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Setting: Outer Rim – Moon of Virellus, Droskari Fringe
Time: Decades after the fall of the Empire
The sky above Virellus was bruised with twin suns and blown sand, a rust-colored haze rolling in slow over the jagged skyline of ancient war wreckage. Down in the hollow bones of a forgotten battlefield, silence reigned—broken only by the distant whine of shifting metal and the occasional, ghostly echo of things long dead.
An AT-AT lay gutted in the ravine, toppled on its side like some long-fallen titan. Its armor was split, its legs tangled with vine and rust, and from its upper flank—on what once had been a troop deployment hatch—a figure sat in meditation.
Kael Varnok. Jedi Knight. Barely.
His back leaned against a cracked durasteel panel, tribal tattoos stretching like scorched scripture across his bare shoulders. Orange light shimmered from a lightsaber hilt stabbed into the hull beside him—off, but ever-present. Its twin, yellow and leaner, rested across his lap like a sleeping viper.
The desert wind curled around him, tugging at the frayed cloth wraps around his forearms, whispering through the split tongue that flicked against the ring in his mouth.
"You know, this is peaceful," he muttered aloud, voice rough with desert grit and disuse. He took a slow drink from a dented canteen, stared out across the dune-choked valley. "Almost makes you forget this place used to burn."
::Almost.::
The voice didn't come from the wind, but it didn't come from outside him, either. It never did.
Kael snorted. "You again."
::Still pretending I left? That's cute.::
His eyes narrowed as he scanned the horizon. The setting suns glared off the sands like molten glass, and somewhere beneath it all, the Force stirred—not loud, not screaming, but aching. A low thrum. A memory, just under the skin of the planet.
The enclave was out there. Buried beneath stone and time.
"Who hides a Jedi enclave in a place like this?" Kael asked no one in particular, fingers absently brushing the teeth-like charms tied to his belt—Droskari hunter sigils, painted with ash and oil. "Whole Order collapses, galaxy moves on, and here I am... playing grave-robber for ghosts."
::Graves don't whisper.::
"No," he agreed quietly. "They scream."
Kael leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, the desert wind teasing sparks of hair from his mohawk. The AT-AT creaked beneath him like an old beast groaning in its death sleep. He had spent the last two days gutting its interior—stripping power couplings, hydro-joints, and whatever salvage could be traded. But that wasn't why he stayed.
He was stalling. Waiting. Watching.
Down in the canyons below, partially obscured by erosion and landslides, lay a cluster of weather-worn stone markers—half temple, half tomb, untouched by scanners and scrubbed from the Jedi archives. A place the Order didn't want found. Or maybe couldn't find again.
He had seen it in a vision. More of a dream. Or a warning.
"You think it's still alive?" he asked aloud, almost lazily. "The enclave. The teachings. Whatever they tried to hide."
::You already know it is. That's why you haven't left.::
"Or maybe I'm just waiting to die somewhere interesting."
::Not yet.::
The air shifted—just slightly. Kael's eyes narrowed.
Footsteps?
A presence tickled at the edge of his senses. Someone approaching. A ripple in the Force, small but deliberate, like a whisper walking on two legs. Whether it was scavenger, Jedi, Sith, merc, or memory—Kael didn't know yet. Didn't care. He reached without looking and pulled the yellow saber to his palm.
"Right on time," he murmured, lips curving into a humorless grin.
The orange saber flared to life beside him, hissing like a sun-warmed serpent still too tired to strike.
"Let's see who digs up ghosts at this hour."
Time: Decades after the fall of the Empire
The sky above Virellus was bruised with twin suns and blown sand, a rust-colored haze rolling in slow over the jagged skyline of ancient war wreckage. Down in the hollow bones of a forgotten battlefield, silence reigned—broken only by the distant whine of shifting metal and the occasional, ghostly echo of things long dead.
An AT-AT lay gutted in the ravine, toppled on its side like some long-fallen titan. Its armor was split, its legs tangled with vine and rust, and from its upper flank—on what once had been a troop deployment hatch—a figure sat in meditation.
Kael Varnok. Jedi Knight. Barely.
His back leaned against a cracked durasteel panel, tribal tattoos stretching like scorched scripture across his bare shoulders. Orange light shimmered from a lightsaber hilt stabbed into the hull beside him—off, but ever-present. Its twin, yellow and leaner, rested across his lap like a sleeping viper.
The desert wind curled around him, tugging at the frayed cloth wraps around his forearms, whispering through the split tongue that flicked against the ring in his mouth.
"You know, this is peaceful," he muttered aloud, voice rough with desert grit and disuse. He took a slow drink from a dented canteen, stared out across the dune-choked valley. "Almost makes you forget this place used to burn."
::Almost.::
The voice didn't come from the wind, but it didn't come from outside him, either. It never did.
Kael snorted. "You again."
::Still pretending I left? That's cute.::
His eyes narrowed as he scanned the horizon. The setting suns glared off the sands like molten glass, and somewhere beneath it all, the Force stirred—not loud, not screaming, but aching. A low thrum. A memory, just under the skin of the planet.
The enclave was out there. Buried beneath stone and time.
"Who hides a Jedi enclave in a place like this?" Kael asked no one in particular, fingers absently brushing the teeth-like charms tied to his belt—Droskari hunter sigils, painted with ash and oil. "Whole Order collapses, galaxy moves on, and here I am... playing grave-robber for ghosts."
::Graves don't whisper.::
"No," he agreed quietly. "They scream."
Kael leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, the desert wind teasing sparks of hair from his mohawk. The AT-AT creaked beneath him like an old beast groaning in its death sleep. He had spent the last two days gutting its interior—stripping power couplings, hydro-joints, and whatever salvage could be traded. But that wasn't why he stayed.
He was stalling. Waiting. Watching.
Down in the canyons below, partially obscured by erosion and landslides, lay a cluster of weather-worn stone markers—half temple, half tomb, untouched by scanners and scrubbed from the Jedi archives. A place the Order didn't want found. Or maybe couldn't find again.
He had seen it in a vision. More of a dream. Or a warning.
"You think it's still alive?" he asked aloud, almost lazily. "The enclave. The teachings. Whatever they tried to hide."
::You already know it is. That's why you haven't left.::
"Or maybe I'm just waiting to die somewhere interesting."
::Not yet.::
The air shifted—just slightly. Kael's eyes narrowed.
Footsteps?
A presence tickled at the edge of his senses. Someone approaching. A ripple in the Force, small but deliberate, like a whisper walking on two legs. Whether it was scavenger, Jedi, Sith, merc, or memory—Kael didn't know yet. Didn't care. He reached without looking and pulled the yellow saber to his palm.
"Right on time," he murmured, lips curving into a humorless grin.
The orange saber flared to life beside him, hissing like a sun-warmed serpent still too tired to strike.
"Let's see who digs up ghosts at this hour."
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