A bit of maintenance. (Open)

[lion]

On an average day, the Jedi Temple was abuzz with activity; a lively place with seemingly the goings-on of an entire galaxy localised within the chambers and halls of a single structure. Instructors and Youngling Clans zipping about from class to class as they learned to understand the Force and grow within it, excited with each little bit of knowledge and each moment of growth they would gain drawing closer to the days that would determine their fates. Jedi Knights likewise rushed, reporting from or being sent out on dangerous missions for the safety of the Republic, their Padawans following close by as their educators guided them. So much colour, so many varied species all drawn together with one common goal driving them all, one shared trait that held them together as beings sensitive to the call of the Force, it could have put any lively market square to shame for all the foot traffic it boasted.

For Fenn Soran, however, silence was the only companion that shared his company, far from the main halls of the Temple and its hustle-and-bustle, within the brightly lit and windowed walls of one of the Temple's workshops. It was almost a beautiful sight; the sun streaming through the western sky light as it set over the busy Coruscant horizon, bathing the workshop's smoothly edged metal benches in a golden light that seemed to bring a shine to the otherwise dull surfaces.

Picturesque might not have covered it, in the eyes of those sensitive to such things.

It was hardly by necessity that the young Bothan had chosen to secret himself away like this, carefully picking out a time he knew from routine that the workshop would have been unused, but merely by choice; preferring to simply work on what he needed to in his own time, the presence of other Jedi was only going to be a distraction. An instructor, or even one of the Artisans rumoured to be about the Temple grounds, might have been a welcome hand in terms of guidance for the task ahead, but deep down, Fenn knew that his own mind would have shied away from what it needed to face if an older Jedi were there, too.

For Fenn, the work before his hands was more than merely a routine job, it was almost therapeutic. The pile of metal plates and frames, rubber button stops, crystalline lens caps and power cells before him seemed almost mundane, merely the components of the most iconic of Jedi weapons, but for Fenn, there was more to it than simply that. Ever since leaving the kolto tank two days prior, resting off the effects of the attack that had nearly ended his life on Nar Shaddaa, the Bothan had felt a strange sensation akin to an infected wound; constantly itching and gnawing for attention until his mind could take no more.

The sense of mortality; inadequacy, had bitten hard, and perhaps at no worse time. The Jedi Council had deemed his wounds enough, with his Master's persuasion, to have been suitable for the Trial of the Flesh; one of the many Trials that would elevate a Padawan from a mere student to a Knight of the Order. Some might have seen the concession as an achievement, Fenn could only feel panic creeping in as the reality dawned on him those weeks later, when he had been pulled from the tank and informed of the week-and-change that had gone by.

His Trials had begun, and it was as if a Ronto had sat on him for all the pressure it placed on the boy, still practically wet behind the ears from the kolto bath.

Of course, you couldn't go and tell a Master you were scared. There is no Emotion, they'd say; fear leads to the dark side, they'd say. Fenn could hear himself think, his inner voice practically dripping in sarcasm as the thought rolled around his head much in the same way his stomach seemed to roll on itself. Anxiety had gripped him ever since coming out of that tank, and whilst it was enough for the Bothan to want to seek help, the same affliction kept him from bringing it up at all; too aware of the expectations now placed on him to voice concerns about meeting them.

And that was just the tip of the Sarlacc, so to speak, as the mission to Nar Shaddaa had brought more than just a sense of mortality to the boy. In the failed apprehension of their target, Fenn had learned of perhaps his closest friend's demise; a fiery-hearted Trandoshan whose courage was to be admired. Just having seen her battle-scarred saber-staff in the hands of a merchant looking to flog it for spice creds had driven Fenn to fury, but now it was merely a sense of bitter regret both for the loss and his actions; last words of argument came back to him with a vengeance, causing the boy's fur to ripple and fall in dejection.

Shaking his head, however, Fenn did his best to cast the thought from his head for the time being; letting his focus settle to the pile of parts laid out before him. Constructing a lightsaber had been, aside of being selected as a Padawan at all, once of the most exciting moments in Fenn's short life, and the Bothan could think of little better ways to distract his mind than to try once more. Practice with a remote and his own lightsaber had been first on the list, of course, physical exercise to bring out the endorphins and renew a feeling of strength, but the healers had been adamant about allowing time for the knife wounds to heal fully; phantom pains and the potential risk of tearing open the weaker flesh that had formed to fill the wounds practically barring the lightsaber as a means of exercise.

However there was something about the slowness and precision that building a lightsaber demanded; the calmness and peace-of-mind the process required. If you were unsettled, the process would bring that calmness out, purging the impatience and distractions through attrition; angered hands would make a mistake. The fingers, after all, were not fond of the heat from the circuitry irons, nor were they partial to the prongs of a button switch; impatience would overlook what a careful mind would not.

It was just a matter of letting himself calm down, Fenn knew, before he could set to work...Just a matter of patience.

