Flame night, part 6/?
After her Master's death, she was just... numb. Fear is no longer a factor, but neither is hope.
There was only death, gnawing at her mind and soul. She was death for the soldiers she stumbles across, and, she was sure, one of them would be her death.
They would only be finishing the job, at this point.
The fight was not yet winding down, but the significant resistance was crumbling. Laranth wasn't thinking about escaping the temple any longer, simply moving from room to room, floor to floor, battling Clones she found, attempting to give dead Jedi and the unfortunate innocents caught in the crossfire a little dignity in death.
The worst part was the gardens. The places she'd spent so much time in as a child, usually with her Master nearby to ensure she wasn't getting into any new trouble. Now the peaceful landscapes were torn and scorched, burned in places, the lakes red with blood, and always always the dead.
She didn't leave any Clones in the gardens, when they fell there.
They didn't deserve it.
Would her Master have approved? Probably not. But thanks to them, he won't be able to protest.
____________________________________________________________
She returned once to her Master's quarters (the smell alone had been horrific, the memories even worse) to pick up new gas chambers for her blasters, as she had nearly ran out of rounds already, with no end of enemies in sight. She'd only been able to help a handful of living victims - two knights, one of whom she'd found dead later, one of the garden-tending crew, a half-trained padawan who had been hiding in the kitchen.
The rest were dead, having either gone quietly or ferociously, it didn't matter. There were simply too many Clones.
She was passing a small conference room, changing out the gas chambers on her pistols, when the sound of hushed voices reached her ears. Someone crying - young, frightened, miserable. Someone comforting - older, male, also terribly frightened. Terribly angry, she could sense it from here. Quietly she crept inside.
And came straight up against the muzzle of a blaster pistol, held steady and cool between her eyes. She stared down the barrel, and recognized the person holding it.
"Senator Bail Organa." The normally suave human senator from Alderaan stared, surprised, back at her. "Good evening, sir."
There was only death, gnawing at her mind and soul. She was death for the soldiers she stumbles across, and, she was sure, one of them would be her death.
They would only be finishing the job, at this point.
The fight was not yet winding down, but the significant resistance was crumbling. Laranth wasn't thinking about escaping the temple any longer, simply moving from room to room, floor to floor, battling Clones she found, attempting to give dead Jedi and the unfortunate innocents caught in the crossfire a little dignity in death.
The worst part was the gardens. The places she'd spent so much time in as a child, usually with her Master nearby to ensure she wasn't getting into any new trouble. Now the peaceful landscapes were torn and scorched, burned in places, the lakes red with blood, and always always the dead.
She didn't leave any Clones in the gardens, when they fell there.
They didn't deserve it.
Would her Master have approved? Probably not. But thanks to them, he won't be able to protest.
____________________________________________________________
She returned once to her Master's quarters (the smell alone had been horrific, the memories even worse) to pick up new gas chambers for her blasters, as she had nearly ran out of rounds already, with no end of enemies in sight. She'd only been able to help a handful of living victims - two knights, one of whom she'd found dead later, one of the garden-tending crew, a half-trained padawan who had been hiding in the kitchen.
The rest were dead, having either gone quietly or ferociously, it didn't matter. There were simply too many Clones.
She was passing a small conference room, changing out the gas chambers on her pistols, when the sound of hushed voices reached her ears. Someone crying - young, frightened, miserable. Someone comforting - older, male, also terribly frightened. Terribly angry, she could sense it from here. Quietly she crept inside.
And came straight up against the muzzle of a blaster pistol, held steady and cool between her eyes. She stared down the barrel, and recognized the person holding it.
"Senator Bail Organa." The normally suave human senator from Alderaan stared, surprised, back at her. "Good evening, sir."