The battle for Gratos was over. It was a short battle to be sure, one that would never be recalled in any history book. If not for the Graug Priests and their recordings, Graxin would have doubted the Graug kept any of their history anyway. They had no real use for it other than to inspire their warriors, and those warriors rarely required outside inspiration. That was something the Jedi would have to help repair. All species should hold their own history in high regard.
However, that was not why Graxin had confined himself in his private chambers aboard the Mephirium.
Something was wrong with the Knight. Graxin had come to realize this during the conflicts on Gratos. It was a cold, foreboding presence that always lingered on the edge of his consciousness. The hold of the Dark Side kept him chained, and despite how far he had come with the Order, it was always there, waiting for him to lose control again.. At times, its succeeded, and Graxin had resigned from his duties for the day to find out why.
He had almost lost control during the last battle of Gratos. He and his Padawan had charged toward the Pirate Clan’s stronghold, and for the first time since joining the Order, Graxin had felt the call of bloodlust.
To his great disdain and humiliation, Graxin was hardwired to believe in the ways of the Sith. It was how he was raised, his default view on life. Purging oneself of teachings that were drilled into one’s head since birth was a monumental undertaking. He would have rather been asked to move a mountain than attempt to break those cortosis shackles again, but he would try.
For his own sake, for his Padawan’s sake, he would give it every fiber of his being to the attempt.
There were tales of Jedi Masters reaching a form of enlightenment through meditation. Graxin had never considered himself a master of the force: it was always there, a guardian to keep him safe in times of need, but never something he could hope to truly command. The force was its own beast, and one that many had conquered, though Graxin found himself falling from the stirrups. Still, giving up before he even began was not his way. As such, the Knight made his way to the center chamber of the Mephirium.
For the first time since the death of Darth Vulcanus, Graxin seated himself in the center of the Mephirium's training chamber. His bare fingers trailed along the cold durasteel of the familiar floors, a welcome comfort from his days within the Sith Empire. Bright amber eyes opened to take tn the dull illumination of the circular room. He drew in a short breath, allowing the scent of burning ozone to take his mind back to older days. Simpler days. Ones of slavery and grim purpose.
His actions as the Emperor's Hand were unforgivable. The glassing of an entire world sat upon his shoulders, along with the deaths of two Jedi Knights and more Republic soldiers than Graxin could ever care to count. His deeds had caused the deaths of so very many. How could he even begin to consider himself worthy of the Jedi Order?
The Knight shook his head. "Focus. Like the holocron said."
He squeezed his eyes shut. At first, there was nothing. His thoughts were barren and dry; only the faintest trickle of the force came forth to saturate the parched soil. Then, without any wanting, the force flowed into him like a river over the long dead plateau. It filled the cracks in his mind, warmed him with the comfort only his mother's loving embrace could ever hope to rival. His doubts and fears were, for the moment, lost in the gentle tides.
His breathing slowed to a deeper, slower pace. Whatever had given him pause in his commitment to the Order's teachings was long gone, drained to another part of his mind that only saw the light of day when doubt began to cloud it and evaporated the sea of calm, exposing the desert of uncertainty beneath its comforting depths. His decision to lead the Graug had been the right choice. His decision to train [member="Kaigann Fossk"] as his Padawan was proving to be the right course of actions. Despite the now-disbanded Jedi Council's choice of words, when he looked back on past events. Graxin was no failure.
He had overcome the temptations of the Sith and the right to the title of Sith Lord without the overbearing guidance of the masters. Graxin had turned away from these temptations for a humbler life, one of service and purpose beyond himself. He walked the same path that the Jedi of old walked without any hesitation; so why did he feel this gnawing doubt in his heart?
The revelation came in one quick moment. The weight of the world suddenly left Graxin, even the sensation of his backside on the steel floors fading from his mind. His body ceased to exist, and his spirit suddenly floated adrift in the sea that was the very essence of the Ashla.
