Khor-Vala System - Chutra 44 BBY
It was quiet here. The constant noise that swarmed in his ears like angry wasps, the pressure built up behind his eyes and the knots knitted into his shoulder blades from constantly being vigilant and ready and projecting power—all of it was absent here.
The planet was covered in thick jungle foilage, which was probably why the rest of the isolated systems denizens deigned to remain on Valkor Prime and not venture down to Chutra. It was not a kind or gentle place, with dark sand beaches the only break from the sea of trees and vines and local fauna and predators.
He had once been known as the Dragon. Now, he was simply a man trying to take things one day a time. Here, he was just Wuntila. Local hunter and recluse.
The most important step a man can take… a distant voice had told him. Words he had forgotten, like names, buried down deep in the recesses of his iron-trap of a mind. They were important, but for some reason so distant they did not seem to matter.
What mattered was here, and now. He had built a hutt with his own hands with materials provided. He had hunted, secured resources, and made a loose local alliance with the Togruta tribes that roamed the rest of the planet.
Like him, they were also trapped in this system. With no way to return to the larger Galaxy.
Maybe that was for the best. He deserved this. Ever since his ship had been caught in a series of hyperjumps gone wrong, and a gravity well of some kind lurched him out and into this system into a crash landing, he had been cut off from home. Did they even wonder where he had gone to? Probably not. He had done that intentionally.
Wunitla exhaled slowly and rose to his feet. He grabbed his satchel and began to hike back to his hutt, and slung the wild sand-panther he’d killed for the weeks meals.
When he arrived back, he was surprised to see a Togruta woman waiting for him. She was short but solidly built, her montrails were all white, and her skin was ochre tinting towards red. Her white face tatoos were simple and flanked her eyes.
“Nice haul,” she said, idly leaning on a long vibrospear and admiring the sandpanther carcass over his shoulder.
The Human-Theelin stopped at the sound of her voice. A wry, confident, almost arrogant smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. He met her gaze and narrowed his eyes. He bowed his head and continued on silently, pushing past the Togruta woman, striding with intent, past his hut and into the undergrowth.
“Don’t be like that,” the Togruta woman sighed, her voice suddenly resigned. She looked down at the floor, “we need your help.”
She turned to see his silhouette disappearing into the thick foliage, a cerulean flash of his wide back caught by the dappled light of the setting sun, Khor-Vala.
“Wait,” she pleaded, jogging into the flora after him. “Where are you going?”
Wuntila could hear her behind, hacking at vines and branches with her vibrospear as he stepped confidently around and amongst the bush.
“Downwind,” he shouted as he emerged into a small glade.
The Togruta woman stumbled in shortly after him, dried leaves and wet vines clinging to her lightweight attire. A dark, murky rivulet cut through the undergrowth at the end of the glade, pulling an infinite source of leaves and debris into the surprisingly strong current. In the corner of the glade were a series of drying racks next to a rudimentary makeshift butchery table nestled against the gnarled trunk of a dead, silvering tree. Both the table and the tree were stained a deep, dark red. Wuntila rolled the sandpanther carcass from his broad shoulders. It landed with a wet thud onto the table.
“I won’t help you again. Your troubles are your own.” He dropped his satchel next to the table and reached up, pulling an improvised bone knife from a nook in the tree. He drove it hard into the block next to the table and turned, cupping water from the rivulet over his shoulder in a vain attempt to wash the thick, coagulating blood from his skin. His left hand wandered down to his navel, tracing the raised scar of the tattoo brandishing him a di Tenebrous Arconae.
“They steal our food, resources. They sneak into our village at night. Our homes…” She stepped forward, her voice was tinged with equal parts hope and desperation, “you helped us once. Please… Help us again.”
“I—” Wuntila stood bolt upright. His head snapped to the left.
“Wha… What is it?”
“Back to the hut. Now.”
—
Encanis II Khor-Vala Space
Marick glanced over the read out on the ships terminal display again. He reviewed the information. Again. Then once more, for a third time. It couldn’t be him. But the reports were clear. Blue-skinned Theelin hybrid. There were not many of them, and he had always stood out among any lineup. He studied the satelite images again, and then reached out with the Force.
The Force Lord tapped into the well of power that bound all living things in the universe together. He dug deeper into the slipstreams of the Force, to a connection forged in blood and brotherhood, no matter what had pushed them apart.
