Private Of Unspoken Things

[Cerys Dyn]

There were worse places to be summoned by Lord and Savior Brandyn of the Perpetual Smirk, but Cerys had a knack for remembering the poetic cruelties of fate. The very balcony he had asked her to meet him on was the same one she’d once stained with her bitterness, her voice sharp and unrepentant as she skewered the Sal-Soren name like a skewer through roast Nuna.

Ah, symmetry. The galaxy did love its little ironies.

The halls of the Temple whispered with soft footfalls and the gentle hum of distant training sabers. Somewhere, a chime sounded the turn of the hour. The Force itself, ever so meddlesome, stirred around her—a gentle ripple here, a prickling premonition there. She ignored it, mostly. That sort of thing was Brandyn’s specialty, all sighs and poetry and that blasted face that looked like it belonged on a stained-glass window.

Cerys adjusted the sash around her waist, tugged her padawan bead strand tighter, and kept walking.

She passed through the open colonnade near the Archive wing when a clatter of laughter drew her head to the side. A group of younglings—five, maybe six of them—were locked in a very serious disagreement about whether or not Jedi could, under any circumstances, turn invisible.

“Only if they concentrate really hard,” one insisted, his lekku twitching with confidence.

“That’s stupid,” said another. “If they could turn invisible, they wouldn’t get shot so much.”

A third one, smaller and wrapped in a training robe three sizes too big, looked up and spotted her. “Knight Cerys! You’re stealthy, right? Can you disappear?”

She came to a slow stop, one eyebrow arched like a saber raised in challenge. “Disappear? Darling, I barely manage to get from the cafeteria to the meditation wing without being stopped by someone asking if I’ve ‘calmed down’ lately.”

The youngest giggled. Cerys crouched to his level, the cool stone pressing against her knees, and flicked a finger against the oversized sleeve.

“Truth is,” she said in a whisper-loud hush, “there is a way to disappear. But it doesn’t involve fancy powers or cloaking fields.”

They leaned in, eyes wide.

“You wait until everyone expects you to be one thing—loud, brash, impossible to miss. Then you go quiet. You listen. And while they’re looking for fireworks, you slip right past with all the grace of a whisper.”

Silence followed. Then: “That’s kinda cool.”

Cerys rose and gave them a wink. “Don’t tell the others. Jedi secrets and all that.”

She let herself enjoy it. Their laughter chased her down the corridor like the tail of a comet, bright and full of warmth. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that she had that part in her still—that soft edge tucked deep beneath all the armor and sarcasm and the voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like her old instructors.

She stepped into the corridor leading to the high training balcony, where the wind tugged at the robes like a curious child. The sky was bruised with evening, clouds thin and backlit like paper lanterns. The place still smelled faintly of ozone and stone—memories hanging in the air like ghosts.

Cerys crossed her arms and leaned against one of the stone balustrades, eyes watching the skyline with a sharpness she hadn’t quite meant to wear.

She didn’t know who she was waiting for. Only that Brandyn “O Master Most Mildly Infuriating” had asked her to come. And despite her best instincts—and worst judgment—she had said yes.

The wind picked up, blowing the tips of her lekku about. She didn’t move it. The moment would decide what it wanted to be.

Eventually, they always did.

Balun Dashiell

​

 

[Balun Dashiell]

OF UNSPOKEN THINGS
EQUIPMENT: Balun's Jedi Apparel, Lightsaber & K-16 Bryar Pistol.
TAGS: Cerys Dyn

The Temple of the Order of Shiraya was as unfamiliar to Balun as the wild, untamed world of Dathomir — a place of mystery and quiet power. Yet here he was, standing within its halls, the heart of his newly appointed Jedi Master, Ala Quin . This was not only Ala's sanctuary, but now, in a way, it was his too — a place that stirred both curiosity and a desire to belong. He had intended to visit and introduce himself formally, but fate, or perhaps the will of the Force, had intervened, leading him to cross paths with Ala before ever setting foot inside.

Now an official initiate, a newly minted Apprentice, Balun felt the familiar pull of wanting to make a good impression — not just for his own sake, but to reflect well on his Master and honour the trust she had placed in him.

He had dressed thoughtfully for the meeting, choosing once again the Jedi robes that had once been part of his daily life, long before his cousin, Persephone Dashiell , had helped reshape his sense of style. As Balun moved through the corridors, his dark brown robe swayed behind him, the soft rustle marking his steady pace. His eyes darted from one archway to the next, studying every branching hallway, quietly wondering if he was on the right path. Here, surrounded by unfamiliar faces, he felt the sting of isolation — the only Force-sensitive in his family, with no one to lean on for guidance in this world.

