#sith history

[mayhaps-a-blog]

@jedihlaalu and I wrote a fic! It’s got Jedi!Luthen, Padawan!Kleya, my Sith OC, Crotalus, and lots of snark! Fun times for all :)

Enjoy!

Summary: Disgraced Jedi Luthen Rael Aveross doesn’t have the best track record with padawans, but then again there’s never been a padawan who’s meant more to the galaxy than Kleya. For all he knew, they were the last of a dead kind. He’s got to make sure she’s prepared to survive everything the galaxy has to throw at her, and if that means giving her a real live Sith holocron to train with … well. So be it.

---

Kleya furrowed her brows, prying her attention away from the ancient tablet she’d been cleaning to open the package that Luthen had unceremoniously tossed at her. It felt … weird. Almost angry. “Luthen…”

He smirked over his container of Nabooan noodles. “Just open the damn thing and thank me later.”

[legendscon]

Panel Announcement: In Conversation with Abel Peña

From the Sith to the Mandalorians, Abel Peña’s extensive publications have covered it all! Join us for a discussion of his works for Star Wars Insider, Hyperspace, RPGs and more!

Full Schedule: https://legends-con.com/guests-programming/

Buy tickets now, and join us for a celebration of all things Expanded Universe in Burbank, CA on September 9th & 10th: https://www.eventbrite.com/e/legends-consortium-2023-tickets-541786186067

[dathomirdumpsterfire]

(surely this has already been done, but i could not find it, so i had to make sure it existed. -dathomirdumpsterfire)

[riachuelowii]

I am playing through the Sith Inquisitor story class and let me tell you, I'd die for Talos Drellik, no one is allowed to harm this guy. Do NOT touch this archaeology nerd of a man

[groundrunner100]

Happy Black History Month, Star Wars homies!

[other-peoples-coats]

hey you know how basically the whole GFFA is a number of space wizards of varying moralities battlegrounds? and how like, irl, in ex-battlegrounds we find both like, live munitions, but also ones which are still around bc they were DOA?

and how sometimes (weirdly often) the dead/presumed dead bombs(/mines/etc) become kinda... decorative art or at least weird bits of the landscape?

point I'm getting at here is how many people in the GFFA have like, A Weird Stone or whatever that is actually an untriggered or mildly broken Sith Nightmare Machine (etc) sitting in their fucking yard, or the local park is actually 2/3rds of a ritual circle of 'kill everyone on the planet with spikes'.

[lotuslate]

Anakin Skywalker screencap redraw commission!!

Used this beautiful gifset as a reference!

[vandervoiz]

lowkey wondering how much anyone in the star wars universe knows about the sith. a thousand years of secrecy to the point that their enemy, the jedi, were sure of their demise. a millennia of nothing at all to the outside world. and then, prominent figures such as dooku, palpatine(in secrecy but still, his allegiance was eventually revealed to the jedi), vader, and, to an extent, maul. and yet, nothing other than that. nothing of the texts or how a thousand years have changed them. complete silence. only what they had been once, what they preached and what they had done once. only actions, only of those that were confirmed.

even the jedi, as prominent as they were, were a mystery to most or at best, mere wizards with lightsabers. the sith? nothing at all. at best, jedi with red sabers, jedi who were evil, or jedi who were different in a way nobody knew. how much did the jedi know of the sith? a thousand years can change a lot, they would would have been against a complete unknown. and yes, maybe it doesn't matter who the sith were outside of the damage they wrought to the galaxy. but a thousand years is a long time. how much were the sith like the ones that came before them? how much did the line of bane change the sith?

just as the open and closed from the comics had forgotten what it had been that made them fight, the battle continued by different people altogether, the jedi were fighting against something they didn't know anymore, something that could have been different. and yet it wasn't. the sith had stayed the same. or maybe they hadn't. does it matter?

[stairset]

The hardest part about being a Star Wars fan is that not only can you not get along with people that have different opinions than you but you also can’t get along with people who DO have the same opinion as you because their REASON for having that opinion is different from yours and their reasons are stupid as fuck whereas your reasons are objectively correct

[revan-escence]

✨She's a Dark Lord of the Sith, he's just happy to be there✨

[corellianhounds]

Amidala the Resilient

Media: Revenge of the Sith

Rating: T

Word Count: 3,942

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, pregnancy, Force-choking, blood and injuries, traumatic labor and delivery, death in childbirth, no happy ending.

