ZORI's sleek shuttle descends slowly through a canopy of gnarled trees, steam rising in plumes as massive roots and twisting vines part to make way. Dagobah is alive—breathing, watching. The trees groan. The waters bubble with unseen things. As the shuttle lands, mist coils around its landing struts.
The ramp hisses open. ZORI descends alone, wrapped in her black ceremonial armor, eyes glowing faintly from within her hood. Her boots sink slightly into the mud.
She doesn't flinch.
A small creature—thin, gray, spindly with insectoid legs—scuttles from the underbrush and bows low.
CREATURE: "
Mistressss… you were expected."
Zori says nothing. She follows the creature into the trees.
Hidden in the folds of the swamp is a structure formed from the hulls of crashed ships, bone-like tree branches, and ancient runes carved into fungus-encrusted stone. Lanterns hang from the trees, glowing green and gold. It is part temple, part opium den, part nightmare.
Inside, three mystics wait.
They are humanoid, but distorted.
One wears a veil of translucent skin.
Another's mouth has been sewn shut, yet she still hums.
The third—a tall woman with eyes made entirely of white—steps forward.
WHITE-EYED WOMAN: "You bear the scent of grief."
ZORI: "
I'm here for more than visions."
WHITE-EYED WOMAN: "Everyone says that. Until they see what's left of them behind the eyes."
She gestures to a stone seat near a fire burning without fuel. Zori doesn't sit. Instead, she looks at the vials and crates lining the temple walls.
ZORI: "
I need your supply lines. Vision dust. Memory shards. Resin. You deal in forbidden things—I want access."
WHITE-EYED WOMAN: (smiling) "And what do you offer in return?"
Zori removes a small datacrystal from her belt and places it on the stone.
ZORI: "
The names of outposts. Off-grid. Vulnerable."
The woman reaches forward—but doesn't touch it.
WHITE-EYED WOMAN: "We already have that."
Zori's gaze narrows. The fire flares blue. And then—
???? : "She wants more than spice and whispers."
*
A new voice. Rough. Familiar. Zori turns—freezes.
A figure steps from the far shadows. Hooded, cloaked in moss and bone, but as they approach, she sees the face.
Pale. Marked with a single red scar. Hair like black ink. Eyes like a haunted mirror.*
ZORI: (low)…"
Seris."