Memories stirred as he walked, unbidden and bittersweet. The Temple on Coruscant had once been his home, its cold stone walls warmed by the constant presence of his childhood companion, Nouqai Veil. She had been his anchor in those years, the one person who withstood his stubborn defiance and anger toward a life he'd never chosen — the life his absent mother had handed him by leaving him to the Jedi Order. Together, they had explored every corner of the Coruscant Temple, paired in every lesson, whether in lightsaber technique or Force training. Now, as he moved through the Temple of Shiraya, the ghosts of that past walked beside him, stirring a dull ache in his chest for all that had been lost — and what Nouqai had become.

Eventually, Balun emerged onto a high balcony overlooking the training grounds below, the cool air brushing against his face. His eyes fell upon a figure already standing there — not Ala Quin, but a Togruta. His brows drew together slightly, uncertainty flickering across his expression as he lifted his head and pursed his lips, a flicker of anxiety tightening in his chest. Had he missed Ala? Was he too late?

After a brief pause, he drew in a quiet breath and stepped forward, approaching the balcony railing. His movements were careful, almost hesitant, as he came to stand not far from the Togruta's side.

"Sorry for the intrusion," he said softly, his voice respectful but edged with the faintest nervous note, "but I'm supposed to be meeting someone here. I don't suppose you've seen anyone else come by?"

"Speech".
'Thought'.

 

[Cerys Dyn]

It began, as so many tragedies did, with Brandyn Sal-Soren.

Brandyn the Benevolently Smug. Brandyn of the Thousand Dimples. Brandyn, Knight of the Holy Order of Perfect Hair. She’d once overheard someone compare his voice to “the warmth of Nabooian summer rain.” They’d meant it as a compliment. Cerys had gagged on her tea.

The man was an affable, infuriating windchime of diplomacy. He breezed through social situations as though manners had been written on his bones. She, by contrast, had bones sharpened by long years of squaring her shoulders and bracing for impact.

Still, she had come. Because she always did when he asked. Because some fraying part of her still wanted to be better. Less volcanic. More… manageable.

And perhaps because, in her more fragile moments, she hoped he might see something in her worth investing in beyond damage control.

Cerys turned her head slightly, lekku brushing her collar. Her gaze drifted to the Temple gardens far below, then back to the young man who had just joined her. Brown robe. Calm stance. Eyes like someone trying very hard not to offend the ground he walked on.

Not her Master. Not a threat. Just… polite.

Her least favorite kind of person.

She stared at him. Said nothing.

The silence stretched, not hostile exactly, but pregnant with judgment. Not even purposeful. Just the natural result of her indecision: Should she speak first? Should she be kind? Was this what Brandyn wanted?

Her jaw tightened.

Of course it was. This was one of his little social engineering projects, wasn’t it? A matchmaking of personalities, not romantic but remedial. She could almost hear his voice now:
“Cerys, I think you and Balun could learn something from each other. He’s got a quiet strength, and you—well, you’ve got passion.”

Passion. Right. Like a thermal detonator has “ambition.”

She tried. She really did.

“So.” Her voice was clipped. “You’re the new stray Ala picked up.”

Okay. That was... something. Words were said. Wasn’t that progress?

She risked a sideways glance at him. Maybe that was his startled expression. Good. Maybe he wouldn’t cry.

Her thoughts, ever traitorous, drifted.

Lysander would’ve smiled. That slow, golden smile that turned heads and made people forget he had no right being that charming. His hair had no right being that golden, either. It wasn’t fair. No one’s hair should look that effortless in humidity.

And then there was Sibylla. Oh, Sibylla. Serene, luminous, statuesque Sibylla who made silence look like a virtue and insecurity feel like a sin. Even when she tried to be humble, it came out like a coronation.

Cerys hated how perfect she was.
Which meant, of course, that part of her wanted to be just like her. Which meant, even worse, that she kind of didn't hate her completely.

It was exhausting.

She returned her attention to Balun, her mouth twitching.

“I’m supposed to be learning tact,” she said aloud, mostly to the wind, maybe to the Force, definitely not to him. “Trying to become a people person.”

She folded her arms, feeling the air pull at the hem of her tunic.

“How am I doing so far?”

It wasn’t kind. But it wasn’t cruel either. A strange halfway thing, like most of what she did these days.

The silence returned. And yet, oddly, she didn’t hate it.