It was there. A faint thread. Thin, but there.
He’s been here this whole time?“ the Hapan thought, brow furrowing. It would certainly explain why his signal had suddenly vanished those years ago. Marick had assumed he simply did not want to be found. He had every right to feel that way, of course, so who was Marick to judge? A lot had happened since then. Perhaps time was indeed the one variable that none of them could control.
The Exarch grit his teeth. The recovery mission was progressing on the uncharted planet the Envoys had crash landed on. The Council couldn’t spare more resources than they already had, so Marick had decided to go himself. It was his responsibility, after all, and the Infiltrator-class Star Courier had been built for exactly this sort of operation.
The ship’s cloaking field was activated, letting him skirt alongside the Envoy Corps and Iron Legion ships. This was now a personal matter- and his duty as an Arconae clashing once again with his duty to the Brotherhood.
Things were different now, though. Pravus was gone. Telaris was gone. And there was nothing stopping Darth Amarok from taking a detour.
"I trust you can handle the rest?” Marick asked over the short term comms.
“It will be taken care of, Mr. Tyris,” Charron replied smoothly, the dark skinned mans eyes wrinkling at the corners behind his glasses.
And with that, Marick cut off the comms and set in coordinates to ease the ship down towards the planet Chutra. Chasing a ghost, or perhaps, his friend.
-=[]=-
Dxun
Predictably, it was raining. Heavy drops rattled the large leaves from the old trees surrounding the comparatively flat clearing, their twisted and gnarled roots an earthy mirror to the winding, twisting canopy above. Teal light shone through the gaps in the natural ceiling, each highlighted by a steady trickle of water to the two combatants below. Onderon shone through the clouds, giving the entire moon of Dxun an ethereal feel. On the bark of the trees, both the towering sentinels and the fallen logs, a glowing neon blue lichen grew. Under bare feet, the ground was a mixture of surprisingly soft grass which instinctively wound up and grasped anything touching it emanating heat, and unyielding earth. The rain formed puddles which shook as each rivulet made contact with the surface, refracting the light from Onderon’s teal face and the blue lichen alight, setting light dancing across the features of the trio.
Jordan Erinos’s bare feet shifted, tugging free of the thin strands of grass, some snapping and wrapping around his ankles. He paid them no heed and surged forwards.
Sashar moved fluidly, taking a full, measured step back, then planted himself, his legs wide apart, his hands moving to greet his apprentice. Jorad bounced on the balls of his feet and despite the tingling of danger - an instinctual voice honed from years of fighting - he launched himself at the larger man, one foot aimed at Sashar’s head.
Both hands shot out to grab Jorad by the extended leg and thigh, but at the last possible moment, the youth whipped his leg back and twisted his torso. His other heel snapped out like a viper’s bite and caught Sashar in the chest, sending him flying to the ground, winded. Jorad landed in a ready stance, turning to face his adversary, his hands up, guarding his face. Sashar laughed and sat up, rubbing his bare chest where Jorad had kicked him and the youth dropped his guard, smiling in response. His twin brother, Beten, grinned and yelled in triumph from the sidelines.
“[You little di’kut! You pulled that blow]” He accused in mando’a.
“[If I didn’t, I’d have broken ribs. Your guard is osik without a lightsaber.]”
Sashar grinned ruefully and wiped the rainwater from his face with an equally wet hand, slicking his hair back from getting in his face. Both were sweating heavily, and whilst the downpour was near-constant, neither were cold, despite only being clad in loose shorts suited to the tropical climate. Sashar had chosen the site for their seclusion for exactly that reason: near the equator of the moon, the Evaar Chaaj was temperate, and almost tropical some days (though very prone to monsoons and thunderstorms). Jorad offered him a hand and pulled him to his feet and Beten approached the pair, eager for his own turn to spar with Sashar.
The Patriarch’s face darkened momentarily and he glanced up through the mottled canopy of trees, heedless of the unending downpour and occasional rumblings of thunder.
“[What is it?]” Beten asked, squinting and looking up, moving closer to Sashar to try and follow his eye-line.
Sashar said nothing for a long moment, before grimacing. “A ship. C’mon. Back to camp. We need to get ready for our guest.”
The vessel that landed shortly thereafter as the men traversed their home jungle was – thankfully – piloted by a droid and marked with a familiar insignia to at least Sashar. It was also painted in a chromatic rainbow, making it incredibly obvious and almost distracting as it descended through the atmosphere and landed nearby.
