It flows so easily, cut the right arteries and it will spray forth, coating everything in crimson rain, corpses littering the floor, lovers clutching and pleading for them to wake up, even the headless ones. More and more future corpses pour into the room, raising their blades only to be cut down, screams of agony and fear flood the halls as a white ghost slips through the halls. The last room appears before him, corpses littering the halls of the Fort behind him, he extends his hand, the door flying forward into the prepared defenses, an unlucky group of soldiers are slices in half, simply by the door, their barely living bodies frailly attempt to push it off of them, before falling silent, the gurgle of bloodied lungs all that remains. The Ghost strides into the room, deflecting blaster fire as their lord cowers behind his army, standing before a box, holding the Lords greatest prize. The Ghost holds out its hands again, grabbing the door that slew so many already and flinging it across the room, hitting the other soldiers flat, pushing them to the wall, with a sickening crunch and squish…they were paste. 

The lord would not be disrespected by a faceless phantom, he ignites his double saber, leaping into battle, the phantom flips his blades back, sliding toward in a flash! The lord falls to his knees as the blade passes through his gut, gripping the wound as his guts rapidly spill out, blood washing out onto the floor, his body shivering as the cold breath of death runs down his spine. He looks back, seeing the box slashed open, and the pair of Lightsabers slowly taken from it, the ghost starring down at the pair of blades, hooking them onto its belt before turning around. The lord is filled with rage, reaching out, attempting to shout a bloody curse on the phantom come to haunt him, but no noise escapes him at first, the feeling of steel piercing his throat brings his face low, features sliding downwards as the gurgle of blood, filling the throat and mouth of the lord is all the sound in the room. With a flick, the blood is cast off the blade, and the ghost disappears from the fort.

A Helm is slid off, tossed aside, Eirnin sits upon the high mountain cliff, his ship not far off, a moment of peace on Alderaan. He closes his eyes, Sabers once again in his hands as his mind escapes into meditation..


The mind becomes clear, a serene lake around him, a small island he sits at , shadows slowly slide from the water, crawling towards him, whispering with vile voices.

Murderer……street raaat….monsssteerr….siiiiiith…..

He focuses, trying to push them back, the blades in his hands trembleing at his fear, and anger.

You will forgiven….she hated yoooou….they aaare deaad…because of you….


No loooove… faaaammilyyy….nooo hooonooor…..oooonlyy deaaaath…


You will leaaad them…to daaarknesss….nothing…but a killer…..we…are aaaall you haaave….

No…i have my brother……

Friendssss?….if they kneeeew….what you diiiid…..they would kiiill you…..the Jedi…..they knooooow…..they can seee…….

No…These are different..

Jediiii…are as absolute…as the siiiiith….even..if they pretend otherwise…..if they knooow..they will turn on you….there iss…no greeey…

Shut up….shut up….

You can neeever….escape uuussss…we are all around youu….we are you…..we will make you….killl them alll….

No….I wont…

Yess….you always kill….what makes you happy….you killed her….the one..who loved you……

Stop it…..

She begged you….and begged you….and you still cut her….lost in your madness….you took away…your own loooove…

No! You made me kill her! I had no control!

You were weeeaak….as you are noooww….you cannooot…control usss….



The vision fades, he opens his eyes sharply and pushes back from the cliff, Looking at the blades he was gripping in his sweating hands, ignited and black, the crimson outlines marking the blood they shed. He looks down at them, the grin slowly returning before dropping he roars out, before throwing them from the cliff! He falls to his knees, tears stream from his eye, slamming his fist onto the ground, shaking with is rage as the stones around him crumble into dust, under the pressure of his fury. He collects his blades, his mask, and his clothes, making for the small fighter, taking into atmo swiftly. 

As he leaves the world, a pair of metallic feet steps to the foot of the mountain, and shining, skeletal hands, take up the sabers.

Author Scond
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