Je'gan Olra'en
Feb 19th, 2005, 02:05:03 PM
OOC/ I don't know why I wrote this. I guess I just wanted to write without overly concentrating on any particular element of Je'gan's life and plans and duties and so forth. Kinda fun, kinda pointless, and signals Je'gan's abandonment of his basic elementalism as any kind of real weapon. Part-way through, I figured Je'gan was getting too diverse, and wanted to move his focus back to his specialty: mentalics.
IC/ Je'gan Olra'en, Darth Shule, swept towards his quarters like a coal-black vulture, barely pausing to give the requisite responses to the security gear that he had ordered installed some time ago. Voice, handprint, AI camera, retina scan, a Shadowmind that required a precise mental interface...the list went on. He wasn't precisely paranoid - yet - but he loved his privacy with a passion. So as he fidgeted with impatience while the equipment (each device separate from each other and from any sort of network) verified his identity, he remembered the necessity and refrained from destruction.
The door at last hissed open, accompanied by the scratchy purr of a flanged, hooked deadbolt being withdrawn. It closed swiftly after him, and then he was in, looking at the main room of his little suite. It had a square carpet in tones of red and brown, right in the middle of the scarred stone floor. A sofa-bed and an armchair in red plush sat on the far corners of the rug; between them, a round table and a lamp. A panoramic window - military-grade transparisteel - dominated the opposite wall with a view of Coronet. Night had fallen, and Je'gan's muscles were sore from a long day's training.
The Sith Knight and Elder shucked off his robes, leaving himself in loose black pants and more or less matching short-sleeved shirt, collarless and without a front seam. Both articles of clothing were stretched and each had a handful of rips in it. He was good, but even he took hits every now and again during a day's training. Some of the cuts still bled; many, from lightsabers, were cauterized. As he put a lazy hand against the wall and yawned, blood trickled from his palm onto the rough wall.
He moved over to one of the two doors, one on each side of the main room, that led to adjacent portions of the suite. The one he chose was on the left; it led to his bedroom, a simplistic, comfortably warm arrangement of bed, nightstand and bookshelves. The shelves held some selections from his personal library. Based upon the libraries of Cuulvaer and Galarra, it had been expanded by diverse means over the years. The main library was kept in his laboratory; this was merely such bedtime reading as he might find diverting, including thoughts on tactics, illusion, and the finer points of mentalics. His own manuscript, engraved on leaves of Shadow to prevent easy theft, sat on the stand. Beside it was a medpack. Battered and heavily skewed on its hinges, it had been restocked many, many times over the years. At this point, Je'gan sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled the pack to his hand via the Force. He took out a set of small adhesive cold packs and began to apply them to various points on his body.
He let out a quiet sigh and stood again. The bedroom had a window; not large, but present. It was this that he leaned against as the cold packs worked their magic. Tense muscles eased dramatically over a period of half an hour, in which he stared out at the lights of Coronet and the ships travelling to and fro.
And thought. In circles.
At the end of it, the last vestiges of sunlight having disappeared long ago, he pushed away from the wall and left his bedroom, going through the main chamber to the other door. It hissed open as he tripped a hidden catch, and he darted inside. The door snapped shut just as he passed. It was on a timer - one more security measure.
Here was the lab. Constructs of Shadow, books, papers and unidentifiable objects of all sorts littered the central work island and the surrounding counters and shelves. He wasted no time in tripping a second catch and heading through the door that appeared where a set of shelves had been. He found himself in a long room, full of display cabinets, surmounted by a large bluish cylinder within which was growing...
...well, nothing. Nothing at the moment. He had the knowledge - or rather the shielded, isolated droid brain that controlled the Spaarti cylinder had the knowledge. He had the motivation. What he didn't have, as of yet, was the genetic material.
For a moment his eyes wandered to another large cylinder, this one empty of fluid; a stasis chamber, it contained the suspended body of Ceres Duvall, preserved from mere hours after death. That was just a thought, though, and it soon passed. He had no desire to be served by copies, mindless or congizant, of Ceres.
No, for now the cylinder was empty, and would remain so.
He walked over to an open display case and took off his rings and pendants, laying them in careful rows before closing the transparisteel lid. Everything in here had a meaning; that jewelry meant power. Not a lot of an increase, but enough. And it was reasonably aesthetic, too.
Would Trric...?
Je'gan dwelt on the thought for a long moment, seemingly paralyzed, before heading back to the lab to train. He was in an impatient mood, and had Jan been here he might have taken it out on her; but his familiar was busy. Instead, he decided simply to do something stupid.
The air conditioners hummed to life as he began to swirl the air together into a tiny fireball in the palm of his hand. It wasn't terribly hot, but it would suit his usual purposes - which usually involved demonstration rather than tactical use; it drained him considerably. Tonight, however, he was not satisfied with the simple fireball, and began to make it bigger. Keeping the heat away from his flesh was not within his power and he was forced to compensate by moving the fireball away from his palm. It didn't seem big enough. His impatience sparked, and the miniature fireball flared, searing his skin. His concentration was gone. Within moments, the fire dissipated, leaving Je'gan to hiss over his burnt hand. After some time, he headed for his bedroom, his medpack, and the bacta patches within.
That’s it. No more wasting effort on useless things. Fireballs are for others to play with.