There came no tromping boots of multiple troops. No explosions. No sense of threat or harm. Rather, as a tall, willowy woman in white eventually emerged through the undergrowth, with her came a wave of warmth, not like the humid heat of Dxun, but like a warm sea, a gentle, patient embrace, one that would take and bear the weight of one’s muscles and burdens and for a moment lift them in salvation, the weightlessness of true rest and peace. This feeling of embrace, a mother’s touch never known or long forgotten, permeated her every step closer and the white curl of her welcoming smile in her sepia face. Golden lines limned her limbs, and a long white braid, halfway down her back, was plastered flat from the rain. She didn’t seem to care about how soaked she was or the readiness of the warriors. She just smiled.
Hopped on her toes three times.
And then dashed right for Sashar, flinging herself at him in a hug, absolutely heedless of any being impaled or shot or such silly things for her actions.
Kirra followed a bit shyly behind her mother. She held back from running to the man that she knew was very important to father, and observed. Like he’d taught her to do. Watching people was different than seeing them, so she focused both her Force-vision and her regular sight on the man to study him before moving off to someone on the side.
She padded over to a spirit that seemed to be hovering and made a quiet conversation. Momma must have missed it, or she was too excited.
So she introduced herself to the spirit as Kirra Aarave Tyris, daughter of Marick and Atyiru. She offered a polite curtsey, and even a proper greeting in Mando'a. They talked for a bit, she smiled brightly, and then bowed again. Then quietly moved to stand off to the side behind her mother, her small frame letting her remain mostly unnoticed.
He knew better than to resist his reflexes. He gave way, allowing his body to move. Flashes of tourmaline whipped past him. His body responded, flowing like the wind-whipped wheat fields of Mina-Rau.
Energy bow bolts.
His preternatural movements betrayed his heavyset frame as he arched himself backwards, another bolt vaporising the air half an inch from his abdomen. He pushed back onto open palms, propelling himself into the air with the light spring of a young branch.
A respite. He dropped low, capitalising on the window. He could sense four. No, five. One gave off a familiar resonance, albeit faint.
Force-sensitive, but weak.
Wuntila rolled towards the butchers table. Another bolt released with an electric crack. It made light work of the sand panther carcass atop the table, ripping through the thick musculature of the feline. The acrid smell of burnt flesh and hair tried to assault Wuntila’s nostrils, but he paid little heed.
He pressed himself against the thick trunk of the blood-stained tree next to the table. He peered around the trunk. The still-setting sun was low in the sky now, breaking occasionally through the interlinking canopies of different flora overhead. Dark flashes in the distance darted between trees, almost holo-like in the ethereal light.
He stood, wrenching the bone knife free from the butcher’s block. He waited for an eternal second until another dark flash appeared from behind a nearby trunk. A flick of the wrist sent the knife in the general direction of the assailant. Wuntila reached out with the Force, guiding and honing the knife in on the target. A thud preceded a hollow, voiceless whelp of pained air.
In the same movement as the throw, the Arconae turned and sprinted to the opening of the clearing. The Togruta, in her haste, had left her vibrospear.
Two cloaked figured materialised from the twilight, one from each side of the glade, brandishing old Republic-era vibroblades. Even in the deceptive light, the assailants’ hoods failed to mask their montrals.
A third assailant—slimmer, female—emerged into the glade holding an energy bow. She ‘knocked’ an energy bolt and gave the Dragon a one-eyed stare.
-=[]=-
Dxun
Sashar grinned ruefully and hugged the almost celestial being before him back enthusiastically, much to the confusion of his companions.
“Slice, look at you. Good as new.”
Atyiru laughed. It was tinkling, melodic sound that - rather than cut through the cacophony of the nighttime jungle - merely joined the sheer nature of it. “You’re one to talk! Your spirit’s…” Her voice trailed off as she stared at him through the Force and really saw the Erinos Patriarch. Coming back from the dead had clearly left its scars, if not physically, then definitely on his soul. It was like a part of him was missing. A wound in the Force itself. It was small, easy to miss, but Atyiru was a Miraluka. She was a seer in the most profound, fundamental way imaginable. She would have been able to spot that from orbit, let alone right next to him.
“Yeah. We’ll need to swap stories on how we both did it.” Sashar forced a grin.