Not entirely.

| OUTFIT: Jedi temple attire, wind-wrinkled |

| TAG: Balun Dashiell fyi, Lysander von Ascania and Sibylla Abrantes |

| EQUIPMENT: Dyn's Mercy snd Oathkeeper lightsabers, patience running low |

​

 

[Balun Dashiell]

OF UNSPOKEN THINGS
EQUIPMENT: Balun's Jedi Apparel, Lightsaber & K-16 Bryar Pistol.
TAGS: Cerys Dyn

This was more like it. This was the galaxy Balun knew—the rough edges, the sharp tongues, the kind of people who didn't sugarcoat their opinions. When he'd first met Ala Quin , her effervescent warmth had felt alien and refreshing, a rare light in a galaxy often cloaked in shadows. But here, with Cerys Dyn , it was the opposite. Her judgmental stare was as clear and cutting as the sky overhead, and when she threw out the jab about him being a stray, Balun only chuckled under his breath. He'd lived on the lower levels of Coruscant for years, where insults far worse than "stray" were currency. Words like that would shatter the delicate hearts of many younglings raised in the cushioned halls of a temple—but not Balun. He'd been tempered in a harsher world.

"I can see you've got some fire in you," he observed with a faint grin, his voice laced with amusement. Cerys wasn't the type to hold back—subtlety clearly wasn't her strong suit. "I would be said stray. Though my friends call me Bale. Play your cards right, you might get to do the same." His smirk deepened as he threw her a playful wink, tilting his head with a cocky defiance, as if daring her to try and rattle him further.

When Cerys explained her mission to improve her social skills, Balun's expression shifted to a dramatic, mock-cringe, his brow furrowing as though physically pained on her behalf. "Your Master's got their work cut out for them," he teased with a quiet snicker, shaking his head. She wasn't exactly off to a brilliant start in the charm department, but that only made her more entertaining. "But hey, don't sweat it. Normal people are boring as chit anyway."

With an easy, practised motion, his left hand slipped into his pocket, fishing out a packet of cigarras. He placed one between his lips, lighting the end with a brief flicker of flame before drawing in a slow breath. As the familiar taste filled his lungs, his gaze drifted out over the training grounds, a faint spark of anticipation lighting in his chest. The place was impressive, and now that he'd finally gotten a look at it, he was itching to put it through its paces.

"I'm guessing news travels fast around here, huh?" Balun mused, glancing sideways at Cerys, a brow arched in mild curiosity. "The fact you already know about Ala being my Master and all. I don't suppose she's shown up here yet, has she?" His voice softened slightly, the casual bravado momentarily slipping into genuine inquiry, though the smirk never quite left his face.

"Speech".
'Thought'.

 

[Cerys Dyn]

The cigarra hit her like a slap of duracrete.

Not physically, no. That would’ve been easier. That would’ve made sense. No, this was worse. This was olfactory betrayal. The air, once crisp with evening wind and ozone, turned foul and chemical—smoke with teeth. It clawed at the back of her throat, slithered up her sinuses like a trespasser. Her face didn’t move, not quite, but something behind her eyes winced.

She thought of Brandyn.

Of course she did.

She imagined him watching from some hidden alcove like a particularly smug Force ghost, nodding sagely as if this—this exact moment—had been part of his grand design. Cerys, choking back judgment like a responsible adult, while her conversation partner lit up like they were at a Corellian dive bar.

She inhaled through her nose. That was a mistake.

“Don’t flinch. Don’t scowl. Don’t snatch it out of his hand and punt it off the balcony.”

Her internal voice was measured. Calm. Reasonable. Probably sounded a lot like Valery Noble if she squinted hard enough.

Then the real Cerys—the one with teeth—leaned in from somewhere behind her eyes and whispered: “Or do.”

She did neither. She simply exhaled, eyes narrowing a fraction.

“Of course you smoke,” she said dryly, voice pitched flat and unimpressed. “Why ruin just one lung when you can ruin a perfectly good conversation, too?”

There. Controlled. Witty. Not a complete character assassination. She gave herself points for restraint.

Balun’s smirk remained intact, which irritated her more than the smoke. It was like watching someone flirt with a fire alarm. He didn’t seem to mind the tension, didn’t flinch from her tone. If anything, he seemed amused.

She hated that. It made her curious.

Cerys folded her arms tighter and looked out over the Temple training fields, trying very hard to pretend she wasn’t reevaluating this entire interaction. She wasn’t supposed to like difficult people. She was the difficult one. That was her role in this tragic little social play.

But this man had walked onto her balcony, insulted her with charm, polluted the air with that glorified tar-stick, and still managed to stay upright in her estimation.

