Fresh wounds (training thread)

[Raziel]

His eyes opened to a field of bright white. It took a few moments for the image to come into focus, resolving the grey ceiling above and the long strip lights. Raziel risked a glance to each side, but didn’t dare move for now. He could see a row of empty beds to each side, medical equipment to his right.

It took him a few moments to recall previous events and work out why he was in a ward. Ah, the slavers. Sloppy work. It dawned on him that his other senses should have been telling him more by now. He groped around in the Force, trying to reach out to his surroundings. Coming to simple conclusions involved thinking through treacle, accessing the Force appeared an even greater challenge, no matter how naturally it came to him.

Drugs, he thought through the haze. But was it a side effect or deliberate? He resisted the urge to fall back into a trance and attempt to assess the extent of his injuries. He decided to risk opening his eyes a little further.

It was definitely a ward, yet he appeared to be the only patient. He couldn’t see anything else, so he risked rolling to one side for a better view. This couldn’t be one of the slaver ships, he decided. After what he’d done on Lyra, it would have been a cold metal cell full of sharp objects, not a pristine medical ward.

Slowly, he propped himself up on his elbows, deciding it was better to discover more than feign sleep. He found himself clad in a loose set of grey garments that were not his own. There were no outward signs of any remaining physical damage, at least. He looked around the room: no windows, smooth light grey walls, just one doorway. The gentle vibrations he could feel through the bed frame suggested a ship.

He slid his legs off one side of the bed and decided to test them out. Several cannula pinched at his skin from the motion, but he decided to leave them in. Currently he had no idea of knowing what the cocktail of drugs was providing.

Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to his focus inwards for a moment. There were signs that his body had expended a great deal of effort on repairs. Bones were nearly healed, and he could detect nothing serious remaining. Raziel decided he must have been deliberately roused. His faculties were returning rapidly and at least one of the drugs coursing through him was a stimulant. Unfortunately that also meant a variety of pain - from dull and throbbing, to persistent and sharp - were returning.

Oh dear. Then he sensed it. Another Force user – close by and very powerful. They were making no attempt to disguise their presence either. Raziel decided to give up on his shaky legs and sit down; there was nothing he could use as a weapon in sight anyway. At least he could be certain the slavers hadn't just put him back together for some particularly exquisite torture. But who has put me back together - and why?

[member="Kal Strife"]

 

[Kal Strife]

The sharp, sterile stench of the medical frigate stung the nose, a constant reminder of times gone by. Bad times. Times that Kal Strife would have preferred to have forgotten had the choice on the matter been offered to him. Yet it seemed as though no choice was coming; indeed, the Force in its eternal wisdom seemed almost to enjoy forcing the none-too-subtle reminders of darker times down the Corellian's throat.

At least today he was not here to witness another of his family being immersed in the bacta tanks.

In fact, his visit here today had nothing to do with healing, but was instead a simple matter of business. A recruitment, hopefully. Yes, it was better to think on it that way, for the alternatives to recruitment were sure to be bloody. He could not, after all, allow a renegade wielder of the living Force to remain at large within the Confederacy; no, that way Chaos lay, and he would not tolerate another descent into madness and decay, another four hundred year darkness.

Arrogant, perhaps, but Kal knew the truth of the matter; a slide into chaos could start with but a single soul escaping the bonds of Order.

And from the information he had before him, it seemed as though the stirring patient in the next chamber had the potential to be such a soul. His recruitment dossier spoke volumes, and the basic psych evaluation in particular carried more than a few notes of concern. Yet even without these, the Corellian would have been able to sense the darkness within the man who was as much prisoner as patient. That was concerning. Not that he hadn't made use of the darkside in his time - it was as much a tool in service of order as any other part of the living force - but to be enveloped in it so? No, that was something different. Something worth investigating.

Abruptly, Strife's considerations were interrupted by an awareness brushing against his own. Its touch was gentle, perhaps unwillingly so given the cocktail of suppressants that the medical droids had been pumping into the patient along with the usual dose of painkillers and immunostimulants, but nonetheless that was enough for the Corellian to tuck his datapad into a pocket within the lining of his crimson synthleather longcoat and rise to his feet. Each movement was measured, unhurried, but within a few short moments he was standing before the polished durasteel of the doorway. A crimson light blinked on the door panel, advising any who might approach the ward that it was under lockdown, yet a gesture from Strife was enough to transform it into a beacon of viridian, and the doors parted before him. Striding through, boots clicking on the stainless metal of the decking, he gestured at the panel once more as he strode through, allowing the doors to seal behind him. Trapping him with this unknown quantity.