Jorad and Beten both shifted, clearly uneasy with a stranger their Alor was so comfortable with and Sashar laughed. “Forgive my manners, Lady Atyiru. This is Jorad and Beten. They’re both Erinos. We were just sparring.”
Atyiru dazzled them both with a smile that conveyed instant acceptance and warmth and a hint of mischief and it was everything both of them could do not to be instantly infatuated. In unison, they stammered greetings and shifted, suddenly self-conscious at their relative lack of attire. “Sparring. In the middle of possibly the most dangerous jungle in the known galaxy. Without any weapons.” Each sentence was light, hinted at humour, and left little doubt in the others’ minds as to her opinion on the complete disregard for safety they were displaying.
“What brings you here, Ats?” Sashar said, his grin lessening slightly. As much as he’d missed his fellow Arconae, he knew it was an awful long way for her to travel, and there would be a reason.
She must be kriffing desperate.
Kirra waited patiently and listened three times as she commited Jorad and Beten’s names to mind. She did not want to be rude, but felt it was important she introduce herself.
“Master Sashar,” Kirra said as she stepped up next to her mother’s side. She fought the urge to lean on her, and instead stood squarely to face the Erinos Patriarch. “I am Kirra Aarave Tyris. Papa has spoken of your tales, and it is an deli–an honor to meet you.” She pounded her first gently against her own chest twice.
Khor-Vala System Chutra Marick
The Encanis II, even when docked in the strip of land he was able to set down on, was able to shimmer out of view. Obviously if someone were to walk into it they’d notice, but to the passing eye it would be not visible.
Marick followed the handheld scanner as he reached out through the Force at the same time. It was him. There was no mistaking that aura. But something was…off about it. Like seeing a fully assembled jigsaw puzzle with a few pieces still missing to complete it and render it whole.
The scanner he had was unique. It could be attuned to find kyber crystals. True to his hunch, wether it be fate, or the suggestions of the Living Force itself, he waded through the jungle to find the remnants of a crashed ship. He didn’t need to do a lookup to know it was Wuntila’s former vessel. After all these years, he had crash landed here…and had no way off world or back home.
The Hapan waded silently across the jungle terrain, moving with purpose, until he found a pile broken-off ship hull plating covering a dark spot in the ground.
With a casual movement of the Force Lord’s wrist, the metal plates lifted up into the air and floated off in different directions before settling calmly up against the jungle foilage.
He knelt down to the spot they covered, his scanner flashing wildly. This had to be it. Marick leveled his hand with the spot and channeled his will through the Force. In response, the sand and dirt and vines began to sift, unfurl, and flee from the epicenter of his focus as he pushed down, the pressure of his power mimicking the motion of his palm.
It wans’t long before he found it. A set of heavy armor, battered, tattered, but one he would never forget fighting along side. It was the armor of the Dragon of Selen.
Beneath it, a molded-wrap hilt with a familiar crossguard sat stained with dirt and mud.
Marick’s stoic features creased into a faint grin as he allowed himself a rare moment of triumph.
He moved Wuntila’s lightsaber carefully tucked into a cloak pocket.
Now to find the Dragon… he thought as he gathered up the pieces and carried the armor back to the ship before setting out to follow the trail of his signature through the Force.
“Besides meeting your lovely family, of course? Jorad, Beten,” she greeted, ears wiggling mirthfully at their stammers. “And besides mine introducing herself to you…”
Atyiru’s hand touched her daughter’s back lightly, encouraging and proud, radiating as much through the Force.
“At least, one of them. Marry and I have three now.”
To this, Kirra nodded just so, her chest still puffed, her little chin lifted, her twin white pigtails wobbling and that single too-blue eye piercing.
“I am also an eldest sister. I want my little brothers to be safe too, even though fighting is quite not good at all and droid lives matter ever so.”
“You see,” there was a ghost of humor to the Miraluka’s words, a pun left unsaid, “the Brotherhood intends to face an enemy. Right into the jaws. Very many are going to die. I wish it could all be prevented, but it cannot. It can only be lessened for awhile. And having you beside us would end the violence that much sooner.”
“Zandro says you should come back,” Kirra added primly, looking back over her shoulder before turning to face the man again. “He also says: ‘aliit ory'sha tal'din.’”
Wuntila extended his arm out to his side, the rest of his body still. The slim Togruta holding the energy bow shifted her weight slightly. Her breathing sped up and there was an almost imperceptible shake of the energy bow.
