscant of him chasing stormtroopers down a hall. And with similar outcome. As the Force smacks into him, he falls, rolls, and is unconscious. That's it. No lovely running away screaming. No final battle to the death between Darf Fader and Oboe Van Kernobie. Just falling over, and falling unconscious, into a happy land. Goodnight, folks. The sudden onslaught of the newborn Dark Side creature unsettles Luke for a moment, yet grim determination sets in. He is unseated, however, as a volley of blaster fire leaps towards his intended pray. Han! He tries to reach out with the Force, to ward him off, yet it is too late. A brief backwards glance is all the time he has to spare as the one man he cares most about in this Galaxy is dropped to the ground, for Simon's blade is crashing towards him. Unsettled as he is, the yellow blade clashes into the green with a flurry of sparks. Anger wells up inside him, yet again the reverberation he feels in Simon warns him of his own impending fate. Concern for Jessalyn, and her feelings, replaces hatred and anger. Concern for Han and his desire to guard their lives wash over him. "Get back!" He yells to the one he assumes is Orson, and plants himself in between Jessalyn and his adversary. Jessalyn is frozen. She usually is able to call upon the Force to guide her in moments where she is uncertain of her actions, but right now, she is immobilized with her own fear and doubt. She stares at the back of Luke's head as he inserts himself between herself and Simon, then back at the disfigured Selas, her eyes watering with tears. At last her gaze rests on Orson, and she reaches for her lightsaber at last, igniting it but not acting. A band of color sprays out from the lightsaber in Orson's hand, green strikingly like the color of Simon's own blade. The new student feels more than a little ridiculous standing in the sand with an active lightsaber that he could barely move without harming something on himself. Still, he brings it to a strange en garde position and assumes a stance similar to that found in classic Ukion fencing: two-handed grip at his right shoulder, arms folded in, blade upright. The Force ripples around the mechanic, and his stance widens. Like a machine, his elbows, shoulders and wrist begin turning, presenting the blade to fend off a sweeping attack by Simon's weapon before the assault has even arrived. Orson's arms shudder under the blow, and he looks dumbfounded. Simon has already darted away. Drawing upon the True Source, enslaved by its power, Simon moves. His feet dance over the sand as if he were moving across a smooth surface. The buzzing and humming of his weapons whizzing through the air sound like a dozen huge hornets swarming for the attack. More deadly than an insects bite, they cut through the air, crashing against first Luke's weapon, then Orson's. A maddened, frenzied look is in his unseeing eye as he lets the power of the True Source guide him in a deadly dance. With his arms twisting and turning, he sometimes seems to be enshrouded by the glow of his weapons as they spin about him. Luke is surprised by Simon's skill with the staff, yet the under-estimation lasts only a moment. Compared to Vader, and others he has faced, Simon is untrained. Yet, he is distracted and can not freely flow from form to form for fear of harming Orson, or Jessalyn. Partly with vexation at the two students for not moving back, partly with effort, his brows knit as he surges to meet another one of the clashing blows. A thought occurs to Luke, perhaps an act of desperation. Orson, while his intents are pure, is hampering and risking the lives of the other two with his unfamiliar weapon. He forms a thought on his mind, and extends his bionic hand and a blow of pure Force crashes towards Orson's midsection; not lethal, nor even enough to inflict significant pain, but enough to send him clear of the combat zone. The damage that's been done. The destruction that occurs when walking in the Dark Side. The terrible cost it has exacted from Simon. From Jessalyn. Every worst thought that's been considered over the past weeks, as he's learned, have been exceeded. The save on the asteroid. To save -this-? The mechanic spares a concerned glance to Jessalyn, lightweapons passing through his field of vision in a confused tangle. It wouldn't have mattered much if he had been ready for it, but he wasn't. Telekinetic power rolls out from the Jedi Master, and Orson is crumpled at its power. He is slightly lifted, bending at the midsection without even enough breath to 'oof.' The lightsaber flies from his hand, and many meters away, he comes sliding to a stop in a hurt pile. He's gouged out a small canyon in the sand and doesn't immediately move. As she stands still frozen, watching the battle, Jessalyn's eyes dart from Orson to Luke and back again, wondering what she can do to intervene. Simon's vicious assault is not going to stop, and she has no choice but to defend her friends, if not herself. The young red-haired