Beyond the Saga toward eternity (multiple OCs, far future)

Discussion in 'Fan Fiction- Before, Saga, and Beyond' started by order_67, Feb 5, 2022.

  1. order_67

    order_67 Jedi Youngling

    Feb 2, 2022
    Author: order_67
    Title: toward eternity
    Timeframe: Nearly three centuries after TROS
    Characters: Multiple OCs
    Genre: Action/Adventure

    Emotion, yet peace.
    Ignorance, yet knowledge.
    Passion, yet serenity.
    Chaos, yet harmony.
    Death, yet the Force.

    - The original Jedi Code​



    A long time ago…

    Karsaccos Ren pulls the scorching flame of his lightsaber from the snarling Sith Pureblood, watches as the creature’s legs buckle and give out, its vibroblade clattering to the dusty stone ground. He stands for a mere moment, deactivating his blade, blazing eyes watching, hungering, as the life fades from the Pureblood. Out of simple spite, for the hell of it, Karsaccos steps on the body with force. His walk is labored, a result of his activities on this day and his advancing age, yet he trudges on, intent on fulfilling his duty as the Emperor of the Order of Ren, and bring about their rule on the Galaxy. He comes upon a dark stone archway, intricate runes carved along it, powerful, ancient Sith magics. Their will is bound to some long dead Lord, and Karsaccos hasn’t the patience to coax their allegiance. He’s already had too much to deal with- vengeful members of the Sideways Step firstly, warriors who were far more skilled than the ones of their order he had met decades ago. Secondly, a Knight of the Skywalker Order, her violet eyes showing more fury than he’d ever seen in a Lightsider. She was a vicious and skilled fighter, but he had unleashed his most powerful techniques upon her, leaving her in the dust of this forsaken planet. Now he had to deal with this, pureblood Sith whose powers have stagnated from millennia of lost knowledge and inbreeding. He can feel yet another group of Purebloods moving towards him, anger pounding through their thick and congealed blood, their only thought being kill, kill, kill-

    Karsaccos does mathematics.

    Ancient Sith equations, passed down from the original Sorcerers and Mages, powerful equations that serve as proofs. Neutral proofs, neither dark nor light, yet Karsaccos pushes power into the proofs. He twists them, pours misery and fear and pain into their moulds until it’s overflowing, the sticky power controlling the proofs. They are facts, his power is fact, his heart is true and Dark. His voice is barely above a whisper, muffled by his helmet as it is, yet it carries, dark energy strengthening it. He doesn’t do much; he merely speaks truth to power. But it’s enough for him to bend the energies of the runes, to subjugate them to his rule- where they should’ve been all along.

    He can see them now, five of them, all dressed in the same dark robes and once shiny acolyte armor. Karsaccos doesn’t bother activating his lightsaber. They’re so close now, a dark fold in the Force, and he is prepared to find the edges and smooth the fold out. Triumph blazes like a starship engine, deep in his wretched heart, and he makes a lazy gesture. The runes blaze to dark and terrible life, and lightning the color of sickness and death arcs from them, toward the Purebloods. They stop short, raise their swords, but there is no defense, no recourse- a fork strikes the first one, in the chest, and the effect is instant. The lightning spreads across his body in long, aggressive arcs, and the acolyte burns, his skin chars and turns to ash, he fades away. From him, the arcs move through the other warriors, who meet the same painful fate.

    When Karsaccos walks through the archway, the runes almost purr in his presence, and with a command, resume their long sleep.

    The room he comes to was once grand. Age had chipped away the paint on the dark rock, leaving only small glimpses of the art that had once adorned the chamber. Crumbling pillars stand near the center, the once intricate designs flaked away here too. The plinth in the center, though-

    No theatrics. No grand speech. Karsaccos does what he came here to do, and he grabs the holocron. Energy arcs from it, fills him with power even he hadn’t known before. He allows himself to laugh, the sounds carrying through the empty temple, rumbling outwards onto the dead planet. Karsaccos closes his eyes, his feet leaving the temple floor, the energy surrounding him and lifting him. His lightsaber clatters to the ground. Every moment of his life- pain to anger, learning and teaching, killing and passion- led to this, the greatest secret of the Dark, Xendor’s final gift to his adherents; and it belonged now to Karsaccos Ren, Kylospirit, Fell to None, Blighteater.

    The thought is cut short. Karsaccos didn’t hear her creeping towards him; she’s dressed in once fine robes of gold and white, though now they were torn and singed and shadows of their former glory. One side is worse than the other, burnt fabrics torn open and blood dotting the dirtied white robes. The left side of her body is mangled, an intricate pattern of Force Lightning burns turning the skin into a nebula of black and blue and brown and purple. Karsaccos doesn’t feel her own triumph match the triumph in his heart, he doesn’t hear the lightsaber activate. But he did feel the scorching agony of a golden lightsaber blade carving a channel through his chest, directly in the center, easily and cleanly, like he was nothing more than one of the purebloods he’d struck down such a short time ago. For one hateful moment, he curses it all. He curses the Sideways Step. He curses the Krayts and their knights. He curses the Skywalkers and theirs as well. He curses the woman who followed him, his final thought a vicious mental scream of hatred at her, as he wished nothing more than for her and her lineage to fail, fail, fail.

    The holocron’s energy dissipated, its red glow fading. Karsaccos Ren crumples to the ground, his armor slackening around his body. The Knight who had struck the killing blow stood in the doorway, her one good arm still up in the air from the lance-like throw of her pike. She took a deep breath, and struggled into a seating position, the traditional meditation pose of Jed’aii Knights of old. She closes her eyes, and the chamber rumbles.

    “I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me.” Oliia Shan whispers to herself, over and over again. She calls her lightsaber pike to her hand, an afterthought. She folds it neatly, eyes still closed, voice a whisper, and lays it before her. She steeples her fingers. She thinks of Van’tolsta, and Argot Epsilon, and Marilus. She smiles, the pain that’s settled over the left side of her body forgotten. Cracks appear in the walls, spidering to the ancient ceiling. The holocron shakes, as if fearing its fate. The cracks stop spreading, the temple groans mightily, Sith sorcery too old, too forgotten to hold it up anymore. For one moment, the silence is so complete that there is only Oliia’s voice, quiet yet strong.

    The great and ancient Temple of the Bogan Lord crumbles entirely, to be claimed by the dust of Parsenoh.
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