She was uneasy.
The vibrospear leapt from the soft decay underfoot and planted itself firmly in the Arconan’s outstretched palm. In one fluid motion, he spun around, sweeping the bladed staff in a wide arc around him—and met the loosed bolt from the energy bow square in the right shoulder.
Fire bit into flesh. Acrid. Burned skin, hair. Adrenaline exploded. The Dragon roared.
He shifted his shoulder back and swung the vibrospear in sweeping overhead strikes with his left hand. He caught one of the cloaked figures approaching from the sides, knocking the vibroblade clean out of their hand with his first sweep and, with the second, he dragged the blade raggedly across the Togruta’s torso.
An instinctive warning pulsed through him, familiar and sharp, a counterpoint to the adrenaline already coursing through his chest.
He dropped into a crouch just in time. The other vibroblade hummed past, cleaving the air his neck and head had occupied a split second earlier. He drove up and forward, his wounded shoulder now leading, low. He struck the assailant, allowing their weight to travel over his back in one smooth motion. The cloaked figure landed flat-backed in the undergrowth, the fall driving the air from their lungs.
He did not stop moving, closing the distance of the glade with the speed and precision of a TIE bolt. The bow-wielding Togruta barely had time to register the hulking form of the topless Human-Theelin hurtling towards them.
Wuntila leapt into the air with the strength and grace of his prized sandpanther, both hands planted firmly on the vibrospear, its tip trained on the Togruta’s chest. As he reached the apex of his leap, he felt his body jerk hard to the left, his poise and grace replaced with a clumsy fall.
He landed hard in the coursing rivulet at the edge of the glade. The ice cold water shook him from his rage-fuelled aggression, biting hard at the new energy bolt wound in the hollow above his hip.
There were karking five of them… Wuntila thought as he rolled bodily out of the water, coming to a halt at the feet of his attackers. He felt the light thud of a dart landing in his chest. He tried to push himself to his feet, but instead stumbled forward, the assailants stepping gracefully aside to allow him the opportunity to land face-first in the brush.
-----
Dum. Dum. Dum. Was it his percussive headache?
Dum. Dum. Dum. His heartbeat pulling at his wounds?
Dum. Dum. Dum. No…
Dum. Dum. Dum. A drumbeat. A familiar warmth, violent and fleeting, blooming on his exposed skin. Fire.
Light flickered and danced through the makeshift blindfold as he roused. His head… it must have been years since his last drink, but he knew the familiar after-effects of intoxication.
He was not the type to feint from a couple of wounds, especially not those that he could heal with the will of the Force in a matter of hours. This had to be something else.
A tranquilliser, he thought, feeling every beat of his heart in his temples.
The Brotherhood’s Gray Fang was not known to the denizens of Khor-Vala, let alone the remote, tribal world of Chutra. In fact, the name really only held weight in the unknown regions and outer rim territories and was likely fading to memory as the man who had opposed and terrorized the Collective for so long had also changed.
That was okay, as the man that stalked through the forest was no longer a Shadicar or an assassin at all for that matter. He was just a man, with a lot of skills that made him particularly dangerous to people who went after his limited friends and family.
The Togruta sentry looked to their left, and when they looked back to the right, their neck continued the motion into an unnatural twist that created a faint pop and crack sound. The body slumped bonelessly to the shrubs below as the cloaked figure that had once stood behind them moved on to the next target.
His footsteps were not as light as he thought. A branch snapped.
The second sentry was more prepared, and while leaping backwards called out with an animalistic warning cry. Distant shapes began to scrambled and move in the distance.
Life before death he thought as he reached for the molded lightsaber hilt at his belt. The dual-phase blade, tuned to its stun setting, would help limit casualties, certainly. But this was not Marick Tyris, the father, the Exarch, the Arconae, or the mentor.
He was also Darth Amarok, and was not about to allow raiders who prayed on weaker tribes to hurt his friend after all this time searching for him.
The black-cored blade with the white outline split the evening air like an ominous omen of what was to come. The Force Lord vanished from sight, only to materialize behind the Raider in the blink of an eye.
“Hello,” Marick said quietly, his voice low, calm, and grave. The tip of his lightsaber flickered before it seared through the Togruta’s chest cavity as they silently gasped and then slumped forward, dead. The Hapan had not activated the stun setting.
