I Resist the Muses

[open]

I do not, by nature, remember my dreams.

[closed]

I choose not to do so.

If I wake with the stink of smoke in my nostrils, I choose to believe that Anakin has burnt breakfast again. It is not the smell of a lightsaber sliding through my Master's flesh. It is not the smell of the funeral pyre. It is simply a clue that it would be better to choose grains over eggs on that particular morning.

If I wake with the bitterness of copper heavy on my tongue, I choose to believe that I have accidentally bitten my cheek in the night, even if I cannot find the place inside my mouth where teeth scored flesh. It is not the lingering after-taste of the blood I coughed up in Ventress' presence. It is not the scarlet I shed on Jabiim. It is simply a matter of having pressed my face into the pillow at the wrong angle.

If I wake too hot, my hands still clenched as if locked on broad, sweat-slick shoulders, I choose to believe that what the body cries out for the heart does not necessarily need. It is not a proof of any feeling. It is not one more time I've turned my back on the Code. It is simply an indication that a cold shower is in order and nothing more.

And if I wake gasping, unable to breathe because the sight of that masked, durasteel monster fills the entirety of my mind's eye, I choose to believe the image is only a dream and not a vision. It is not a prophecy. It is not a sign of something that is coming, something that I cannot avoid, something that will take from me all that I know. It is simply...

It is simply the reason I choose not to remember my dreams.

310 words, RP away if you can find a hook.

The Jedi Order is a religious one, and like all other religious orders we have our superstitions, our Code to live by. I would simply prefer to believe that our Code is rooted in logic. I have read something of Earth customs--avoiding walking under ladders, throwing salt over one's shoulder after you have accidentally spilled it--and they seem rather like nonsense to me. However, were I to be stationed on Earth for any length of time I would try to mimic the earthlings' behaviors as best I could, if only to placate the natives. I have always found diplomacy so much easier when one tries to fit in. Indeed, my most difficult missions have always been those where the superstitions of a culture conflict with the Code I have dedicated my life to following.

136 words, and if you can get role-play out of this I applaud you.

[open]

I recently, ah, convinced the bartender at the hotel to let me dabble a bit. Let me share with you one of my latest concoctions. Remember, it is meant for Knights and Masters only! No Padawans, and please fly responsibly.

The Tatooine Sunrise

- 2 oz vodka
- 2 oz 7-Up or Sprite
- 3 1/2 oz orange juice
- pomegranate juice or grenadine to taste

This should produce roughly an eight ounce drink. Also, three of these has me on the floor, professing my love to the barstool.


--90 words, yay!--

[closed]

A stiff drink? No, there's been too much of that lately. Far too much.

[open]

For once, I think I'd like leave that is actually leave. Whenever I get a week off, I spend five of seven days chasing ne'er-do-wells. This hotel is only a small variation from the norm. There's some mystery here, I have no doubt of that. Whether it is a nefarious mystery or not is beginning to plague me. And Anakin apparently hearing my dead Master's voice... How does that saying go? No rest for the wicked? If so, haven't I earned a lay about?

[closed]

Perhaps Anakin himself is the crux of the matter. Whatever this is, it can't be healthy. For us to spend so much time together, to spend every waking minute in each other's company--it is as if we are connected at the frontal lobe. In some ways, we are. When his Padawan braid was severed, our training bond was not, at my discretion no less. I couldn't stand the thought of... I don't know what I couldn't stand. I don't want to think of it.

I don't want to think of the few times he does slip away from me. I am not blind, except with jealousy. If he would only talk to me. I can conjecture, I can suspect, but until he confirms what I think it all means nothing. Yet if he needs her, well...

The Old Man asked me to look after him. When have I ever denied Anakin anything he needed?


--256 words.--

[open]

My life would be easier if the war ended. It's not that I'd never be in danger again. Such is a Jedi's way of life. But to be generals, to command hundreds--thousands--of men to their deaths each day... We are meant to fill Darkness with Light, but how can any of this be the way of the Force?

No matter how I scrub, I still feel Jabiim's mud on my hands.

The mud, and all the blood.


--79 words.--

[public]

Two Jedi walk into a bar...

No, truly. I cannot help a modest chuckle when Anakin and I cross the threshold into some smoky tavern on lowest level Coruscant, one that no law-abiding citizen would frequent, and every denizen within blows away their glitterstim dust or reaches for their blasters. Sometimes both. That reaction is a bit of a thrill, I admit, though it says terrible things about the Order. Are we Jedi nothing now but the long arms of the Republic?

Still, the looks on their faces as we demand the most rotgut drinks available only feeds my amusement. Sometimes we "drink" on the Order's behalf, and the alcohol disappears by sleight of hand. More often it burns all the way down. If I can stand by the third glass, their amazement is sure to set me grinning. If, on the other hand, I must lean heavily on Anakin's arm by the time we leave...

There's nothing like it: my head lolling back as he flies us up and up and home, the glitter of Coruscant so far above, the stars above the planet visible only from the gutter. In those moments, real laughter finally comes, inevitable. The war does not exist. The Order does not exist. The past does not exist, nor the future. There is only one breath in my lungs at a time, one heartbeat per instant, and the best and most reckless pilot in all the quadrants at my side, bitching about my irresponsibility for a change.

And I can't help but laugh. I can't.

I don't want to.

...

I just realized how often I've mentioned drinking here. That's not meant to imply... hmph. It doesn't mean anything.


---284 words, comments welcome, let's play!---

[private]

I drink, actually. Not that I ever get drunk. Of course.

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10 words, not open for discussion.