I think I’ll practice some illusion…
Afterwards, as he sat cross-legged in the middle of the carpet and looked around his own mind, he began to understand the changes that these failed attempts were kindling in him. Bitterness was being driven into him, and he felt, there, a desire to reach out for something or someone else. Where that might lead, he did not feel like investigating; all he wanted for now was to sleep, and without nightmares. That, he could do.
IC/ Je'gan Olra'en, Darth Shule, swept towards his quarters like a coal-black vulture, barely pausing to give the requisite responses to the security gear that he had ordered installed some time ago. Voice, handprint, AI camera, retina scan, a Shadowmind that required a precise mental interface...the list went on. He wasn't precisely paranoid - yet - but he loved his privacy with a passion. So as he fidgeted with impatience while the equipment (each device separate from each other and from any sort of network) verified his identity, he remembered the necessity and refrained from destruction.
The door at last hissed open, accompanied by the scratchy purr of a flanged, hooked deadbolt being withdrawn. It closed swiftly after him, and then he was in, looking at the main room of his little suite. It had a square carpet in tones of red and brown, right in the middle of the scarred stone floor. A sofa-bed and an armchair in red plush sat on the far corners of the rug; between them, a round table and a lamp. A panoramic window - military-grade transparisteel - dominated the opposite wall with a view of Coronet. Night had fallen, and Je'gan's muscles were sore from a long day's training.
The Sith Knight and Elder shucked off his robes, leaving himself in loose black pants and more or less matching short-sleeved shirt, collarless and without a front seam. Both articles of clothing were stretched and each had a handful of rips in it. He was good, but even he took hits every now and again during a day's training. Some of the cuts still bled; many, from lightsabers, were cauterized. As he put a lazy hand against the wall and yawned, blood trickled from his palm onto the rough wall.
He moved over to one of the two doors, one on each side of the main room, that led to adjacent portions of the suite. The one he chose was on the left; it led to his bedroom, a simplistic, comfortably warm arrangement of bed, nightstand and bookshelves. The shelves held some selections from his personal library. Based upon the libraries of Cuulvaer and Galarra, it had been expanded by diverse means over the years. The main library was kept in his laboratory; this was merely such bedtime reading as he might find diverting, including thoughts on tactics, illusion, and the finer points of mentalics. His own manuscript, engraved on leaves of Shadow to prevent easy theft, sat on the stand. Beside it was a medpack. Battered and heavily skewed on its hinges, it had been restocked many, many times over the years. At this point, Je'gan sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled the pack to his hand via the Force. He took out a set of small adhesive cold packs and began to apply them to various points on his body.
He let out a quiet sigh and stood again. The bedroom had a window; not large, but present. It was this that he leaned against as the cold packs worked their magic. Tense muscles eased dramatically over a period of half an hour, in which he stared out at the lights of Coronet and the ships travelling to and fro.
And thought. In circles.
At the end of it, the last vestiges of sunlight having disappeared long ago, he pushed away from the wall and left his bedroom, going through the main chamber to the other door. It hissed open as he tripped a hidden catch, and he darted inside. The door snapped shut just as he passed. It was on a timer - one more security measure.
Here was the lab. Constructs of Shadow, books, papers and unidentifiable objects of all sorts littered the central work island and the surrounding counters and shelves. He wasted no time in tripping a second catch and heading through the door that appeared where a set of shelves had been. He found himself in a long room, full of display cabinets, surmounted by a large bluish cylinder within which was growing...
...well, nothing. Nothing at the moment. He had the knowledge - or rather the shielded, isolated droid brain that controlled the Spaarti cylinder had the knowledge. He had the motivation. What he didn't have, as of yet, was the genetic material.
For a moment his eyes wandered to another large cylinder, this one empty of fluid; a stasis chamber, it contained the suspended body of Ceres Duvall, preserved from mere hours after death. That was just a thought, though, and it soon passed. He had no desire to be served by copies, mindless or congizant, of Ceres.
No, for now the cylinder was empty, and would remain so.
He walked over to an open display case and took off his rings and pendants, laying them in careful rows before closing the transparisteel lid. Everything in here had a meaning; that jewelry meant power. Not a lot of an increase, but enough. And it was reasonably aesthetic, too.
Would Trric...?
Je'gan dwelt on the thought for a long moment, seemingly paralyzed, before heading back to the lab to train. He was in an impatient mood, and had Jan been here he might have taken it out on her; but his familiar was busy. Instead, he decided simply to do something stupid.
The air conditioners hummed to life as he began to swirl the air together into a tiny fireball in the palm of his hand. It wasn't terribly hot, but it would suit his usual purposes - which usually involved demonstration rather than tactical use; it drained him considerably. Tonight, however, he was not satisfied with the simple fireball, and began to make it bigger. Keeping the heat away from his flesh was not within his power and he was forced to compensate by moving the fireball away from his palm. It didn't seem big enough. His impatience sparked, and the miniature fireball flared, searing his skin. His concentration was gone. Within moments, the fire dissipated, leaving Je'gan to hiss over his burnt hand. After some time, he headed for his bedroom, his medpack, and the bacta patches within.
That’s it. No more wasting effort on useless things. Fireballs are for others to play with.
I think I’ll practice some illusion…
Afterwards, as he sat cross-legged in the middle of the carpet and looked around his own mind, he began to understand the changes that these failed attempts were kindling in him. Bitterness was being driven into him, and he felt, there, a desire to reach out for something or someone else. Where that might lead, he did not feel like investigating; all he wanted for now was to sleep, and without nightmares. That, he could do.