Private One With the Course

[Balun Dashiell]

ONE WITH THE COURSE
INVENTORY: Lightsaber & Spacer Apparel (Minus the Jacket & Vest).
TAGS: Ala Quin , Michael Angellus & Isla Reingard

"And Balun... quiet strength doesn’t go unnoticed. You don’t have to speak to teach. But sometimes, even a small word from someone steady can stop a fall before it begins."

As they walked in unison, the soft rhythm of their footsteps weaving through the undergrowth, Balun remained quietly attentive, listening to the wisdom their Master chose to share. There was something thoughtful in the cadence of Ala Quin 's voice—measured and calm, yet threaded with something deeper. Reflection, perhaps. Or care. This wasn't idle talk. She had chosen this moment deliberately, speaking to each of them in turn—first to Michael Angellus , then to Isla Reingard, and finally, to Balun himself.

He shouldn't have been surprised by how easily Ala seemed to read him. Her insight wasn't just practised—it was intuitive, almost uncanny at times. Balun had never enjoyed the feeling of being so effortlessly seen, but in her presence, it was less exposing and more... grounding. Like being caught out in something harmless by someone who understood you more than they let on.

She had picked up on his silence earlier—on the words he hadn't spoken when he'd considered offering some encouragement to Isla. He hadn't wanted to speak out of turn or risk overshadowing the moment, especially with a fellow student. Yet Ala, with her signature grace, had gently called him out on the restraint he'd shown. It wasn't unkind. If anything, her tone carried warmth, and it coaxed an apprehensive chuckle from Balun's chest—muted, but sincere.

He offered her a small nod in return, subtle but deliberate. He didn't need to say anything to show he'd taken the lesson to heart. The gesture was enough—an acknowledgment between student and mentor.

Their group came to a gradual halt as the path opened into a small clearing, the ground worn smooth by time. Ahead, a low stone bench sat partially sunken in the earth, as if waiting patiently for its next purpose. Balun's eyes drifted over it with mild curiosity, wondering what Ala had in store for them now.

Before anything more could be said, Isla Reingard spoke up, her voice polite and thoughtful as she asked to speak. Balun turned his head slightly to better hear her, offering her his attention without crowding her.

There was something about her demeanour that reminded him of himself at that age. A quiet conviction wrapped in uncertainty. Balun often felt like the youngest person in the room, particularly in his corporate world, where most saw his age as a curiosity or, worse, a disadvantage. Men and women twice his age regarded him with thinly veiled scepticism, as if they couldn't fathom how someone so young had earned a seat at their table.

In truth, they weren't wrong to wonder. Without the guidance and support of Judah Dashiell , Balun's path might've looked very different. His father had opened doors he wouldn't have reached on his own—at least not so soon.

'She'll probably think the same of Ala', he mused inwardly, glancing toward his mentor. Perhaps, in time, Isla would come to see her the way Balun now saw Judah—a mentor who didn't just instruct, but invested. Who helped shape not just ability, but identity. Mistakes would come. Missteps were inevitable. Balun had made more than he could count, often stumbling forward through trial and error. But he had endured. Because that was the essence of learning, not in the perfection of steps taken, but in the resilience to keep walking.

"Speech".
'Thought'.​

 

[Ala Quin]

Ala didn’t speak right away after Isla’s words. She let the quiet hold a breath—just long enough to let it settle. Then she turned, expression soft, hand brushing against the stone bench as she looked to the young girl just beside it.

“Storms don’t ask permission,” she echoed gently. “But they don’t have to be destructive to be powerful.”

She crouched down slightly, so she could speak without towering. “I won’t pretend I know how it feels for you, Isla. But if you ever need help holding the weight of it…I’ll be there. You won’t have to face it alone.”

She rose again and looked between them—Michael, Balun, Isla—with the kind of expression that could only be described as warm with quiet pride. “Each of you has a different relationship with the Force. And with yourselves. I see it in how you move, how you think, how you speak.”

Ala folded her arms behind her back and smiled—not large, but true. “You may not see it yet, but I would be honored to walk alongside you as you learn. Because you each bring something valuable. Not one more than the other. Not one less.”

She gestured to the stone bench and the soft patch of grass around it. “Come. Sit with me. We won’t speak for a little while.”

Ala stepped into the clearing, lowering herself gracefully to the ground, robes folding around her like still water.

“Close your eyes. Slow your breath. Don’t reach for the Force like a tool. Just be still. See if it comes to you like a ripple… or a breeze… or a hum beneath your ribs. Whatever it is—just notice it. And let it notice you.”

Her voice dropped to a hush then, almost a whisper between leaves.

“We’ll sit together. And just… listen. Listen to the Force.” And with that, she closed her eyes.

| Michael Angellus Balun Dashiell Isla Reingard |​

 

[Michael Angellus]

​

Journal Entry: .

These students of hers are lucky. While I do not know what made Au… Master Quin want to bring me along, perhaps because she is “family” perhaps she drew the short straw, it did not matter. Some things that she says and explains, “hits me”, in a good way. It’s funny, it should not, but it all is starting to make sense. I never looked at the Force as a “tool” or a “weapon” or anything, it just is what it is… but there was some kind of odd connection I don’t understand. She is helping me.

