Smug Slug
He could not see with the blast shield down. Nor could he hear. But he could feel. The storm of the Force thundered around him. Vast beyond all knowledge. He held Murmegil in his right hand. The Sith Sword acted as a focal point, enhancing his concentration and connection to the Force. The blade pulsed with the Dark Side, an aphotic miasma of energy that Shorn breathed in. Pure power surged through him, a raging current that sent the tips of his fingers tingling.
In the vastness of the Force were flashes of the future. They were almost too quick to spot, like tendrils of lightning amidst the clouds. But Tycho could feel them.
He acted, or rather reacted to what many called the will of the Force. His sword weaved through the air in a display of surpassing grace and prowess suited to a swordsman who had trained under Anaya Fen. He felt the blade connect with something he could not hear or see. He continued to move, feet stepping and spinning as the flashes in the Force indicated.
At last, he came to a stop and removed his helmet, passing a hand through sweaty hair. He surveyed his work. Blackened pockmarks stood starkly upon the grey walls of the training center. A droid stood in front of Shorn, blaster pointed at him. The training droid's carapace bore no blaster marks. Tycho pursed his lips, brows darkening. He had succeeded in deflecting the blaster bolts, but not in reflecting them back at the shooter.
More training was required.
He donned his helmet once more. Sight and sounded faded instantly. All he heard was the heaviness of his own labored breath. All he saw was blackness.
"Again!" he said.
In the vastness of the Force were flashes of the future. They were almost too quick to spot, like tendrils of lightning amidst the clouds. But Tycho could feel them.
He acted, or rather reacted to what many called the will of the Force. His sword weaved through the air in a display of surpassing grace and prowess suited to a swordsman who had trained under Anaya Fen. He felt the blade connect with something he could not hear or see. He continued to move, feet stepping and spinning as the flashes in the Force indicated.
At last, he came to a stop and removed his helmet, passing a hand through sweaty hair. He surveyed his work. Blackened pockmarks stood starkly upon the grey walls of the training center. A droid stood in front of Shorn, blaster pointed at him. The training droid's carapace bore no blaster marks. Tycho pursed his lips, brows darkening. He had succeeded in deflecting the blaster bolts, but not in reflecting them back at the shooter.
More training was required.
He donned his helmet once more. Sight and sounded faded instantly. All he heard was the heaviness of his own labored breath. All he saw was blackness.
"Again!" he said.
