Lights faded away with a low electric whine as the smuggler vacated the pilot seat “Lights’re off for three hours, then we got the next patrol comin’ through. Don’t care what work ya gotta finish, my ship ain’t worth the fight.” The smuggler grumbled as the last of the lights blinked off. “Y’know friend, for what this route costs, I figured you’d want t’ do more than jus’ park here. Ya sure you don’t want t’ go further off the charts?” The prying question from the overly chatty alien was silenced with the swift offering of a credstick and a pointed glance to the door. “Righ’ you are Sir. Don’t mind me none, I got some pazaak to practice.Three hours an’ I’ll start this ship back up. Enjoy your stargazing” the bothan muttered as they absconded from the cockpit.
Ozuth claimed his seat overlooking the unending sea of stars at the edge of the charts. A bothersome location to reach, but for once he allowed himself the indulgence of his sentimental side; he hadn’t even felt the need to justify it as necessary. This was earned just as he earned the kyber crystal resting in the palm of his hand. Radiant blue defiant in the face of the ritual.
No, that wasn’t the word. Procedure. The shroud of mysticism around this power had been lifted. There were principals to follow, a hidden logic. The Force was no longer this mysterious black mark. If this were a ritual, then the Patriarch’s name for Ozuth would carry weight.
Conjurer.
A title burdened with disgrace, a lashing of venom and vitriol.The one thing that had ever set Ozuth apart had driven him from his home. Hopeless. Lost. But what did it make him feel now? He could feel the minor note of shame underlying the word, but it was no longer the emotion that fueled his passion. It was a title that he had reforged into a weapon.
Fingers tightened around the blue crystal as he continued to search for the true feeling.
Exile.
One emotion rang out in harmony with the pain seared into him. Notes of betrayal from the one family member he trusted most. A rhythmic resentment that grew with every price paid and every scrap of knowledge earned. But it was not the core of his passion. One day he would make it irrelevant.
The crystal wept crimson.
Inadequate.
The connecting thread between it all. The label he desired to erase the most. Assigned long ago by those he viewed as greater, he now knew it as a lie. A lie told by inferior beings to protect their fragile existence. One that he would shatter as a virtuoso of the Force. A crescendo of contempt surged forward
The crystal bled.