TORN APART!

       HE WATCHES the other. he has never been a calm person - rarely has he ever found a moment to exist where his temper doesn’t command his every move - and, likewise, has not quite gotten used to seeing others in indifferent states. those who wear masks over their true emotions draw his ire time and time again by virtue of their attitude alone; if they can act as though they are not intertwined with him, their fates embroidered on a mass tapestry, then he cannot understand them. if he can’t see what happens with them internally, and he can’t comprehend or get a feel for what they are thinking, it scares him. it brings about feelings of insularity that may as well bury him alive.         still, he watches. he listens to the other with only the intent to turn him down, for he refuses help. this is the paradox of oz icelus: he needs aid to function, knowing that he will never be strong enough to exist without the company of others by his side, but he refuses it time and time again. his master raised him to be self-dependent. she brought him up to be able to defend himself without needing to rely on others, without requiring their presence to hold his sanity together. this paradox has created an unknowing co-dependency on those around him: without them, he loses himself to the mess of guilt-ridden thoughts that throw him into a spiral of demise and despair.        he has fallen into it before. he does not want to fall into it again. he fears it more than anything else, but craves it to the same degree. pain makes him stronger. isolation makes him unstable, true, but to suffer through it is to prove to himself that he is worthy of something more than the dead and dying bodies that fall around him all too often.         the young jedi regards the outstretched hand with unmatched skepticism. the other’s words bounce around in his mind: if he wants to ease the pain, what does that entail? he cannot stand the thought of something tempering or calming his mind, after all, for altered thoughts will be the bane of him. he does not want to say something that he will regret (though, as any well-versed observer knows, this will likely happen regardless).        ❝ knock yourself out. ❞ his voice speaks of an all-encompassing dismissive attitude. in his mind, the worst thing that he can do in the situation would be to say that the other cannot help - but, to that end, perhaps this is a double edged sword. it could be a way to catch him off guard. to hurt him. to kill him. he pushes those thoughts to the side as quickly as he can, but their imprint remains. ❝ just don’t fuck with my head, okay? not too much.  ❞

@knightbark​ - knight of ren oc ( moderate activity ) @wroughthope​ - resistance of ( moderate activity ) @sibylsaid​ - force oracle oc ( high activity )

       HE CAN’T STAND big words. maybe that’s a simple thing to notice when it comes to him; he’s never been the type to enjoy being around those who speak with more logic than love, despite the fact that he has never truthfully known what the latter means in comparison to the former. he wishes that everyone would speak simply, in a way that he could understand - he cannot make a retort, nor can he properly reply, to someone if he doesn’t know what the fuck they’re saying. they can spout a thousand languages, sing a million ballads, but that won’t help him. it never helps him.         he wishes that the problem applied to this situation. he wishes that he could write off the other’s concern as just another set of meaningless words that he didn’t have a single hope of understanding. alas, this isn’t the case; the other speaks in the ideal way for the youngling to understand, and it pisses him off. the one time he wants to be clueless, the one time he wants to abandon what the world means, of course he comes into contact with someone who refuses to abide by an unspoken prayer!          he bites his inner lip. the taste of copper floods his tastebuds. it hurts.         he stops.         he sighs.         he speaks.         ❝ there’s one more. ❞ he makes a pained motion towards his left shoulder; beneath his shirt, beneath that which wards off all manner of cold, there sits a blaster wound that has gone far too long without treatment. this is his own private punishment, he supposes; this is what he gets for believing that his body doesn’t need help healing itself. for all the cuts that linger without stitches, for all the bruises that have existed without a cold press against them, this is his retribution.         ❝ it’s old, but it hurts. been hurting. ❞ more as of late, which draws all manners of concern from the fledgling jedi. ❝ think you could check it out for me ??  ❞ it may be infected, or it may be in his head. there’s no true way to tell when it comes to him; one’s guess is as good as any others.

        HER OFFER IS MET with an immediate sense of skepticism. he has never been one for teams or groups, after all ( the more that are around him, the more he can lose ). yet, he does humor her - if only for the moment.         ❝ i’m not saying no, ❞ he begins, despite the fact that his tone clearly implies that he’ll be more inclined to turn it down than anything else. ❝ but i am saying ‘eh’. i want to whoop the order’s ass as much as the next guy, but the resistance already has you. you really think they could deal with me of all people ?? ❞

ya boi really out here formatting differently huh         anyways, boop that heart for a tiny dialogue starter!!

                      independent & selective star wars oc / penned by quail.  template. 