Hopefully they will allow her to continue to do so. Her guidance is invaluable, and I am starting to see things in a new light. The Force is becoming clearer, and I am grateful for her patience and wisdom. I did offer a smile in response to this, but it was more defeated and timid than anything. I still need to understand what she means by "walking with me".

 

[Isla Reingard]

​

Isla sat slowly, folding her legs beneath her on the soft grass just beside the stone bench. She didn't go for the center, didn't need to be the focus, but she also didn't hang back in the shadows. Not this time. Her fingers hovered over her knees, unsure for a second, before resting lightly atop them.

Ala's words echoed in her chest. "If you ever need help holding the weight of it... I'll be there."

No one had said that to her before. Not quite like that. Plenty had said "you're strong," or "you'll figure it out," but that was different. That was like handing someone a map and pointing toward a mountain. This felt more like someone offering to climb it with her.

She glanced at Balun, who had remained quiet, steady. She didn't know if he realized it, but his silence had become its own kind of comfort. A reminder that not every truth needed to be spoken to be shared.

And Michael… she didn't know what to make of him yet. But there was something about the way he'd stayed at the edge, and the way he'd not spoken, like he was holding more than he wanted to let go of. Isla understood that. She felt that too. And when she caught the quick flicker of his smile, small, shy, not quite reaching the surface, she returned it with the faintest one of her own. Not pity. Just... understanding.

Then, gently, she closed her eyes.

The wind moved across her face, cool and honest. Birds called somewhere far off. And beneath it all, she felt the storm again.

Not angry. Not thrashing. Just there. Churning. Waiting.

She didn't push it away this time. Didn't brace against it.

She just listened.

Ala Quin | Balun Dashiell | Michael Angellus​

 

[Balun Dashiell]

ONE WITH THE COURSE
INVENTORY: Lightsaber & Spacer Apparel (Minus the Jacket & Vest).
TAGS: Ala Quin , Michael Angellus & Isla Reingard

Balun Dashiell settled into the grass with practised ease, legs crossed in a meditative posture that suggested familiarity, if not comfort. His back curved ever so slightly as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced together and held beneath his chin. He was present—visibly so—but his mind hovered somewhere between attention and distance, like a ship caught just outside of orbit, not quite ready to descend.

Ala Quin continued to speak, her voice a gentle tether guiding them deeper into the current of the Force. She shared what she had learned—lessons forged through years of discipline, spiritual clarity, and likely, her own share of missteps. Her words carried weight, as they always did, and soon she encouraged them to join her in meditation.

Both Michael Angellus and Isla Reingard appeared willing, eyes drifting closed as they settled into the moment. But Balun's remained open.

Instead of surrendering to the inward flow of thought, he kept his gaze trained forward, watching the blades of grass stir in the soft breeze. He wasn't listening to Ala anymore, not consciously; instead, his focus shifted outward—to the sounds of distant wildlife, the rustle of leaves overhead, the world beyond their small gathering. And somewhere between the hush of nature and the steady rhythm of his breathing, his thoughts began to drift.

Meditation was no stranger to Balun. He had learned its value long ago during his early years with the New Jedi Order. And yet, it was something he rarely embraced now. Not because he doubted its benefits, but because he had grown wary of what it demanded: vulnerability. True meditation required letting go of the now, of the self, of control. And Balun had spent far too much of his life learning how to keep control. In his experience, closing his eyes often meant missing something, and in a galaxy that had burned him more than once, that wasn't a luxury he could afford.

Trust, after all, was earned over time. He didn't know Isla or Michael well—not yet—and though he bore them no ill will, that wasn't enough for him to surrender to stillness. Not in a way that left him exposed. Temple grounds or not, safety was a notion he'd long stopped taking for granted. His instinct to remain aware wasn't paranoia—it was survival, honed through years of walking alone and making it through on his own terms.

Ala had somehow bypassed those walls in a matter of hours. He still wasn't sure how she'd managed it. Maybe it was her presence—gentle, but steady. Maybe it was the way she saw through his silences without trying to fill them. Whatever the case, she had become someone he trusted. But trust, for Balun, was rarely extended twice.

In many ways, his story defied the traditional image of a Padawan on the cusp of Knighthood. He'd been forged in war, not just trained. Three major conflicts during his service in the Tingel Arm Coalition had left their marks—some visible, most not. He had faced down Sith Lords and come away breathing, had survived situations where instinct and the Force were the only things standing between him and death. And yet, the path to Knighthood wasn't a matter of survival alone. It required emotional readiness, the ability to connect, to believe in others. And that, he knew, was still his greatest obstacle.

His eyes flicked sideways toward Isla and Michael. He wondered if they carried similar burdens, masked behind careful expressions. Michael had mentioned his social struggles once, during the survival training. That quiet admission had stuck with Balun, perhaps because it echoed something in himself. But instead of openness, Balun wore what others expected of him—a mask of quiet confidence. A well-honed illusion built from years of needing to appear in control, even when he felt anything but.

The truth was far simpler, and far more difficult: he cared too much. About what others saw, about how he measured up, about the gulf between who he was and who he thought he should be.

He wanted to be liked. He wanted to belong. But the hardest thing he had yet to master was finding a way to truly like himself.

And so, while the others reached inward for the serenity of the Force, Balun sat silently in the growing quiet, the breeze brushing against his face like the whisper of a friend he could no longer hear clearly. A companion he'd known all his life, and yet still struggled to trust completely.

"Speech".
'Thought'.​