"Well now," he murmured, measuring the man with his cold gaze, "Shall we begin by getting the pleasantries out of the way? I am Kal Strife-" A lie of sorts, but there was not a soul left alive who knew his true name. Not even Norongachi knew that. "And you are Raziel? Is there a surname to accompany that, or are we attempting to start a new galactic trend?" A wan question, but there was neither warmth nor amusement in the smile that went with it.

 

[Raziel]

"Jei," Raziel lied easily. It was a name he'd used before, not that he expected to be able to trace the last decade of his life that easily.

He shifted uncomfortably under the newcomer's gaze. He found Strife oddly attired, he certainly wasn't wearing a uniform. Raziel carefully considered his next words. He hated to be outmanoeuvred and that included conversation. However, this was his nightmare scenario. He was alone, vulnerable, at a disadvantage in knowledge and with no plan or clear escape route. He forced back a wave of nausea that rose from the pit of his stomach to the back of his throat. He hadnt felt like this for a long time. Not since the Sith Masters of Lopen had locked him a dungeon deep below the catacombs of their citadel. It had taken two months of silent anguish until he had been able to demonstrate his connection to the Force.

"I assume this is a Confederate ship?" Raziel started his opening gambit to try and learn more, before Strife could reply with more questions. "I trust my work on Lyra was satisfactory and that I met the terms of our agreement."

He tried to recall what had happened on Lyra. It was a haze, but he was fairly certain he had dealt with the slavers as per his contract. Raziel winced as he shifted his position, perched on the end of the bed. He was neither in shape for running or fighting. If there had at least been a makeshift weapon, he could have closed the distance to Kal in a fraction of a second. Helpless, he thought to himself, utterly helpless.

They could have at least left him the dignity of his own clothes, if not his sabers and other weapons.

 

[Kal Strife]

The man lied well, Kal had to admit that. With the ease of a lifetime of deception, in fact, and had the Force itself not betrayed him before the single syllable had even left his tongue then the Corellian might almost have found himself inclined to believe Raziel. Almost. As it was, he simply regarded the man silently a moment longer, only half-listening as he spoke of Lyra, of the operation he had been involved in against the slavers on the world that was the most recent beneficiary of the Confederacy's tender mercies.

"In truth, Master Jei," he remarked, putting more than a trace of emphasis on the false name, "I haven't bothered examine the reports on Lyra. A petty conflict against slavers is of not the slightest interest to me." A partial lie, that; Kal had of course read the summaries of the mission and its outcomes, he simply did not care for the details. And why should he? Worlds such as Lyra were dozens to the credit, and the slavers worse still. All quashing them on one world would serve to do was ensure that they scattered and started their organisations afresh on dozens more worlds, perhaps with the aid of the Black Sun or some other syndicate. Better by far if they'd gone in with overwhelming force and made an example of them all, but that was an argument for another day and another person.

"The reason I am here," the Corellian Master continued, retrieving his datapad from its pocket and drawing up a set of records Raziel would surely be familiar with, "Is these. Do you recognise them? The standard documentation you completed when you signed on for a Confederate contract." Another moment, just long enough for the other man to see that they were indeed the documents shown, then a tap on the 'pad brought another display up as Strife continued, "And these. Reports from the medical droids here. Mostly routine. Mostly standard. Except..." Pausing, he tapped one small box thoughtfully, almost as though he hadn't seen it before, though that of course was absurd, before finishing, "Except your midichlorian count is well beyond galactic norms. But you knew that already, didn't you?"

Once more, it wasn't a question, but a test. And once more his stormcloud grey eyes rested on [member="Raziel"] as he awaited the answer.

 

[Raziel]

Raziel held that gaze for just a few seconds. The corner of his mouth turned up just a fraction, the barest hint of a smile. “I’ll be honest, I didn’t even know those tests worked. I assumed the pair of lightsabers – which I do hope were recovered – would have given the game away.”

He broke eye contact, looked down at the floor and sighed. They could have at least left him his clothes? He could have faced this with dignity, if nothing else. Raziel could feel Strife’s gaze still on him. The powerful Jedi appeared to be patiently waiting for Raziel to provide more information. He knew that game well, it was amazing how often people would slip up if you just left space for them to fill with words.

