Midnight (open)

[Butler]

His eyes veered up towards the sky. It was a rare occurrence, an eclipse. There was no reflection, no light flickering in the blues of his glossy eyes. Darkness collapsed the light in silence.

Survival, predatory instincts rising through the blood, meant becoming stronger. Out here, in the swamps of chaos, he remembered his mornings prior. His fingers felt the cool air, hand rising up to the sky. He remembered each strain of soreness, the pain of pulling tendons and inflicted influx of the Force violently stricken into his control. He'd read, he'd studied, he'd practiced, he'd trained. And now he would attempt to put himself in danger, to force his instincts to overcome and execute the trial by chaos. Perhaps he would fail. It wasn't just this one technique he would employ, though it was his focus. This was an excursion of investment, to push himself to grow and advance through the complex that is the dark side of the Force. Ambition drove him, alone. Though perhaps others would join him in the night. Each and every application he knew would be tested this eve, forced to comply and reach further despite what pain it caused. His hand reached back behind, a ripple in the atmosphere foreshadowing the lance that would pierce his enemies in secret of shadow. It dissipated. His hand fell back down to his side. Still looking up, he understood the need for survival. As he'd become accustom to, he'd force the fear out in a moment of inescapable danger; force himself to strive and achieve greater heights. Or he would die. Those who joined him would face the same dangers. Become stronger, or die trying. This was the rule of the wild.

((group training for whoever wants in: I'll train those who join while training myself, and fighting any wild creatures as a means of growth: training by doing))

 

[Dawyn]

Lorn let out a long breath, the chill night air causing it to steam as it puffed upwards in small, intermittent clouds before vanishing into the night. It burned-in his throat, in his lungs, as it purified its recycled and stagnant counterpart still in him, the short legacy of the Dagobah Temple which he had just exited. Most would have gone back inside, to the warmth and to the comfort, but he was not most. He, unlike so many of the other sycophants in the Temple who fought only out of their own vanity, pride, or delusions needed power-and he would get it, by any means necessary.

Mileya.

His daughter was in his decrepit, barely habitable quarters, sleeping peacefully with her young Vjun Fox. It was his fault she was here, hungry and cold on this unforgiving, desolate pit of a backwater planet. His fault that she was afflicted with a disease he could only forestall, never cure, a disease if not treated daily would kill her as certain as the eclipse that colored the moonlight red above them. His fault that she no longer had a mother to comfort her when she woke up in the middle of the night, terrified. All because he had been weak.

And what if you are so weak that you are killed? What would happen then? The remnants of his conscience asked.

That will not happen.

But if it does?

I-

Death.

Throwing himself to the side, he threw his consciousness into the Force, tapping for the briefest of moments into the swirling, trinity of self-hatred, guilt, and passion that his heart of soul swam in. Dodging the stalking tusk cat at the last possible moment, he rolled to his knees the massive feline overshot him by a hairsbreadth, his hair feeling the ghost’s edge of the feline’s sharp, steely claws as they passed over him. Rising to his feet, his dark robes sodden with mud, he cast his eyes onto those of the creature-and his mind into its.

It was a mother.

A mother trying to feed her starving kitten-the father had been killed by another apprentice just as his. Prey was scarce, and predators were about. It had spotted an easy target, a scrawny thing walking in the open with no cover. It had good instincts to dodge its ambush, but it could not hope to compete now that she was in her element. Her kitten would get fresh meat tonight.

“Too bad. I have my own kitten to feed.” Lorn said quietly, his voice nothing more than a whisper upon the night’s whipping wind.

The cat launched her attack, diving headlong at the silent, muddy figure on the path.

Now.

Lorn dropped the floodgates of careful control, of practiced disciplined as he drew deeply upon the Dark Side for just a moment, the sole vision of his daughter’s tearful face as he threw out both of his hands, bending the ethereal, everescent tendrils of the Force to his will, forming them into a rock-solid ball, and throwing it at the creature in a hardened Force Push that screamed through the air like the beast it was meant to dispatch.

It struck the cat mid-pounce, sending the ferocious feline thundering back into the trunk of a large oak, its spine fracturing in the night from the force of the blow. Perspiration dropped from Lorn’s brow as he continued to draw upon his inner Darkness, but the job was not done yet. The beast lay there, howling in an unholy shriek, its agonized cries tearing through the night like an abomination out of hell. Snapping one arm out to the side, Lorn levitated a large, sharp rock, and throwing his arm forward to the beast, threw it toward the beast’s skull.

~Craaaaaackkkk~

The sickening crack echoed through the forest for a moment-and then, there was silence. Only quiet now echoed through the night, quiet, and the pattering sound of small drops of salty sweat that fell from his face onto the forest floor. Lorn released his hold on the Dark Side.

“You did what you had to for the one you cared about. Our strength collided. Mine won.” Lorn said simply, offering an eulogy for the dead cat. Its kitten would die-and his would live, not by fate, but by his choice and by his strength. And that was why he was here. That is why he went along with the crazies, the sycophants, and those who thought of none but themselves. Because Fate would bow to him-or he would crush her as surely as he did the cat before him.