Deleted

Death, Remembered

Quillow had awoken with a start- a rising heat had been gracing his eye-stalks, and a dull, throbbing pain thrummed in his ribs. Getting a bearing on his surroundings, he quickly realized he couldn't move. A large, rigid, and flat piece of durasteel pressed on his chest and legs, leaving only his head and most of his arms free. A growing flame ignited from sparks continued to fester to his right, begging attention. His breaths were short and labored. The piece of steel that trapped him was too heavy to move conventionally, protesting any amount of thrashing or struggling. With tired arms, Quillow centered himself- steadied his breathing. His mind took him to the banks of an autumnal river, while a wave of his four-fingered hand saw the hunk of metal gently raise itself, just enough to afford the Ithorian freedom. Quillow noted something felt off, but for now it was no matter. He stood and squirmed out of his dirtied tabard, pressing it to the flame until it was quenched. Awkwardly pulling the singed garment back over his head, Quillow took stock of himself- everything seemed to be where it should be, and save for some bruising on his ribs, there wasn't any lingering pain- at least, not physical.

His head snapped to attention as he thought of Master Welck. Quillow couldn't see him in the wreckage, and he hadn't come to his pupil's aid. The Ithorian shook his head at a dour assumption. Surely he was instead helping others, knowing Quillow was capable on his own right. But his vision of the force moments ago- the river was still. That's what had felt off. A knot of panic wound its way around Quillow's stomach and heart, tightening as the Ithorian lumbered through tarnished wreckage with trunk-like legs, finding naught a sign of Welck. Quillow was thankful his translator had survived the crash as he called for Welck.

Quillow's eyes finally came to rest on a still figure; another survivor hovered above him- Varman, Quillow believed the Jedi's name was. They acknowledged each other, but Quillow didn't need to take another step forward to recognize the body. It was the mangled, lifeless Welck. Varman continued on searching for other survivors as Quillow approached his Master's remains. Fruitlessly prodding, he felt no pulse. A flood of emotions settled over him like a cloak. Bewilderment, anger, a tinge of acceptance- but the most prominent was loneliness. It was at this moment that Quillow realized that there had always been someone in his life- Welck, the other Initiates, a member of the research team on Felucia that he had briefly befriended; Quillow knew of Varman and could make out the movements of some other survivors, but he had never felt so alone. The emotion began to bubble over.

The sound of an Ithorian wailing is a wretched noise- like the moaning of some gnarled and twisted tree before its branches snap. In the remnants of the hull, it shook the metal and the earth, reverberating and amplifying until even Quillow's own ears rang. The knot of panic loosed itself and sank into Quillow's gut where it oozed into sorrow. The Ithorian wailed again as he gripped his Master's clammy shoulder. "There is a light," Welck would say, "at the end of every bout of darkness," but this one felt like it had no end.

"If I had been faster- if I had talked you out of coming here- if I had confronted you about the woman-" Quillow accused himself. The autumnal river began its flow once more as tears welled below his spherical black eyes.

"Death is nothing to us, for when we are here, it has not come- and when it does, we are no longer here." Quillow swore he could hear Welck's words. A soothing kindling of wisdom ignited in his chest, assuaging his sorrow and regret as logic and rationale began to take root once more. The edges of his vision no longer seemed blurred, but Quillow had trouble taking his eyes off of Welck. A part of him wanted to believe he'd suddenly burst back to life, full of hope and answers. "Your fear of death comes not from knowledge of an inevitable, but in your belief that in death, there is awareness." Quillow muttered to himself, completing the thought from earlier. Quillow finally ripped his gaze away from his late Master- it fatefully came to rest on a faint blue shimmer buried amongst twisted metal. Welck's datapad. It was remarkably unharmed. Quillow plunged his hand into the detritus to retrieve it, dusting off the loose flecks of burnt material. The Ithorian stared at it a moment. Within were catalogued the memories Master Welck had taken from others, memories whose trinkets were now destroyed. This datapad would be all that remained of them.

Quillow looked from the datapad to Welck's body once more. Lowering himself so their foreheads touched, Quillow repeated the mantra-

"I would take these memories from you, that you might find peace."

