( Kylo has to concede the point that she makes about the Knights, the Order, and Snoke being in a position of far greater superiority and delight were they happy in any capacity, and he also has to concede that he has utterly bunked the heating system. And by the looks of things, not just in the galley's stovetop unit. Even from where he comes to stand crowded around the doorway, he can see that he has done real damage. His arms cross and he takes a sideways step toward where Rey has peeled the warped metal door that encloses the unit's innards. It doesn't look good, even from the distance that he maintains in the interest of not squatting down to take a closer look or crowding her too completely, operating in a peripheral sense until Rey straightens back up and catches his eye, slipping her hand over the reflective surface of the hilt at her hip. Kylo mirrors the gesture half on instinct and half just to feel the weight of it in his palm. The metal of the hilt is warm even through the leather shield of his gloves, and the exhaust ports in particular feel oddly hot, as if they had been recently ignited.
Skywalker, he thinks, and resolutely does not imagine his uncle examining his blade with the kind of abject despair and resignation contingent upon the crushing totality of guilt. Instead, he nods once, shallowly, to the plan that Rey is laying out, getting the impression that she's talking more for her own benefit than for his understanding or in search of his opinion. He's given it already, and from the resolution in her tone, Kylo gets the sense that there's going to be little deviation from their course from here on out. He doesn't look forward to running to ground on Hapes, and plans to stick to the ship as much as he's able both in the interest of not drawing attention to his person as First Order fugitive - he's sure of that, regardless of what he had done to deceptively earn back some of Snoke's scuttled faith in Kylo Ren's loyalty, he is still a traitor in ways that many people will never be able to understand - but it's their only option, it seems, and he'll see it through.
Rey skips around him, and his hand uncurls from the relaxed grip on his lightsaber just in time to grab the door frame and follow her out into the main hall as she chatters at him over her shoulder. Kylo has to take several long strides to bring himself up to pace with her, and experiences no small amount of indignation as a result. His knees hurt, like they've been pressed flush to stone for hours, for days, an immense weight on his back driving the distribution of pressure to the task of his kneecaps alone, but he gives only the slightest indication of discomfort as a manifestation rippling through the Force. It's nondescript and fleeting, and it's quickly overwhelmed by the bubble of dark amusement that swells and bursts at her inquiry, curling cool fingers through his perception of the Force, a tree comprised of seven roots, sturdy trunk, black bark, at the center. He doesn't laugh or even smile, just follows her lead with heavy steps as he talks above her head. )
There are eight of us, myself included. ( It's as simple of a beginning as any. There are eight of them now, but the ranks have thinned and thickened with the culling and strengthening of their number over time. When he assumed his position at the head of their faction, there were three, including himself: all leftover Jedi hopefuls from the ruins of his uncle's collection of potentials, Force-sensitive and scared and scared of him in the wake of what he had done, rallying to his cause in an effort to prove themselves but to also stay alive. That had been enough, then, their survival instincts and desire for self-preservation above all else carving out an adequate gully in the Dark Side. One had fallen under Kylo's hand at Snoke's behest, leaving only one connection within his ranks to the boy he had once been. A Mandalorian warrior named Ji, his second in command and one of the three remaining Knights with any degree of Force sensitivity. ) Two of the others are Force sensitive, though they haven't been trained, strictly speaking. ( Snoke had been adamant in taking on one apprentice and one apprentice only, and Kylo Ren had been it. ) The rest are formidable warriors with various areas of specialization. They have all been trained in lightsaber combat, similar to Stormtroopers. However, unlike Stormtroopers, their propensity for creativity and thirst for violence remains unchecked by the hierarchical standards of obedience that General Hux and Captain Phasma are so eager to promote.
( It's halfway through the debriefing that she's asked for that he realizes putting the Knights' abilities into verbal representation doesn't do them justice. Despite the splitting headache that's beginning to wreak havoc behind his eyes, Kylo reaches out and grabs her elbow before they're able to get too much further into whatever task she's going to throw herself into. He doesn't wait for her permission but shoves his way into her thoughts like jamming his foot between a door and its frame, shouldering it wide open and letting a flood of images and sensations pour from his memories into her thoughts with all the power of a hurricane.
Ji is nearly as tall as he is and just as fast, and they duel to first blood - hers - during a reconnaissance trip to Moraband. She is the only other Knight to carry a saber, and it pulses green - a relic from her time as one of Skywalker's hopefuls - before she extinguishes it and trades it for the heavy blaster strapped over her back, turns to line up a target in the sights and lands a hit with deadly accuracy, an advancing party's face blown to black, charred ashy muscle and bone under the steadiness of her hands. The mask that she wears is an aberration of Mandalorian design, a twisted representation of her homeworld better suited to the house that she now serves. More images and impressions follow: the taste of blood, human and otherwise, flooding their mouths and rusting the air; screaming, crying, the vague stench of burning flesh and acrid smoke totally unlike the concoction that chokes the galley on the Falcon; a pop of electricity, not unlike the charge of a Stormtrooper's riot baton, cracking the air like with a sharp pop; an advancing figure, a dilapidated, beat up helmet, concussion grenades and primitive looking blasters arranged over the breastplate that covers his chest; the swing of a wide, heavy broadsword, the steel cut of the edge wet with black blood, a slick hood throwing the slash of the mouth underneath into shadow, red eyes glowing dark from underneath as they search for and pin.