That was annoying.

“I’ll call you Bale when you stop trying to sell it like a stage name,” she muttered, without looking at him. “Until then, stray works fine.”

She should’ve stopped there. She didn’t.

“You are a stray, right? Dragged in by Ala because you looked like you needed saving?”

The words came too sharp, but her voice didn’t carry venom. Just the truth, pointed and clean.

And underneath it—if someone cared to look—was something like sympathy, camouflaged as condescension.

She glanced at him sideways, lekku twitching as the wind shifted the smoke back in her direction.

“I don’t know what she sees in you,” she said, softer this time. “But then again, people keep seeing things in me too. And I still haven’t figured that out either.”

There. That was as generous as she could be today.

A whole olive branch, half-covered in ash.

OUTFIT: Jedi temple attire | TAG: Balun Dashiell | EQUIPMENT: Iron will, slowly melting patience

​

 

[Balun Dashiell]

OF UNSPOKEN THINGS
EQUIPMENT: Balun's Jedi Apparel, Lightsaber & K-16 Bryar Pistol.
TAGS: Cerys Dyn

"And you're extremely judgmental for a Jedi," Balun drawled, his tone edged with dry amusement. "A good reminder of why I walked away from the Order on Coruscant when I was fifteen." He didn't bother turning to face Cerys, his attention instead fixed on the horizon as he leaned casually against the balcony, cigarra resting between his fingers. Smoke curled lazily around him as he exhaled, the smirk tugging at his mouth unmistakable. "You strike me as one of those types—the indoctrinated kind. See a red lightsaber, immediately attack because, well, they must be evil, right? No room for nuance, no need for evidence." He gave a slight shake of his head, lips quirking upward. "Yeah, I can play the judgment game too."

A short, low laugh escaped him as he flicked ash from the cigarra, amusement dancing in his eyes. "But believe it or not, you'll find people respect you more when you're not acting like an arsehole."

He took another drag, letting the familiar burn settle into his chest before speaking again, voice shaded with a hard-earned bitterness. "And of course you wouldn't know what Ala sees in me—you've known me all of five minutes and already made up your mind. Just like half the galaxy does with Force users. Fear us, mistrust us, look sideways at us because we're different, because we were born with something they can't control or understand." As he spoke, a plume of smoke drifted from his lips, his words trailing through the haze with a kind of weary detachment.

Balun's mask was a well-practised thing, honed over years of survival and quiet rebellion. He'd learned the art of deflection back in the Jedi Temple, where he mastered the delicate game of fading into the background—sitting at the back of the class, lying with a smile so people would leave him alone, never drawing more attention than necessary. Vulnerability had become a private currency, one he rarely traded. Now, with Cerys Dyn probing for weaknesses, his sabaac face was in full play. He wasn't about to let some sharp-tongued Nabooian princess rattle him or pin him down like he was some stray to be lectured.

"If you treat people the way you're treating me, I'm sure you could ask them what they see in you," he added smoothly, finally turning to face her. He leaned back against the railing, arms relaxed at his sides, gaze tilted skyward as if savouring the stillness of the moment. There was no trace of tension in his posture, only a quiet, controlled ease, as though he had all the time in the galaxy to burn; "Though you might not like what they have to say".

"Now," Balun murmured, a glimmer of challenge in his voice, "not that I don't appreciate a girl with a temper, but—do you want to go another round, or do you want to chill your chit and actually have a proper conversation? Because I've got enough self-respect to know I don't need to waste time listening to someone tell me who and what I am when they don't know me from a bar of soap."

"Speech".
'Thought'.

 

[Cerys Dyn]

It was a good thing Cerys had spent most of her life perfecting the art of not flinching, because Balun’s little speech came wrapped in more barbs than a Nightsister hex.

She didn’t even blink when he called her judgmental. She just kept her eyes forward, jaw tight, heart simmering in that slow, patient boil she reserved for bureaucrats and Jedi Council hearings.

But Maker help her, he wasn’t wrong. And that was the worst part.

Her breath caught—not from the cigarra smoke this time, but from the quiet sting of being seen. Too seen. Like someone had pulled back the curtain and found the half-finished scaffolding behind all her poise.

Indoctrinated. She’d spat that word at others before. Hearing it aimed at her felt like biting into a sweetfruit and finding it full of worms.

Cerys folded her arms tighter, a wall across her ribs. If he saw that as defensive, so be it.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said finally, voice cool and sweet and sharp as a glass dagger, “were you expecting a medal for smoking and brooding? I left mine in my other robe.”

