The Brightest Star
Somewhere amidst the desolate wastes of Tatooine, I have sought sanctuary or perhaps, merely a place to disappear. I am accompanied only by Nyva Shei, my subordinate and confidante. Now that I am truly left to my own devices, I find myself haunted by the specter of the future. What will I make of my remaining years? Shall I devote myself to new creations, or must I continue to stain my hands with the grime of conflict? I have heard whispers that the Jedi are predisposed to mercy, yet I know better than to mistake kindness for naivety. Forgiveness is not a universal right, and I am under no illusions; they are just as likely to strike me down should they sense even a flicker of hostility. And frankly, who could blame them? I let out a heavy sigh, my boots crunching rhythmically against the scorching sands.
I weave through the bustling, grit-choked streets of Mos Espa. To blend in, I've donned local desert garb, a nondescript cloak that masks my silhouette and conceals my identity from prying eyes. My comms-link crackles incessantly with Nyva's voice; she is a fountain of nervous energy, peppering me with a thousand questions until I am forced to mute the channel. I've already assured her a thousand times: yes, I am certain of this move.
Exhaustion finally takes its toll. I need a moment of stillness. With a sharp, decisive stride, I head toward a local cantina. Here, at the edge of the galaxy, the currency in my pockets be it Galactic Credits or Cartel scrip is more than enough to buy silence and space. I arrived planetside aboard the Solar Spectrum, my personal courier ship. It's a vessel built for speed and discretion, far more suited for this delicate diplomatic gamble than the hulking Ragnarok, though I suppose Nyva's Trident would have sufficed in a pinch.
After ordering a chilled local brew, I retreat into the shadows of a private alcove. I pay the bartender enough to ensure the entire booth remains mine and that his curiosity remains elsewhere.
Settling into the dim light, I pull out my datapad and compose a message:
"Greetings. My name is Lyssara Thrynn. I wish to request a private audience to discuss matters of extreme sensitivity. Could you meet me at the following coordinates in Mos Espa, Tatooine? The location is attached."
The message is encrypted and sent directly to
Lily Decoria
.
Task complete, I sink back into the worn upholstery, my datapad resting on the table before me. Now, I simply wait surrounded by the muffled roar of the cantina and the oppressive, shimmering heat of the twin suns.
I weave through the bustling, grit-choked streets of Mos Espa. To blend in, I've donned local desert garb, a nondescript cloak that masks my silhouette and conceals my identity from prying eyes. My comms-link crackles incessantly with Nyva's voice; she is a fountain of nervous energy, peppering me with a thousand questions until I am forced to mute the channel. I've already assured her a thousand times: yes, I am certain of this move.
Exhaustion finally takes its toll. I need a moment of stillness. With a sharp, decisive stride, I head toward a local cantina. Here, at the edge of the galaxy, the currency in my pockets be it Galactic Credits or Cartel scrip is more than enough to buy silence and space. I arrived planetside aboard the Solar Spectrum, my personal courier ship. It's a vessel built for speed and discretion, far more suited for this delicate diplomatic gamble than the hulking Ragnarok, though I suppose Nyva's Trident would have sufficed in a pinch.
After ordering a chilled local brew, I retreat into the shadows of a private alcove. I pay the bartender enough to ensure the entire booth remains mine and that his curiosity remains elsewhere.
Settling into the dim light, I pull out my datapad and compose a message:
"Greetings. My name is Lyssara Thrynn. I wish to request a private audience to discuss matters of extreme sensitivity. Could you meet me at the following coordinates in Mos Espa, Tatooine? The location is attached."
The message is encrypted and sent directly to
Lily Decoria
.Task complete, I sink back into the worn upholstery, my datapad resting on the table before me. Now, I simply wait surrounded by the muffled roar of the cantina and the oppressive, shimmering heat of the twin suns.