"I can feel it . . . like a gaping chasm, the yawning rupture spread thin across the entire outer rim . . . it feel's so empty, so lifeless . . . but wait . . . there is a hunger, a primal fury that is . . ."
His voice trailed off as he sensed the empty gap in the force.
"A rupture, a wound, it was slowly growing bigger . . . big enough to even lead to . . . no, it was far too early to make such a premature guess. Something of that magnitude . . ."
Pain wracked every fibre of his being as a masked figure reached out to him, calling and . . . he sought for something, he sought for him . . . a great hunger, all but a mask and a figure . . . it revoked all his ties to the force for but a second, then the great fury receded. Sev focused slowly, trying to recover from such a monumental feeling. He had been cut off from the force for but a second and it had struck him harder than any blade or weapon ever could.
This . . . figure was but a representation of the true problem, perhap's connected to it. The creature was hunger, it was like looking into a great rift and never looking away. The masked visage stared at him, it's eye's filled with a manic desire. Voice's uttered unintelligible syllloble's of a language even more ancient than time itself. Even these rumour's of a force known as the truth Sith paled in comparison to the threat this one posed.
It would devour the force, everything, then itself . . . simply recalling these image's sent the Jedi into a new level of pain, a new level of utter agony. He had not the strength nor the desire to attempt such again and swiftly departed from the pitch-black chamber. The voice seemed to follow him, echoing throughout every avenue of the force. It stretched around him, ensnaring him indefinetly as it closed in for the kill. The force killed him of mind and soul, but it was an illusion.
He staggered about the Enclave, desperately trying to dispell, to do away this new force. A moment later he returned to the physical world, to see a small crowd of Padawan's gathered around him, each sharing a concerned expression. He rose from the floor and pulled his hood over his head, already having suffered enough humiliation--enough pain, for one day.
He moved into a darkened corner and drew his hood away, a bucket of sweat running down his face, his breathing growing more ragged. He searched for something, just one avenue for escape. He remembered a Jedi, Vtorym.
He willed what he never thought possible, as he sent through the force a very shockwave into his unwitting target. He needed help, he needed someone, somebody. She was the first to cross his memory, his battling mind. He wondered what death would be like as he collapsed to the floor . . .
Grand Admiral of the Imperial Remnant.
"This one is constantly thinking, analyzing, strategizing. He showed no fear, but was curious, studying me in turn."
"All thoughts are worth listening to, whether later judged to be of value or not."
"I have no qualms about accepting a useful idea merely because it wasn't my own."
"Butů it was so artistically done."
―Thrawn's last words