Aryn Teth
Ashen Exile
Ferrix was hardly anyone's ideal place to live, at least at a first glance. When he'd first come here however many years ago, its rough-and-tumble charm and far-from-anything atmosphere had been exactly what Aryn was looking for. Ferrix was remote, but still populous enough to blend in with the crowd, and it was far enough removed from the Alliance and their Jedi, and the Empires of Sith that it afforded him a greater degree of obscurity. There'd been a part of him, at least, that mused on the irony that these days, the world fell within the territory of the Mandalorian Empire, but he'd had little to do with their kind for a long time.
And besides, now, he was just a shipbreaker like any other. Just another grappler working the yards.
What he hadn't expected to find when he came here, in truth, was the familial ways that those from Ferris carried themselves. They were a content people, at their happiest when the galaxy at large passed them by, when they could settle themselves with the comfort of one-another and the satisfaction of a day's work. Over the years, he had come to find his own comfort among the locals, and they had come to welcome him in as their own.
It was a simple, insignificant sort of life, but it was the kind that Aryn could say truly provided a level of comfort and happiness he hadn't felt in a long time. Even in the heights of his past, when he'd lived in the high-rises of Coruscant, with servants and armies at his beck and call, he'd never felt the simple calm like this. In a way, he knew that was ironic.
The desire for a greater life, for one of significance, had been what first drove Aryn from his home on Eriadu, into the arms of the Jedi and the Alliance, into the Great Galactic War. He heard the news still, the rise and fall of Empires, even now - the Alliance he had once served renewed and then set on the back foot by a conquering Empire all over again - he wondered at times if he should have felt a call to action, but he didn't. It wasn't his world any more, wasn't his galaxy, wasn't his home. Ferrix was, now.
He'd been in the midst of dragging thick insulation wires out of what had once been a corvette used for escorting merchant vessels when the anvil rang. Panting softly, he looked up and over to the distant bell tower where the beskar anvil rang out. The call started to go out among the workers then, no eagerness to work late, no call to push on, after all, the yard would wait until tomorrow.
Dropping the cables to the dirt, Aryn pulled his thick gloves off one after the other, tucking them under his arm as he made his way over to the waiting cart. One of the other workers held a hand out toward him which he took hold of, hauling himself up into the vehicle and grasping hold of the frame that kept them steady during travel. It would only be a short ride back into town, and then everyone would disperse to the nearby taverns and bars to drink, chat and game into the night.
For his own part, Aryn had yet to decide what his evening would bring, but he imagined it would be the same as most nights on Ferrix. Simple, comfortable, uneventful.
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