Two sentries attempted to flank Marick. Still gripping his lightsaber in one hand, the Force Lord’s looked left and then right, and the motion seemed to trigger two new beams of cerulean light to appear. Twin lightdaggers, telekinetically guided by the focus of his will, darted out in each direction, each swarming, circling, and then tearing into their respective Togruta sentry to bring about their death wails.
With the two telekinetic lightdaggers covering his flanks, Marick stalked forward into a firing line of Togruta bowmen. Their energy bows coiled back as five of them let loose a volley at the intruder.
Marick did not even raise his saber to block or parry. The Force warped around him into an arcane shield, absorbing each of the deadly lances of light with a opalescent shimmer.
Marick blinked a few times, and then made a pushing gesture with his free hand and sent the volley of energy arrows back at their respective marksman. Lights flickered as five Raiders fell to the ground, smoldering. He continued forward, moving at a steady pace towards the Raiders camp.
From the shadows to his left, a prone Togruta that had been covered cleverly in leaves and foliage fired off a set of darts towards the Hapan. Marick slipped past the first, but the second grazed the skin of his exposed neck beneath his hood.
Marick cought the tip between his fingers and then studied it. He dabbed at the tip with his tongue. “Bitterbane and deathnettle? Primitive, but effective I suppose.” He shrugged and then tossed the dart aside as his body instinctively counteracted the basic poison. His Master had made him learn to cope with much worse injections.
Before the shocked Raider could reload their weapon, one of Marick’s lightdagger extinguished his life. Both cerulean blades returned to his sides as he entered the camp, looking around for more obstacles, following the faint trail of the presence he had been looking for.
The leader of the Raiders emerged from a tent, holding a towering Theelin-human hybrid with a vibrodagger to his throat.
“Take no more a step forward,” the lead Togruta sneered, indicating with his knife across the clearly drugged mans throat. He was bound by the hands in thick knots of vine and fibercord.
Marick’s face remained its usual mask of cold indifference. But when he saw Wuntila’s face, his eyes softened with what could almost be considered as long-held back relief.
He’s alive, he thought as he spoke, “I strongly suggest letting him go.”
“No. You will go. Leave or he die!” the Leader barked, his Basic a bit broken and crude.
Marick titled his head slightly. “Suit yourself,” he said tonelessly, as he locked eyes with Wuntila and gave his old friend and mentor an almost imperceptible nod.
Wuntila groaned groggily but then growled as fire flared in his chest. The Theelin-hybrid slammed his head against the leaders temple, staggering and sending him sprawling backwards.
Marick took two quick steps, closed the distance, and made a single sweep with his lightsaber. The Leaders head rolled from his shoulders as the rest of the body slouched forward and then eventually toppled flat to the floor. The Hapan disengaged his lightsaber and in one smooth motion moved to catch a staggering Wuntila under the shoulder.
It was quiet in the camp clearing, no bodies left to roil or whimper in pain.
“Hey,” Marick said, the gift of the Force the only reason his lean frame was able to support Wuntila’s muscled mass.
The Dragon leaned readily into the Hapan. It was a welcome relief from the pain that returned, radiating through his body.
He closed his eyes, tapping into the invisible currents of the Force and willed it to his wounds. Slowly, he felt the charred and festering flesh begin to knit together from the inside out. The infected warmth immediately began to dissipate. In a few hours, only scars would remain, another tally on his weathered and war-worn skin. He steadied himself, standing on his own two feet, and opened his eyes.
Eleven years. Eleven years, and Marick’s face had barely changed. But those eyes, they told a story far, far longer. They carried the weight of the Fang’s torments, woes, and trials. The eyes of a sage in the face of a saint.
“Thanks,” Wuntila growled, his voice low and gravelly from the after-effects of the toxin, “been a while.”
Marick smiled. His eyes seemed to get bluer, if that was at all possible. A smile was a rare sight from the Dragon’s fellow Shadesworn, at least it was of the man he used to know. The Gray Fang’s eyes disengaged; Wuntila followed his gaze. It was dark, too dark to see anything through the tangle of trees. Wuntila looked back to his friend—a man who he had loved and lauded, loathed and lambasted.
Marick nodded, and began walking gracefully, intentionally, into the darkness, beyond the reach of the firelight. Wuntila fell into step behind, a limp in his gait, his hand pressed instinctively at the healing wound on his hip.
