Nyx
Insert Hilarious Title Here
Most dared not leave the few settlements on Tatooine. The desert was dangerous, and few who entered it survived. Luckily for the two Jawas walking through the Dune Sea, their kind had been traversing the dunes for thousands of years. As long as they avoided the hated Sand People, they would be fine.
One of the two Jawas was approaching the last few years of her life, her robed form leaning heavily on her curved staff as she trudged through the sand. Her companion was much younger, spry with the power of youth, carefully following her elder. Female Jawas were a rare sight outside of their desert fortresses, though it was difficult to tell the difference. Females were slimmer, their robes less bulky, but most not of their kind did not see that.
As they approached Mos Eisley, the younger Jawa began to slow, staring at the city looming on the horizon. The older Jawa called for her to move quickly, for night would fall soon. That quickened the younger Jawas pace, falling once more behind her elder.
Finally, they came to the outskirts of the city. The older Jawa turned to her companion, leaning heavily on her staff.
"This is as far as I go, young Herata. You must find your own path in this world."
Herata nodded silently, tears beginning to run from her bright yellow eyes. Her elder put a comforting hand on her shoulder.
"This is not permanent, my child. Return when you have discovered who you really are. You are, and will always be, a Nanta, and we will welcome you with open arms, whoever you become."
With that, the shaman Isil began the long journey back to their fortress, confident in the ability of her magic to ward off attackers and the cold.
Herata watched her mentor leave, wiping away the tears gathering underneath her hood. It was alright. None of this was permanent. She turned to the bigger city, dumbfounded, tightly clutching the edge of her robe.
Now what?
One of the two Jawas was approaching the last few years of her life, her robed form leaning heavily on her curved staff as she trudged through the sand. Her companion was much younger, spry with the power of youth, carefully following her elder. Female Jawas were a rare sight outside of their desert fortresses, though it was difficult to tell the difference. Females were slimmer, their robes less bulky, but most not of their kind did not see that.
As they approached Mos Eisley, the younger Jawa began to slow, staring at the city looming on the horizon. The older Jawa called for her to move quickly, for night would fall soon. That quickened the younger Jawas pace, falling once more behind her elder.
Finally, they came to the outskirts of the city. The older Jawa turned to her companion, leaning heavily on her staff.
"This is as far as I go, young Herata. You must find your own path in this world."
Herata nodded silently, tears beginning to run from her bright yellow eyes. Her elder put a comforting hand on her shoulder.
"This is not permanent, my child. Return when you have discovered who you really are. You are, and will always be, a Nanta, and we will welcome you with open arms, whoever you become."
With that, the shaman Isil began the long journey back to their fortress, confident in the ability of her magic to ward off attackers and the cold.
Herata watched her mentor leave, wiping away the tears gathering underneath her hood. It was alright. None of this was permanent. She turned to the bigger city, dumbfounded, tightly clutching the edge of her robe.
Now what?