It was a connection that Graxin Rade--no, Cyril Greyson had never been able to achieve before. It was exhilarating, and at the same time, calming. A feeling of peace burned through him like a cleansing flame, searing away his doubts, hesitation, and tribulations. These were replaced by a blazing drive to do...something. He did not yet know what, but the fire was certainly there.
And then he saw the flaws.
He was not Graxin Rade. Graxin was a slave name, and Rade was the title of a man who had long since abandoned his family to a monstrous fate. That creature was no father of his. He was Cyril, the son of a great Jedi Master, the heir to a challenging responsibility that he had taken by the horns as duty asked of him. He was not infallible, but he was no Sith Lord, no lost and misguided member of the Order. No child to be chastised for his decisions by the masters as if they were disapproving parents.
He saw the truth of things now. The Jedi Order had good intentions, this was true. They helped those they could, and fought the Sith when it was convenient. They, however, stood apart from the people. They served the Republic and only the Republic.
Across the galaxy, people suffered. The criminal enterprises of the Red Ravens and the Black Sun lorded over entire systems while the Jedi concerned themselves with philosophical squabbles. Furthermore, they had a knack for reacting all too late to every move the One Sith made. It was oddly convenient for the Sith.
The Council was long since gone due to Grandmaster Grayson, a young woman, younger than Cyril himself, and one he was beginning to lose faith in. There was no way to check the power of other Jedi, and they system of equality of all ranks was a flawed one. Equality was important--something Cyril held high--but not in a ranked structure. Those with more experience should make the monumental decisions that changed the face of the galaxy, not those who would normally be their subordinates.
The Jedi Order was not meant to be this perverted, democratically obsessed creature that it had become. The Order, according to those ancient masters Cyril was so keen on researching, was about harmony. It was about peace with the galaxy as a whole, connection to the force, and an enlightenment only few could ever hope to attain. A Jedi's duty was to defend the innocent and help those in need. It was not to send confused young men to the doorstep of the Sith Emperor in an attempt to get rid of him quietly.
For the first time, the flaws of the Order starred garishly at Cyril. There was so much wrong, so much to change. Changes that those who now held seniority in the Jedi Order would never accept from one they held in such contempt. No matter how hard Cyril strove to serve the Order and its Republic allies, they had always looked upon him like a nuisance. Something they tolerated out of philosophy, but would never accept due to past mistakes. The Jedi had lost their ability to forgive, something that was essential to the Order’s core beliefs.
The Silvers were no better. They held dominion over worlds as protectors, but seemed to be more akin to conquerors.
The force demands balance. Balance cannot be achieved when the Jedi and those they serve are held on different pedestals. All must be equal outside of their station, and all must be held accountable for their actions. Forgiveness and morality should be core values, not something to be discarded when it becomes convenient. A Jedi's life is sacrifice, and the more Cyril sacrificed, the more he saw the flaws in the very order he served.
There needed to be a change. The answer was not leaving the Jedi ideas behind. The concept of the Jedi was a great one, something that had helped Cyril carry on in his younger days. The old order’s ideal had saved him, made him a better man. Those teachings had helped to guide him through his tenure as the Emperor's Hand, given him some kind of reason for all the madness. They helped him free his brother and sister, and they carried him to safety on Ossus.
It was not the teachings that were flawed, it was the teachers.
Cyril allowed himself to open his eyes. To his own immense surprise, he floated a foot or so above the floor. The Force had taken him in every way, lifted him from the mortal plain, and showed him the knowledge he would need to begin his work. His meeting with the Architects was no random chance. His lordship of the Graug was the same. The Force had brought about both events to point him in the right direction.
The Jedi Order, in its current state, was wrong. There was only one true course of action to take. The Republic would have to be left behind--it was broken, corrupt, and full of people out for their own gain. The galaxy itself was a terrible place, and the wars that tore it to bloody ribbons would never end when the Republic claimed to perpetuate peace, while supporting those very wars. Democracy was not the solution.
Morality had become a rare commodity found only in the rarest of people. It was a valuable find, when it should have been as common as water. But, what could one expect when people were never taught to care for their fellow man?