[Silas]

There was no solution to the gun pointed at him. All his life, he had been taught to lay down his weapon, to look death in the face, and defy it with peace. At that moment, it was about peace.

"Please, put down your weapon" The Aquitan pleaded, as he slowly detached the saber from his belt.

The blaster bolt ripped through the air with the sound of prevailing failure. A failure to stop that which seems to be inevitable in these times, battle. Death, and the deconstruction of his core values. Still, his lightsaber was faster than any blaster bolt. His mind was sharper than a common foot soldier, and that was what made it the hardest. This wasn't two equals meeting on a battlefield. It was slaughter.

The lightsaber batted the bolt back, and it hit him in his chest. There was a silence for a second, before he was forced to continue onward. Each time, he attempted to stop the assailant before they died. Each time he failed.

The sun beat down on his back, as sweat began to drop onto the sand under his feet. There were scores of men, they were all waiting for his saber, they just didn't know it yet. Each one waited for their moment of glory, but all they would find was a prison cell, or an early grave. It made the Jedi weep, with each sweep and parry, it cut deeper.

There was a woman, and she pleaded, "Please, help me Master Mordin..."

"Master Mordin?"

"Are you alright, Master Mordin?" The woman's voice brought me back to reality.

This wasn't a battlefield. There we no people dying. Mordin was at a meeting of the Jedi, with his hands folded calmly in his lap. There was an aura of uneasiness among the room, as several people looked towards him for some kind of answer. In all honesty, he didn't even hear the question, though. It had been some time since visions like that had hit him in the middle of the day. Most of the time they just haunted his dreams. Perhaps the discussion of his first combat mission in a long time is the catalyst for those memories. Perhaps he was actually losing his mind. Sometimes, it was hard to tell. All he had was to persevere, though.

"Yeah, I am fine..." He started, but after a moment he conceded, "Actually, can we recess until tomorrow?"

There was a general consensus to break, even if some of the other members seemed to be a little reluctant. Most of them were newly appointed knights. Since his return to the Order, it wasn't the change that upset him. It was how everything was exactly the same. The knights were still as brash as when he left. The council still argued to the point of hostility. War should change things. Some things never change, though. War, war never changes.

Mordin was the first to exit the room, though. He got out in a second after the session was called. He didn't want to discuss why he had brought a quick close to their discussion, or why he had been so unfocused on the day's topics. All that he wanted to do right now was to take a moment and clear his mind, perhaps meditate for a few moments. There wasn't a lot that he could do right now, though, so he just walked towards the meditation chambers.

On his way there, something pulled him to take a brief moment to look into the workshop. Normally, at this time of the day there wouldn't be anyone in these chambers, but it seemed as if one Padawan was working on his own saber. There were Jedi much better at empathy than Mordin, but even he could sense the frustration of this young man. Something seemed to be off about his mood. Even though he wasn't the boys' master, it might be helpful for him to intervene and see if he could help in some way. If nothing else, Mordin had created many lightsabers for himself, of varying style and type, so he could help this man create his saber.

The circuitry and wiring of the lightsaber had a tendency to be very unstable at best when it was being assembled, so he waited until the boy wouldn't kill himself to chime in, "Is everything going well, Padawan?"

[lion]

So focused as he was on the lightsaber laid bare before him, or perhaps moreso distracted by the sense of personal shame and frustration, Fenn was unaware of the presence approaching him until it spoke; bringing the boy to a sudden start, dropping the soldering tool in his hands with a loud clatter of metal-upon-metal as it bounced from the tabletop. Fur rippling and shivering in visible surprise, the Bothan turned, an apology already on his lips and halfway out of his mouth only to stop dead; an invisible hand to the throat choking off the word 'sorry' at the first syllable.

Surprise didn't begin to cover the expression, fur wavering once again, on the boy's face as his eyes met not with someone's eyeline, but their sternum. Almost comically so, Fenn's gaze held for a half second, before the boy slowly tilted his head back; awe evident on the five-foot-two Bothan's face as it panned the foot-and-a-half difference between he and the man before him. By the Force, whoever it was before him was big; taller than most alien species Fenn had come across, and temporarily oblivious at the fact he had been asked a question, the boy couldn't help but gawk.

Until his eyes registered the expectant look on that grey-skinned face, that was, an embarrassment took the place of shock in the boy's heart and mind. Jedi patience and wear-with-all went out the window; Fenn was caught completely on the back foot and, like a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar, could only feebly defend himself.

"So-sorry, I didn't see you there, Master. I-" Fenn started, rearing back the half-step it took before the small of his back bumped into the top of the workbench; hands raising slightly in a gesture of non-guilt as his voice began to stammer and stumble over itself, becoming indistinct with every word. "I can move if you need the workshop; I thought no one would be in it and..."

[Silas]

The boy was more focused in his work than Mordin originally through, and it caused him to drop his soldering iron. As the boy tripped over his own feet in an attempt to fix his mistake, Mordin bent over to pick the iron up. The boy tried his best to apologize for something that wasn't really his fault.

