I'm a Jedi Padawan... oh wait, I'm not. No Master will pick me.
I'm the fabled "Weakest Jedi."
My connection to the force is so below-average I can barely muster a force-push.
My only powers include limited force-sense and basic enhancing of my phy...
Hello, everyone. I realize it's been a while. Sorry for the absences, the false promises. I've realized I can't promise anything anymore. My word isn't enough, so I won't be promising new chapters at any specific time.
But what I can promise you is that I want to finish The Weakest Jedi. I have so much more to show you, and I still truly appreciate anyone who's taken the time to read and think about what I put out there.
Here's hoping to a new chapter in the future, a little passage I wrote that I found interesting:
A thousand years before the the horned disciple of darkness reared his ugly head, the Sith empire was all but wiped out, bringing forth an unprescedented era of peace.
Some were felled by Jedi, others cannabilized each other. After all, the most dangerous, deadly diseases are oftentimes the most self-destructive.
And the Sith are a disease, a plague that could only have arisen from the darkest wretches of the unkown regions.
And so, unbeknownst to the Jedi, the plague survived.
Festered.
Corrupted.
Evolved, every blight stronger than the last.
Hidden in the shadows, the Sith bided their time, until...
Darth Sidious.
His fear was unparalleled, ever terrified of even a speck of power being ripped from his fingertips.
A fear he channeled into an unparalleled rage... his yellow gaze crushing all who dared to defy him.
And his hate...
His hate was potent, impressive for a Sith even...
But not unparalleled...
For within Sidious, there was a disconnect, a blind spot even he was unaware of, or perhaps unwilling to accept.
Sidious possessed a deep hatred for an enemies.
Hate for a former friend, there was a chance he understood that once.
Yet, the greatest form of hatred, the most scalding, painful type of loathing one could have... it was utterly alien to the Dark Lord.
A cold, hollowed out scar of an existence.
An empty void, understood only by those who fell victim to great tragedy.
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