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Topics - Maryck

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Classifieds / The NPC/Companion/Quest Giver Thread
« on: 05/12/18, 08:42:10 AM »
Hey Begeren Colony! After reading recoveringgeek's Roll Call thread (This right 'chere:, I realized that while people may very much be plotting out stories for their characters and close friends, a lot of it is being done in a vacuum.

"I need a Jedi Knight to serve as a looming pursuer for my smuggler's next heist!" Most of us around here, I think, create that Jedi Knight NPC ourselves. "I need an Imperial officer to get a mission from for this storyline!" Again, I would bet that many of us just build that officer from the ground up and speak for them. While an immense amount of self-fulfillment can be engaged, one might miss out on what otherwise may be an interesting sort of life breathed into their story via other players, even if that player is only serving as an agreed-upon NPC.

Ergo, my epiphany!

I've created this thread as a sort of log for the NPC roles people's characters might be able to play and accompanying story hooks (At their discretion, of course). Template non-specific, but something similar to the following:

Maryck Vos, Kiffar, Late 20s: Maryck is Jedi Master of the more active persuasions. For fellow Jedi he can serve as an instructor, an accompanying mission partner per his specializations, a mission giver, as well as a consultant. For military sort characters, his background and service as a military commander might put he and the PC on a similar spectrum, as a strike force member, a strategic consultant, or a combat pilot. For the more fringe-type PCs, Maryck can serve as an incidental antagonist (Perhaps they're trying to steal Jedi artifacts?)

Please post your characters you'd be willing to NPC, and please, please viewers, do not hesitate to PM one another (Or me) to kickstart something. All it takes is one step to bring that galaxy far far away a little closer. :)

Storyboards / What They Grow Beyond
« on: 02/12/18, 03:08:23 PM »

The man sat with his face in his hands, shuddering somewhere between sorrow and rage. How could you have left us? How could you have left me?

The desert night wind whistled outside, cold and stinging. From the bedroom, a baby's wails were deafening. What did he want? What did he need? He'd been fed, he'd been changed, he should be sleeping. The young man shuddered again, barely fending off an exhausted sob of his own.

This was all his fault. He'd left behind his duty, his friends, the people he'd loved the most, and now, on the back end of the galaxy, he was responsible for another's life. Karma had come back around for him after all, the way his father always swore it did. He was only a kid, barely twenty. Some bars wouldn't even serve him, and here he was, alone with a child.

The child wailed louder, and the man clawed his face, crying as well, crying so hard he shook and stumbled to catch his breath. What would he do? Why had she left him with this child? Why had he been so stupid? He had expended all of his credits on purpose so he could never return home, and his stupidity had stranded him on Tatooine with a baby and half a farm.

The baby's screaming reached a fever pitch, and the man stood, wiping his eyes. "What! What! What!" He shouted, stumbling into the bedroom. The baby replied by squealing even louder. He'd wiggled his way out of his swaddlecloth, arms and defiant little fists swinging, mouth wide open as he wept.

The Kiffar tore at his dreadlocks, before picking the baby up and rocking from side to side. "Shhhh..." He soothed, hiccuping through his own tears. "I'm so s-sorry." he stammered, wrapping the cloth back around the baby. "So sorry."

The infant quieted gradually, sniffing and crying in spits as his father rocked him. Before long, the baby was all but silent while his father cried. He was small, pudgy, with dark brown eyes like his mother's, shining like embers in the room's lamplight.

"It's okay," The Kiffar promised hoarsely. If he didn't know any better, the child's barely grown eyebrows furrowed. A persistent little arm wiggled out from under the blanket, reaching upwards and flapping inarticulately, before grabbing on of his father's hanging braids and cooing.

The man laughed a little. "You like that?" He sniffed, wiping his eyes against his shoulders. His son's eyes never left him, slobbery mouth pressed together before opening in a soundless smile as he tugged vigorously on his father's hair. "It's okay," He promised again. "Dad's here. Dad's always gonna be right here." He pressed a wind-chapped kiss to the baby's forehead, rocking him. The child must have liked it, because his hands and feet kicked excitedly. "I love you, Maryck."

Holocrons and Info Nodes / He Who Fights Monsters, Vol. 2
« on: 02/02/18, 06:12:59 PM »

The strike team gathered around the NR2's bay holotable, the slave estate's survey map arrayed before the team of twenty, humans, near-humans, and non-human. Republic soldiers, one and all, save the man at the projector controls, though he had proven himself to be as much a warrior as the rest of them.

Maryck set his hands on the table, studying the map of the estate. He had done it a thousand times before, lost sleep learning every nook, every cranny, every secret path, every possibility of tactical disadvantage. The raid on the slave compound would take place under the cover of night, completely unexpected. The estate's owners were under the impression their operation was still unknown to the Republic.

A tiny moon, on the edge of Republic space, where over three hundred sentients (according to the slave trade reports they'd retrieved) were in the service of the Sith Empire. They had begun sometime during the Zakuul invasion, veiling themselves quietly while the rest of the galaxy burned. Within the most recent months, Republic soldiers had been getting captured and taken to these fringe operations.