Art Credit: Iain McCaig, The Art of Star Wars, Episode III: Revenge of the Sith

Summary: In a universe where Anakin gradually descended into the Dark side of his own volition from the beginning— where his ambition and love were genuine and admirable, but the temptation of power too much— his turn is something much more destructive and purposeful. Amidala’s plan for retaliation is just as much so.

Padmé Amidala can feel tension twinging in her back and thighs. The pit in her stomach has coalesced into a tight knot as she steels herself for what she must do; she’s bringing a mattock and salt to the ground where pruning shears should have been used long ago.

Anakin had been too far gone for a long time, and the fault lay in her and everyone in his life willingly turning a blind eye too often to his myriad of faults. In the past two hours she has seen actions the result of which came from an upbringing where his temper, jealousy, and ambition were allowed to slide because those who thought him destined for some great cosmic good were willing to overlook occasional— and often objectively justified— acts of wrath and ruthlessness. He had always been so good at justifying his reasons and putting his actions in a more favorable light, showing enough willingness for correction over the years people thought he was receptive to guidance and change.

What she’d come to realize with dawning horror was that the seeds of destruction had been sown long ago, and though the vines had borne occasional good fruit, they had always grown with selfish intent, inevitably choking out everything around them in an effort to keep his own desires hidden behind the barrier of thorns.

In the next hour, she will come face to face with the monster of a man he’s become.

The Jedi master doesn’t know. Kenobi knows she has some plan but wrongfully assumes it is to appeal to whatever mistaken shred of humanity might remain in Anakin. Obi-Wan— even now, even after what they saw— cares for him as a brother and would sooner cut off his own hand than see Anakin completely lost to the Dark. Padmé however has finally seen clarity of purpose.

For Anakin to be stopped, he must be killed.

The ship arrives on Mustafar. Padmé wrenches herself away from the viewport as Obi-Wan lands and she gingerly lowers herself to the cargo hold, donning a cloak. Obi-Wan hurriedly finishes the landing cycle, calling her name as she gathers her strength, but she’s hardly listening to him at this point and she knows she must conceal herself from him so he has no chance of stopping her.

A hand on her shoulder makes her flinch, and the Jedi lets go almost in surprise. “Padmé, you don’t have to do this. I will talk to him.”

“No,” she says, keeping her left hand secured across her waist beneath the voluminous sleeve as she cleared a path to the lowering gangway. “He’s made it very clear he’s past the point of reasoning with the Jedi. I will speak with him, and if I cannot convince him to come with us calmly, or I cannot ascertain his next move, I expect you to do what’s necessary to end this treasonous rebellion. That is an order.”

It was all false diplomacy, of course, for his sake. Padmé had no intention of believing Anakin was anywhere close to the realm of negotiation. They were far past that.

But she needed assurance that she could get close enough to Anakin to act decisively. She couldn’t have Kenobi interfering, not at this juncture.

Oppressive heat surrounded her as she swept down the ramp to the barren ground. Magma roiled and churned, flames flickering at the edge of the peninsula as Padmé approached the figure so cloaked in darkness an aura of blackened energy almost seemed to emanate from his form. The grip of the hidden dagger dug into her hand, grounding her as she approached.

Padmé’s eyes burned with a ferocity to match her husband’s. It was time for this to end.

When Obi-Wan had seen her determination in the hold of the ship he had never for a moment anticipated what it would lead to.

Padmé steadily approached Anakin, cloak and hood protecting her from the blaze. He could see her speaking forcefully with him, her face hidden from view but Anakin’s darkening by the moment in response. His right hand, devoid of glove, clenched the hilt of an already ignited saber, the bloodshine blade standing in stark contrast to his own cloak. Its presence alone was alarming, but Obi-Wan had been subject to so many tragedies that night already, he merely assumed Anakin had readied it in the expectation of facing his master.

What Obi-Wan hadn’t known was what Padmé concealed until she tried to close the distance between them, her own blade in hand. What followed happened in the span of a heartbeat.

Anakin’s saber blocked it on instinct, easily halting the approach of Padmé’s dagger, his eyes widening in surprise. In the following moment his left hand raised and with it, so did Padmé.

Obi-Wan’s astonishment lasted only a fraction of a second as he yelled “NO!” Padmé’s feet left the ground as an invisible force clutched her neck in a crushing, intangible grip, and in the breadth of time Padmé scrabbled at her throat, Obi-Wan acted.

Anakin stumbled back from the force of the bolt hitting his shoulder, releasing his hold on Padmé. Padmé crumpled to the ground in a heap, and Anakin’s sights zeroed in on Kenobi, standing at the mouth of the ship with both blaster and lightsaber in hand. Snarling, Anakin stalked towards his old master and brought his lightsaber down, red clashing against blue.

