Dareth Solryn
New Member
Morning settled quietly over Commenor.
No storm, no rain only mist that clung to the tall facades and blurred the city's edges. Even here, at the heart of trade, the park felt like an oasis where the rush of the world reached only as a muted echo. Fountains murmured, as if trying to drown out the voices of distant markets.
He sat on a stone bench near a fountain. Above him rose the statue of a long-forgotten diplomat, weathered by wind yet still standing as a symbol of old strength. Footsteps rang across paved paths, figures passed by merchants, officials, children on their way to the academy. Everything seemed slowed, as if the mist itself had chosen to hold back time.
Hours earlier, he had seen someone.
Someone from a time long sealed away. A glance, no more than a breath and yet heavier than many battles.
What did it mean when the past refused to rest, finding its way back into the present?
Was it memory … or a test?
The Force was not loud here. No urging, no call. Only a current like water seeping through the city's veins. He let it flow through him. No grasp. No resistance. Just breathing.
And in that silence, the questions returned those that had never truly left him:
"Can one ever truly begin anew or do we only carry other names for the same scars?"
"Is peace a distant refuge … or a seed one must plant into the soil oneself?"
"And if others are searching as he does could they together be more than fragments?"
The Exiles were part of these thoughts.
Not an Order. Not a doctrine. Just voices that had found each other, knowing the fractures within and yet believing that from those cracks, light could still emerge.
He knew that hope could not live in silence alone.
If the Exiles were to be more than scattered shadows, they had to weave themselves into the currents of a galaxy trembling between order and collapse.
Not as rulers. Not as saviors.
Perhaps only as a reminder that even fractured voices could carry a new song.
No storm, no rain only mist that clung to the tall facades and blurred the city's edges. Even here, at the heart of trade, the park felt like an oasis where the rush of the world reached only as a muted echo. Fountains murmured, as if trying to drown out the voices of distant markets.
He sat on a stone bench near a fountain. Above him rose the statue of a long-forgotten diplomat, weathered by wind yet still standing as a symbol of old strength. Footsteps rang across paved paths, figures passed by merchants, officials, children on their way to the academy. Everything seemed slowed, as if the mist itself had chosen to hold back time.
Hours earlier, he had seen someone.
Someone from a time long sealed away. A glance, no more than a breath and yet heavier than many battles.
What did it mean when the past refused to rest, finding its way back into the present?
Was it memory … or a test?
The Force was not loud here. No urging, no call. Only a current like water seeping through the city's veins. He let it flow through him. No grasp. No resistance. Just breathing.
And in that silence, the questions returned those that had never truly left him:
"Can one ever truly begin anew or do we only carry other names for the same scars?"
"Is peace a distant refuge … or a seed one must plant into the soil oneself?"
"And if others are searching as he does could they together be more than fragments?"
The Exiles were part of these thoughts.
Not an Order. Not a doctrine. Just voices that had found each other, knowing the fractures within and yet believing that from those cracks, light could still emerge.
He knew that hope could not live in silence alone.
If the Exiles were to be more than scattered shadows, they had to weave themselves into the currents of a galaxy trembling between order and collapse.
Not as rulers. Not as saviors.
Perhaps only as a reminder that even fractured voices could carry a new song.