By the end of the night, the estate would be rubble, the owner would be apprehended and brought to Republic custody, Republic soldiers would be back home, and three hundred living beings would be free. To Maryck, that was the most important part.

The transport shuddered as it entered the moon's exosphere. "We're coming up on the green light. If anybody has any hesitations about this mission, you're welcome to stay on the ship. Nobody will think any lesser of you for it." The Kiffar scanned the faces. Corporal Vashee's face was harder than most. Her cousin had been one of the troopers captured and sent to the moon below. Bex's Bothan snout scowled, helmet nestled under his arm.

Lieutenant Ayala, a grey and white mottled Mon Calamari woman, Maryck Vos' effective second in command, folded her arms over. "We're all with you, Master Jedi. These are our people they took. We're going to get them back."

Maryck nodded, decisively. "Weapons hot then. We hit the ground running."

"Alright 10th, lets get it done!" Ayala barked. The soldiers howled and whooped, loading fresh powerpacks into their rifles, setting their helmet frequencies. Among them, Maryck could sense the anger. The pain-dampening, death-defying rage of people who had been stolen from, who were breaths away from taking back what belonged to them.

He stowed his own emotions, cleared his mind as he made his way towards the shuttle's loading door, tightening his gloves flush against his skin. "General." Corporal Vashee intruded, tapping him on the shoulder. The banding across her montrals seemed to vibrate in the red light and the shaking of the cabin.

"Not anymore, Corporal. Commander, if you insist." He reminded with a hint of a smile, unclipping his lightsaber, flipping it a few times on his palm for good measure, remembering its weight.

"General Vos, my cousin... can you sense if she's still alive?" Vashee finally asked, biting her lip.

Maryck shook his head. "I can't, I don't know what your cousin felt like to begin with." He admitted. The Togruta immediately deflated.

"General, what if she's dead?"

Maryck shook his head again, more vigorously. "You can't think like that Corporal."

"But what if she-" He could sense the woman's anxiety raising as she kept speaking.

"Vashee." Maryck soothed, putting his hand on the woman's pauldron. "Close your eyes." The Togruta went to protest, then took a shaky breath, then lidded her eyes. "Focus. Focus on the rifle in your hands. Focus on how your boots fit. Focus on right now."

Corporal Vashee inhaled, more deeply. "That's where you need to be." The Kiffar reminded. "Its where you're going to have to be for the rest of your life. Your cousin needs you in these boots, this armor. We'll find her. I promise, but I need your help. We'll find her. I promise."

"Yes sir." Vashee replied through a shudder. It hadn't magically fixed her anxiety, but Maryck could sense she was more rooted in the present. The Jedi smiled, patting her on the shoulder and turning to address the rest of the incursion group.

Ayala took to his side. "I've got my five best shots with their weapons on stun, just in case there are slave combatants, just like you said."

Maryck nodded gratefully, clearing his throat. The group fell silent, until the only noise was the rattle of the hull as it hurtled towards the estate. "Tenth, this is going to be like lightning. We want to be quick, keep the estate's defenses from getting a chance to find their feet. Regardless, take your time choosing targets. I don't want anybody to blow a hole in a slave because they were being sloppy shots. I will cover you, but if I can't, and it's the choice between taking a blind shot, or finding cover, you find cover, do you understand?"

The team replied with a chorus of "yes sir"s. "Good. Once this door opens up, we're going to punch towards the center of the estate. Lieutenant Ayala will take Aurek Team to the control room, disengage the weapons systems, and activate the barrack containment systems." He looked sidelong to the Mon Cal woman. "When the slaves start hearing the shooting, they're going to panic. I don't want people dying or getting lost in the wild because they took off running."

Ayala nodded her understanding. Maryck continued. "Team Besh, you're with me. We're going to take the master's quarters. Whoever they are, they're probably strong with the Force. I don't want anyone dying for no reason, so when we reach the spot, fan out and cover the exits, I'll take the front door and handle them myself."

One of the troopers nudged the one beside him with an elbow and nodded with a broad smile. Oh man, this one's going to be good.

"Sixty seconds to planetfall, sir." The pilot echoed over the announcement system.

Maryck turned back to the door, activated his headset, and began counting. Sixty. Fifty Nine. Fifty Eight.

"Bex, your comm's a little fritzy." "Thanks Zip." "Kriff, has it hit you yet? We're gonna see a lightsaber fight." "I heard the General killed a hundred Sith when he saved Vashee and Bex." "Can it boys, he and another Jedi killed forty." "Where is she? I heard she was a Pureblood, that's crazy."

"Thirty seconds." The chatter cut down into absolute silence. Twenty Eight. Twenty Seven.

The red light of the bay turned green. The shuttle lurched to a stop on repulsors, opening the door bays. The team jumped out, silent as the grave on the back lawn of the estate as the shuttle fired away again.  The estate itself gleamed faux-marble in the moonlight, surrounded by a league's worth of artificial greenery. For miles around, there was nothing but ruddy, sandy mesas. About half a mile away sat the slave barracks, an ugly complex of modular buildings surrounded by a large ray shield fence.

"Go." Maryck whispered, and the strike force broke into a sprint. One of the guards on the estate wall turned unfortunately, catching sight of the Republic team. As he rose his wrist to sound the alarm, Maryck reached out with a clawed hand, grabbing the guard's head with the Force and smacking it hard against the durasteel battlements.