Padmé Amidala, heartbroken and dying, drags herself bleeding to the communication console.

Kenobi can hear her movement in the bay and yells her name, telling her not to move, that he’ll come to help her as soon as the ship breaches the atmosphere, and she stalwartly ignores him, cradling the underside of her belly with one hand and using the other to support herself on the railing around the sparse artillery deck. Her broken ankle protests at every movement, sending lightning arcing up the leg where she puts her unsteady weight. The cramps in her abdomen spread like bone-coral, sharp and hot and agonizing in her pelvis, sides, back— Every tendon and muscle in her body screams at their owner to relent, to succumb to the creeping darkness pressing around her vision, but she cannot allow herself peace until she finishes what she started.

Padmé staggers at the ship’s turbulent acceleration, her forearm slamming out against the bulkhead as the lights flicker, and she curses the unsteady pilot she thought was her friend. Perhaps if she’d been accompanied by someone more decisive, someone whose fatal flaw wasn’t a love too great for a brother that no longer existed, Anakin would have been dealt with and she’d have the wherewithal to fight against the added pain of a labor she was sure would tear her in two.

Sweat pours from her brow and forces her already shaking, slippery hands to scrabble for purchase on the blasted polished finery of a spoiled noble’s ship. Her muscles spasm and she gasps in abject terror as she feels something inside her snap; the membrane within her had ruptured.

Gravity pulls on her bones as her muscles betray her, and she collapses against the bench. Fingernails scrape vinyl and she chokes out a guttural, rending cry of pain in the effort it takes to haul herself upward into the seat.

Obi-Wan is yelling again. Traitorous coward.

Padmé punches in the covert frequency on the transmitter. Her other hand rests on her stomach, her infants moving restlessly under her touch. She forces the hot flashes of pain back, shoving down every instinctive response to curl in on herself.

“Sabé—,” she says into the comm, gritting her teeth and tasting blood once more; the contractions were stronger and with a strangled grunt she yanks the comm closer, ignoring the frantic waves of worry rolling off of the useless Jedi in the pilot’s seat.

“Sabé, if you find the man who was my husband,” she chokes, the creeping black at the edges of her vision beginning to overtake her.

“Kill him.”

Obi-Wan sat listlessly on a bench in the hold, what bloodied clothing he still wore sticking to him like a second skin. His hand rested on the makeshift bassinet, a gun locker repurposed into a cradle.

He could only imagine what directive she’d felt necessary enough to strain herself to get across the sublight waves; he could only imagine because the message was encrypted and the recipient unknown, and her mind had been shielded from his probing. He didn’t know whether to blame his failed use of the Force on the heartbroken, distracted nature of his psyche being pulled in a thousand directions as he’d manually flown from Mustafar’s orbital pull in order to make the jump to lightspeed, or to blame some unknown energy stalwartly blocking him from Padmé’s mind. Reaching out to her had felt like hitting a steel wall.

The tumult of their departure had preoccupied him until he was sure he’d escaped whatever enemy fighters Anakin’s new master had sent after them, the maneuvering less of a dogfight and more of a half-cocked evasive prayer for the hull to remain intact long enough for them to break atmo. Klaxons blared and the astronav’s interface barked orders, warning him of too many systems he already knew were damaged enough that if they took even one more hit to the hull they would be obliterated; shields were failing, exterior panelling being shorn off, the pursuing fighters gaining on them— Until by some stroke of luck he’d found a slip in space to pull through and immediately jump to lightspeed.

Lightspeed jumps themselves were already hazardous to expecting parents’ health. He was terrified of the condition she had been in when he’d finally gotten her onboard, and the fact he could sense her moving with purpose somewhere below decks while he tried to shake the fighters had sent his heart rate skyrocketing.

Piloting had never been his forte. As soon as they’d hit hyperspace he’d slammed a hand against the autopilot controls and bolted from the dash, scrambling down to the hold below.

He swore under his breath, calling her name and skidding to a halt beside her. Her face twisted in agony, her hands clutching the underside of her abdomen. Obi-Wan knelt beside her, hesitant to move her and instead ran a quick check over her vitals, astonished at what he found.

Broken bones in her leg, fractured ribs, internal bleeding, damaged trachea— how had she even moved?! By all rights she should be dead and yet something had propped her up long enough for her to drag herself to the terminal and send a message.

And now she was in labor.