Slowly standing, Quillow took a deep breath before taking stock of his own collected memories. Feeling around his belt, a few perhaps perished in the crash, but three remained: a string of tiny beads, a burnt scrap of another datapad- the rest was destroyed, and a section of black leather. Quillow tugged on their strings to make sure they were securely fastened, and walked amongst the wreckage, knowing there was nothing left for him there.



There were seven survivors. This planet was temperate- perhaps a little warm for Quillow's taste- but not unpleasant. The next few hours passed by Quillow almost autonomously; he was still in shock over what happened, and continuously harried by questions over what to do with Welck's datapad. A few times he found a finger hovering over the delete key, only to be unable to do so. On one hand, Quillow knew bearing the troubles of Welck would be a burden itself- however, he could not delete them or offer them as a token to someone to bear away, for the memories were not his to forget. On the other hand, Welck dedicated his life to their collection, and now that he was with the Force, no memory could haunt him- perhaps it was for the best that these, too, passed on with him. Would their mere presence hold him here, unable to pass forward? Wasn't the prevention of such the very thing Quillow and Welck sought?

This was what Quillow pondered as Varman and the other survivors gathered to meditate. The Ithorian wished not to burden the others with his conflict, so he sought no guidance from the others and spoke very little, only giving thanks for any condolences offered. To stamp the point, the Ithorian chose to doff his translator. Quillow's focus was only finally broken when a blaster bellowed. The Ithorian willingly gave his weapon when requested but retreated inward once more as he aided in carrying one of the injured Masters, spending the rest of the journey in thought. Quillow shared Varman's sentiment of wishing the bodies honored, but beyond this, his thoughts were all set on his future beyond this planet, which the Ithorian realized was fairly presumptive as squat wooden dwellings now rose around them. Now finally of a state of mind pertinent of a Jedi, Quillow thought it best he stay behind when Varman and Dr. Lamenk’srey traveled back to the bodies.

“There’s a mineral called Sparstite—You’re familiar with it, Master Quillow?-" He nodded. He had seen it throughout the village, and almost thought it kyber, but it felt different. Reclusive, almost. Frayed and wispy. Quillow listened intently as he plead his peoples' case. Quillow engaged in a brief inner debate once more, spawned from his earlier conflict. For a moment he weighed the importance of letting memories pass on as the elder continued his allegory, but quickly decided against it. They wouldn't be passed on, but destroyed outright. Plus, after the wizened one explained further, Quillow realized that this sparstite was even somewhat alike the bafforr trees on Ithor, though he had yet to explore sparstite's proclivity for telepathy, or more complex sentience. If the latter bore fruit, it was beholden to the Law of Life, and for each one taken, two would need to replace it. To Quillow, omnipresent laws, such as the Force, trumped those dictated by any nation, the Republic not withstanding.

Now on the metal tower, Quillow set aside his sorrows for the time being, it was time to be a Jedi. Welck was always so sure of his answers and wisdom, and Quillow hoped he could emulate. He donned his translator, pulling his green hood over his head.

"I believe that first and foremost we should gauge where we stand. I would aid Thuda in stopping the mining, but would also hear what others have to say."

The Gash

She was floating. Suspended between consciousness and unconsciousness, hardly aware of the world around her, Yerin reached out into the Force. There she saw a dry canyon—a barren riverbed, once deep, where the waters of life once flowed—a weeping wound. Her consciousness trickled out around the gash, following the branching paths of rivulets, rushing into vast pools and rivers that flowed out to the edges of her perception. Then the dull ache in her stomach blossomed into agony, pain drilling into her abdomen, and she awoke.

The smell of something burning reached her nose before she opened her eyes. Even with blurry vision, Yerin could see that she was barricaded by debris; red emergency lights flashed through the smoke, shining from somewhere deeper in the wreckage. She reached to touch her stomach only to find no wound; no blood dampened her leather vest. With the pain fading fast, she swept the debris aside with a single telekinetic push, loosening her safety belt and rising to her feet. Yerin tugged on her boots and picked up her fallen lightsaber, closing her eyes to focus on the movement she felt outside the door. A tremor in her horns, something ringing above the range of human hearing—something moving outside. Signs of life, she told herself, but she still couldn’t figure out whether or not it was a blessing. Taking a deep breath, Yerin forced the door of her compartment open; she held her lightsaber like a torch as she stepped out into the hall.