In that moment, Cyril understood why the Levantines had split off from the Republic. He understood why they took it upon themselves to protect who they could, and he developed an immense respect for the wayward Jedi of the Sanctum. Perhaps he should take his Padawan and join them? No, while his was a path of peace, he had another calling. The galaxy could not be changed in the Sanctum's space. Another course of action would have to be taken.
Cyril Greyson, son of Feenarah Greyson the great Jedi Healer, closed his eyes once more. The force took him deeper into its depths, and he happily allowed it to drag him downward, helpless to resist its call. The force was him, and he was the force. There was no longer a distinction between the two. In that, he found a great peace that the Masters had often spoken of. The Dark Side disrupted that peace, perverted that amazing bond with its animalistic nature. Cyril would not allow the molestation of the Sith's teachings to continue any longer.
He would repair the Order. He would start a movement. He would unite the wayward systems under one banner and bring order to the galaxy. In that moment, Cyril ceased to be the student. The realization dawned on him with a certainty that the older Knight had never before experienced. Cyril Greyson was now the master of himself, his future, and to a greater extent, the force.
He would do what needed to be done for the sake of the Jedi Order.
Silently, the errant Knight lowered himself to the floor. He pushed himself up to his feet, and reached for his holocomm. Before he began this journey, he needed to ask his Padawan if the boy wished to walk the same path. If he did not, then their journey together would end, and Cyril would not blame him. This decision was a monumental one, one that would change the boy’s life.
He was a good boy. A smart young man. Whatever decision Kaigann made, Cyril had faith that the path the boy chose was the right one. He had taught him to trust fully in the force, and so long as the Kaigann took those teachings to heart, he would excel.
“Kai, you mind returning to the Mephirium for an hour or so? We have some things to discuss.” Cyril clicked off the holocomm, and stuffed it back into his robes.
Taking a deep breath, he exited the training room. He let his feet take him toward the rec room of the Mephirium. His Padawan was likely out conversing with the Architects or one of their new allies, and would probably be a few minutes away. The intoxicating connection Cyril had established with the force for those few moments had dragged on for hours rather than the few minutes he had thought passed.
The man was hungry, and you couldn't lecture a Padawan on a heavy stomach!
However, that was not why Graxin had confined himself in his private chambers aboard the Mephirium.
Something was wrong with the Knight. Graxin had come to realize this during the conflicts on Gratos. It was a cold, foreboding presence that always lingered on the edge of his consciousness. The hold of the Dark Side kept him chained, and despite how far he had come with the Order, it was always there, waiting for him to lose control again.. At times, its succeeded, and Graxin had resigned from his duties for the day to find out why.
He had almost lost control during the last battle of Gratos. He and his Padawan had charged toward the Pirate Clan’s stronghold, and for the first time since joining the Order, Graxin had felt the call of bloodlust.
To his great disdain and humiliation, Graxin was hardwired to believe in the ways of the Sith. It was how he was raised, his default view on life. Purging oneself of teachings that were drilled into one’s head since birth was a monumental undertaking. He would have rather been asked to move a mountain than attempt to break those cortosis shackles again, but he would try.
For his own sake, for his Padawan’s sake, he would give it every fiber of his being to the attempt.
There were tales of Jedi Masters reaching a form of enlightenment through meditation. Graxin had never considered himself a master of the force: it was always there, a guardian to keep him safe in times of need, but never something he could hope to truly command. The force was its own beast, and one that many had conquered, though Graxin found himself falling from the stirrups. Still, giving up before he even began was not his way. As such, the Knight made his way to the center chamber of the Mephirium.
For the first time since the death of Darth Vulcanus, Graxin seated himself in the center of the Mephirium's training chamber. His bare fingers trailed along the cold durasteel of the familiar floors, a welcome comfort from his days within the Sith Empire. Bright amber eyes opened to take tn the dull illumination of the circular room. He drew in a short breath, allowing the scent of burning ozone to take his mind back to older days. Simpler days. Ones of slavery and grim purpose.