His natural instinct was to lie, or at least give away as little as possible. It would just needlessly protract this encounter. Raziel had been forced to do some dark things in his time. Everyone broke eventually. Of course he assumed they wanted something from him, perhaps it was more than information. Maybe another cult of Jedi would gladly take advantage of him, as everyone else had done. Either way, he had few options at the moment. For the first time in a long while, he decided on truth.

He kept his head low, but turned his eyes up to meet Kal’s, his dark green eyes peering out from beneath his brow. “As far as I am aware, I am the last surviving member of the Sith Order of Lopen. Every Master, peer and student of mine was killed two years ago.”

 

[Kal Strife]

Ah, lightsabers. How many times now had he heard of someone mistaking a charlatan for a Sith or Jedi just because they carried a lightsaber? And how many fools had believed themselves a match for one such as him simply because they carried a stolen blade?

Too many, by far.

With a smooth gesture, the Corellian drew his lightsaber, holding the battered hilt horizontally before him. "Does the lightsaber make the adept, Master Jei?" he murmured, thumbing the hilt so the quicksilver blade pierced the air, "This is my blade, yet as an Inquisitor I took many from fallen foes. Reminders of lessons learnt. Would wielding one of their blades have made me a Jedi? Others came to me from dealers in exotic goods. Illicit auctions on the invisible market. Did the fact that those dealers owned such weapons - albeit briefly - make them Jedi?" Once more his thumb kissed the activator stud on his lightsaber, and the glowing blade vanished in a crackle of fading energy. "A lightsaber is nothing more than a tool," came his remark as he returned the blade to its place on his belt, "Utilisable by anyone, though not perhaps with the level of skill you might see from some."

That speech was an old one, one he had given to more than one student in days long gone by. Now Kal spoke it almost by rote, his mind on other matters. On the Sith. On this Order of Lopen. They were not an order he had heard of, a fact that once might have surprised him, but the four hundred year darkness had changed much. Many of those organisations he had expected to last through the darkest of times had crumbled, and others had emerged like shoots from the ashes. Still, he would not mourn the loss of any Sith; all bar the rarest of them were agents of entropy, and in their actions Kal Strife saw nothing but the eventual death of the galaxy.

"I will not lie to you," he remarked after a few heartbeats spent in consideration, "I have no sympathy for your Order. Likely I too would have endeavoured to destroy them, had times been different." The words were brutally honest, and the Corellian delivered them unapologetically, his eyes boring into [member="Raziel"] the whole time he spoke. "Yet times are what they are, and that means I must offer you an opportunity rather than death."

 

[Raziel]

At least an opportunity sounds preferable to death, he thought. Did he even miss the Sith faction? In a way, the purpose they have given him had felt like security, even though living in that viper’s nest was anything but safe. Perhaps that was the just the way they had shaped him to think.

Raziel tried to think of a response, he knew Kal was waiting for him to say something. The damned drugs were blunting his usual wit, and he couldn’t risk trying to pull an answer from the other’s mind. As skilled as he was in that regards he would take no steps to provoke the Jedi, especially when in such a vulnerable position. It would take just the slightest flick of the wrist to turn that blade his way and - as fast as he was - that would be his end.

“I merely guessed that someone may have made that assumption, based on what they found in my belongings. Of course it is a tool, just like a knife, a blaster, credits, influence, power." Or even other people who will allow themselves to be manipulated, he thought to himself.

“It has been a long time since anyone offered me anything Master Strife," Raziel said wearily. "Please, elaborate. And if you do favour honesty, you'll tell me what it is you expect in return.”

 

[Kal Strife]

Once more, that cold smiled ghosted across the Corellian's features. "I have never been one for lies and misdirection, Master Jei," he remarked without rancor, "And even if I were, why would I lie now? In case it escaped your notice, I hold the position of strength here." In all truth, that simple fact wouldn't have been enough to keep a deception from his tongue, if the situation called for it, but this was hardly such a case. No, honesty would serve his cause better in the here and now.

"I expect your allegiance," he remarked bluntly, "Or, to be more precise, the Confederation expects your loyalty. Yet this is no simple case of 'serve us or die,' let me be clear on that. There will be other benefits."

Leaving that promise hanging in the air, Strife turned slightly, yanking a nearby supply locker open with a weave of the force, before snaring its contents - a small duffel bag - with another. A moment later it was on the floor between them, and Kal gestured down to it. "Your clothing. And those lightsabers you seem to treasure so much. You may take them now, but... well, let us merely say I suggest you consider my offer carefully before touching your blades."

