Okay, so this is a bit of an oddity - slight change of plans, but thank CYNICAL21 for giving me an idea that was just too delicious to pass up.

Call it an interlude, perhaps.

Night of the Stormrider

(note…this is supposed to be entirely italicized but it never uploads from word that way)

With the Voice haunting my mind, I leapt onto the swoop and rode off into the night, leaving the throttles wide open, guided by an unknown hand.

I streaked across the barren dunes as the coming of darkness gradually chilled the land, though inside I burned.

And I rode - and the wind rode with me and a great fire was rising within me, and the wind rose with it. And suddenly I was a part of the wind - and it was a part of me. Until finally, I was the wind - and nothing could stand before me and I became a sandstorm, unstoppable, wild, devastating all in my path.

There was no coherent thought, for I became an embodiment of my hatred, an instrument of vengeance, as though hate had completely immersed my identity. And I heard no sound but The Voice, low, seductive.

"Goooood. Goood. You could not save her, but the privilege of vengeance awaits, my young friend."

And somehow the chill that ran up and down my spine when I heard the voice did not disturb me. This time.

They did not see me streaking towards them, the twenty Tuskens, riding single-file upon their banthas, trying to reach safety before the night storms came. How wrong they were. I ignited my saber, rapidly overtaking the column, and leaning slightly I swiped downward at the trailing rider, severed his head in a clean stroke. I felt nothing.

His companions turned, too late, attempting to bring weapons to bear, but I zoomed out of range and landed the swoop. Saber in hand I moved toward them with deadly purpose, and the battle was joined. The blade flashed and whirled, slicing gaffe sticks, blaster barrels, and bodies with terrible fluid grace. I had become the wind, and like the wind, I was everywhere at once - swirling, lashing, unrelenting - I was a man possessed, knowing nor wanting nothing save revenge, annihilation of my enemies. Time stood still for my anger, and the desert trembled at my rage. It was rumored that Tuskens feared above all the god of storms, and now he thirsted for the blood of his subjects.

None were left alive.

I still felt nothing, except for that odd, chilly caress.

"Your hate has made you powerful."

And after he spoke, there was terrible laughter, and the storm faded back into the night, while the shifting dunes and carrion birds began to hide once more the dark secrets of the Wastes.