“Kenobi—” she spat derisively, grabbing his tunic. “Get— up—“

“Padmé, hold still, let me—”

He was cut off as a violent shudder wracked her body, her limbs curling in on herself with a gurgling cry. Panicked desperation lanced through him as he reached out and grasped tendrils of the Force, gingerly cradling her neck and attempting to delicately, swiftly mend ligaments he couldn’t see. If he was even a millimeter incorrect, she would die.

A misaligned vertebrae shifted back into place, and Padmé screamed.

Obi-Wan bit back a sob, carefully tracing his fingers on either side of the back of her neck with as much force as he dared in an attempt to still her and provide what pain relief he could as his own energy was leached from him. Padmé gasped, her eyes flying open, her expression stricken as she looked up at the ceiling. Her iron grip loosened as the tension dissipated, if only in one area. She gulped air as if coming up from the bottom of a lake, and Obi-Wan settled as he felt his strength wane. A concrete task was better than guesswork at unknown variables.

The reprieve didn’t last long; Padmé grunted in pain, convulsing as a contraction rippled through her torso again. Further assessment revealed her leggings and the floor beneath her to be drenched, and Obi-Wan’s panic flared again.

“I have to get you up—”

“If you move me I will kill you,” she spat harshly. She trembled despite the ferocity of her glare, her hand still twisted in his robe. “There is no time— Here and now, Kenobi. Make do.”

“Padmé—”

“Look around you,” she seethed. “There’s no level surface in this blasted ship big enough to work. There are no other choices. There is no one else to help. Sleeves up. Now.”

Kenobi’s brow remained twisted as he stripped off his outer tunic, knowing it was laden with silicate and volcanic dust. Padmé propped herself up on her elbows as he raced to scour his hands and forearms, coming back to remove her boots so he could work her outer garments free. Whether the blood seeping between her teeth was due to the injuries she’d sustained or because she was gritting them hard enough one had cracked, he didn’t know.

Padmé gasped again as the fracture in her shin shifted— He wanted to settle her, to fix this, but the contractions were coming more quickly and closer together. They were running out of time.

He finally seated himself before her, kneeling and shaking in just his undershirt and trousers, feeling acutely unprepared for what was to come. Battlefield triage and casualty care were the extent of his healing knowledge, and though he was adept at relieving or numbing acute nociceptive responses, it was usually with soldiers whose minds were open for him to assess areas of injury. A commander with a blaster burn would be focused on the point where his plastoid hadn’t covered. A civilian’s attention after suffering a fall would be turned to the joints and bones that took the brunt of the effects of gravity.

Labor and delivery were far too different from his experience in the medical field.

And Padmé was still blocking him out.

Her knuckles gripped bone-white to a ridge of floor plating, one knee bent and her foot planted flat. The other lay weakly to the side, and Obi-Wan grit his teeth as he raised it up to rest over his thigh despite the lancing pain he felt radiating from her, tucking a blanket beneath her and readying his hands for whatever instruction he prayed she could give. With him gathering his wits and her gathering her strength, they set to work.

The whole ordeal couldn’t have lasted longer than thirty minutes, and it was the longest and most arduous process of their lives. Between her strangled cries, his intuition, and the muscle spasms that told him everything about this was wrong, Kenobi’s concern grew with the pool of blood beneath her, and she forced him to focus on the children, refusing to allow him any modicum of time spent healing her injuries between her screams. Untended bone cracked further as she thrashed, her screams echoing back in the cargo hold.

By the time Kenobi had swaddled the two squalling— living!— infants in what sterile dressing he could find from the field kit, Padmé had gone a sickly pale. Her skin was waxy under the recessed halogen lighting, her hair sticking to her forehead. Dark circles rimmed her eyes and different muscle groups continued twitching of their own accord as if sparked by electricity. Obi-Wan was torn between ensuring the infants had been properly cared for, and wanting to drag Padmé to the captain’s berth to fully assess her wounds and heal her: Padmé kept stubbornly shoving him away, tears tracking unnoticed down her face as she continued to choke out instructions for the care and keeping of her children.

He’d finally been forced to stop when that iron grip returned in full force— Padmé grabbed his arm and yanked him down to where she had propped herself up against the wall. Kenobi lurched forward, her ashen face now level with his. She forced her voice to obey despite the strain in her throat, rasping the words she needed to say.

