Private The Desert of Abafar

[AZIS/MORAVOKH]

The pale desert sands of Abafar stretch to the horizon, bathed in a uniform orange light. Nothing casts a true shadow here. Beneath the oppressive orange sky (an eternal, featureless glow), a shimmering heat haze blurs distant rocks and a cracked, red-white sun sinks slowly. The wind is hot and dry, carrying the scent of spice and dust. Even at high noon, the light is soft and diffuse, like afterglow; travelers navigate by memory and instinct rather than sun or stars.

The mining town of Pons Ora is built low to the ground, in battered stone and metal. Thick adobe walls are streaked white-red by wind-carried salts. Small lamps flicker outside doorways, purple-blue against the red sand. Here and there a squat guard turret or rhydonium vent rises, stamping the horizon. In this "dusty town", stray rocks become tables and every structure is coated in salt and spice. Underfoot, a crushed white regolith smothers prints — no two travelers ever leave a trace.

Inside the cantina, the air is stale and oily. A few drums hang on the walls, their skins cracked. To one side, a small tank with a sluggish blue-green droid nurse scrolls through data terminals. Patrons from half a dozen species nurse frothy ales; all have weathered faces and dull eyes. In the corner, a silver-tusked Ithorian plucks at an old lute; its melody is faint and minor-keyed. Strange birdcalls echo from outside (large purple lau birds that frequent the dunes), their cries muffled by thick amber glass. The overall smell is a mix of fried bilkroot, damp wood, and recycled air — a far cry from Abafar's harsh open sky, but its heat still makes sweat bead on foreheads.​

 

[Kara Kornelius]

Kara's eyes are hidden by shadows, but she remains fixed on him. When he does look up, she has returned to scanning a data scroll.

 

[AZIS/MORAVOKH]

He starts to cross the room, exchanging empty nods with the bartender. Play it casual, Azis. He thinks. If she is Jedi, he can't let panic show.

From Azis's viewpoint: He eases to the bar, seat heavy beneath him. He places both palms flat on the crusted counter, looking back at Kara over his shoulder. He shrugs lightly. Atmosphere's hostile, is it? he asks himself quietly. "Humph," he exhales softly, a gesture of nonchalance. It is a small move, but in a still space its intent is clear.

 

[Kara Kornelius]

Kara's attention snaps back to her drink.

 

[AZIS/MORAVOKH]

He orders a drink: "Just water, please — local." The bartender nods, grunting as he pours. Azis's voice is half-laughing, but his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. A smile like a flourish of a historian about to rewrite the record, he thinks privately.

Out of the corner of his eye Azis sees

 

[Kara Kornelius]

Kara shift. She looks away, pretending to trace a dent in the table.

 

[AZIS/MORAVOKH]

He imagines her ears twitching, listening for something. No sound passes between them. But Azis can taste the tension in the air, low and brassy. He sips his water lightly, then drags the glass back, mindful of the watery clink.

After a moment, Azis decides to test the waters. He lifts his chin and offers her a tight-lipped smile of greeting as if he's noticed nothing. "Good day," he says loud enough for her to hear, voice warm yet distant. "That familiar tune you were humming — mind if I request it?" He raises the volume on his humming.

 

[Kara Kornelius]

Kara stops abruptly, eyes widening for a fraction, as the Cantina theme carries faintly through the air. Her fingers still, her gaze flickers up.

Across the room, Kara stills her hand on the datapad. As soon as the tune escapes his lips, she knows he heard her humming. His remark has slipped something vital: he knows she's here. She inclines her head ever so slightly, but her eyes remain downcast. Shit, a word whispers through her mind — not spoken, not felt in the Force, but evident. She places both hands around her cup and draws in a deep breath, calm on the outside. Her free hand slips slowly under the table, resting on the hilt of her lightsaber (concealed). She's been spotted, and a hunter faces her blades.

 

[AZIS/MORAVOKH]

Azis holds Kara's gaze directly in the reflection of his glass. His smile falters into a thin line, eyes flicking back and forth as he processes her reaction. Jedi, he realizes plainly. He nods to himself, as if checking a fact. "A very good day," he corrects, and leans forward.

He addresses the bartender, "Tell your musician friend I'd like a private performance sometime." The bartender snorts but shrugs and returns to polishing glasses. Azis resumes his quiet sipping.

 

[Kara Kornelius]

Kara chokes a little on her drink at the subtext. Private performance? She meets his eyes across the candlelight. He knows her. He knows. Panic flares, then she suppresses it. So what? she thinks, forcing steadiness into her voice as she stands. It's Kara's turn to come forward.

She glides from her seat. In her right hand now is a datapad with a recording of the Cantina song (she'd thought it odd but forgave it). She walks toward Azis, using measured steps. When he notices her movement, he straightens, meeting her still halfway.

They end up nose-to-nose by the barside table. Kara sits facing Azis; he remains perched on his stool, now only a foot away. Silence stretches between them like a drawn spotlight. Outside in the street, a banshee-howl of wind threatens to burst the door open. A tiny silhouette — the bartender's cat — scampers across and vanishes.

Kara's voice is neutral when she speaks. "Quite a day indeed," she says, her words as light as dust. "I don't suppose historians ever mind being watched?" Her head tilts back just enough to examine Azis fully, seeking any reaction.

 

[AZIS/MORAVOKH]

Azis gives the hint of a bow with his cup. "Not at all," he lies lightly. "Curiosity is— essential to my work." He searches her face carefully. Her eyes give nothing away.

They hold these short exchanges like a duet. Each listener studies the other for hidden meaning.

 

[Kara Kornelius]

Kara senses a faint warmth of nervous energy in him — not fear, but anticipation.