His actions as the Emperor's Hand were unforgivable. The glassing of an entire world sat upon his shoulders, along with the deaths of two Jedi Knights and more Republic soldiers than Graxin could ever care to count. His deeds had caused the deaths of so very many. How could he even begin to consider himself worthy of the Jedi Order?
The Knight shook his head. "Focus. Like the holocron said."
He squeezed his eyes shut. At first, there was nothing. His thoughts were barren and dry; only the faintest trickle of the force came forth to saturate the parched soil. Then, without any wanting, the force flowed into him like a river over the long dead plateau. It filled the cracks in his mind, warmed him with the comfort only his mother's loving embrace could ever hope to rival. His doubts and fears were, for the moment, lost in the gentle tides.
His breathing slowed to a deeper, slower pace. Whatever had given him pause in his commitment to the Order's teachings was long gone, drained to another part of his mind that only saw the light of day when doubt began to cloud it and evaporated the sea of calm, exposing the desert of uncertainty beneath its comforting depths. His decision to lead the Graug had been the right choice. His decision to train [member="Kaigann Fossk"] as his Padawan was proving to be the right course of actions. Despite the now-disbanded Jedi Council's choice of words, when he looked back on past events. Graxin was no failure.
He had overcome the temptations of the Sith and the right to the title of Sith Lord without the overbearing guidance of the masters. Graxin had turned away from these temptations for a humbler life, one of service and purpose beyond himself. He walked the same path that the Jedi of old walked without any hesitation; so why did he feel this gnawing doubt in his heart?
The revelation came in one quick moment. The weight of the world suddenly left Graxin, even the sensation of his backside on the steel floors fading from his mind. His body ceased to exist, and his spirit suddenly floated adrift in the sea that was the very essence of the Ashla.
It was a connection that Graxin Rade--no, Cyril Greyson had never been able to achieve before. It was exhilarating, and at the same time, calming. A feeling of peace burned through him like a cleansing flame, searing away his doubts, hesitation, and tribulations. These were replaced by a blazing drive to do...something. He did not yet know what, but the fire was certainly there.
And then he saw the flaws.
He was not Graxin Rade. Graxin was a slave name, and Rade was the title of a man who had long since abandoned his family to a monstrous fate. That creature was no father of his. He was Cyril, the son of a great Jedi Master, the heir to a challenging responsibility that he had taken by the horns as duty asked of him. He was not infallible, but he was no Sith Lord, no lost and misguided member of the Order. No child to be chastised for his decisions by the masters as if they were disapproving parents.
He saw the truth of things now. The Jedi Order had good intentions, this was true. They helped those they could, and fought the Sith when it was convenient. They, however, stood apart from the people. They served the Republic and only the Republic.
Across the galaxy, people suffered. The criminal enterprises of the Red Ravens and the Black Sun lorded over entire systems while the Jedi concerned themselves with philosophical squabbles. Furthermore, they had a knack for reacting all too late to every move the One Sith made. It was oddly convenient for the Sith.
The Council was long since gone due to Grandmaster Grayson, a young woman, younger than Cyril himself, and one he was beginning to lose faith in. There was no way to check the power of other Jedi, and they system of equality of all ranks was a flawed one. Equality was important--something Cyril held high--but not in a ranked structure. Those with more experience should make the monumental decisions that changed the face of the galaxy, not those who would normally be their subordinates.
The Jedi Order was not meant to be this perverted, democratically obsessed creature that it had become. The Order, according to those ancient masters Cyril was so keen on researching, was about harmony. It was about peace with the galaxy as a whole, connection to the force, and an enlightenment only few could ever hope to attain. A Jedi's duty was to defend the innocent and help those in need. It was not to send confused young men to the doorstep of the Sith Emperor in an attempt to get rid of him quietly.
For the first time, the flaws of the Order starred garishly at Cyril. There was so much wrong, so much to change. Changes that those who now held seniority in the Jedi Order would never accept from one they held in such contempt. No matter how hard Cyril strove to serve the Order and its Republic allies, they had always looked upon him like a nuisance. Something they tolerated out of philosophy, but would never accept due to past mistakes. The Jedi had lost their ability to forgive, something that was essential to the Order’s core beliefs.
