is the last short story I wrote set during the events of the Clone Wars campaign. The idea here was to give some insight on Tarn Tamarand's mindset since his "rescue" from The Waiting Place (the ancient temple used to worship the Anomaly). During this period, Tarn was locked in a deep trance, and seemed to all intents and purposes as if he were comatose. His mind still processed sensory information, however, but in a confused and opaque way--thus, the experimental writing style used for the first part of the story. The second part tells of Tarn's epic confrontation with Jocasta in a bid to regain the Force-imbued lightsaber that acted as a "key" to unlock the prison of the Forgotten Sith. The last part is a voice-recording from Tarn's captivity at the hands of the Accelerated, who you'll read more about in the next story-arc.
I wrote this story because I wanted to make Tarn interesting.
Most of what the gaming group remembered about Tarn from his days as an actual PC were the humorous events that happened (most famously, his inability to levitate a pebble to prove to someone he really was a Jedi). They never seemed to tell stories of all the really damned exciting things the character did, from destroying a whole squadron of battle droids single-handedly in the very first session to dueling with Siege Commander Korg in the open doorway of a moving shuttle to running the gauntlet of mutated creatures on a skyhook. From his days as an NPC, they quite wrongly thought of him as a victim who always needed to be rescued (in fact, he wanted to stay in the Waiting Place and enter the Anomaly in order to stop the Forgotten). But as a major player in the campaign and a driving force that tied the only two original characters still in the game (Arresta and Marpa/Daal) together, he needed to be someone who evoked interest and even some respect. And perhaps most importantly, after the moral morass of the Mongui storyline, I wanted the PCs to have at least a glimpse of what a truly heroic character looked like. Of course, whether I succeeded or not is up for debate, but I always have a soft spot for the underdog and in this campaign, Tarn was definitely that.
Drowning in Sight of a Distant Shore
Part 1: Shadow & Light
Tarn Tamarand had become shadow, with glimpses of light.
Shadow. A blade that was not a blade, a voice in the darkness, the key to a prison that should not have been opened. Enticing with power unknown, different and beyond the Force, embodied as Veris Saak, a Jedi once and still? All things have balance, and to take one out one prophesied must stay. Questions repelled, goals set, love deferred. Tempered into steel, cunning and fierce. Understanding, finally, and resolve to say goodbye with smoldering heartbreak. Questing to the Waiting Place, parlay and submission and sacrifice, degradation and pain, time ticking as heartbeats. The cusp of redemption, then utter defeat. Taken by the Naïve, given to the Uncanny. Torn away, and pieces remain behind.
Light. A ship—an airlock. Light brighter than three suns. Arresta? Don’t go—I can put the pieces back. Stay. His love is jealous, diminishing and demeaning. Mine will set you free, painful, pure, and real. A hand reaches. This hand is my hand! If you should stay, I can become whole again. If I could see you, this darkness would turn to light.
Shadow. The Force revealed as a force, but one of many. Nine Forgotten pale to the Altered. Times grows short. Pieces on a Dejarik board, all of us. Uncanny to Altered, Master to Uncanny, Assassin to Princess. Reflections on cracked crystal: resolve made, he will come for me now—but not how one would expect. Too soon, still pieces scattered like leaves. Broken but must walk, finish once and for all. Find her, take it, be done with it! But failure foretold, rock geyser and lightning strike. Uncanny at her strongest, but a chance exists. Princess becomes Queen, checkmates Empress.
Light. A ship—a medical bay. Safety and healing. A Jedi like I once was, but bone weary visits every eve, gathers pieces and reassembles—slow-going but steadfast. Here I could one day be myself, but time is run out. There is something I must do. What is it? Escape, follow the currents of the Force flowing to where the key lies. Take up the key, lock the gate before shadows lengthen. My sin, my duty: redemption. Strike the healer—but softly, to sleep, not to kill. One must hunt monsters without becoming one. Draw the lightsaber into hand—a paltry thing compared to Saak, but it will suffice. Corridor after corridor, a ship is a maze but the Force is my guide. Guards slump to the ground. They will betray all of you—slit their throats! a voice says, one thought gone but remaining still, an echo. Drown out the voice and climb inside. Fly away. Spare no speed. The End of Days is coming, and I must not tarry.
Shadow. Sleep, and reach out. Stars are nothing to the Force, and I am more than I was. Dream, interrupted. Part of me is already there. Something of our creation, that will live on after I fall. Her hands are tiny, grasping mine. She knows me though we have never met. Focus on the mission: the Princess. Dreams flow into dreams and nightmares result. I need you. Balcony knives. Why has she hardened her heart against me? There is no hope, but there is no fear. There is the Force, and I shall not falter.
