Mother of Pearl
It had been a little while since Joza had made her new home on Voss, settling into the planet’s pleasant atmosphere quicker than she had expected to. On Sullust she didn’t had the advantage of fresh air and lush greenery, something that she found help to calm her nerves greatly. Ever since leaving Zeltros to walk the path of the Jedi, the young woman had trouble conforming to their standards and subsequently developed a terrible case of homesickness. Thankfully her training had been enough of a distraction to keep her decently stable—by now thoughts of home still lingered in her mind, but not enough to hinder her. Unless she was in a mood, of course. And being a teenage Zeltron, she was certainly moody.
The pink skinned girl was not battle-worn in any sense of the word, especially not compared to some of the weathered and scarred Jedi she had come across. The Padawan had just begun to dip her toes into the word of combat, her experiences amounting to a few skirmishes with Sith on other words and being comically beaten by a lone Sith Knight on Lothal. She still wasn’t sure how to feel about the encounter, as after he’d beaten her he had offered to instruct her in the basics of Makashi. They’d parted under non-hostile terms, her with a broken nose and bruised ribs and him with a smirk.
Since then she found that she actually liked Form II, finding it far more graceful and fluid than Shii-Cho. As a dancer, it suited her natural poise and she easily fell into the rhythmic footwork required for it. That was likely why she was practicing on the edge of the training ground, wooden training blade in her hand instead of her saber. Her movements were tight, quick and rapid a she jabbed, parried and sliced at an imaginary foe. Sometimes she felt like saberwork was more calming to her than meditation.
Pausing in her movements, she let her blade drop to the side while rolling some of the tension from her shoulders. It had been a long morning of practice, but she still had plenty of fight in her. Er—energy, that was.
The pink skinned girl was not battle-worn in any sense of the word, especially not compared to some of the weathered and scarred Jedi she had come across. The Padawan had just begun to dip her toes into the word of combat, her experiences amounting to a few skirmishes with Sith on other words and being comically beaten by a lone Sith Knight on Lothal. She still wasn’t sure how to feel about the encounter, as after he’d beaten her he had offered to instruct her in the basics of Makashi. They’d parted under non-hostile terms, her with a broken nose and bruised ribs and him with a smirk.
Since then she found that she actually liked Form II, finding it far more graceful and fluid than Shii-Cho. As a dancer, it suited her natural poise and she easily fell into the rhythmic footwork required for it. That was likely why she was practicing on the edge of the training ground, wooden training blade in her hand instead of her saber. Her movements were tight, quick and rapid a she jabbed, parried and sliced at an imaginary foe. Sometimes she felt like saberwork was more calming to her than meditation.
Pausing in her movements, she let her blade drop to the side while rolling some of the tension from her shoulders. It had been a long morning of practice, but she still had plenty of fight in her. Er—energy, that was.