Patience, Yerin. Focus on what you can see: the ceiling, the floor, the walls, smoke, debris, the flashing of the lights, a door across the hallway, the shape of a person—a human...
“Varman? Varman Hale?”

Yerin followed him through the wreckage of the transport, the ache in her chest only growing as she silently counted the survivors and the dead. Master Taspul in particular had been well-known to her; she and her former Master had accompanied him in some of his missions to frontier planets in the last years before she was knighted. She remembered following him as he had marched into an embassy with a dozen locals in tow. The planet’s two suns had set and risen again before he had decided that the day’s work was finally done. Some of Taspul’s colleagues had called him argumentative; Yerin inwardly lamented that the Jedi Order would never get to see him argue again. As the five living Jedi gathered and carried the two wounded through the ruins of the transport, Yerin found her gaze wandering back toward them again and again until they all walked into the open air.

If the smoking ship had been a nightmare, the jungle outside was something out of Yerin’s dreams. Profusions of violet flora threatened to smother the transport like the overgrown garden of some forgotten civilization; the air was humid and rich, redolent with the sickly sweetness of humus. Quickly taking off her boots again, Yerin could almost feel the pulse of the world beneath her feet. “This planet is so rich with life,” she said, answering Varman. “And to say that there are signs of water would be a great understatement. I would not be surprised if there are inhabitants—perhaps they can help us and we can help them.”

When she reached into the Force, she felt its rivers all around her, the vital energy of the universe flowing through every root and stem, its currents branching deep into the dark earth. Everything is so alive. Her heart, in the grip of an odd almost-euphoria, leapt in her chest; her mind began to race as she contemplated the possibilities of what could be learned on this planet. Jedi aren’t supposed to feel this way, Yerin. Control yourself; passion is a reckless path. “There is no emotion, there is only peace.” The Force flowed out through the trees in every direction, swirling through the tangled forest teeming with life. Yet she felt something beyond the currents to the east: a place where energy pooled into something more permanent. There the waters of the Force rushed and stirred into the veins of homes and houses.

“There’s settlements here, some ways to the east. In this terrain, I cannot calculate how long it might take us, but there are sentients—many people, a civilization—on this planet. Hope is not lost.”

As the five carved a path through the jungle, Yerin quietly collected samples of flowers and the dew that dripped off of leaves broader than the span of her hand. She often took point, stepping over the tangle of thick roots and fording through the mist with the learned confidence of someone who had traveled to far harsher wilds for research. Her steps were soft to keep from alerting any of the local fauna; she fended off clouds of insects with swift twirls of her lightsaber. Whenever something crawled over her bare toes, she paid it little mind; there were greater concerns ahead. Tangles of vines and tree-trunks yielded to their blades as the Jedi kept hewing through the forest. The same blood-red sap—a familiar sight after building coffins in the clearing of their own accidental creation—sprayed over her blade and onto the hilt of her lightsaber. Yerin kept an eye on the residue, scraping up the drippings and bottling them as soon as the Jedi took a moment’s pause.

Despite her attempts to keep a brisk pace and a cheerful attitude, Yerin’s arms had grown sore from hacking by the time the soft light of dusk began to filter through the leaves. Then two strangers emerged from the brush, heralded by a warning shot. Though she should have been frightened by their sudden arrival, Yerin felt a terrible flutter of hope in her chest. She dropped her lightsaber and followed Varman’s lead, gesturing to the injured Masters on their stretchers. “Our friends need your help,” she said, trying three other languages when Basic was of little use, but all to no avail—she received no answer that she could understand.