 

[Raziel]

Slowly and deliberately, Raziel removed each cannula in turn. Each gave a metallic 'pling' as it dropped to the floor. He lithely stepped down from the from the table. He locked his gaze onto Strife's; his eyes much more alert now. Much of his focus had been turned internally for the last few minutes as he sought to aid his body in alleviating the effects of the drugs. Whilst it would take hours to finish purging his system, he had at least wanted a clear head to give him a fighting chance.

"Very well, perhaps you could give me a moment to retain some of my dignity and then we could a little more on what these loyalties and benefits entail,"

The moment Strife had locked the door again he reached for the bag, discarding his patient's gown. Appearances did not particularly bother him, he was a master of disguise, but somehow the gown had just added to his position of vulnerability. He chose some simple civilian clothing from the bag, dress that was currently fashionable but common in the eastern mid-rim. He liked to keep abreast of the latest trends in fashion, behaviours, politics and language. Anything to make fitting in that little bit easier.

Then he reached for his sabers, finding their touch a small reassurance. He had completely believed in the words he had spoken to Strife. Everything was potentially a tool or advantage to use on the way to one's goals. Yet he still felt a connection to the weapons he did not fully understand. He traced the tip of index finger down the whorls and patterns etched into the polymer grip. Somehow, during their creation he had used to Force subconsciously to create them. There were so many layers to the detail, each pattern created with increasingly fine detail, many beyond the limits of the naked eye. Perhaps they betrayed an artistic side to him that had never been allowed to manifest. A Jedi he had once murdered had reflected that turning such a powerful empath into an assassin was the greatest tragedy she had know. Raziel hadn't even been able to conjure an emotional response to the words.

A new Master. More ghastly work to apply his particular skill set to. What he needed above all else, was to work out what his goals really were. Then he could start to assemble the tools and power he needed to achieve them...




[member="Kal Strife"]

 

[Raziel]

=== Post Druckenwell ===


The Xenophon was a silver slip of a dagger in void over Hypori. Raziel sat at the bridge of the long range shuttle and watched their approach. He reached out to find Kal Strife's mind and notify him of his arrival. Raziel wanted nothing more than solitude; the tightly packed shuttle of elite marine commandos was full of emotions. Many of the men and women of the regiment had been Druckenwell natives. every time Raziel consciously blocked out their thoughts and fears his subconscious started reaching back out to them. He rubbed his temples and focussed his thoughts capital ship that was rapidly taking up more and more of their viewscreen.

=== On the Xenophon ===

Raziel strode confidently onto the bridge of the destroyer. He had yet to work out exactly what his position was within the Confederacy, but the badge of the Knights Obsidian seemed to command a reasonable level of respect and access within the military.

Temporary stitches sealed a blood-encrusted wound above his right eye, and he had yet to change from the grey and black urban camouflage worn by the special forces he had accompanied into battle on Il Avali.

Strife was sat on a chair, a datapad across his lap. Raziel nodded to the powerful Jedi, and sat on his haunches. It would have felt wrong to stand over his new mentor, but at the same time he had never been fond of chairs.

He titled to his head to one side, raising an eyebrow, "well that got out of hand quickly," he surmised with a ridiculous understatement.

 

[Kal Strife]

Ripples in the currents of the force marked Raziel's approach far better than any tracker could have, yet Kal spared not a glance at his apprentice as the man sank to his haunches beside him. It was obvious he wished to speak. That he would do so. He was, it seemed, the talkative sort.

"Well, that got out of hand quickly."

Smiling wryly, Strife tapped a finger against his datapad, marking his place on the manifest he was reviewing before slipping the 'pad into a pocket within his coat. "Indeed?" he murmured, glancing across at [member="Raziel"], "Why do you say that?" The words might have seemed rhetorical, yet as the Corellian rose to his feet, gesturing for his apprentice to rise even as he did, he spoke again, remarking simply, "Well? What's your reasoning?"

In all truth, he cared not a bit for the man's reasoning, yet the question needed asking, if only so that a lesson could be taught. Every man and women on his crew knew better than to speak a frivolous word, and Raziel too would need to learn the importance of marshaled tongue were he to survive as Kal Strife's apprentice.

 

[Raziel]

The faintest ripple in the undercurrent of the Force was enough to warn Raziel that he was risking his new Master's ire. It was subtle, but he was sensitive enough to pick it up. It seemed to him that perhaps this was going to be more like the old days than he had expected. It wasn't that bad, he reflected. The Sith would have immediately taken action if he had spoken out of turn.

