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Your brows furrow in a furious scowl as the anger inside begins to strip reason from your mind. The animalistic, base part of your brain takes over, drowning sense and judgment in a boiling ocean of blood-red rage. Your fists clench tightly around both hilts; knuckles turning white from the strength of your grip that you imagine to be around the neck of your fat wastrel of a teacher, crushing his windpipe as he stares up at you helplessly as his weak hands ineffectually slap against your unyielding arms of iron. The disciplined stance you were holding shatters; you turn your body to face the frail, aged cripple and take a single step towards the smaller creature as your roll your shoulders and square up to it. A flash of some emotion destroys his composure, but you can’t read the expression. All you can think about is how either this display of dominance and restrained strength will cow Master Porro or escalate into a well-needed physical lesson, teaching your master to give the respect you are due. This is the only thought you can hear in your mind, it has hijacked and gained total control of your physical shell.
Master? Master Porro? No, you see no Master in front of you. You see a small being that blinks and makes the entire world, the entire galaxy small. How is this thing a Master of anything, to anything? He is not your master; he has not taught you anything except the limits of your patience and has made it evident that he has no interest to start, nor does this lifeless husk have the ability to teach anything to you. What could he even begin to teach? How to drink? You know deep in your soul, at the centre of your very being, hidden under a layer of insecure, overly harsh self-doubt, you are better than him, you are an exceptional once-in-a-generation talent with a Lightsaber. The closest thing you had to an equal was Rook, and you left him humiliated, shamed and defeated in front of an audience of the most powerful beings in the galaxy. Porro is no Master in the ways of the Jedi, it is an insult to the Jedi Order that he stands before you with this title. Mentally, you strip him of the rank. The only master you have is one you allow yourself to be shackled by.
Both your crimson eyes bore into his shit-coloured irises, causing the thing to avert his gaze anywhere to be free from the strength you exert. And then you forcibly swallow the lump in your throat, the one stealing all the vile words from your mouth. The explosive, coiled rage inside lessens as your clenched jaw slackens slightly as you drink in the site of the cringing man. You revel in the sight and feel powerful, even triumphant. Porro spots the change in your demeanour and almost instantly regains his composure as if it had never left him. He glares up at you with hate-filled eyes and the returning smirk you just stole from him.