Following the others out of the wilderness, Yerin looked around curiously as the group strode down an earthen walkway between the pens where squirming alien eels were being herded into nets. She listened keenly to the locals’ language, watching them speak and studying their gestures as best she could without straying behind, for she was wary of being prodded onwards by the human woman’s bowcaster. Stepping into the city, her gaze trailed over the roofs, watching people carrying baskets of vegetables through the winding paths and hanging clothes to dry. A young Twi’lek girl in an embroidered blouse peered up to her, tugging on one of her own lekku. Yerin touched the striped tendril that tumbled over her shoulder and offered her a smile; when their eyes met, the girl scurried away, rushing around a corner and disappearing into the bustle of the city.

Between the locals’ Aurebesh tattoos and a language even she had never heard before, the city was alien to even someone as well-traveled as she, so Yerin was surprised to see two familiar faces in the darkened hut. “Doctor Lamenk’srey, Doctor Astulli,” she said breathlessly. “It’s an honor to meet you two.” As the Jedi exchanged names with the anthropologists, explaining what had brought them to Bunum, Yerin piped up with questions about the Doctors’ research, admitting that she had always admired their work from a distance. “Are you the first ones from the Republic to make contact with the Bunumi?” she asked, only to have her questions quickly answered when Dr. Astulli spoke of the sparstite mine. Listening intently as the two conversed with Elder Thuda, she spared no courtesy, mimicking the anthropologists’ manners to try and coax a smile from the Elder.

With the unconscious Masters recuperating under the Onethi’s care, she spent the trek up through the village asking both Doctors about the languages of Bunum. She told herself that her mental notes could be scribbled on a datapad later, after the important business was out of the way. My curiosity cannot delay our mission—and what an arduous mission it had been. The trek through the jungle had been nothing short of onerous, all darkness and humidity and soil slick beneath her feet, yet she forgot her pains when she peered down from their perch atop the canopy. Beneath the glowing expanse of the sky—radiant with the rosy light of dusk—sunlight coruscated through veils of silver mist to bathe the treetops below.

“I’m with Quillow—we need to decide on where we stand before taking further action. And I, too, would help Thuda in stopping the mining. It wouldn’t hurt to hear how the Republic would explain its presence here and find their side of the story, even if just to find a peaceful solution, but the mining activities are desecrating the Onethi’s holy land. There are other sparstite crystals in the Galaxy; there is only one Tower of Senlev.”

The Tempest Quelled

“There is no chaos, there is harmony.”

Delste is certain that is what her Master, Nikdoris, would be saying to her if only he would rouse himself from unconsciousness to say it. She could feel it within her, her connection to the Force, stirring like a storm flecked with discordant lightning as she struggles to make sense of what had happened: one moment, she was leaning against a doorway within the spaceship, watching Nikdoris and another Knight, Varman Hale, playing an intense game of dejarik. She recalls the flickering holographic forms upon the table and the way her Master’s lip curled as he was about to dominate the match against Varman entirely. She had seen it before, the curl to his lip and the strategy of false security, and so she had looked away, having found no reason to listen to the inevitable cheers of victory from the Twi’lek.

But the laughter never came. Instead, Delste had found within the Force a tempestuous swell; a surge of strength, shock, and water that had come crashing down upon her as the spaceship was overtaken and was then left upon the firmament, shattered and grounded. When she’d come to, she had been coughing as though rain and salt were what was choking her; but now she finds her breath too thin to allow her any focus. She moves carefully through the wreckage, each step upon her left leg sending a wave of pain coursing through her limbs. It can wait. I can wait, she tells herself.

A crash to her left causes a bolt of fear to run through her - one she stifles quickly - and she turns her head to find Varman standing over the form of her master. A flash of light calls her attention to the lightsaber in the Knight’s hand, but even if she did not find her breath too weak with pain to protest, she would not be fast enough to call out to him as he lashed the blade across the leg of Nikdoris. Involuntarily wincing at the sight as her master slips back into unconsciousness, she waits for Varman to leave before crawling over debris to see for herself what had been done. The blood pooling about the floor and the scent of charred flesh in the air are enough to make her put her hand to her mouth and nose, closing her eyes to the sight. Kneeling, she reaches out through the Force to sense her master’s state; the steady downpour that was Nikdoris has quelled into a gentle rain: cold, but steady - he will live, for now.