The guard crumpled as the team made it to the base of the wall. The soldiers armed their grapples and began scaling. Maryck took three steps back and launched up the wall's face, grabbing hold of the metal edge and hoisting himself over the battlement's edge onto all fours, skidding over to the unconscious guard and grabbing his commlink.

"Good hit, sir." Bex congratulated in humor, taking out his macrobinoculars and scanning the estate. "Looks like heavy heat in the control room, and the grand hall."

Maryck's eyebrows knit together. "What?" The Bothan passed him the macros. Sure enough, the grand hall was just teeming with heat signatures, less than an ample amount, but far more, at least 20 more than they'd accounted for. Something stirred within him, some understanding. "It's a gala. We caught this scumbag during a gala." He cursed under his breath, spinning on his knee to face the rest of the strike force. "He's throwing a party."

"So we crash it." May'k Sumnoize inqured, the Abednedo slur heavy.

"There's probably a couple Sith Lords in attendance." Maryck replied, running a hand through his hair. His brain worked overtime, processing, reprocessing, looking over the estate's holomap in his head.

"Vashee and Bex said you took on like, forty." Zip hissed. Ayala watched with her saucer eyes, looking back and forth between Maryck and the others.

"They were ill-trained, and I had help." Maryck admitted. "I'm not willing to risk your lives on the chance I can't carry through."

"With all due respect sir, we aren't asking you to make us risk anything. These Sithspit took our brothers and sisters. We knew the risk the instant we boarded that shuttle." Ayala reminded. "We'll follow you. Point the way."


"Unfortunate, what happened to Lady Demos and her acolytes on Hoth."

Lord Miasmus sighed, stirring his cocktail idly. "I suppose." He agreed, politely. "The Slaves she provided me have proven difficult to break."

Ensign Zahir shrugged. "Republic Soldiers are hard to break, the way I've been told. However, when broken, they prove to be the most capable workers in one's repetoire."

Miasmus chuckled. He'd seen it a million times before, the posturing where one claimed to know more than they did in order to impress him. "I suppose." He repeated coolly.

The estate's P.A system hissed to life. "Good evening, gathered guests!" Miasmus froze. The slave who helped run his intercom systems knew the proper way to address his guests. That was not it. He'd have her flogged. The other attendees paused, some mid-appetizer, nose down their glass of champagne.

"Lord Miasmus would like to thank you all, cordially and wholeheartedly, for attending his party." The attendees began clapping, bowing their heads towards the Sith Lord. He played his part, waving, bowing, never giving any indication this was not according to his plan. Never giving any indication of weakness.
"Now, if all Sith Lords, and ladies," The man on the intercom added, a teasing lilt to his tone. "in attendance, would gather in the center of the room?"

A moment. Miasmus' stomach lurched. His house servants were all women. Who was this on his intercom? The crowd shifted, and three cleanly robed Sith stepped forward. Lady Nekros, human, slight, short, and starved. The ever-irritating, ever-confident Lord Pono, arrogant, his crimson cape in a flourish. Finally, Lord Miasmus' own enforcer, Lord Phulakas, the Pureblood towering well over all in attendance.

Phulakas inclined his head, subtly pointing his chin spurs towards the intercom speaker. Miasmus' eyes widened. I don't know?

Finally, Miasmus took to the side of the room, tapping his wristlink, signalling for someone, anyone in the estate to answer. The light blinked red, and his stomach sank into his feet. Communications were being jammed. Who? Who had finally discovered his treacheries, and lies, and come to exact revenge? Was it Thanic? Somebody else who he thought he had killed?

"Now, we know that Lord Miasmus has thrown quite the night to remember, but he has one final surprise for all those in attendance, courtesy of his beloved workers. You see, Miasmus, I'm not Kell." The crowd began to stir again. Phulakas set his jaw tightly, slowly unhooking his lightsaber.

"My name is Bex. I'm a Bothan, I grew up in the Mid Rim. Now I know, your Empire doesn't have too fond a view of lesser species, but this isn't Imperial space is it? This sector is under Republic jurisdiction. So, you're trespassing. And now, my Commander, and my brothers and sisters in arms are going to take a big, steaming dump on your front lawn. Mee jewz ku, sleemo."

The windows blew open. The door guards took a double tap of blaster bolts to the neck, falling dead with a clatter of expensive ceremonial armor. Black armored Republic troopers swung through the grand picture windows on grapples, taking aim at Miasmus' guests and shouting. "Get on the ground!" "Don't make me cause an accident, pateesa!" One of the ensigns grabbed for a stowed holdout blaster and took a stun blast to the head.

For some reason, the only thing on Miasmus' mind was how he'd have to up security at check-in. The grand double doors blew wide open. Right at the fore of the door incursion team, stood a Jedi Knight, lightsaber ablaze, setting his black tunic awash with pale blue light. His tanned countenance was stern, unlined, no older than thirty, long locks of dark hair stowed behind his head, setting his eyes on the three Sith gathered in the middle of the room.