Jedi is far more familiar with Simon's abilities with the weapons than Luke is, especially considering the meld they had just shared -- she knows every careful lesson, every level of progress he made to the point of mastery through his youthful training. And so it is with anticipating eyes that she watches him converge on Luke, seeing the inevitable happen before it happens: Luke's body cleaved neatly in two by the multiple slicing weapons. She blinks, the vision appearing in an instant, and the Force guiding her movements as she lifts her lightsaber in a blue-green arc and darts neatly forward. There is the stench of seared flesh as her lightblade slices through Simon's right hand at the wrist, sending the severed limb through the air and knocking the rose-carved staff out of his grip. Once more, Simon screams in pain. He had known a pain like this before, when the Nek Battledog had taken several of the fingers of his right hand. It had taken him a long time to grow back what was lost, and even longer to put away the resultant nightmares. His hand separates from his body, and Simon knows defeat. Once more, it was Jessalyn that had dealt the blow that cut deepest. Yet, he could not merely roll over. Even as the weapon that had been in his severed hand bounces on the sand, the twisted power of the True Source forms a new weapon. The exposed end of bone at his abused wrist extends out, going black from the taint of evil act. It extends and sharpens, curving very slightly, almost like a claw. Using his continued momentum toward the Jedi Master, Simon slips beneath the green lightsaber to drive his clawed arm deeply into the flesh of the blonde man's leg. He follows through the act by throwing himself behind the Jedi, rolling across the sand, then scampering to his feet and bolting. The rose carved staff he leaves behind. He had loved that weapon in much the way he had loved the women he had carved it for. That was all gone, now. As broken and useless as the flesh he'd left behind. "Yarghhh!" Luke shouts as he goes down, lightsaber extinguishing as he falls. An old forgotten feeling, for him, rending flesh. Perhaps too much like the immortal like some made him out to be. In an undignified manner, he grabs his leg, anger and frusteration gnashing his teeth as he rolls belly up, holding his leg in a fetal position. His mind casts about to find the center to begin his self healing, but it is not there as his emotions rage and pound in his head. Trembling with disgust and fear, Jessalyn extinguishes her lightsaber, clipping it back to her belt as she watches Simon make his escape. She doesn't move to follow after him, to stop him or to beg him not to go. But she gradually becomes aware that Luke is hurt and nearby, and shaking herself out of her anguish, she stumbles to his side, kneeling down and trying to get a look at his wounded thigh. "Be still, are you okay?" she soothes, amazed at her ability to return to her usual composed self. Only later would this start to sink in. She looks into Luke's face, conflicting emotions swirling up inside even as she reaches out through the Force to try and ease his pain. "We need to get you to the hospital. You're going to bleed to death." Luke grits his teeth, able to gain some of the control over his body with Jessalyn helping to provide the focus. "I am fine, for the moment." He grunts, and his head falls back into the sand with a soft plumph. Controlling the flow of your own bodily systems is a difficult task. "See to your Apprentice. Not a great way to make a re-introduction, I'm afraid." Another grunt. "And Han..." He trails off, eyes asking for obedience, the pain in his leg second to the pain of fear for his friend and the one he struck out at in haste. Stretching out, Jessa is able to detect that both Solo and Orson Tighe are still indeed alive, and she breathes a soft sigh of relief. It is about the only thing she can be grateful for right now. The hurt closes in on her, fracturing an already vulnerable heart, and she reacts the only way she can right now. Suppression. "They're alive, though they may have a hell of a headache when they wake up," she reassures Luke, forcing a smile into her voice, and feeling like an actress. She fumbles into her pocket to pull out a comlink, accessing the emergency frequency, and asking in quick, efficient tones for a medic team to be sent to the beach. Then Jessalyn sinks back on her heels and covers her face with her hands, trying her hardest not to sob. Luke reaches out with a bloodied hand to clutch Jessalyn's knee. "I'm sorry," is all he says as he closes his eyes. Sorry, for bringing you into the pain of the Jedi. Sorry, for trying to bring about a New Jedi Order. Sorry, that my failures affect you so deeply. Yet none of it comes out as the pain in his leg, mirroring the pain in his heart, causes him to lapse into unconsciousness. His hand remains clenched on the knee, however, his unconscious spirit knowing she needs all the support he can give.
|
