Aim. Throw. Retrieve.

The Whaladon was not a large ship. Or at least, it wasn't large enough. Not for the liking of Amos Iakona. When the Wheel had first formed it had been sparsely populated; the cargo bays were half empty, and there were rooms throughout the ship that went unused. That was no longer the case though; not anymore. The Jedi population had steadily grown, with organised classes and training sessions run throughout the day, and spaces set aside for sparring, studying, meditation, and all manner of other things that a Jedi might find himself wanting to do.

Unfortunately, Amos didn't consider himself a Jedi, despite what his midichlorian count attested. The Jedi had always been considered paragons of justice: the highest example of nobility and virtue. Amos on the other hand was a paragon of just getting it done, and his only virtue was that he seldom spoke enough to cause offense; prudence and temperence via silence, as it were. And while he did attend classes, and practiced his Force abilities as he was instructed to - with some difficulty, it must be noticed - he could not bring himself to live a fully Jedi life.

He was a soldier at his core, and he could not fight the urge to live like one. A soldier on the Whaladon was like a caged animal; and without the convenient option of wasting his free time away in a blaster range or in the comfort of a nearby bar, he did as much as he could to keep his wits and skills sharp.

Aim. Throw. Retrieve.

The knives were carefully balanced, made by Amos' own hands to perfectly suit his requirements. They were crafted with Mandalorian methods that had been taught to him by his father and, while they were crafted from more rudimentary materials than the traditional Mandalorian alloys, the number of them that he managed to regularly conceal about his person had proven decidedly useful over the years.

The craftsmanship was such that each blade tumbled perfectly through the air; and his practiced movements ensured that it flew almost the exact same trajectory each time. At the end of it's flight, the knife collided with a sheet of polywood that Amos had managed to salvage, onto which a hastily-drawn target had been painted. While Amos hadn't quite mastered the perfection necessary to land the blade in the same hole each time, not a single puncture on the battle-scarred board lay outside the designated target area.

Not yet, at any rate.

Aim. Throw -

Before Amos managed to retrieve his most recent shot - a little high and right of the spot he was aiming for, but not by so much that it would make a significant difference if he was throwing at a soft target - a sound drew his attention to an arrival at his door. Part of him wanted to answer, knife-in-hand, for a little extra intimidation of whatever inconsiderate soul had decided to disturb his downtime.

Hulking, booted feet clomped across the deck, and a fist thumped into the door control, swooshing open the entrance to his overly cramped quarters.