“Keep them away from him.” The venom in her tone was undeniable. “You keep them safe, Kenobi, get— get them as far away as you can—”

Kenobi grunted, refusing to let her continue her orders. He pressed a palm to her chest, willing those wisps of energy to sustain her just a few moments longer as he tried to haul her up into his lap, coax her arm around him so he could lift her— If he could just get her somewhere comfortable, somewhere clean, if he could focus—

Padmé shrieked in pain, clawing at his chest and arms, and the sum of their separate fights came crashing down on him as the Force dissipated from his mind’s grasp. His knees gave out, his strength sapped from the energy he had poured into her, and they lay heavily back against the terminal yet again. The children cried distantly behind them.

“Padmé, please…” Obi-Wan pleaded, tears streaking down his face, but she shook her head yet again.

“Keep them safe,” she coughed, begging for the first time. “Get them away f-from—”

“He’s gone, Padmé, Anakin is gone—”

She shook her head fiercely, squeezing her eyes shut. “No. He’s there. I can feel him.”

“Listen to me— Anakin is dead, I saw him—”

“You’re wrong,” Padmé said. Her breath rattled. Tears dripped from her chin. “If— If you won’t k-kill him then t-take care o-of them. Wh-Whatever it takes.”

Her chest hitched as she gasped around the liquid filling her lungs. Her bloody hand trembled against his neck. She hiccuped, her eyes went glassy, and her hand fell away.

And in the stillness of hyperspace, Padmé Amidala Naberrie passed from one life to the next.

It had been an hour since then. Only an hour since Obi-Wan had had to keep himself from buckling under the weight of his grief, an hour since he’d sobbed on the floor of a ship as one of his oldest and dearest friends died in his arms. The former queen of Naboo, dying in the bloody cargo hold of a stolen ship, her own life stolen from her by the one person the two of them had trusted beyond measure while her infant children cried out for comfort he felt wholly incapable of providing. Obi-Wan wept alongside them, digging his fingers into the cold, unfeeling floor, wanting to scream as the agony of heartbreak threatened to overwhelm him.

So many dead, or lost. There was no solace even in the Force.

But as Obi-Wan Kenobi found himself doing so often in his life, he shoved his feelings down into the furthest recesses of his broken heart, let go of another loved one returned to the Force, and turned himself back to the task at hand.

The infants were asleep now. He’d shakily scrubbed at his face and arms with cold water and spared only enough time under the sanisteam to ensure he was clean enough to handle them before finding a spare undershirt for himself. He fed them, cleaned them up, and held both of them together against his chest as they squirmed, dissatisfied at their situation before accepting their present accommodations and falling asleep. By the ship’s chrono he had roughly two standard hours before the ship was due to drop out of hyperspace.

He sat unseeing in the captain’s berth with the ad hoc bassinet nearby. Padmé was still in the hold; he couldn’t be two places at once, and he couldn’t stay down there with the children.

Something bothered him about the infants in his arms, though. Once the girl had passed from Padmé’s body, it almost seemed like the barrier keeping him from sensing Padmé’s thoughts had broken. He was too drained and scattered to dwell on it as his last moments with her had been focused on her well-being, but despite his utter exhaustion he had a suspicion that had already begun to crystallize under the sheer openness of the twins’ young presences within hyperspace.

It troubled him.

Whatever message she’d sent was evidently received by the people she’d needed it to. Bail Organa met him at the hastily assembled but covert rendezvous, his ensuing shock and horror upon entering the ship’s docking ramp turning to commanding resolve as he followed the trail of destruction to Kenobi’s station. Organa had to shake him from his stupor before Obi-Wan could tell him of Mustafar, of the newly appointed Sith and Padmé’s scheme, and of Padmé’s last words. The senator’s brow furrowed. He knelt next to the Jedi, looking over the sleeping children.

“What of Anakin?”

Obi-Wan shook his head tiredly. “I cannot sense him. I don’t believe Anakin is alive.”

“… Who else did she contact?” Bail asked.

Tears dripped onto Obi-Wan’s shirt. “I don’t know.”

Bail sighed, bringing one hand up to rest on his shoulder. “I am truly sorry, Obi-Wan. For everything.”

Obi-Wan couldn’t respond.

Bail’s team, handpicked and vetted by the senator himself, worked below decks as the men weighed their options. The aftermath of the despotic coup was rippling out and changing by the minute; the Jedi had been slaughtered and scattered, the clones had broken all communication, and the Senate had reached a fever pitch of chaos. Anything that needed to be decided needed to be done now.

The feeling of loss that bordered on consuming him was one he’d rarely felt in his lifetime as acutely as he did now. The comfort he found in the Force was absent. He’d felt like a ship unmoored when his master was killed. Now it was as though he’d been dropped into the middle of a hurricane.