“I was expecting a small war over the world,” Raziel replied. “In three hours the world was a ruin and our fleet was falling back.”

 

[Kal Strife]

Ah, now there was the truth, albeit a truth dressed up in pretty words and propaganda. Falling back? Ah, now there was a phrase that the holonet had set to work the street corners.

Smiling faintly, yet betraying not a shred of his thoughts, the Corellian nodded toward @Raziel. "Better," he remarked, although his cold tone suggested that there was still more than a little room for improvement, "I will speak plainly to you, Raziel. I would suggest you do otherwise, 'lest I reconsider our arrangement." A pause, just a single heartbeat, gave those words time to sink in, and then Kal was turning to glance at a stern-faced woman in a Captain's uniform who stood nearby. "Captain Halstrom? You have the bridge. Raziel, walk with me."

Speaking thus, Strife strode toward the entrance to the bridge. He didn't check if Raziel was following, for her knew the man would just as surely as he knew that he'd eaten an allegedly bantha steak flavoured MRE for dinner.

 

[Raziel]

Raziel fell into step behind the Jedi Master immediately. He still felt awkward about the whole situation. Even something as simple as how to walk with Kal felt difficult. He was simply used to either being told exactly what to do, or using his abilities to find his place. The Sith Masters had been as specific as to mention that an apprentice should walk two steps behind and one to the side of their master and Raziel couldn't reach into Strife's mind to feel out the expected things to say and do; that would hardly go unnoticed.

Everything had changed so rapidly. All too soon after the events of Lyra had he found himself making a bargain with Strife and then loaded with weapons and sent to fight for a cause he barely understood, let alone believed in.

He followed [member="Kal Strife"] off the bridge silently, waiting to see where events were headed now. He briefly reflected that he would need to find a talented surgeon. Battle scars – much like any distinguishing feature – could not be tolerated.

 

[Kal Strife]

Striding through the corridors of the Xenophon, Kal found himself reflecting back upon his own masters. Upon the twisted dwarf, Kadann, and the foul specter of the darkside that had haunted Exis Station. Neither had been a forgiving master, and the Corellian still carried more than one scar from their lessons, yet the knowledge they had imparted had burrowed deep into his skill. It seemed that a lesson learned through pain tended to stick with you.

Fortunately for [member="Raziel"], Kal Strife was a man who believed in forging his own style.

"Two steps back," he noted, glancing at his apprentice, "And one to the side. Your last master taught you that, I imagine. Do you know why?" The question was a probe of sorts, an attempt to discover how deep the other man's knowledge went. Did it touch upon the reasoning behind the techniques? Upon the knowledge that underlay every contact with the Force? Or had the Sith simply sought to forge a weapon from the man? Had they done naught but teach him the powers and skills to visit destruction upon others and, eventually but inevitably, himself?

That was what Kal needed to discover if he was going to teach this man.

 

[Raziel]

Raziel took a moment to consider the question. His Sith Masters had provided plenty of rules, but very few reasons for them. His applied his keen intellilect to this question for perhaps the first time.

Raziel had yet to realise why, when given his freedom, he had gone down such a destructive path of finding increasingly dangerous contracts to fulfil. He had a remarkably sharp mind, perhaps if his life had taken a different path he would have been a well renowned academic. The simple reason for his behaviour was that he had an instinctive need to find new challenges and apply critical thinking to them. With so much of his life having been controlled, the planning and execution of his gruesome tasks was the only outlet for his intelligence.

“For almost no reason at all,” Raziel concluded. “The Sith order was a teaming mass of destructive power held together by the most tenuous of threads. The occasional common goal and the authority granted by power barely contained the internal strife. Putting arbitrary rules in place was likely another means of keeping the lower ranks in line and delaying the inevitable knife between the shoulder blades for the Masters,”



[member="Kal Strife"]

 

[Kal Strife]

The apprentice's words did little but confirm the Corellian's thoughts in regards to the Sith; they were a vindictive tribe, distrustful to the point of paranoia, and they allowed that paranoia to lead them into ignorance. Eventually, they would forget everything they had ever known of the truth of the Force, and superstition would consume them.

Of course, Kal revealed not a fraction of these thoughts to [member="Raziel"], but merely shook his head. "No," he answered bluntly, "It's so you can draw your lightsaber without bisecting me should we be ambushed." It also made it more difficult for an ambitious apprentice to quickly draw his blade and stab his master, yet Strife saw no point in putting futile ideas into the other man's mind. Instead, he simply continued, "That's lesson one; there is a reason for everything we do, although the reasons may be long forgotten by most." That was a lesson he'd learnt the hard way. Hopefully Raziel would not need to do the same.