Sashar stopped as if he’d been punched in the gut. His mouth worked for a moment as he regarded the diminutive youth before him, speaking his dead brother’s words.
“What… what did you say?”
Atyiru smiled and even the harsh everpresent rain seemed to momentarily lose its sting. “Kirra can communicate with those who’ve passed on. It’s the most wonderful gift.”
Sashar nodded slowly. “Not at all creepy.”
The Miraluka’s laugh was like wind chimes in the summer. “Sashar, I came back from the dead. You came back from the dead. Is it really so shocking that my eldest can commune with the other side?”
Sashar sighed and shrugged, grinning ruefully. “Extremely fair point. Okay, we’ll need to pack up camp, but should be good to go in a little while. Wait, you’re blind and you…” The elder turned to the diminutive youth who’d begun studying the way the grass crept slowly up her feet “, I’m guessing haven’t got your license quite yet. So, who flew you?”
Khor-Vala System Encanis II Space above Chutra 44 ABY Wuntila Arconae
“It appears time has given with one hand and taken with the other, my old friend,” Wuntila said as Marick tended his wounds. He had initially rejected the help, but Marick had insisted.
“The same could be said of you. What happened?” The Hapan injected diluted bacta in and around Wuntila’s two bolt wounds. The Human-Theelin held back a flinch.
“Beeping. Red flashing lights. A crash landing in the jungle. And now… this,” Wuntila said as he stood up from the cramped bed in the Encanis II’s diminutive medbay. He attempted, and failed, to pace in the ship’s small quarters.
“No, what happened, Wun?”
Silence.
The Dragon turned to look at the Hapan, not with the anger that he used to, but with longing, even… regret? Their eyes met and they shared a knowing and yet unfamiliar look. It was if both men had expanded their capacity for emotional nuance, Marick being more self-assured, caring, and Wuntila less of an unmanageable wildfire.
“I…” Wuntila stopped. His eyes disengaged from Marick’s. It was only a moment, a flicker, but it was as clear a signal as any Marick had received from his old friend that something was different. Something had changed. “I… fractured.”
“I am very flyable!” Kirra protested primly, performing a curtsey despite the fact her dress skirt, like the rest of her and them, was plastered with water. “Watch, Ba'vodu Sashar!”
She closed her one true blue eye in concentration, the spirit-seeing one wide open and beginning to bloom with an inner light. The air about her wavered, as if aflame, before in an eyeblink there was an owl where she had stood. It was snow white and had one blind eye, one blue, as intelligent as I or you. She flapped her wings and lifted up, landing on her mother’s shoulder.
Atyiru didn’t seem upset by her eldest’s showing off. Rather she radiated pride and joy, a cheer to warm even their soaked bones, even his unearthed, graven marrow.
“She was very excited to show you that,” the Miraluka stage whispered behind her hand, loudly, causing Kirra to puff up her feathers. If any of their audience found such a use of the Force gobsmacking, it was certainly never Atty who was going to let them adjust to it. “And I’ll have you know, I can absolutely fly, dear! Just like when I was a wee Journeyman. It’s only that my trips are quite short and everyone is always screaming. Waah, watch out for that cliff, holy stars she can’t see, details, details!”
She spun in place and smiled, ears tweaking with mischief.
“I don’t know why everyone is so worried about crashing with me anyhow. It isn’t as though I can’t heal us all from fiery explosive death. Oh, but it was dear Bly-Bly who flew us this time. Ace is busy with Marry fetching Wunnypoo. He’s waiting for us in the shuttle that way.”
She pointed. Gently, Kirra reached up a taloned foot and nudged her mother’s arm to the left. Just like Papa.
“That way!”
Kirra leapt off her mothers shoulder and then shifted again, this time her small frame becoming lupine. She padded off towards the ship in her undersized Cythraul form, reminiscent of her namesake.
Aegis. A gift from a Grand Master. And Dragonsbreath. He had thought them forfeit, a casualty of the jungle. It had been so long…
Wuntila perched on the edge of the bed rolling the damaged hilt in his hands absentmindedly. It was as if reunited with an old friend lost to the Force.
A warmth grew within him. A fire. Primal. He had relied on it during his years in the jungle, raw and untethered. It was familiar, reassuring, but was not concentrated. His lightsaber, his armour, they honed him. They made him whole. They made him the Dragon.