Bail’s hands were clasped loosely together against his forehead, elbows resting on his knees as he bowed his head in thought. Kenobi could have been a corpse for how still and gaunt he was.

“Obi-Wan…” Bail began. “Are you certain Skywalker is dead?”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan said. “I cannot sense him at all.”

Bail was quiet for a moment before he spoke again. “… But you, of all people, couldn’t sense what must have been growing within him. Is it at all possible the body of Anakin remains, but the reason you cannot find him is because the man we knew is entirely lost to the Dark?”

A chilling fissure of clarity cut through Obi-Wan’s senses. His reaction told Bail everything he needed to know.

Even if it was only a suspicion, they could not afford to waste time figuring out the emperor’s next move. Anything that could be used to motivate Vader had to be hidden from public knowledge. They couldn’t leave a trace of his past behind.

Bail mulled over his thoughts, then stood, gesturing for Kenobi as his resolve hardened to steel. “Come. We have work to do. We will mourn when we are done.”

Sabé trembled with the effort it took to control her breathing. She stowed her bag behind the seat of the starship and brought the engine to life, moving with purpose as tears streamed unbidden down her face.

The ship rose, coordinates locked in place to meet the others of her gathering retinue. These weren’t the orders of former nobility, of a governing senator— This was the last request of a dying friend, someone whose very existence was woven into her bones. Padmé Amidala’s death would not be in vain.

Sabé looked out beyond the stars, her breathing finding stasis despite the ocean of grief beneath it.

“My hands are yours, Padmé,” she said to herself. “For as long duty compels them.”

She wasn’t going to kill Anakin. Not until he felt every bit of the pain and suffering he deserved.

Notes:

The line “clarity of purpose” comes from Saw Gerrera in the Andor TV show

I wrote Sabé’s line before seeing that one similar was used in one of the books. Good to know I was on the right track with a character I know very little about lol

[legendscon]

Panel Announcement: Non-Fiction Fiction

Abel Peña and Jason Fry discuss the ins and outs of writing "non-fiction" work within the Star Wars universe and their own works, including The Essential Atlas, Vader: The Ultimate Guide, The Essential Guide to Warfare, and The History of the Mandalorians.

Full Schedule: https://legends-con.com/guests-programming/

Buy tickets now, and join us for a celebration of all things Expanded Universe in Burbank, CA on September 9th & 10th: https://www.eventbrite.com/e/legends-consortium-2023-tickets-541786186067

[blairstales]

Running Water in Scottish Folklore

There are many sacred springs said to have different types of supernatural powers in Scotland, but even just a regular stream had many uses in folklore. One of these uses is protection from evil creatures, spirits, fairies, or ghosts.

What this meant is that if you are being chased by a supernatural evil, all you had to do was jump over a stream of running water. Like a wall, that water would prevent the creature from getting to you.

This is why some stories feature a fairy trying to convince a human to cross a stream to be on the same side as the fairy. In other stories, the fairy is trying to catch a human before they can get to the water.

For example, in one of the most popular stories of a Nuckelavee, a man manages to get away from the frightening creature by jumping a stream.

“Tammie saw his opportunity, and ran with all his might; and sore need had he to run, for Nuckelavee had turned and was galloping after him, and bellowing with a sound like the roaring of the sea. In front of Tammie lay a rivulet, through which the surplus water of the loch found its way to the sea, and Tammie knew, if he could only cross the running water, he was safe; so he strained every nerve. As he reached the near bank another clutch was made at him by the long arms. Tammie made a desperate spring and reached the other side, leaving his bonnet in the monster’s clutches. Nuckelavee gave a wild unearthly yell of disappointed rage as Tammie fell senseless on the safe side of the water.” Scottish Fairy and Folk Tales by Sir walter Scott(1893)

English: Scottish fairy tale “Nuckelavee”. Caption: Tammie felt the wind of nuckelavee’s clutches. Source: Scottish Fairy and Folk Tales

How exactly the water works can change slightly depending on the area or the story.

For example, some believed the direction of the water mattered.

“This, particularly southward-running water, is holy, and cannot be passed by evil spirits.” A Encyclopedia of Fairies by Katharine Briggs (Published in 1976)

In “The Water-horse in Bracadale,” a water horse is chasing a young girl, who manages to make it to a stream. The story specifies that the water only gained power by the call of a rooster.