Lord Pono lunged first, leaping forward with a roar, lightsaber a pretty maroon. Miasmus saw it before Pono ever did. The Jedi squinted, took a high stance, and launched forward to meet the other Sith while he was still airborne. The sheer force of the Knight's blow sent Pono to the ground, a Jedi's bladetip at his throat.

Pono. Young fool.The Jedi shook his head. "Don't try it." He intoned, low, deliberate. Pono, never one to be disparaged, did. He spun to his feet with a flurry of uncoordinated motion meant to overwhelm. The Jedi took to the backstep for five strokes. On the sixth, he leaned into a feint and carved Pono across the chest before he could finish. Miasmus felt him die, quickly, without a fraction of a moment to regret his choice.

Lady Nekros winced. The Knight looked at her from under dark eyebrows, questioningly. Nekros looked from side to side, to the corralled guests, to Miasmus, to Phulakas towering above her, to the Jedi before them. Too Long. Phulakas activated his crimson blade and took Nekros' head at the shoulders. She fell to the marble floor with a regretful thud, head rolling to the Jedi's feet.

She stopped at the tip of well-worn boots, face frozen in infinite shock and pain. The Jedi looked up towards Phulakas. The challenge had been made, and judging by the Knight's subtle flourish, accepted. Miasmus watched carefully as Phulakas began pacing, seething. His enforcer had a good foot on the already imposing Jedi Knight, and the advantage of terror. Though, judging by his thorough handling of Lord Pono, terror wasn't a factor, nor was size. Phulakas would simply have to be better.

The anticipation, Republic and Imperial alike, reached a fever pitch. Phulakas snarled and lunged with a crashing blow. The Jedi rose his lightsaber to weather the blow, dropping down to a knee, flicking the lock to a shunt, and spinning off to the side for a flashfire of strikes all along Phulakas' left.

Crimson crackled against sapphire as Phulakas replied in kind. The opponents met on the grounds of fierce Djem So, hammering away at one another at speeds difficult to follow. Gradually, Miasmus realized that Phulakas did indeed have the advantage of strength. Regretfully, the Jedi did as well, and adapted accordingly, parrying at sweet spots in Phulakas' slashes and knocking him aside.

The Jedi's stamina was impressive. Most who Miasmus had seen challenge Phulakas were battered and exhausted before being slain. The Knight kept his breathing steady, staying light on his toes only before planting his feet and striking with power.

Finally, Phulakas had had his fill. The Sith activated the other side of his lightsaber, whirling the weapon loudly and carving up the floor. The Jedi's lips pressed in satisfaction, and Miasmus knew his man had met his end. Despite his reach, Phulakas struggled to keep the Knight at a distance. Every effort was thanked with a dangerously close slash to the limb.

Phulakas roared, and knocked the Jedi's guard open in rage, slashing up across the left side of his face and spinning around to plant his blade in his stomach. Miasmus couldn't look away. The Jedi Knight moved as though he had seen the maneuver coming hours in advance, angling out of the way, knocking the back-blade off out of his way and removing Phulakas' head.

Some of the guests gasped. One of the more dramatic patrons wept. Miasmus closed his eyes as he felt his guard's life snuff out. Perhaps more overwhelming than the sadness of his friend's death was the realization that he truly would not and did not stand a chance.

The Jedi stood triumphant, stoic, collected as his chest heaved up and down. He didn't move but the gesture was clear, the scar over his right eye rippling defiantly. Anyone else?

Miasmus reached for his lightsaber. The predatory snap of the Jedi's gaze sped up him putting it down in front of him. He could worry about seeming brave later. Survival was all that mattered now, and he wouldn't achieve it being brave.

"Take them into custody." The Jedi ordered, stowing his lightsaber and crossing towards Miasmus. The Republic operators moved hastily, clamping binders onto the guests in attendance.

Miasmus set his chin proudly, holding his wrists out in clear view in front of him. "You killed my enforcer." He leveled.

"He killed your guest." The Jedi replied, activating the binders and cuffing the Sith behind his back. There was the vaguest sense he was being wry. Curious. "You knew this was coming eventually, didn't you?" The Jedi asked, honestly it seemed.

"I expected with more circumstance. So I'd be farther away." Miasmus admitted.

The Jedi hmphed, but said nothing more.

"Why now?" Miasmus pressed.

"Because you took my soldiers' friends." He replied, setting a firm hand on Miasmus' shoulder and guiding him out. "And because I found out." The Jedi chewed his lip. "I have a friend who was a slave to your kind. I'm going to bring every one of you slavers in Republic space in."

"I suppose that's reasonable. My only hope is that they'll conquer your resolve and escape."

The deep brown of the Jedi's eyes twinkled. "I wouldn't count on it, my Lord."


The ray shield fence had become a ray shield dome. Maryck lifted his wristlink to his mouth. "Bex, we're in position, you can open the gate now."

"On it, sir." The gate flickered and fell, the Kiffar and Lieutenant Ayala stepped through first. In the slave barracks courtyard, the slave force, three hundred strong stood huddled together, moving some individual towards the middle. Standing before them, armed with jerry-rigged weapons was a span of sixteen men and women of different species, prepared for the worst in defending their fellow slaves.