"No need to apologize, I was just going to check if you needed any help," Mordin muttered, as he placed the tool back on the bench.

As he did so, he took a moment to look at the work the boy had done so far. The point where Mordin had interrupted him was very apparent, and sighed a bit. Mordin picked out some tools that he could use to fix it for him.

As he did so, he replied with a chuckle, "It appears as though I didn't help much, though. Mind if I fix this for you real quick, kid?"

The Jedi master didn't really wait for the boy to respond as he began to pick at the little mistake, which wasn't huge, but enough that it might cause some problems later on. Small errors in the creation of lightsabers could prove to be deadly, years and years after it was done. That was why each piece had to be crafted with the care and precision that the Jedi instilled in its pupils.

While he worked, Mordin commented, "Normally, I would say that you should be more aware of your surroundings. A Jedi shouldn't be taken by surprise, even in the temple and all of that." As he muttered, he worked around the piece, "However, today I may not be the best to comment on attention. So, I'll just introduce myself. I am Master Mordin."

As he finished, he took a step back and the little bit that was messed up was back to where it would have been when Mordin interrupted him. Normally, he would detest to anyone but the single user working on a saber, but Mordin honestly felt bad for the mistake he made, and this was just a small adjustment.

With a smile, he extended his hand to the young Bothan, as he had to hunch his back a bit to make it down to the young man's level. Hopefully now he would not be so nervous about being around the master.

[lion]

It took some time for the initial waves of embarrassment and surprise to wash aside as Mordin spoke, the large robed figure bending down to retrieve the dropped iron so clumsily released from the Bothan's fingers, remorseful for their lack of concentration enough to hold the tool. There was something about the larger Jedi's tone of voice, practically mumbled rather than spoken, that had Fenn a little uncertain about how to proceed, even second-guessing himself about trying to continue talking, leaving the by silent. Something was amiss with the bigger Jedi that bubbled away just beneath the grey surface, but doubtful as he was and clouded by his own problems, the boy's reach with the Force to discern the matter was feeble at best.

As Mordin approached with the iron, Fenn wasted little time in stepping to the side of the bench, yielding the surface to the higher ranked and larger-statured Jedi without so much as a single word about what the grey-skinned man had in mind or not. It wasn't as if Fenn felt he didn't have the right to speak, of course, it was still that sense of being choked that had the Bothan stifled; the words were formed perfectly fine in his mind but the boy's canid-esque mouth refused to co-operate, stumbling through syllables like a drunk through footsteps.

Concern brought the boy's thin fur into further ruffling; a mere half-second of shuddered motion as his brow furrowed, wondering if perhaps the droid-coolant poison he had been subjected to on Nar Shaddaa had done more damage than even the Jedi Healers had let on. It wasn't likely, of course, but the mind had its ways of jumping to even the most illogical of conclusions, and rushed as Fenn's was, almost anything seemed to make sense now.

"I uh...I was trying to make a training lightsaber. It's n-not my first build." Fenn started, after a few seconds of silence as Mordin's hands worked through the mish-mash of wires that, to the Bothan, now seemed like a complex tangle of mess rather than the tidy arrangements he had envisioned. The lightsaber was in no great shape; the hilt had been properly formed and shaped, the kathracite crystal finely honed and polished, but everything aside of these had been poorly arranged, symptomatic of rushed work.

It was like a mirror into the Bothan's mindset, laid out into the weapon's inner workings; a clear understanding of the tasks laid before it and even some fledgling talent lying beneath the surface, but far too distracted and disjointed to focus on any one with the necessary attention, leaving the weapon sloppily wired and poorly aligned. Whilst not an extreme threat, far from potentially exploding in his hands, the training weapon in its current state would have been beyond difficult to use; off balance and poorly powered, it would have served better to throw the hilt rather than use the blade at all.

And now under the hands of a Jedi Master, Fenn could only feel as if all eyes were on him. Nobody else was there save Mordin and he, and yet, it felt as if a hundred eyes all bored into him, stared at him. The mistakes seemed so obvious now, self doubt gnawed at the Bothan's confidence like a nexu to its prey, bringing Fenn to wince slightly for a few moments in expectation for a derisive comment that never came.

"I didn't mean to be distracted ,Master, it's..."Fenn offered quietly, only to pause, as Mordin turned to regard him, lecturing the boy on the need for attention at all times. It was tempting to explain just what had gone wrong, the lingering effects of his own personal struggle with death, the ease with which aggression had come after guilt and grief, but once more, the words clogged in the boy's throat, silencing him. 

"My name is Fenn Soran; I'm honoured to meet you, and for your help, Master." The Bothan instead offered, injecting just a little false confidence into his words, raising his speech just above the timid whisper that it had been before, trying to stand up to his fullest to at least appear so, as Mordin bent down to offer his hand; a gesture accepted by the fur-and-clawed hand of the Bothan in kind.

"Did you need the workshop? I'm...Probably not supposed to be in here, I admit."