"Over the stream leapt the terror- stricken maiden, just as the cock began to crow in Balgowan, the Smith’s Hamlet. Now, this cock’s crowing meant the saving of the girl’s life, since it acted as a spell on the enraged water-horse, who thus was hindered from crossing the stream. In this wise the maiden escaped to her home but the water-horse cried after her : "DuilicJi c, duilich e, alltan! Sad it is, sad it is, streamlet ! ” And to this day the little stream flowing by the church of Bracadale goes by the name of the Alltan Duilich, the Difficult Streamlet. The Water-horse in Bracadale. " The Peat-Fire Flame: Folk-Tales and Traditions of the Highlands and Islands by Alasdair Alpin MacGregor (1937)

Most often, however, you will come across stories where it is any running water that can protect you.

One interesting addition to the folklore is that it is only creatures or ghosts with evil intent that can not cross the streams. This explains why certain fairies that live in running water could also be blocked by it.

“Some authorities hold that the good folk are not averse to crossing running water . It is only a wicked class of them whose powers are blunted by traversing flowing streams .” Folk Lore in Lowland Scotland by Evelyn Blantyre Simpson (1908)

BONUS HISTORIC AUDIO RECORDINGS

(link) People believed that if there was running water between a person and a ghost or evil spirit he would be safe. They also believed that water from the place where three burns met would cure ailments.

(link) Annie Johnston explains that this song was composed by a fairy woman. She was trying to entice a herdsman to cross a river and come into a fairy hill. She could not cross water.

[ereborne]

please please please, did the space-monk keep his armies up his sleevies??

Of course he did! 

This is an exceptionally silly title, but in my defense, it’s a nonsense file full of contradictory timeline schenanigans and snippets of a fic I am not writing.  The same fic I’m very very absolutely not writing that I mentioned in the seven-sentence post last Sunday, actually!  It has been plaguing me. 

The thing is, is that I am so sure there ought to be a way to make it work.  I haven’t found it so far, so far I have only found many ways not to make the metaphorical lightbulb, but I feel so strongly that it should work.  I will make it work eventually, and then I will be free. 

The ‘it’ (army up our sleevey) in question:  the Mandalorian Empire!  I am so sure that there should be a way to rewrite these wholeass war stars so that the Mandalorian Excision is a turning point in the history of the Jedi Order, but in the opposite direction from canon.  Have it be the first time the Jedi were commanded to go commit large-scale violence against a sovereign system just because the Republic said to, and so the first time the Jedi found themselves truly pushed to a point where they cannot do as ordered without wholly breaking the tenets of their Order but cannot disobey and keep themselves safe and in a position to fulfil the objectives of their Order—and have them turn to the Force for a third option. 

It's a pretty radical third option, because I want to play with the timeline and also because the one scene makes me so so so happy, but—instead of killing off the Mandalorians, they meet with them, make a deal with them, pack them up on ships, and slide them into a pocket in the Unifying Force to be retrieved (much) later, when it’s safe.  Fast forward all the way to AotC, once the Jedi have discovered the clone army prepped for them on Kamino and received that implicit authorization to hire what amounts to a mercenary army, they can do a fine magician’s flourish and pull the better part of the Mandalorian Empire out of their sleeves!  What a scene that would be, I want it so badly. 

And all the fun of the set-up, too!  Imagine it, right, the Jedi have elevated ‘from a certain point of view’ to a zen art and have a now long-running history of taking creative options to do the most good possible regardless of Republic guidelines, but keeping it all on the down-low has given the Jedi chronically poor PR (essentially the same as they have in canon) and the truth of many things has passed out of memory and into the keeping of the Force.  Then the tragedy at Galidraan happens, Dooku’s faith wavers, and the Force returns one secret to them—Dooku’s good friend Sifo-Dyas gets him together with Master Archivist Jocasta Nu and the three of them learn about the pocket Mandos waiting to be pulled, the absolute proof of how far the Jedi will go (and how much the Force will support them) in order to preserve life.  And then immediately after that revelation is when Sidious comes to whisper in Dooku’s ear, all his manipulations, how the Republic is corrupt and the Jedi are useless and if Dooku wants power enough to make a difference he’ll need to do something radical—and Dooku is playing him the entire time. 