Her gaze moves, for a moment, from the sight of her incapacitated master to the hallway which the other Knight had walked down. Reaching out further than her concern for her master, she still feels the Force crashing around her like a storm, buffeting against her and threatening to knock her over in her fear. Control it. Control it. There is no chaos, there is harmony. There is no chaos, there is… Her lip curls. There is a time and a place we could have been gone from Ilum, on a different ship, to a different world. What am I going to do, now, Nikdoris?


Aside from the pain in her leg, the trek to the village is not wholly unbearable. Delste has taken it upon herself first to assist with seeing that Master Nikdoris is transported safely, and does not fall further prey to shock or general weakness from the trauma. When the Twi’lek stirs or murmurs something unintelligible, she is there, lingering just beside. Though her touch of a leather glove likely does little to truly soothe any of his sufferings, it stills the storm in her heart to feel the warmth of her master beneath her: teeming still with life, just like the planet through which the group traverses. Though, the first blaster shot in the distance briefly brought to mind the image of a wave cut short: foam crashing down on a rock that protrudes up into the rain and the wetness but stifles the ebb and flow of the water.

“You owe me for this,” she whispers to the still unconscious form of her master as she hands her saberpike over to the strangers; no answer comes from Nikdoris, be it chiding or a joke in turn, and relief floods her chest at the silence. Even if she felt a twinge of discomfort at parting from her weapon, she finds it easier to do so when following the leads of Varman and Yerin. They have not led us astray yet, and it is not as though we have any other choice. Perhaps there will be some way we can treat our wounded if we do as they say.

When walking through the village, keeping herself close to the side of Nikdoris as Quillow aids in the carrying of Master Yen, Delste feels her eyes being drawn to the inked markings upon those who could carry them on their skin: just as eyecatching to her are those who wear the same on their clothes, be it in navy blue, or yellow, or even red. She feels bare without them, knowing that her company sticks out: perhaps her more so than the others. Even in her leather armor, her clothes were fine, and she had made the effort to tie her hair up again as they had entered the village. Now she wishes she had left it down, to hide her face and neck in their plainness from the eyes of the locals who watch, and the discomfort does not leave until they are ushered inside the tallest of the buildings.

Delste falls silent with the darkness that falls over her in the large hut; though the names of the anthropologists are familiar to her (she recalls having read of them briefly during her time on Ilum), she keeps her mouth closed to allow Yerin and Varman, whom she has found herself looking towards to lead, the right to speak and to explain their circumstances first. Her gaze falls to Nikdoris and his state alongside Master Yen, and much of the words concerning the sparstite mine falls upon her deaf ears; though, once the Elder Thuda is presented to them, she listens. His attire, the adorned sarong and the beads that glitter where they lie upon his respirator, force her attention. As Thuda’s plea is translated for their ears, Delste finds herself hanging on to every word.

To part with Nikdoris and leave him in the care of the locals is something that the Padawan finds to be the most arduous task asked of her; even with her saberpike in her grasp once more, it is not the same after having been reunited with her master after so long apart. Yet she cannot deny the way that the storm clouds within her seem to part as she walks with the other Jedi, leaving Nikdoris behind. Delste relies on listening to Yerin question the anthropologists as they walk through the village once more; she feels the urge to pose her own questions to the women or the Elder himself. Though she burns with curiosity at the Aurebesh markings that the locals bear, and the larger cultural relevance of the different colors that they wear, she stifles the words. I should not ask. It may look like vanity, and that is unbecoming. At… at the least, I can question the doctors on my own, away from prying ears. When they stop, high above the treetops and peering down at the jungle expanse below, glittering with sunlight and the pinkness of dusk, Delste rests her hands at her waist, bumping the leather case of her saberpike aside to do so. Now that the question has been presented by Varman to them all, she speaks.