Part II: Geyser and Lightning
Tarn Tamarand was neither awake nor asleep. Minutes turned into hours, and the hours into days. He sat with his hands on his knees, waiting for the moment to arrive. Behind him was a starfighter, its once shiny chrome armor pitted and scored by the merciless atmosphere. In front of him lay a vast plain of jagged rock, blackened as if burnt. Above him lay the twin-star, and elsewhere in the sky was something else—something that sideslipped the Force, though he paid it no mind. It was not why he had come.
In time a tiny speck appeared on the horizon, moving quickly towards him. It began to take shape as it drew near, and Tarn knew it carried his undoing: it had been foretold. But he stood nonetheless, surprised at the amount of dust and rock debris that had accumulated in his lap. Had he always been in this moment? Wasn’t there someone he wanted to see before the end? But destiny had betrayed desire—better to be done with it.
The speck was a ship, and it landed nearby. From its belly a mouth opened, and the Corsair appeared. There were others—one seemed familiar—but he paid them no mind. Even at a distance, he knew she had it with her—it had been violated in some way, but remained who it was. The wind began to pick up, thick clouds appeared in the sky. Daytime turned to night in seconds and a cold rain began to fall. Was this his doing or hers? Or its? She said something to him then, trying to shout over the wind. Something conciliatory, but her slight mockery could not be hidden. The Stranger spoke as well, but all their words fell limply to the ground. A lightsaber—the one he had stolen from the healer—appeared in his hand, ignited.
There was a moment of hesitation. A moment of regret for a love betrayed, for a daughter left behind, and for a life not fully lived. And then the moment had passed, and in its place knowledge that death would finally bring peace through a dreamless sleep. The ground began to tremor and split, geysers of rock erupted. The others fell to the ground, defenceless against such fury, but the Corsair kept her feet and drew her blade.
Tarn leapt towards her, and she him, and behind them lightning framed the sky.
Part III: After the Fall
BEGIN RECORDING
As I lay dying, my life didn’t flash before my eyes but my failure certainly did. Everything had happened exactly as in my vision. I fought the fight of my life—I was clever and fast, brutal and courageous, but in the end it amounted to less than enough. My proficiency in the Force was a spark compared to her bonfire. Master Creen must have known that, must have known there was little he or anyone could teach me of those mysteries. He could not make me a Jedi Master, so he made me a thug, a street fighter. She was surprised, I know. Surprised when I dropped my lightsaber in mid-leap, surprised when blood blossomed from her broken nose, teeth embedded in my knee. Her body cushioned mine when we fell, and I heard a rib crack. A punch to the throat left her gasping, an elbow to the pressure point in her bicep and her hand spasmed, the lightsaber that was more than a lightsaber rolled to the ground. It appeared in my hand without conscious thought, the blade coalescing into corrosive salvation, and I could have ended everything there. But although Creen made me a warrior, he could not make me a murderer. I hesitated for just a moment, thinking I could make it to my ship before she recovered. And from hesitation came defeat, as the earth and sky threw themselves at me: lightning barely turned away with the blade, gusts of wind nearly knocking me from my feet, the ground shaking like waves of a turbulent ocean. I had lost the advantage and as she stood before me, there was a fury and a respect in her eyes that made me terrified and proud.
She reached out, and the lightsaber tore itself from my gasp. Although I had removed it from its prison those years ago, it did not want to go back. The ground tore in two beneath me and then closed again—my legs were crushed. The Force flickered in my consciousness, shock and pain making it impossible for me to focus. From the corner of my eye I could see Marpa in his new face restrained by her crew. Jocasta walked towards me then, and I could tell she would at least make it quick.
And then a hole in the sky opened, and figures stepped out. They descended without moving, faces impassive except for the hint of a cruel smile. I fell into darkness then, and when I woke they had taken me somewhere else.
And then their games began.
They healed me, body and mind, to maximize their amusement.
They’ve given me my comlink and told me to record a distress call. I know it’s another of their games—they’ll erase it in front of me, or play it back interminably, or make me believe that rescue has come a thousand times. They don’t talk, but I hear their voices in my head, scrabbling around. They think of us as pets, and to them we’re barely sentient.
My memories of what happened to me after the Waiting Place are dim—there are some things even they can’t fix. I think I spoke to you, Princess. And I know, that during the worst of it here, you spoke to me too. I know it was real and I know you still care about me, despite everything. I shouldn’t hope for you to come here, but I do. I can endure anything if it means seeing you again.
END RECORDING
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