And thematically, it could be so good!  Revisiting the original Star Wars question of are the Jedi knights following lords or monks serving a higher purpose!  The distinction between lying to gain the freedom to do good (Jedi mind-trick) and manipulations to gain power to do evil (Sith compulsion)!  Once-and-future Mandos who are both the kings waiting to return to their people and the sword waiting to be drawn!  The Clone Wars are still fought, kind of!  An Empire still rises, kind of!  The clones who were chattel, produced and sold by a failed Mand’alor, denied any culture or history, destined to fight and die unacknowledged in someone else’s war; now being adopted wholesale by the returned Mandalorian people, hailed as a gift from the Force itself, sharing their knowledge of modern times and being taught all the cultural traditions of Mandalore’s heyday, being treated as beloved children and kept as safe as any Mando’ad could be!  Anakin, fatherless child of the Force, as the prophesied Chosen One, found by the will of the Living Force, trained by a sleight-of-hand master with a powerful connection to the Unifying Force, strong enough to bring balance to the Force not through massacre but instead by bringing back an entire people!  Renewal, healing, proof that good will always ultimately triumph over evil but that you have to get it there through a balanced combination of faith and hard work! So fun!!!!

Exactly how and when all this happens and what the hell all the fallout is, though, all that stuff still escapes me.  This file is an absolute nightmare bog of snippets and bullet-point ranting. 

[gender-trash]

for the long-running albeit recently lapsed housemates star wars rpg campaign, i built a character and @combat-epistemologist built a character; we quickly discovered that a two-person party kind of sucks, so dm @transbionic-shieldmaiden built a bunch of other lesbian npcs for us to hang out with. in a typical encounter each of us will be given the steering wheel on a lesbian or two in addition to our regular PCs, just to liven things up a bit. (which i guess is less of an NPC and more of a... quasi-player character? or something.) they didn't necessarily all have to be lesbians, but have you MET @transbionic-shieldmaiden??

so anyway i'm working on my silly little dice.py TUI and flipping through the pile of character sheets for various star wars lesbians as i add all their weapons to the character library and i keep looking over at @transbionic-shieldmaiden and saying, like, lin zeria can reroll all 1's on her blaster damage??? why would you do this to me TT__TT

@transbionic-shieldmaiden: i'm so sorry :/

me: oh, her crowbar attack is "reroll lowest" AND she gets an extra damage die but -2 ATK with rapid strike? i'm going to fucking kill myself

@transbionic-shieldmaiden: i'm sorry! i'm sorry!!

[eorzeashan]

This is kind of a characters question. Eight doesn’t seem to deal with many Sith (asides from D.Jadus, D.Zorrid, brief D.Raven). He interacts with a lot of ciphers (OCs+similar characters), so I wonder. Depending on timeline, did he have any interactions with the Council (D.Baras and D.Thanaton), or (L.Wraith and D.Nox)? Like, D.Vowrawn and D.Baras have spies, even D.Nox could (OC dependant), as “The Bride” declining “offers” so, does he interact with Councillors? Their aids/spies? Neither?

Good question! For those just joining us, lore on the Bride, Eight's new alias post-Onslaught

Besides a handful of side cameos in the stories of my friends, Eight tends to make himself scarce when it comes to other Sith. They don't interest him as much as Jadus, and he's both been trained and taught to stay well away from them if he can.

But! If we're talking about that, he did infiltrate Baras' network of spies once as a double-agent, even working to aid the young Wrath's ascension from behind the scenes. Though they never met face to face, and his stint as Baras' spy was short-lived, he did enough to keep an eye on the brewing conflict in Baras' powerbase and reported back to Intelligence on it. Baras... may have been persuaded to have a fondness for him, even after he "transferred" out of his network of spies.

As for the inquisitor--he's never met Thanaton, nor Darth Nox, but he greatly admires the mystique surrounding the rise of such humble sounding beginnings. It's not everyday you hear such juicy stories about dethroning not one but two major players in the Sith hierarchy, and all of Intelligence was abuzz about the usurping of power.

Post-class story and during his stint as the Bride is a different case entirely, which sees Eight interacting with these Sith directly, if not face-to-face given his new role as mouthpiece and director of most matters concerning Jadus' powerbase. He interacts with both Lord, councillor, and aide alike, and though he makes little use of Jadus' remaining authority beyond protecting his assets and power, this does make him a sort of diplomat when it comes to matters concerning other Sith. Given his master's absence, it's only natural that he has to act in his place. This, of course, means politicking just as Jadus had, and while some scoff in the face of his empty authority, others came to accept and even ally themselves with him.

(As it turns out, a loyal cult makes a great network of spies themselves).

Vowrawn, if he's Emperor in this timeline, or even Acina would definitely have made contact with him whether directly or indirectly-- it always pays to have a shadow organization under your belt that isn't overseen by a potential rival. Whether that makes him a target or an asset for Darth Xarion remains to be seen, but it's a charming thought that one little agent is threatening the whole of Sith Intelligence, all from the safety of retirement.