Sweat-drenched, limbs trembling, Obi-Wan held the kata a moment longer. He closed his eyes, trying to shift his focus inward again, but the moment was gone. His datapad continued to chirp shrilly, sign that he had a new message. He knew exactly what sort, too, even before he glanced at the damn thing. He sighed and dropped the pose, a towel suddenly about his shoulders as if by magic. It was pure laziness to use the Force for such things, but at the moment he didn't care. He dried his hair one-handedly, almost angrily, and jabbed the receive button with the other.

What was your greatest loss?

Obi-Wan sucked in air between his teeth. The hotel room dropped away around him, its comforting lines replaced in his mind with the cold, sleek metal of the hall that housed the generators of Theeds. Ever so faint, the scent of burning filled his nostrils--a curious blend of Alderaani cotton and skin, the slightest trace of fresh blood. Across the expanse that separated them, his Master's eyes met his, widened, and glazed with pain. Qui-Gon slumped to the floor, motionless, and the Sith that had slain him turned back to Obi-Wan, saber still ablaze, his tattooed face split with a grin.

Willpower alone kept Obi-Wan's jaws locked shut, holding back a scream. Slowly the hotel room came into focus again, everything where it should be. Eventually he swallowed, wet his lips, began to breathe again. Eventually he picked up his datapad.

Anakin--

You've been poking at me for weeks, swearing you can hear his voice, but this... This is too much. I know you think I should talk about what happened, but this is going too far. I'm not sure what you trying to prove at this point, but these letters have got to stop.

~ Obi-Wan

Without hesitation, he pushed send.

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310 words, open to critique and RP. Love this community!

[internal thoughts private, actions visible to all]

My datapad weighs heavily in my robe's pocket as I walk the hotel floors, looking for a quiet place to sit. Others pass, glance up as I go by. From time to time, their eyes meet mine and light with curiosity. Most times, however, their gazes remain dull, focused elsewhere. Many have implements in their hands not much different from my pad. In their own chairs, some write in leather-bound journals or scribble on loose sheathes. I have to wonder: do we all toil on the same mysterious question, or is this one tailor-made for me alone?

( What makes you angry? )

[open]

Though I chided my former Padawan for his arrogance in regards to this question, I must echo his sentiments. I am a Jedi. I follow the Jedi code. Fear is nothing but an emotion, and there is no emotion; there is peace.

I fear nothing.


[private]

That doesn't mean I don't worry. Worry is allowed, isn't it? Worry is... worry is like a trip to the healers without ever leaving one's room. Note the symptoms, chase down the cause, cure it. Worry is productive. Worry is essential to health.

Take, for example, Anakin's insistence that he heard Qui-Gon's voice. How can I ignore such a thing? It might indicate that Anakin is yearning for a parental figure. It might indicate that Anakin has spent far too long at the front. It might indicate that Anakin has finally broken the code on some old data discs of mine and is about to quote terrifyingly bad, hormone-ridden love poetry to me. "On a summer day, I hear your voice..."

Force.

Force Ghost, actually.

Bah! What a bunch of hogwash! Such a thing is nothing but legend. And these questions that keep being shoved under our suite door? Where in the world are they coming from?

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204 words, comments and role-play welcome.

Perfectly oiled, the suite door clicked shut softly behind Obi-Wan, and all the hotel's sounds abruptly ceased, almost as if it never existed. A lingering suspicion lingered on the edge of Obi-Wan's consciousness that it never had. All those people, mentioning galaxies he was sure even Qui-Gon had never heard of--truly this was the strangest mission he had ever been on, enough that he often wanted to doubt the reality of the entire thing. Still, proof remained. True, his memories of the hotel lounge were a little blurry, mostly visions of blue drinks and pink umbrellas, but he couldn't forget that damn song if he tried.

Obi-Wan threw off his robe and sat down hard on the sofa. Who the hell would name a band Nine Inch Nails anyway? Thank the gods that Anakin had pulled him out of there before he'd made an even greater fool of himself. Force! Getting all teary-eyed because a song had reminded him of his former master...

Obi-Wan rubbed at his beard, frowning. Qui-Gon wasn't the only person the song had brought to mind.

you make this all go away.
you make this all go away...

And he did.

Leaning back, Obi-Wan closed his eyes and breathed Anakin's name like a prayer. With Anakin at his side, this war almost seemed a little easier.

Almost.

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[OOC: I wanted to try something a little different this week, writing these 222 words in the third person rather than the first. Hope it is to everyone's liking! Comments are always appreciated.]

The Jedi are not celibate. The Jedi are cynical.

Padawans crying in the creche for parents they do not even remember; Knights weeping over the bodies of fallen Masters; Masters drinking in the dark because of Knights they cannot have. I have seen all of these things, and they are the reasons my Order forbids attachment.

I have not always followed the ways of my Order.


66 words, comments welcome.

( In this I have failed Anakin, I have no doubt. )

Who am I? That depends on who you ask, I suppose.

Ask the Council, and I am a wise Jedi, preferring to listen before I speak and plan before I act. Ask Anakin, my former Padawan, and he would tell you that perhaps I need to hold my tongue with that same Council a little less often and cut loose a little more. Still, on a good day, he might admit I can have a fun, sometimes.

Anakin has much of my Master in him. My Master, Qui-Gon Jinn... Circumstances of the time set aside, he once said that I was ready for my Trials. He died before he could cut my braid. I might have asked one of the other Masters to do it for me, but I chose to sever the plait myself. It was, after all, formality by that point. Young Anakin was about to become my student and I his Master.

I have never felt like a Master a day in my life. Not while on the Council, and not while training Anakin. I shall always be a Padawan. I think, sometimes, about why I cling to that notion, about why I still carry my braid in my belt pouch, but I do not worry about it. I am Jedi. If I listen long enough, the answer will come to me, even if I do not like it.