She turned just enough to side-eye him, lekku swaying behind her like punctuation. “You don’t like being judged? Don’t light up like you’re trying to win Most Mysterious at a street fair.”

And yet… she didn’t walk away.

Because for all his posturing, for all the cocky deflections and cigarette-smoke armor, there was something in his words that rang hollow in a way she recognized. The quiet ache behind them. The bitter edge of someone still trying to convince themselves they didn’t care.

She knew that tune. She’d played it often enough.

Balun’s final remark hung between them like a challenge, daring her to stay or go. And Cerys, stubborn to her marrow, wasn’t about to back down from either.

“Fine,” she said, with all the enthusiasm of someone volunteering for dental surgery. “One conversation. Real words. No saber jabs. And no cigarras.”

She met his gaze, unflinching. “Push it, and I will throw that thing into the fountains.”

She glared at him.

“And no, I don’t care how poetic you think the smoke looks.”

A pause stretched, not quite tense—more like a balancing act on a ledge, wind tugging at her robes, heart tugging at her pride. Eventually, her voice softened just enough to betray her.

“I’m not great at this,” she admitted, almost grudgingly. “But I’m trying. I think that’s what Brandyn wanted. For me to try.”

She tilted her head toward him. Just slightly.

“So. Go on then. You said something about a proper conversation?”

There was no smile. But the storm behind her eyes had calmed. Just a little.

OUTFIT: Jedi temple attire | TAG: Balun Dashiell | EQUIPMENT: A whole lot of restraint, barely used

​

 

[Balun Dashiell]

OF UNSPOKEN THINGS
EQUIPMENT: Balun's Jedi Apparel, Lightsaber & K-16 Bryar Pistol.
TAGS: Cerys Dyn

Balun felt a distinct wave of relief wash over him when Cerys Dyn finally eased her defences and signalled a willingness to try something resembling normal conversation. She warned him, with some reluctance, that this wasn't exactly her strength—but that didn't matter to him. As long as they weren't hurling insults back and forth, Balun was more than willing to meet her halfway. He hadn't enjoyed being an arse; she'd just hit a nerve that drew out his defenses—the old reflex to slap on the mask, play unaffected, and throw her barbs right back at her. Hypocritical? Absolutely. But in his eyes, they were both guilty of that, and that levelled the field.

"I was enjoying this…" Balun murmured with a touch of reluctant humour, glancing down at the cigarra in his hand. With a sigh, he stubbed it out against the balcony railing, flicking the spent end over the edge before offering Cerys a crooked half-smile. "But fine, I accept your terms." He dipped his head in a small, almost playful nod of agreement. Now came the hard part: figuring out how to pivot from verbal sparring to something closer to genuine dialogue. Introductions, he decided, were as good a place as any.

"So—you know my name's Balun," he began, his voice carrying an easy, conversational rhythm. "What you don't know is that I spent the first fifteen years of my life raised in the New Jedi Order on Coruscant." His brow lifted slightly as he added, "If you're gonna judge me, you might as well have the right information." But this time, the words were wrapped in unmistakable humour, his smirk deepening as he gave a dismissive wave. "That's a joke, don't stress."

His fingers drifted to the balcony as he leaned his weight into one hip, casually relaxed now that the tension between them had softened. "I left the Jedi, like I mentioned, and since then, I've reconnected with my father's side of the family—the Dashiells. You might've heard of Dashiell Incorporated or Dashiell Retrofit… that one's my company." There was no arrogance in his tone, just a matter-of-fact openness, a subtle offer of trust to encourage her to lower her own walls.

"Tell me something about you, maybe?" he suggested with a small shrug, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "You don't know what people see in you, and you've already said you're not great with the whole talking-to-people thing. So—has someone gotten under your skin recently, or was that just now your usual baseline?" His voice was noticeably gentler now, the earlier sharpness fading into something more genuine, as though extending a quiet invitation to let the armour fall away.

"Contrary to how this chit-show of a first impression's gone," Balun added, his smirk softening into something wry and self-aware, "I can actually tolerate a lot. I'm pretty patient." His fingers drummed lightly against the railing as he glanced sideways at her. "Sure, I know how to put people in their place when it's needed, but it takes a lot for me to hold a grudge, so…" He let the sentence drift into the air, unfinished but intentional, leaving the offer unspoken yet unmistakable. They'd only just met, after all—but in his own quiet, slightly clumsy way, Balun was signalling that if she needed someone to talk to, he was here.

"Speech".
'Thought'.