 

[AZIS/MORAVOKH]

He seems to welcome this game, as if his true question has already been answered. What have you seen? he silently probes with his eyes.

 

[Kara Kornelius]

She leans back slightly, gauging him. "Abafar isn't exactly bustling," she says. "So any new face is interesting." Kara lets her lips curve, but not fully. "Especially one with a coat like that."

 

[AZIS/MORAVOKH]

Azis smiles as if amused by his own conspicuous attire. "Ah, this old thing?" He brushes the edge of his coat. "For comfort, mostly. Patterns of Imperial origin. They make me feel at home in such… foreign times." He looks pointedly over his shoulder at the door and window.

 

[Kara Kornelius]

Just then, an old Mustafarian grandmother hobbles in with a baby on her back. Her face goes pale at the sight of Kara, and she sharply steps aside. Kara's head jerk tells Azis she recognized the Jedi, likely from the war or rumor.

 

[AZIS/MORAVOKH]

Azis watches Kara's face as it flickers concern. Impressive, he thinks. She did not freeze; she only reflexively steps closer to the wall, shielding the path behind.

A loud clap from the bartender snags attention: Azis stands. "If you'll excuse me, General." He nods with mock formality (he guessed her rank). Kara nods back.

Azis collects a credit chip from his pocket and lays it on the bar with his empty glass. "Keep the change," he says, voice low. He turns away, shoulders squared, his back momentarily to Kara as he leaves.

 

[Kara Kornelius]

Kara exhales quietly. Azis – historian, liar, maybe scholar – is out that door. The door swings shut behind him, cutting off the dusty afternoon light and the last of his presence. The gloom re-enters, absorbing Kara in its sepia glow.

She stands alone, eyes fixed on the spot he vacated. In the silence, she finally allows herself a frown of doubt. That was no historian.

 

[Kara Kornelius]

Kara slips out of the cantina a breath after Azis, her boots soft against Abafar's pale grit.

Outside, the market streets of Pons Ora swell around her in a loose, dusty maze of awnings, carts, vapor lamps, and sun-bleached stalls. The orange light above everything makes the whole town feel half-real, like it was dreamed into existence by a tired mind and left to bake. Vendors call out over piles of dried root, coils of wire, cracked ceramics, and canisters of water guarded like relics. A pair of laborers shove past with a cart full of salvage. Somewhere nearby, a tinkerer hammers at a broken power coupler with the patience of a saint and the hearing of a rancor.

Kara keeps her face neutral, but her senses are sharpened to a needle's point.

Azis had left with the easy pace of a man who had nowhere to be and every reason to look harmless. That had been the first lie.

The second was the way he vanished.

He was just there, crossing between two stalls draped in faded cloth, the hem of his coat stirring sand in his wake. Then a family with a basket of produce moved between them for a heartbeat, and he was gone. Not turned a corner. Not ducked into a doorway. Gone, as if the desert itself had inhaled him.

Kara slows, scanning the street.

"Excuse me," she says to a rodian woman inspecting a string of trinkets. "A man just passed through here. Dark coat. Long black hair. Very pale. He looked like…" Kara hesitates, choosing a description that will make sense to someone who has not seen the same shadows she has. "Like an apparition. Almost theatrical. Black hair down to his shoulders. Sharp face. He looked like some kind of off-world performer from a nightmare."

The rodian blinks at her, then shrugs. "Many people here look strange."

Kara turns to a Duros merchant arranging spice jars. "You saw him. Tall. Thin. Pale. Hair like ink. He was in a coat that seemed too clean for this place."

The Duros squints past her shoulder, then shakes his head. "Lady, I sell spice. Not ghosts."

Kara's jaw tightens by a degree. "He came this way."

"Then he left this way," the merchant says, waving vaguely toward the nearest alley. "Or that way. Or maybe he was never here at all."

 

[Kara Kornelius]

She moves on, keeping her pace controlled though irritation prickles beneath her skin.

A pair of locals huddled under a shade canopy glance at her as she passes. She asks them the same question. One scratches his chin and says he did see "some scholar-looking fellow." The other swears she must mean a traveling medic. A third patron, a wiry old woman with a necklace of polished bone, stares at Kara for a long moment and then says, "I don't know who you're talking about."

Kara pauses.

That answer is worse than mockery.

She turns back to the street, eyes narrowing. The flow of people is steady, but nothing about it explains how quickly Azis disappeared. He had not moved like a frightened man. He had moved like one who knew exactly how much he could be seen and exactly when he had to stop being seen.

She folds her arms slowly, gaze sweeping over the market rows again.

"No one noticed him," she murmurs.

The old woman snorts. "On Abafar, people are busy surviving. Not staring."

Kara gives a small nod, but her mind is already threading the shape of the problem together. No footprints. No direct trail. No witness who can hold onto a consistent image. A man who seems to exist only in brief, deliberate impressions.

A chill slides under her skin despite the heat.

She turns to the nearest vendor, a human with a salt-white beard and a stall full of cracked optics. "I need to know where he went."

The vendor squints at her. "Who?"

Kara exhales through her nose and tries again, slower this time. "The man from the cantina. Long black hair. Pale. Black coat. He looks less like a person and more like a memory that learned how to walk."

The vendor stares at her like she has started speaking in furnace dialect.

"See?" he says at last, gesturing at the crowd. "That could be half the people in this sector."

Kara's eyes flick to the opposite side of the street. A child darts between two stalls. A pair of workers argue over a crate. A woman drags a cloth bag full of dry goods across the sand-caked road.

No sign of Azis.

No sign at all.

Kara's brows draw together. "No," she says quietly.

The vendor frowns. "No what?"

"No one moves that fast without leaving something behind."