-*-*-*-*-
“You are not the only one that we have… found, Wuntila.” Marick stood, one hand neatly tucked into the small of his back, the other navigating the holoprojector in front of him. The Encanis II was already en route to the Dajorra System.
“Oh?” Wuntila growled. His voice still felt strange, like forcing air through gravel. That’s what will happen when you don’t speak for weeks on end, he had thought to himself.
“Sashar.” Marick looked up, his sharp features highlighted by the glow of the projector.
“Sashar is dead,” Wuntila’s brow furrowed.
“No. No he is not. Atyiru has taken a small contingent to seek his aid. Arcona is in danger. The Force brings Atyiru to him, as the Force brought me to you.”
Wuntila felt his legs wobble underneath him. He grabbed onto the Force like a handrail. It was all he could do to stay upright. Sashar had died on New Tython. Wuntila had ordered the orbital bombardment that killed him. Him and Zandro, Wuntila’s former Consul and one of the few Wuntila truly trusted.
“It… How did he—“ Wuntila stopped.
“Atyiru is particularly proficient with the Force. As is our daughter, Kirra.” Marick smiled at the thought of them both.
“You have a daughter? With Atyiru?!” Wuntila barked. It was not aggression but surprise.
“They should be waiting for us when we arrive in Estle City, hopefully along with Sashar. Before we get there, we have a lot to discuss. The Clan has changed, and there are new threats, such as The Collective.”
A daughter.
Excitedly – but trying to measure it into something also proper – giving a tour of the little shuttle, the young girl pranced about, demonstrating seat buckle procedure as if neither boy nor their father had ever sat a LAAT/i seat in their lives. Kirra spoke animatedly, of spirits and Selen and her brothers, both little, one older, one newest. The twins had been captured. Sashar would watch, bemused in the surrealism of it all, nodding in acknowledgement as Captain Bly saluted and bowed to him, ever the loyal servant of Arcona’s throne.
Of course, he didn’t bow to Atyiru, but his gaze did look to her first and last, seeking her permission, giving her deference over Sashar, and he supposed that was the price of being gone.
Journey before destination. The most important steps…are the first ones.
The Miraluka turned to him, and beneath her smile, there was something solemn. Something like that upstart Journeyman girl who had made jokes at them like her head couldn’t roll for it, who stepped up.
“Oh, by the by,” she began, and there was that hint of mischief. “Marry is getting Wunnypoo right now.
Arcona is in danger…
"Shab it,” the Erinos said. “Let’s go.”
They took off, Dxun disappearing from first beneath their feet, then from the breath of their lungs, and into the stars. Dajorra awaited.
-x-x-x-x-x-x-
Gilletta Space Port Estle City Selen
Wuntila’s education was extensive on the trip back to the Dajorra System—but only after he had the opportunity to process wave after wave of unsolicited information. The Collective threatened the Brotherhood as a whole, and Arcona was particularly exposed.
The Magnificent Blue Beast had underestimated Marick’s scholarly efforts; he was a student-turned-teacher, as much as he sought to protest otherwise.
The Encanis II approached Estle City and for the first time in nearly a decade Wuntila caught his first glimpse of the Citadel. His home. He had expected a nostalgic pang, but he oddly felt nothing. Cold. Numb. It was different, almost tamer than he remembered.
The vessel swung around smoothly, and locked into the fixed trajectory for one of the far-away landing pads at the space port.
“The city is getting busier,” Marick said, flicking a switch to turn off the holoprojector. “There’s a sense of anticipation in the air…”
“So it seems,” Wuntila replied, walking towards the loading ramp.
The vessel shuddered as it made contact with the landing pad. It came to a stop, and the constant hum of the vessel’s engines dropped in intensity and frequency.
With a hiss the loading ramp descended. And there, before Wuntila and Marick were two other members of the di Tenebrous Arconae.
Sashar. Atyiru. And… Kirra, was it?
Marick strolled forward with a sense of urgency that betrayed his usual composure. In one smooth motion he swept Kirra up off her feet with one arm and into a warm embrace. He reached the other arm around Atyiru. “ Mika yirue,” the Miraluka’s voice was like velvet as she leant into the Hapan.
Wuntila followed behind, his Aegis armour clunking on the metal underfoot. He reached out, grasping Sashar by his forearm, and bringing him into a hug.
“Ner’vod,” Sashar nodded as he stepped back, a smile plastered across his wonderfully youthful face.