Four of them lowered their ready stances. "Lieutenant Ayala?" The lead, a large besalisk man called.

"Lek!" One of the others, a Togruta woman ran forward towards Corporal Vashee.

Vashee dropped her gun altogether, catching her cousin in her arms. "Spirits, little sister!" The two women fell to their knees, weeping and squeezing each other tight. The other veterans of Ayala's contingent came forward, embracing their compatriots, laughing, and hugging.

A strong, sinewy, red skinned Zabrak male eyed Maryck warily, not sure whether to put his quarter-staff down or to strike. "I'm a friend. I'm Maryck Vos, a Jedi, I'm here to free you all." Maryck eased, raising his hands above his head where they could be seen.

The Zabrak squinted suspiciously, but ultimately lowered his guard. "I'm Hawk." He greeted. "I've been here the longest."

"Hawk." Maryck echoed. "We have another half-cycle before the transports make it here. The estate is secure and Miasmus has been put under arrest. Kell and the other house workers are watching them."

Hawk's eyes widened. He rubbed his chest sorely. "And... his guard?"

"Dead." Maryck confirmed. In an instant, Hawk seemed to understand.

"You will take... all of us?"

"Every single one." The Kiffar promised. Hawk studied the Jedi from boot to braids, then looked towards the center of the slave huddle. He beckoned the Jedi along, gently pushing their way towards the center of the mass.

"Even them?" Hawk asked, gesturing towards the cowled woman cowering away from them, Maryck more specifically. She turned slightly, and he could see under the cowl the maroon skin of a Sith Pureblood. The gurgling and crying from under her robes grew audible.

Maryck toed closer, hands still up beside his head. "I'm not going to hurt you." He calmed. The Sith woman screamed in guttural defiance, stepping away from him, keeping the baby shawled in her cloak away from him.

"She doesn't speak Basic." Hawk informed. "She gave birth only a few weeks ago. None of us can speak to her outside of drawing pictures in the dirt."

Maryck inhaled, and tried again. <<I'm not going to hurt you.>> He repeated, in broken Sith. The woman looked up in shock, turning her orange eyes on him. The Kiffar shook his mind upside down by the ankle for everything he'd taught himself, everything Jheva had taught him. <<I'm a Jedi. My name is Maryck, I'm not going to hurt you or the little one.>>

The woman replied in rapid fire Sith. He could glean only key words. How.... Jedi.... speak Sith.... don't take my baby.

<<My Sith isn't very good.>> He admitted with a chuckle, hand still outstretched in offering. The baby cried and cried. The woman looked tired, facial spurs sagging with the weight of motherhood in the squalor of the camp. <<I won't take your little one. May I put him to rest?>>

The woman roared and turned back away, crying. Maryck realized he had said put to rest in the mortal sense. Idiot. <<I'm sorry, my Sith isn't very good.>> He repeated quickly. <<I mean uh... uh....>> "Sleep." He said in basic, pantomiming the sleeping pose with his hands. The image must have helped because the woman eased, looking down at her child, then back up to him pleadingly.

She drew back the shawl and revealed a pink little Sith newborn, toothless mouth wide open in a sob. Maryck gently put his finger tip to the baby's hand. At first the child swatted it away, but on the second pass, grabbed tightly. The Kiffar inhaled, exhaled, and gently persuaded the child to be calm. He had never tried to communicate with an infant before.

The child's presence in the Force was a chaotic babble of wants and needs, and below it all, the sixth sense that change was happening. Still, even in that mess, the baby's consciousness seemed to understand peace. When Maryck came back to himself, the child was silent save the cooing and gurgling, looking at the man, then back to his mother, then back to the man. Then he smiled, no teeth, little lips spreading wide and feet kicking excitedly.

<<Thank you.>> The mother slumped, kissing her child on the forehead, then grabbing Maryck's forearm meaningfully. <<Thank you, Jedi.>>


Maryck sat in his quarters aboard the Republic frigate, fingers hovering over a datapad, writing, rewriting his mission report. The Kiffar sighed, crossing his feet over, scratching his chin. He changed the screen over to the records for the next mission, the next estate they were en route to.

TeeNine exited sleep mode in the corner, trundling over to his owner's side. Maryck = Needs sleep

"Thanks for the update pal." The Jedi deadpanned, rapping his knuckles on top of his droid's dome. "You know, you didn't need to come with me. I know you like the work you've been doing with Jheva and Bren's research. You're not a military droid."

TeeNine = Never has been a military droid. TeeNine = Your friend. TeeNine = Remind you when you need to sleep. Reminding you when to sleep > Research. Artifact = Been here for thousands of years. Maryck = ????. TeeNine = Wastes no time.

Somewhere within, a heartstring was tugged. The fist on his droid's head became a flat hand, affectionately rubbing dirt off of the astromech's photoreceptor. "You're the best friend I could have." Maryck admitted, tapping his forehead to the droid's dome.

TeeNine =/= The only friend anymore. Your other friends = would want you to sleep.

Maryck smiled slightly, then cut off his datapad, slumping down into his bed. Work would be there when he woke up. Over the last few months, he had learned that mostly everything else would be as well. "Night, Tee." Exhaustion and something like satisfaction took him beyond the galaxy, far, far away.