         INTIMIDATION DID NOT come easily to one who - by all means - had lived on his own for years upon years. youthful vendetta and struggles cast aside for the time being, rarely had an individual crossed his path who he shrunk at the sight of. bounty hunters, liars, thieves, killers - they were all viewed in the exact same way through bittered eyes: pests. entities who no one would have thought of if they vanished into thin air, funerals with not a single attendant in sight. this immediate indifference towards others - and the following lack of care for their perceived strength - had landed him in rough situations time and time again... but, to that end, had kept him alive all the same.            if he had backed down from every taller jackass who stood over him as a father did to a child, he wouldn’t have been on the hellish planet. he wouldn’t have been in possession of his own ship. no, he would have still been in the care of a mother who rested in a shallow grave, wrapped in an embrace fitting for one who had died to a single blow.            instead, he’d meet the eyes of the man who intruded upon his space, and sneer.             ❝ don’t call me kid. ❞ a polite smile, charmed, taught by a master who knew of what he would become without care. rambunctious. vile. ❝ i’m short. just means i can break your kneecaps a whole lot easier than other guys. ❞ if he was joking or not remained unclear - though, given how practiced the threat sounded, perhaps it was clear that he had followed it through once or twice prior.              he would give credit where credit was due: there was a heavy burden on his shoulders, urging him to tell the truth to someone who deserved far less. his general attitude irked the bastard son, perhaps more than any others had before. was it an honor? a curse? probably both.             ❝ you got me there. ❞ he cocked his head to the side, arrogance rolling off of him in waves. ❝ i’ll be honest, alright ?? i was messing around in the cockpit. got bored. oops. ❞ he would refrain from making a quip about a lack of teaching from the other’s masters in terms of sarcasm; although it would have been far too easy to do so, escalation wasn’t his goal. teasing, picking a possible fight, bickering - that was what could have been defined as casual fun for the runaway. getting serious, however, was far less desired.  ❝ tell you what, big guy. when we get out of this mess ?? i’ll run you by where i got the ship from, and the seller can tell you that i’m the rightful owner. sound good ??  ❞ 

@debonairvagabond / misc starters / accepting!

       ❝ GUESS THAT MEANS i can pester a lot of people even when i’m dead. ❞ a sly chuckle underlines his quip, albeit there is persistent worry that - by chance - he isn’t taking the morbid conversation seriously enough. granted, this is to be expected; when death surrounds you, consumes you, there is a repetitive tendency to exist in a primal state of humor towards it. when one can joke at the reaper, in oz’s own private philosophy, it lessens the pain of the scythe’s final cut. the laughter fades quickly, though, and is replaced by a somewhat more serious tone. ❝ do you think they’re watching over us right now ??  ❞

        HIS FIRST LESSON calls back to him. not taught by his master, nor by any others, but learned on his own; to trust in this life, where villains and vagabonds worked hand-in-hand to bring about a new age of despair, only served to set up a meeting with the ever-present threat of death. give someone enough of a reason, he knows, and they’ll pretend to be jedi until the two suns of tatooine extinguish themselves. part of him quakes at the thought of his self-taught teaching coming true in the face of a new enemy: the saber, the stance, the plea - it all feels too genuine. a breath of fresh air after living in captivity for so long.         he presses onward. if only for a moment, a split second, there is a flake of doubt in his gaze. if he pulls back, will he be killed? or will this become the newest chapter in a life filled to the brim with ill-thought decisions? if he grants the other a split-second of reprieve, just enough to catch his breath, will that mean the end of a rogue jedi? to his credit, he doesn’t think of death all too often - not anymore - but... being defeated by a child is not the legacy he wants to leave behind for whoever happens to find his body.         killing a child, likewise, is not ideal.         with a low and hostile growl, he retreats. he pries his lightsaber away from the golden embrace, sheathing it with a quiet click. he stands, silent and observing, albeit his caution is blatantly obvious.          ❝ if you’re lying, ❞ his voice is calm. unnervingly so, as though he has promised the oncoming threat a thousand times prior. ❝ i will break your legs, stomp your jaw, and leave you for dead on a forgotten planet where no one will find your body. ❞ he takes a deep breath, exhaling the remnants of a rage now slightly quelled.         ❝ if you’re not lying, ❞ he continues, clicking his saber back into its rightful place on his hilt.  ❝ then... welcome to the dead master’s club, kid. what’s your name ?? ❞

        IF ONLY FOR a moment, he finds himself back. back on a planet best left forgotten, back underneath the cover of darkness, back with a body laying disturbed at his feet. his body moves then as it does now; on his own, without his permission, propelled by the rush of anxiety that comes from witnessing a particular death. back then, he runs. he goes as fast as his legs will carry him, boarding the nearest ship that he can find. he clings to safety. he knows it will not last long.          now, he finds his body once again disobeying his commands.          the second rey takes off, he follows. part of him is excited, in truth, for he adores the rush of combat. although his master raised him to be a peacekeeper, he cannot help but delight in the thrill of a riot. the rush of bodies as they collide. the yells and cries of men dismantled by the cosmos themselves. the splatter of pleasant red, should it have escaped the burning embrace of his saber - he finds himself enamored with it as he runs, determination mingling with called upon anger.          control is not his strong-suit. he sets a mental timer: he has pulled the pin on an internal grenade, and can only flaunt its potential explosion for so long before suffering the consequences. broken bones and burn scars speak volumes of his inability to properly gauge situations - but he is distracted in the moment, and refocuses himself just in time to raise his blade. a shot bounces off from the blade with a satisfying hiss.          he grins. he shouldn’t, but he does. he demands the force to respond and - for once, perhaps at the will of an unseen fury - it does. a wave of force constricts around one trooper, dragging him forward with all the grace and ease of an invisible berserker. his saber finds its mark in the trooper’s chest; the scent of burning flesh drenches his senses, and oz hastily casts the body to the side. it’s satisfying. it shouldn’t be, but it is.         it’s been a while.          ❝ come on !! ❞ he shouts, taunting, infatuated with adrenaline’s warmth. he is following rey nonetheless, though, just as a loyal jedi ought to. if that title will still apply to him after the battle, of course, has yet to be seen.