Geneviève Lasedri
Fascists hate her!
She had lived that day. The pacifist teachings of the weak Jedi had failed one final time under the imperious nose of the last true leader of the Republic, allowing her to make her silent escape to what was left of the freedom she had been allotted by this galaxy. She had disappeared as surely as a ship to the depths of Kamino.
"Raaf," she uttered, dim eyes floundering over the shadow of an unlit lamp. It was uncountable how many hours she had spoken to that most inanimate of objects, projecting her anger, her sorrow, her hope and hopelessness, and whatever crazed products of solitude transferred cognitively from mind to tongue.
"Kazen," to the coat rack, that hat drooping from its peak. "I have to go now." She edged forward, so carefully; delicately removing the articles from the stand and dressing herself with the attire she had been known for.
Like her famous sunhat atop her conspicuous head, she had worn many faces; many titles, not limited to: Heiress, Benefactor, Prime Minister. To many, she was a tyrant. To others, a brutally honest and a brutally selfish politician. To a few, a visionary. To the number of a human's digits, a friend.
"Regor. Patricia," nodded to the nightstand and the desk, respectively. They were only names to anyone else, but it was evidence that she held a semblance of sentimentality. No one would ever know. Yet it was stronger than anyone could imagine. They were not names to her, but indispensable components to the flicker that was her life among these innumerable stars.
The few names she could not speak were those who must not be said.
The Tingel Arm was the final stretch of dust before one encroached upon the vast nothingness. Literal dust was the most of its composition, but there were sparse rocks that maintained a haphazard journey on the very fringes of the galaxy's gravitational influence--and perhaps not even for much longer. Strays they were, or would be in time.
This was where her vision had taken her in that vital time of her life. When youth still dominated her actions and her hopes and intentions, her pride and her hatred were not coalesced into the fury she had become. When she was on the throes of death but there were still friends to save her. She remembered calling for Saran, and waking up to Yetari.
Yetari, that mindful bastard. How her life may have been different if he had stuck around to be her beacon.
But her life was what it was. She had left her mark, one that few could match. If that was what she had wanted, well, that was what she had gotten. For all she had wrought, for all who had forsaken her, she had lived in that day.
But it was a new day. And here she was, as her dream had foretold. Whether it be by fate or some other form of otherworldly guidance, that was up for someone else to worry about. She never believed in much of that superstitious rubbish to begin with. She was here because she simply belonged here. Right now.
This ball of dust offered little to be described--and that was exactly why she was here. Its barren, gray surface featured nothing distinctive outside the gorges that recorded where particles of likely small size had impacted its terrain at likely near-light speeds over thousands of years. And these craters were the only place of notable atmosphere to be found. It was a place where no one had set foot; no one would set foot for centuries to come. If ever.
As she stepped outside her ship, Intangible, she could already feel her lungs expanding beyond their ideal volume. Her blood parched for oxygen already, and her skin paled to reflect this as she stumbled into the abyss. The lower she got, the more breathable air her lungs managed, but it would not be enough. All in due time. She was not here to live. She was not here to hide--not eternally.
She would give none the satisfaction of killing her. No, not even death itself would rejoice.
For she had come here in order to live on. In the absence of knowledge, she would still be alive for the next generation, and the generation thereafter. The ghost of Lasedri. For the greatest fear is the fear of not knowing.
Her final rebellion.
And so she pulled the trigger.
From dust she had come. And she had lived--lived by the sword. And by the sword, her dust had returned. Really, truly returned.
Farewell, farewell.
[member="Regor Laxvan"], [member="Saran Drast"], [member="Corruck Kazen"], [member="Miss Blonde"], [member="Keira Ticon"], [member="Corvus Raaf"], [member="Yetari Sellix"]
"Raaf," she uttered, dim eyes floundering over the shadow of an unlit lamp. It was uncountable how many hours she had spoken to that most inanimate of objects, projecting her anger, her sorrow, her hope and hopelessness, and whatever crazed products of solitude transferred cognitively from mind to tongue.
"Kazen," to the coat rack, that hat drooping from its peak. "I have to go now." She edged forward, so carefully; delicately removing the articles from the stand and dressing herself with the attire she had been known for.
Like her famous sunhat atop her conspicuous head, she had worn many faces; many titles, not limited to: Heiress, Benefactor, Prime Minister. To many, she was a tyrant. To others, a brutally honest and a brutally selfish politician. To a few, a visionary. To the number of a human's digits, a friend.
"Regor. Patricia," nodded to the nightstand and the desk, respectively. They were only names to anyone else, but it was evidence that she held a semblance of sentimentality. No one would ever know. Yet it was stronger than anyone could imagine. They were not names to her, but indispensable components to the flicker that was her life among these innumerable stars.
The few names she could not speak were those who must not be said.
The Tingel Arm was the final stretch of dust before one encroached upon the vast nothingness. Literal dust was the most of its composition, but there were sparse rocks that maintained a haphazard journey on the very fringes of the galaxy's gravitational influence--and perhaps not even for much longer. Strays they were, or would be in time.
This was where her vision had taken her in that vital time of her life. When youth still dominated her actions and her hopes and intentions, her pride and her hatred were not coalesced into the fury she had become. When she was on the throes of death but there were still friends to save her. She remembered calling for Saran, and waking up to Yetari.
Yetari, that mindful bastard. How her life may have been different if he had stuck around to be her beacon.
But her life was what it was. She had left her mark, one that few could match. If that was what she had wanted, well, that was what she had gotten. For all she had wrought, for all who had forsaken her, she had lived in that day.
But it was a new day. And here she was, as her dream had foretold. Whether it be by fate or some other form of otherworldly guidance, that was up for someone else to worry about. She never believed in much of that superstitious rubbish to begin with. She was here because she simply belonged here. Right now.
This ball of dust offered little to be described--and that was exactly why she was here. Its barren, gray surface featured nothing distinctive outside the gorges that recorded where particles of likely small size had impacted its terrain at likely near-light speeds over thousands of years. And these craters were the only place of notable atmosphere to be found. It was a place where no one had set foot; no one would set foot for centuries to come. If ever.
As she stepped outside her ship, Intangible, she could already feel her lungs expanding beyond their ideal volume. Her blood parched for oxygen already, and her skin paled to reflect this as she stumbled into the abyss. The lower she got, the more breathable air her lungs managed, but it would not be enough. All in due time. She was not here to live. She was not here to hide--not eternally.
She would give none the satisfaction of killing her. No, not even death itself would rejoice.
For she had come here in order to live on. In the absence of knowledge, she would still be alive for the next generation, and the generation thereafter. The ghost of Lasedri. For the greatest fear is the fear of not knowing.
Her final rebellion.
And so she pulled the trigger.
From dust she had come. And she had lived--lived by the sword. And by the sword, her dust had returned. Really, truly returned.
Farewell, farewell.
[member="Regor Laxvan"], [member="Saran Drast"], [member="Corruck Kazen"], [member="Miss Blonde"], [member="Keira Ticon"], [member="Corvus Raaf"], [member="Yetari Sellix"]