“I see no reason why we should not help, even if that help is simply reaching out to the Republic and hearing what they have to say: if they even know of the significance of the Tower of Senlev. These people have helped to bury our dead and they nurse our injured. Let us see if we can find a resolution with the Republic. We can decide our next course of action from there.”

The End of the Beginning

Fractions of a second. That was all that mastery over the Force afforded to Master Yen in her final moments aboard their transport ship. Her forehead, usually creased with smiles and laughter, sat smooth. Her eyebrows, normally raised in suspicion of her young apprentice, lay relaxed. Her eyes, glistening with grit and determination, shifted purposely across the room. A calming stillness gripped her, as she allowed the Force to dictate her next move. Around her the world was being torn asunder. Sirens blared as metal sheared but there the Master Jedi sat, like the eye of a storm.

Sunao, on the other hand, hated space. To him it was a black sea of nothingness that separated world from world. “It’s 99.99% empty, you know.” He would tell others, a deep shudder escaping him. “It’s all just so… isolating, right?” Even in the largest of the Republic's ships the Padawan felt it, and now here they were, their glorified rust bucket shattering in a hail of asteroids. His heart could be seen visibly pounding through his robes, threatening to break from its cage. His eyes, wide with panic, darted furiously around the room as he fumbled around with his seatbelt. Fear enveloped him.

Usually concerned with the faffing about of her young apprentice, the Force drew Master Yen’s attention elsewhere. She watched, eagle eyed, as several jagged shards ripped from the wall in front of them, followed by an oversized piece of panel. In one sweeping motion, the woman gracefully lifted her arm, shooing away the fragments as they flew towards Sunao. Contrastingly, the Padawan focus was divided. The Force spewed forth a tornado of colours, all swirling around and oversaturating the young man's vision. By the time he spotted the hefty chunk of metal, it was too late. His arm had barely enough time to leave his side before it connected with the head of Master Yen. Perhaps it was the lack of oxygen as they entered the atmosphere or perhaps it was the agony of the scene unfolding in front of Sunao. Either way in that moment he lost consciousness. A final picture of Master Yennifer Reyes' warm smile would be forever etched into the young Jedi’s mind.

---

A bright crimson encompassed the room as Sunao woke with a jolt. The sirens had cut but the surrounding room still basked in the red hue of the emergency lighting. Flopped next to him, Yen was in a bad way. Blood flowed from a sizable gash on the side of her head as the rest of her sat lifeless. Frantically, the Padawan clawed at the seat belt release, calling out in vain to his Master. Freeing himself, he dropped to a knee beside the woman, removing her restraints and laying her out on the floor. Her skin was cold, clammy and quickly greying. His ill-fitted sleeves, already shredded in the crash, were torn clean from his person as Sunao did his best to dress the wound. Sweat dripped from his brow as he wound the fabric around Master Yen’s head while his chest tightened. Tying it off, Sunao raised a hand over her body, reaching out into the Force. With bated breath he hoped to call forth the sunshine yellow that normally derived from the very centre of her being. Instead, the world around him greyed.

The Padawan shook his head, slamming his eyes shut and straining as he tried to reach further into the Force. Nothing pierced through the blackness of the back of his eyelids, he couldn’t even conjure a single shade in his mind’s eye. Opening back up, he was met with a greying world once more. Knots twisted his stomach as his heart sank like an anchor being dropped at sea. As the man fell back onto his behind, his mind went into overdrive.

What is happening? Could Master Yen be dead? Or has something worse happened?

Suddenly a lightbulb sparked in his brain. Fumbling forward, the young apprentice reached out and took his Master by the wrist. A pulse weakly tapped his fingers, she was alive but barely. The Jedi collapsed, falling back once more in a heap of exhaustion. Behind him, the door whooshed open and a long shadow of a man loomed up and over Sunao. A gust of fresh air washed over the cabin, cooling him as it hit the beads of sweat dripping down the back of his neck. Nary a word was exchanged between the two, save for a sharp gasp from the stranger. It was possible the scene spoke for itself, or maybe the Force had told the shadow what they needed to know. Either way it wasn’t long before Sunao felt the rush of the door as it closed shut. There, in the dimming light, a single tear broke the dam, giving way to a river as they flowed down his cheeks.