((In case you have indeed made it to the end of this work: The partial inspiration for the party scene, in which Lord Miasmus is the man in the suit))

Holocrons and Info Nodes / What is a Legacy?
« on: 06/07/17, 12:54:07 PM »
"Legacy. What is a legacy?
It’s planting seeds in a garden you never get to see
I wrote some notes at the beginning of a song someone will sing for me"
- The World Was Wide Enough, Hamilton

Mother's Song

She was growing old, she was. The others, the more youthful of her world didn’t remember a time before the Empire. A time where the Clans of Kiffu were free to live and fight, die and love by their own volition. The Imperial annexation of Kiffu and Kiffex came when she was a younger woman. Her three sons had been born in it. Their own children had been raised in it. She’d lost a dear husband, and a beloved eldest son to its machinations. She had made decisions for her people, and regrettably, against them. Still, through all the chaos, the Clan Vos had endured, by her steady hand.
Sheyf Nahia Vos was growing old. When the day came that the people of Kiffu threw a weakened Empire from their world, she wept where no one could see. She wept as the woman that had been ripped away from her decades prior. Commerce picked back up. People smiled again. Under her wise rule, the Vos Clan began to rebuild what had been broken, what her Imperial sympathizing sons had betrayed.
How she had wished Harenn had been there. Intelligent, kind, and holding a trust in freedom. Harenn never would have allowed his younger brothers to kneel. If any member of her family would have found a way to defeat the Empire sooner, it would have been him. Yet… that same thirst for freedom drove him far away… Nahia forced the thought away.
Sheyf Nahia now sat at her desk in her own private quarters, a wrinkled but deft hand maneuvering around the newly uncensored holonet, trying her hardest to familiarize herself with what had happened in the galaxy at large, beyond what her Guardians could tell her. On a whim, she watched a documentary holo titled Jedi: Meritable or Menace?. An hour in, there he was.
Nahia’s lips parted, and she felt herself trying not to cry again. It would have been safe, granted, but the ironclad old woman forced the lump down anyway. Right there, center of the screen, was her Harenn. He hadn’t aged a day since the night before he left. The same warm skin, the same sharp features, so handsome. The image of her son had enraptured her so she’d nearly forgotten that Harenn would be nearly forty now. It wasn’t until she saw the brown of his eyes that the spell was broken. Harenn had green eyes, like his father, Nahia’s husband had. As she began to assess the rest of the frame, this doppelganger was a lot broader than her eldest boy had been, a great deal more muscular. The minutiae of his face began to set him apart, supplemented by the- Nahia’s eyed widened- lightsaber in his hand, frozen mid-ignition.
The Sheyf argued with herself, fearing that pressing play would lose the mystery boy forever. Finally she did, and the helmet-cam footage continued. Not-Harenn shouted something unintelligible and launched forward, a blue lightsaber carving through Imperial droids. The cam hurtled towards the ground, clattering loudly. Footsteps grew closer, lifting the helmet from the mud. Not-Harenn patted the wearer’s chest, pointing two fingers to his own eyes. “You’re alright, look at me. You’re okay, stay on your feet, and keep your head low. We’re almost there!” The Jedi assured, deflecting a blaster bolt and charging forward again.

The documentary shifted to a Republic trooper in her dress greys, arrayed with all sorts of medals. “Out there, with all the blasters, all the explosions, it’s easy to get turned around. Easy to lose hope. Easy to feel expendable next to your Jedi. General Vos… he never made us feel expendable. That day on Balmorra, when that thermal went off behind me, I wanted to lay there. Pretend I was dead. Maryck Vos literally lifted me out of the mud and made me believe I wasn’t going to die that day. Jedi Knight or not… that’s impossible to discredit.”

Nahia turned the vid off and began searching. A couple hundred file results had been logged for Maryck Vos across the span of about six years, ending just before the onslaught of the Eternal Empire. Fearfully, she searched Harenn’s name as well. Only one result there. Her son had been booked for illegal smuggling of Jedi artifacts on some backwater world within the past year. In the lineup image attached, Harenn Vos stood with a mischievous glint in his emerald eyes. Tall, armored, grown into a man with that beard he’d been trying to grow for so long, the visage of her son warmed her deeply. A diminutive Sullustan stood to his right with big pleading eyes, and to his left, another tall and muscular spicer in a black jumpsuit smirked, holding his booking number with that same glint in his dark eyes.

The third smuggler looked like Maryck. He was scruffier, smarmier, scarless, though scars could easily be covered with cosmetics. It was a play out of Harenn’s book, certainly, Kartas Vel. Nahia smirked. Her son had always thought he was so smart, and while he was, he was nowhere near as smart as he thought he was, and Kartas was one of his favorite aliases when he took off.

A Grandchild. Harenn had had a son. She couldn’t be sure when. She couldn’t even be sure how, but she was sure that Maryck was of her blood. A Jedi, was of her blood, and had been all through the Imperial occupation. Why hadn’t Maryck come to them? His family? Nahia resolved to find out.

She tapped her communicator. “Sable?”

“Yes Honored Mother?” Came the reply.

“Could you join me in my office?”