The Silvers were no better. They held dominion over worlds as protectors, but seemed to be more akin to conquerors.
The force demands balance. Balance cannot be achieved when the Jedi and those they serve are held on different pedestals. All must be equal outside of their station, and all must be held accountable for their actions. Forgiveness and morality should be core values, not something to be discarded when it becomes convenient. A Jedi's life is sacrifice, and the more Cyril sacrificed, the more he saw the flaws in the very order he served.
There needed to be a change. The answer was not leaving the Jedi ideas behind. The concept of the Jedi was a great one, something that had helped Cyril carry on in his younger days. The old order’s ideal had saved him, made him a better man. Those teachings had helped to guide him through his tenure as the Emperor's Hand, given him some kind of reason for all the madness. They helped him free his brother and sister, and they carried him to safety on Ossus.
It was not the teachings that were flawed, it was the teachers.
Cyril allowed himself to open his eyes. To his own immense surprise, he floated a foot or so above the floor. The Force had taken him in every way, lifted him from the mortal plain, and showed him the knowledge he would need to begin his work. His meeting with the Architects was no random chance. His lordship of the Graug was the same. The Force had brought about both events to point him in the right direction.
The Jedi Order, in its current state, was wrong. There was only one true course of action to take. The Republic would have to be left behind--it was broken, corrupt, and full of people out for their own gain. The galaxy itself was a terrible place, and the wars that tore it to bloody ribbons would never end when the Republic claimed to perpetuate peace, while supporting those very wars. Democracy was not the solution.
Morality had become a rare commodity found only in the rarest of people. It was a valuable find, when it should have been as common as water. But, what could one expect when people were never taught to care for their fellow man?
In that moment, Cyril understood why the Levantines had split off from the Republic. He understood why they took it upon themselves to protect who they could, and he developed an immense respect for the wayward Jedi of the Sanctum. Perhaps he should take his Padawan and join them? No, while his was a path of peace, he had another calling. The galaxy could not be changed in the Sanctum's space. Another course of action would have to be taken.
Cyril Greyson, son of Feenarah Greyson the great Jedi Healer, closed his eyes once more. The force took him deeper into its depths, and he happily allowed it to drag him downward, helpless to resist its call. The force was him, and he was the force. There was no longer a distinction between the two. In that, he found a great peace that the Masters had often spoken of. The Dark Side disrupted that peace, perverted that amazing bond with its animalistic nature. Cyril would not allow the molestation of the Sith's teachings to continue any longer.
He would repair the Order. He would start a movement. He would unite the wayward systems under one banner and bring order to the galaxy. In that moment, Cyril ceased to be the student. The realization dawned on him with a certainty that the older Knight had never before experienced. Cyril Greyson was now the master of himself, his future, and to a greater extent, the force.
He would do what needed to be done for the sake of the Jedi Order.
Silently, the errant Knight lowered himself to the floor. He pushed himself up to his feet, and reached for his holocomm. Before he began this journey, he needed to ask his Padawan if the boy wished to walk the same path. If he did not, then their journey together would end, and Cyril would not blame him. This decision was a monumental one, one that would change the boy’s life.
He was a good boy. A smart young man. Whatever decision Kaigann made, Cyril had faith that the path the boy chose was the right one. He had taught him to trust fully in the force, and so long as the Kaigann took those teachings to heart, he would excel.
“Kai, you mind returning to the Mephirium for an hour or so? We have some things to discuss.” Cyril clicked off the holocomm, and stuffed it back into his robes.
Taking a deep breath, he exited the training room. He let his feet take him toward the rec room of the Mephirium. His Padawan was likely out conversing with the Architects or one of their new allies, and would probably be a few minutes away. The intoxicating connection Cyril had established with the force for those few moments had dragged on for hours rather than the few minutes he had thought passed.
The man was hungry, and you couldn't lecture a Padawan on a heavy stomach!