She'll recognize them all, their shapes and figures a familiar outline against a dark blue, nearly black, sky streaked with sheets of rain and forked with lightning. Kylo, of course, has no way of knowing that she's glimpsed any of them before in a vision, though the road map that he affords her now is not the same thing she had seen upon touching Luke Skywalker's lightsaber. This isn't a vision; it's a warning. He lets go of her arm, dropping it as if it's burned him and steps back toward the wall, sweating again. His voice is strained and his throat dry. )
/quietly hides my massive knights of ren boner
Skywalker, he thinks, and resolutely does not imagine his uncle examining his blade with the kind of abject despair and resignation contingent upon the crushing totality of guilt. Instead, he nods once, shallowly, to the plan that Rey is laying out, getting the impression that she's talking more for her own benefit than for his understanding or in search of his opinion. He's given it already, and from the resolution in her tone, Kylo gets the sense that there's going to be little deviation from their course from here on out. He doesn't look forward to running to ground on Hapes, and plans to stick to the ship as much as he's able both in the interest of not drawing attention to his person as First Order fugitive - he's sure of that, regardless of what he had done to deceptively earn back some of Snoke's scuttled faith in Kylo Ren's loyalty, he is still a traitor in ways that many people will never be able to understand - but it's their only option, it seems, and he'll see it through.
Rey skips around him, and his hand uncurls from the relaxed grip on his lightsaber just in time to grab the door frame and follow her out into the main hall as she chatters at him over her shoulder. Kylo has to take several long strides to bring himself up to pace with her, and experiences no small amount of indignation as a result. His knees hurt, like they've been pressed flush to stone for hours, for days, an immense weight on his back driving the distribution of pressure to the task of his kneecaps alone, but he gives only the slightest indication of discomfort as a manifestation rippling through the Force. It's nondescript and fleeting, and it's quickly overwhelmed by the bubble of dark amusement that swells and bursts at her inquiry, curling cool fingers through his perception of the Force, a tree comprised of seven roots, sturdy trunk, black bark, at the center. He doesn't laugh or even smile, just follows her lead with heavy steps as he talks above her head. )
There are eight of us, myself included. ( It's as simple of a beginning as any. There are eight of them now, but the ranks have thinned and thickened with the culling and strengthening of their number over time. When he assumed his position at the head of their faction, there were three, including himself: all leftover Jedi hopefuls from the ruins of his uncle's collection of potentials, Force-sensitive and scared and scared of him in the wake of what he had done, rallying to his cause in an effort to prove themselves but to also stay alive. That had been enough, then, their survival instincts and desire for self-preservation above all else carving out an adequate gully in the Dark Side. One had fallen under Kylo's hand at Snoke's behest, leaving only one connection within his ranks to the boy he had once been. A Mandalorian warrior named Ji, his second in command and one of the three remaining Knights with any degree of Force sensitivity. ) Two of the others are Force sensitive, though they haven't been trained, strictly speaking. ( Snoke had been adamant in taking on one apprentice and one apprentice only, and Kylo Ren had been it. ) The rest are formidable warriors with various areas of specialization. They have all been trained in lightsaber combat, similar to Stormtroopers. However, unlike Stormtroopers, their propensity for creativity and thirst for violence remains unchecked by the hierarchical standards of obedience that General Hux and Captain Phasma are so eager to promote.
( It's halfway through the debriefing that she's asked for that he realizes putting the Knights' abilities into verbal representation doesn't do them justice. Despite the splitting headache that's beginning to wreak havoc behind his eyes, Kylo reaches out and grabs her elbow before they're able to get too much further into whatever task she's going to throw herself into. He doesn't wait for her permission but shoves his way into her thoughts like jamming his foot between a door and its frame, shouldering it wide open and letting a flood of images and sensations pour from his memories into her thoughts with all the power of a hurricane.
Ji is nearly as tall as he is and just as fast, and they duel to first blood - hers - during a reconnaissance trip to Moraband. She is the only other Knight to carry a saber, and it pulses green - a relic from her time as one of Skywalker's hopefuls - before she extinguishes it and trades it for the heavy blaster strapped over her back, turns to line up a target in the sights and lands a hit with deadly accuracy, an advancing party's face blown to black, charred ashy muscle and bone under the steadiness of her hands. The mask that she wears is an aberration of Mandalorian design, a twisted representation of her homeworld better suited to the house that she now serves. More images and impressions follow: the taste of blood, human and otherwise, flooding their mouths and rusting the air; screaming, crying, the vague stench of burning flesh and acrid smoke totally unlike the concoction that chokes the galley on the Falcon; a pop of electricity, not unlike the charge of a Stormtrooper's riot baton, cracking the air like with a sharp pop; an advancing figure, a dilapidated, beat up helmet, concussion grenades and primitive looking blasters arranged over the breastplate that covers his chest; the swing of a wide, heavy broadsword, the steel cut of the edge wet with black blood, a slick hood throwing the slash of the mouth underneath into shadow, red eyes glowing dark from underneath as they search for and pin.
She'll recognize them all, their shapes and figures a familiar outline against a dark blue, nearly black, sky streaked with sheets of rain and forked with lightning. Kylo, of course, has no way of knowing that she's glimpsed any of them before in a vision, though the road map that he affords her now is not the same thing she had seen upon touching Luke Skywalker's lightsaber. This isn't a vision; it's a warning. He lets go of her arm, dropping it as if it's burned him and steps back toward the wall, sweating again. His voice is strained and his throat dry. )
Ask questions, if you have them.