A moment later, garbed in black and gold armor, Sable Rawk entered with her helmet couched under her arm. Dark haired and beautiful in the most intimidating way, Sable carried herself with all the poise and confidence of a Guardian. “Evening Sable.”

Sable bowed her head. “Honored Mother. You needed me?”

Nahia waved her over, gesturing to the screen. “The young man in the jumpsuit. Do you know him?”

Sable regarded the image, shaking her head. “Kartas Vel. Small time smuggler. I’ve never heard of him. He’s a Kiffar, no?”

Nahia nodded, steepling her thin bony fingers. “He is.” Pointing to the image’s face. “But no markings.”

The gold chevrons on Sable’s cheekbones rippled with distaste. “Then he’s an outsider. What do you want with him?”

“I want him here. Can you find him?”

Sable furrowed her eyebrows in contemplation. “…Yes, Honored Mother. I’ll gather a team-”

Nahia silenced the woman with a raised hand. “No. You’ll do this alone. I have faith you’ll be able to handle a simple smuggler. Bring him back to me, unharmed.”

Sable’s lip twitched in a smile. “You assume this Vel character will make it easy for me. Vels aren’t known to go quietly into anything. Even if he is an outsider.”

It was Nahia’s turn, a slow grin cutting into her wrinkled face. “I’m certain you’ll work it out. I’ll see you when you return.” She dismissed the Guardian with a wave, swiveling back about in her chair. Sable bowed again, pivoting on her heel and leaving. Nahia’s favorite remaining family member, and the girl wasn't even a blood relative.

The Sheyf of Vos looked at the display again. There, side by side, her son and her grandson. The spitting image of each other. Harenn was likely still alive. Her would-be eldest grandchild was a Jedi. If she could find one, perhaps she could find the other, and maybe, just maybe, she would have her family again. Nahia was growing old, she was. She didn’t want to die without her family seeing all she had achieved on their behalf.

Storyboards / The Colonel Crisis (Jedi Night Recap 5/11)
« on: 05/18/17, 04:10:41 PM »

In the wake of Knight Bren-Akket’s torture at the hands of Exephos, the backlash on Iridonia as a result of the man’s murder of a Zabrak on-world, and the mystery of exactly who stands at the war hero’s back in the Republic Senate, the Jedi Order has been left at an utter loss on how best to proceed.

Jedi Masters Eirwynn Volaran, Maryck Vos, Malkisho Rainer, Knight Vilenor, and Harkasone Milan gathered on Coruscant to support fellow Jedi Bren and discuss the best course of action. Knight Bren informed the group that Iridonia was eyeing secession from the Republic as a viable option, as well as detailing at length the atrocities he himself had suffered. Determining that the next battle would be waged on the Senate floor against Exephos in order to bring him to justice (and stop civil war), the Jedi began considering where to turn to for diplomatic support.

Unbeknownst to the others, Master Vos sought out Bren’s friend Iirim, a Jedi-turned-information-broker for more tangible evidence towards who or what the phantom menace truly were. Going off on a technically sanctioned mission, the pair quietly returned to the interrogation center/laboratory in the Works sector on Coruscant. There they found the personal effects of the late General Tureen Dershoi, a Republic officer who had disappeared almost ten months before. Amongst these effects was a datapad with a number of intriguing files, confirming the Jedi’s presumptions that there were indeed shadowy benefactors who had chosen to support Exephos.

Iirim also had managed to extract encrypted messages from older data with origin points at Republic Military HQ, the Senate Tower, and a heavily defended compound on Alderaan. Maryck and Iirim parted ways with the goal of mining the information further, as well as securing the allegiance of Shad’ra, one of Exephos’ ex-compatriots.

The small cadre of Jedi met again at the Dancer’s Palace, where Knight Vilenor and Master Eirwynn questioned Seirion, attaché to Iridonian councilman and clan leader Varooth Noth. In his drunken state, Seirion accidentally let slip that there had been some discussion of political assassination. Within the same night, Maryck encountered the illusive Shad’ra and managed to pique the ex-Mandalorian’s interest. The pair agreed to meet again with Iirim in attendance to further discuss the situation. This meeting has not yet taken place.

Maryck and Bren are currently residing at Tira’Noth on Iridonia, Master Eirwynn is exploring the myriad of diplomatic options, Knight Vilenor is on his own hunt for Shad’ra, and Exephos still stands just beyond the Jedi’s reach...

Holocrons and Info Nodes / He Who Fights Monsters.
« on: 05/29/15, 07:03:31 AM »
There's five types of eyes.

When he's walking around the temple, making his way to the Archives, or perhaps the training grounds, or the star rooms, there's always eyes on him. Maybe it's the way he walks. The motions, the stride casting his robe into a billowing trail. Or the commanding presence he brings, being approximately 1.86 meters tall. Muscles taut and powerful, honed by years of action. Maybe it's the scars he has over his eye, the other peeking from under the permanent stubble of a man too busy to shave. The burns that crawl out from under his left glove, reminders of his second battle on Bothawui.