---

The Padawan emerged from the crashed ship sometime later, long after the rest of the surviving crew had gone in to remove his Master from their room. His hair was in disarray, loose strands were strewn from side to side while specks of dirt- kicked up from the digging of graves- clung to the wetness of his cheeks. Trudging past the others without so much as a word, Sunao perched himself atop a midsized rock. Crossing his legs, the Mirialan hoped to avoid any small talk by appearing to be in deep meditation. Chatter from the others filled the air as Sunao attempted to push out into the Force once more. Exhaling weakly, the Padawan peered out deep into nature, reaching out for that familiar feeling. The jungle, alive with the most vivid of colours, began to drain. Magenta’s, violets and bone whites of his surroundings slowly wasted away to a lead-like grey.

Suddenly light headed, the young man’s frame started to wobble. His breath shortened to quick bursts, just as the tick of his heart began to increase momentum at a serious rate. Were it not for the mention of a nearby village by the Togruta, Sunao may have keeled over.

---

Whatever was left of the Apprentice’s elegant garments were quickly being torn away by the relentless flora of the jungle. An alarm from his datapad had been quickly dismissed. Were he anywhere else in the galaxy then the reminder to exfoliate his T-Zone would’ve been followed to the letter. Instead, he trudged along behind the crew as they carved a path forward with his master in tow. He hadn’t shared one word with the others and couldn’t even recall their names at this point. Sunao was so far gone, he barely registered the laser blast, only truly coming to his senses when he bumped into the back of one of his compatriots. The two humanoids, one Twi’lek and the other an actual human stood, barrels front, covered from head to toe in a series of tattoos. Oddly enough, despite their tribal-like appearance, the two sported visible cybernetic implants, suggesting there was possibly something more nefarious afoot in their intentions. Speaking a language no-one seemed to recognise, they gestured to the crew to hand over their weapons.

“Yen would’ve known their language.” Sunao thought, easily departing with his lightsaber. “Or at least she would’ve known how to temper the situation.” He continued, noting the concerned look of his fellow Jedi as they were led out of the dense jungle and into a clearing.

Sunao was tempted to reach out into the Force upon entering a substantially sized village. It was late afternoon and the members of the town were beginning to engage in their evening rituals. From smells to sounds, the air was filled with all sorts of delights to celebrate the end of the day. Full of life, the Padawans' curiosity urged him to take in the evocative colours of the world around as it flowed with such excitement. “No.” He reasoned, glancing behind to the ailing body of his Master. “I have to get something right.”

Finally, stopping by a roaring bonfire near the centre of town, the group was introduced to a well-dressed and untattooed duo. The older, shaggier looking Jedi of their cohort took the lead, skipping out pleasantries to plainly ask for help. The Twi’lek woman clicked a finger for attention and pointed towards the two wounded Masters. Several villagers came out from the woodwork and whisked the stretchers away while Sunao followed closely behind, leaving the others to converse with the two foreign women.

---

Paying the Mirialan no mind as he stood in the corner, the healers got to work, fawning over the two Jedi in front of them. Orders were barked as helpers scurried in and out of the hut, bringing in a range of herbs, salves and soups. The rest of the survivors entered the hut just as the wounds were being freshly wrapped once more. The two anthropologists, as Sunao came to learn, gestured for them all to leave their compatriots to heal and follow them up to a lookout spot atop a towering tree. Mention of the Republic being camped not too far away filled the Padawan with excitement for the first time since they had hit the planet's surface. His mind ran wild with the thought of proper treatment, rescue and salvation, practically ignoring whatever else was said.

Relinquishing command, the unshorn Jedi posed the question to the group of what next. One by one the others spoke up with talk of getting involved in some sort of conflict that had arisen. Sunao, on the other hand, had a different idea.

“I’m heading over to Republic’s camp regardless. No doubt they’ll be better equipped to deal with Master Yen’s injuries and they may also have a way off world for us.” The Padawan paused, feeling what appeared to be an aura of awkwardness at his statement. “As a back-up plan of course.”

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