They had made good time through the corridors as they spoke, and now the Corellian led the way into a large chamber - an auxiliary cargo bay that had been hastily cleared for his use. Only two small crates remained of its previous contents, and Kal gestured to these now.

"Show me," came his command, "Show me how you use the Force."

 

[Raziel]

Well there was no point in attempting to convince Kal that he was less effective than his peers in affecting the world with the Force. Other Knights with years of experience under their belts had been more capable of exerting significant pressure with telekinesis. Still, he had held his own with his senses, speed and wit.

Taking a calming breath, he reached out towards the crates with his senses. Physical objects without a life force always seemed so much less apparent in the Force. Next to him stood Kal Strife – who was making no attempt to hide his presence – was a shining beacon. The Force coalesced around him, reacting to his mere presence. Other nearby members of the crew stood out in his mind’s eye.

He ignored them all and focussed on the crates, embracing them with the Force. He could feel the smooth metal panels and knew how the base would feel rough to the touch from scrapes across the ground that had left a mesh of scratches across the surface. Exerting just a touch of influence he tested the weight of each. Raziel had already felt that one was empty, but the difference in weight was large.

It was a strain, but he hefted both off the ground together. He blocked out the errant thoughts of an ensign who passed their room and concentrated on holding the crates perfectly still. Perhaps, he thought, a more delicate manipulation would show his skill more than his raw talent. Abandoning the heavier crate to gravity, he concentrated on the small screws that kept the side panels in place. Delicately unwinding each in turn he removed several panels. He attempted to exert enough force to break the seams and pulled the crate into smaller pieces, but found it was beyond him.

[member="Kal Strife"]

 

[Kal Strife]

Silent, stoic, the Corellian watched as his apprentice manipulated the weaves of living energy to lift the two crates. [member="Raziel"]'s style was blunt, brutal and inelegant, but this was no more than Strife had expected who once subscribed to the beliefs of the Sith. Yet his later gestures, his unscrewing of the threaded screws from the crate, displayed a hint of delicacy, though this hint was quashed by his next effort, which seemed to achieve little but cause one of the crates to bulge at the seams.

"Enough," Kal instructed, his voice soft yet imperious, "Before you burst a blood vessel." That comment was no mere hyperbole, for Strife had seen many a noviate bloody themself by straining too hard at the weaves which bound all living things together.

"Now, observe." Closing his eyes, the Corellian visualised the crates in his mind's eye. Then, drawing the weaves that interlaced the room together, he wound them about the crate, snaring them as a snake might bind its prey, before pushing the weaves upward, lifting the crate toward the ceiling. "You see? Smooth motions. No effort wasted. In a long battle, this can be the difference between life and death. And... speaking of death..."

Opening his eyes abruptly, Strife raised one hand toward the crate, palm upward, before clenching his fingers into a fist. Across the room, the crate buckled and splintered as the coils of living energy constricted, crushing it as surely as any compactor might have managed.

"My methods are just as effective for slaying. Now, try again."

 

[Raziel]

Raziel studied Kal's display intently. He observed the Master expertly manipulate the Force and use it to influence the material world. Everyone described their interactions with the Force in an individual way. To Raziel, the difference between his own and Kal's effort was akin to trying to lift a mound of snow with one shovel, compared to rolling a ball to allow the snow to carry itself and build.

Of course, observing was not the same as accomplishing. That would take time and practise. So far, he had been handed few challenges that he could not overcome with dedication and planning. He took a deep, calming diaphragmatic breath. His old masters would have told him to channel his frustration into his task. Such an approach had never really suited him. As emotional as he could be, he was really a man of logic.

He reached out and started to manipulate the flow of the Force. Not with the finesse that Kal had displayed, of course, but an improvement. He allowed his grasp to build and tentatively started to lift the remaining crate. It slipped from his grasp to the ground.

An initial flash of frustration surged through him, but he smothered it with calm determination. Immediately, he centred himself and started to build his influence again. This time the crate lifted from the ground in one motion. It felt somewhat more…stable this way. He didn’t push himself too far, but gave the crate a few hefts into the air, carefully catching it each time. It started with a few slow bobbing motions, but built towards a large oscillation as it was tossed up and down. Many hours of practise were ahead, but this was already an improvement.

[member="Kal Strife"]