There's always eyes on him. The first, are the younger Jedi. They watch him practice with awe, eyes swept up by the graceful but forceful swing of a cobalt lightsaber. He's able to hold a handstand on top of a training dummy. And somehow, despite his mastery in Soresu, but it appears that when they need help? There's no lightsaber form he doesn't know well enough to demonstrate. It's like a third arm. He understands the students as well, more importantly. When their instructors chastises them for not knowing a planet, or a battle, or a movement, he assures them. "You'll get it next time. You're still a better student than I was as an initiate." Hero, on and off the field.

The second, are the Jedi his juniors, that are older than him. Twenty four standards and a Jedi Master. Surely he's not more worthy than they are. He's too young. They've been stuck in waiting for years, while this upstart just happens to be in all the right places at the right times? He probably doesn't even understand the code. Walks around like he owns the damned temple. Cocky glory hound, doesn't deserve those titles.

The third set, are the other Masters. Some of them are skeptical as well, but more predominantly it's a wide sense of appreciation. He's a Jedi Master, and he shows tact with his title. He's humble, and kind. They read his battlefield reports as well, every scar, every time he's landed in a medical ward, it was a result of taking care of other people. He's been in the medical ward quite a few times. He doesn't do it for glory and they know it. A lot of them were Knights when he was coming up, after all. The young man was utter fodder, but he cared about others. They're glad to see that even though he's grown as powerful as he has, he's maintained that empathy.

The fourth type of eyes, are the ones who understand. The soldiers who've been on the line with him. The pilots he's met face to face as he rolled over their fighter in a battle. The other Jedi, who've seen, suffered, and survived just as much if not more than he has. They understand without saying a word. For the most part, those Jedi are just as young as he is, some of them early Masters as well. They lock eyes, and they mark each other as friend. Anytime you need me.

The fifth, are the ones in the mirror. Maryck takes his off-duty showers frequently, on the battlefield or in the cockpit he can't be sure when the next reprieve will be. Sonic showers were necessary as a kid on Tatooine, because before you could dry off you had a new layer of sand stuck to the dampness. But something about a real water shower is just so comforting, so calming. He wraps a towel around his waist, and just stands there. Stands, looking in the mirror. Truthfully, he sees everything they see. He sees the relatively young face. He sees the way his lips curl when he grins, that slow, all-knowing, cocksure smile. He sees the scars, obviously from lightsaber burns. They run under his tunic as well, one discolored line drawn up those sought-after "transparisteel abdominals", another saber nick across his chest. Shrapnel gashes from too-slow drawn-up Force bubbles spot his entire body. He could wear armor, but he'd tried that. He was faster this way, to take positions, to lead squads, to save lives. Besides, nagging irritation kept him grounded.

The darker memories swam behind that face too. Selective Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Therapy, immersion, breathing exercises, meditation had made it better. Still not perfect. A place he prefers to stay away from. If his only real threat from the situation was being unable to spar an equally skilled opponent, because the chances of him seeing that Sith in the minds eye, increased? He'd take it. Better than some of the other demons his classmates had brought back home with them.

He sees the wisdom though. The experience far beyond his years, the suffering, just behind brown eyes. "Your mother's eyes." Papa Vos used to say. Sometimes he wished he could start over. Be fresh-faced again, not carry so many names with his conscience. No, this was what he was. This was what made him better, the memories, the pain kept him straight.

He misses them though. The entirety of the First Torrent. Lhogynn. Haruki. Kiryka. Oh, Kiryka. He misses them so badly. Especially her, his first Padawan. It had been a year and a half that he'd been her Master. Her slightly younger teacher, a new Jedi Knight. She was a prodigy with the Force, and in a lot of ways, she grew to be an even better Jedi than he was. Then she disappeared, or died, both even. He couldn't feel her anymore, that was all he knew. Her sister, an unofficial learner under him disappeared as well. He couldn't sense her either. They had a Sith at their heels all the time. Most of his scars came from fighting the far more skilled Darth Cosyma. When he began to prove himself her better as a Jedi, she faded from their lives. Took to quieter dejarrik-master moves.  He could almost guarantee she was responsible, but she too had disappeared without a trace.

It hurt. It hurt and hurts so badly. But Death is a natural part of life, all he could do was ensure their losses weren't for nothing. Dwelling wasn't going to do anything. The next time a Sith or a Dark Sider made him an offer he couldn't refused, he would refuse. He would until the day he died, for them if for no one else. The phrase been there done that comes to mind.

He studies the reflection until he drinks himself in fully. The Fearless Hero, The Teacher, The Pilot, The Young Master. The Jedi. When he comes to Maryck, he can finally turn away. That's who he is, all other personas are just aspects. General or Captain, Blue One or Blue Ten, Master or Padawan, he's still the same young man. He laughs until his ribs hurt, he gives death its due respect. He gets a kick out of flying his self-prototyped StealthGuard in atmosphere, and yes, he gets a rush from the blurred hums of his lightsaber swinging deftly around his body.

So when he gets the call, from High Command, or from Major Darklighter, or from Commander Edaera, or from his new Padawan Armeria, or from the Jedi Council itself, he stops tinkering with the machines around his house, pulls on his boots, attempts to flatten that damned bantha-lick on his forehead, and ties his tunic tight. He's Maryck Vos, Jedi Master. And all the evil in the galaxy is, is another set of eyes he intends to deal with.

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