Session export: The Blind Leading the Blind
The Citadel, Selen 44 ABY
Florid spring bleeding syrupy into the height of Selen’s tropical summer meant that even on the mountainside, with cooler, thinner air, it was hot and particularly humid. The bright, resplendent sun beating down gilded every green leaf of the courtyard’s lawn and gardens in gold, and the skin of every guard on the wall in sweat they were well accustomed to. All those same soldiers were familiar with the figure who waited, legs folded, in front of the the largest fountain in the pavilion, Miraluka well recognizable from her long reputation, before and after death.
To others she might have been even more familiar, and to some, a complete unknown. Nonetheless, she sat primly, humming and singing to herself while painting some rocks to leave hidden about. Her invitations had been sent, and she and Marick had personally gone to fetch their fellows and bring them home. Now was the time to prepare. If they were going to go to war soon, then they should know what they were facing and have some practice for it. The Collective had hounded the Brotherhood for a decade, and longer than that conspired their genocidal plans. Their tactics were ruthless and macabre, their technology monstrous. Aided by the Children’s crystal enhancements and the Brotherhood’s own hubris in AI. They were very likely outmatched.
But they had to try.
From up the path into the courtyard from the mesa came three figures, all broad, muscular, visible tan skin and dark hair already glistening in the sun with a fine sheen of sweat from the foot trek up the mountain in the heat. Simple, dark training clothing stuck to their frames, particularly bunched under armpits and around stomachs. Nonetheless, their expressions were borderline eager and struggling for calm and wary.
To the brothers, this place was new ground.
To their father, it was hallowed. Hollowed. Haunted. And he was the ghost. Already once he’d had his turn, his try at being the revenant in these halls that would rip out the rot and restore the Throne to its proper power. That had ended with the Tameike woman spitting blood in his face while the throne room she blew up came down around their heads, bullet shot through her own chest just to bury in his. She was a horrific, disgraceful little creature, polluting the Clan with her mundane air and disrespect for their traditions…but o'sik, he respected her. And that haggard assassination attempt had been a decade ago already. From what Atyiru had told him, she was living her life as she liked now, her daughter growing and her husband-brother whatever the Fist of the Brotherhood.
It was past, now. There had been more mundane Consuls. And more who were properly gifted in the Force. More wars. More enemies. Victories, losses. The Clan had moved on, even from itself. And now he was called on my his oldest friends and brothers to help defend it. Not from within, but without– these Collective.
Atyiru was familiar, and had mentioned wanting he and Wun to meet someone. They would take what they could get from this, make sure the lads did the same, and go back to whip it into their Galerean soldiers appropriately.
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The sun beat down on the mismatched pair as they entered the courtyard, nurturing and overbearing in equal measure. Like certain Wookiees.
“Hhhummghhra nwurrr rowrigghh.”
Terran Koul grunted, turning from the lush courtyard to the two meter tall woman at his side. As usual, she looked right at home whenever they found themselves in green spaces. And she was glaring her insistence at him. Also as usual.
“Come on, Emby,” he said, and suppressed a grin at the tell-tale fond annoyance he felt from her at the nickname. “Since when have I ever been able to convince him to do anything he didn’t want?”
“Trouble with the munchkin, Terran?” The chipper voice drew his eyes to the dusky skinned woman whose call had brought them out into this heat. He glanced envyingly at the fountain behind her, then shook his head.
“Don’t let Kolot hear you call him that.”
She quirked an eyebrow in confusion. “Oh, I thought you meant-”
“No,” he chuckled, shaking his head reflexively, despite her sightless gaze. “He’s much more open to reason. Speaking of, if you could speak to Jax fo-”
“Arrrrggggg. Rumk nyrr.” Isshwarr poked him in the side, growling insistently.
Terran turned back to the Wookiee, considering her tone. “Fine, sorry. You’re right. I’ll let you handle it. We can focus on what we’re here for.”
For the first time, the Kiffar’s eyes tracked to the trio in the courtyard’s center. The stocky twins were new to him, unknown quantities for all that he had read their files. He’d been on the hunt a long time, and he’d missed a lot back home. New faces. Returning faces. His jaw clenched reflexively and he nodded his chin in their general direction. She couldn’t see it, but she’d know anyway. She always did. “Is that him?” He wasn’t looking at Atyiru, but he could feel her assent. Pasting on a smile he didn’t entirely feel, he strode forward to meet the three young men.
The courtyard was expansive, the sun oppressively hot; but as sweat beaded on his forehead and drenched him under his long, chestnut duster, it was the roiling in his gut that he focused on ignoring. Once it had been his constant companion, but time and distance had settled it. Healed it. Or so he thought. He smiled to the armored twins as he reached them, doing his best not to show his own misgivings, then turned to the taller figure next to them. As their eyes met, he felt a recoiling inside himself, that unease blossoming into something primal buried in him, still alive after all these years.
Fear. Rage. When you burn them for fuel, it’s your own soul you consume. Her voice came unbidden, even after all these years. But now, from across the expanse of time and experience, he was able to listen to his former Master’s slow, soft tenor and approve. He took a deep breath and forced himself to look into the taller man’s brown eyes, so much more measured than the rage-filled pair he had known.
“Sashar. Welcome back.”