Kanet Gannegar
Pilgrim Monk
Kanet Gannegar stepped off the landing platform of a nearly mint-condition YT-2400. Its smuggler captain prided himself on keeping it in pristine form for his work. He had granted Kanet passage to the highly industrialized Colonies world of Fondor, headquarters of Omega Pyre, for the meager price of piloting the ship there himself. Kanet bid his goodbyes upon arrival, and departed, leaving the errant smuggler to find himself a new pilot. Kanet thought the situation almost droll: a smuggler who couldn't fly in a ship too clean to carry contraband.
In fact, it had almost been too clean to carry Kanet. On most days, the pilgrim was dustier than a bantha, but having just come from Tatooine, he had been thorough in scrubbing himself off - at the behest of his chauffeur. Cleanliness was a luxury that he rarely afforded himself, but given the circumstances, he decided that exceptions could be made.
Tatooine had been Kanet's last stop on his tour of B'omarr temples and monasteries. He had been briefly enamored with the philosophy, intrigued by its practices, but he thought that no asceticism was true if it was enforced with a scalpel and a droid body. Still, he traveled to Danuta and Teth and, finally, to Tatooine, to see the monks in all their squalor. There was very little of spiritual interest in the old temples. The B'omarr monks let too many interlopers frequent their homes, so any genuine artifacts were lost to raiders and vagabonds.
Over the years, Kanet had become a self-taught archaeologist; academic pursuits, he rarely said aloud, were a strong counterpart to the skills of battle taught to him by his adoptive parents on Yanibar. The Zeison Sha were efficient and effective teachers of many disciplines, but they were rarely accused of being intellectuals. After Kanet imposed exile upon himself, he sought those intellectual pursuits. He found them helpful in silencing the thirst for blood that tantalized his mind.
A spaceport functionary stopped him briefly, wrinkling his nose. Kanet's garb no doubt cast aspersions on his intentions. He was clad in simple clothes, a tan tunic and faded black pants, and he carried a leather haversack over one shoulder; that animal-skin bag housed his every possession. The functionary, a local, as bald and pale as any Fondorian, flicked his eyes from Kanet's own bald scalp to his thick, tangled beard.
"What is your business on Fondor?" he asked.
Kanet looked calmly from the functionary to the datapad he carried, no doubt filled with tabulated responses to that very question. He let the silence hang in the air for much longer than comfort preferred, until the pale fellow began to squirm under his eye. At last, he replied, "I was invited." His voice was deep, and it resonated with the dark timbre of his tribal ancestry. By way of explanation, he held out a datapad of his own.
The Fondorian functionary tenuously retrieved the 'pad, skimmed it, and smiled a bureaucrat's smile. "Ah, by Omega Pyre," he said, "Of course you'll want a taxi to these coordinates!" He stepped onto the street and reached out a blinking gizmo to signal a commercial airspeeder.
Kanet caught the outstretched forearm with a russet hand and brought it back down. The confused bureaucrat looked down at the muscular digits that gripped his arm; he must have thought they were like a vise made from burnt sienna. He followed them up the arm to the face that matched them. He swallowed hard, staring into Kanet's impassive eyes until at last, he said, "Perhaps not."
Kanet nodded his thanks and began to walk in the general directions he had been given by "Cira." He knew it was not her real name - the same way he knew that the functionary feared him and that a passing landspeeder would ignore the traffic light ordering it to stop. (Kanet halted his own amble to let the speeder pass, then resumed.) He did not blame Cira for keeping her true name to herself; many cultures believed that names had power, and to know someone's name was to have power over them.
Kanet did not know if that were true, but he did know that names were a private matter. Even if you could not control someone by his name, you did not deserve to know it all the same.
After a few hours of walking in the industry-laden atmosphere of Fondor, Kanet Gannegar arrived at the designated coordinates.
In fact, it had almost been too clean to carry Kanet. On most days, the pilgrim was dustier than a bantha, but having just come from Tatooine, he had been thorough in scrubbing himself off - at the behest of his chauffeur. Cleanliness was a luxury that he rarely afforded himself, but given the circumstances, he decided that exceptions could be made.
Tatooine had been Kanet's last stop on his tour of B'omarr temples and monasteries. He had been briefly enamored with the philosophy, intrigued by its practices, but he thought that no asceticism was true if it was enforced with a scalpel and a droid body. Still, he traveled to Danuta and Teth and, finally, to Tatooine, to see the monks in all their squalor. There was very little of spiritual interest in the old temples. The B'omarr monks let too many interlopers frequent their homes, so any genuine artifacts were lost to raiders and vagabonds.
Over the years, Kanet had become a self-taught archaeologist; academic pursuits, he rarely said aloud, were a strong counterpart to the skills of battle taught to him by his adoptive parents on Yanibar. The Zeison Sha were efficient and effective teachers of many disciplines, but they were rarely accused of being intellectuals. After Kanet imposed exile upon himself, he sought those intellectual pursuits. He found them helpful in silencing the thirst for blood that tantalized his mind.
A spaceport functionary stopped him briefly, wrinkling his nose. Kanet's garb no doubt cast aspersions on his intentions. He was clad in simple clothes, a tan tunic and faded black pants, and he carried a leather haversack over one shoulder; that animal-skin bag housed his every possession. The functionary, a local, as bald and pale as any Fondorian, flicked his eyes from Kanet's own bald scalp to his thick, tangled beard.
"What is your business on Fondor?" he asked.
Kanet looked calmly from the functionary to the datapad he carried, no doubt filled with tabulated responses to that very question. He let the silence hang in the air for much longer than comfort preferred, until the pale fellow began to squirm under his eye. At last, he replied, "I was invited." His voice was deep, and it resonated with the dark timbre of his tribal ancestry. By way of explanation, he held out a datapad of his own.
The Fondorian functionary tenuously retrieved the 'pad, skimmed it, and smiled a bureaucrat's smile. "Ah, by Omega Pyre," he said, "Of course you'll want a taxi to these coordinates!" He stepped onto the street and reached out a blinking gizmo to signal a commercial airspeeder.
Kanet caught the outstretched forearm with a russet hand and brought it back down. The confused bureaucrat looked down at the muscular digits that gripped his arm; he must have thought they were like a vise made from burnt sienna. He followed them up the arm to the face that matched them. He swallowed hard, staring into Kanet's impassive eyes until at last, he said, "Perhaps not."
Kanet nodded his thanks and began to walk in the general directions he had been given by "Cira." He knew it was not her real name - the same way he knew that the functionary feared him and that a passing landspeeder would ignore the traffic light ordering it to stop. (Kanet halted his own amble to let the speeder pass, then resumed.) He did not blame Cira for keeping her true name to herself; many cultures believed that names had power, and to know someone's name was to have power over them.
Kanet did not know if that were true, but he did know that names were a private matter. Even if you could not control someone by his name, you did not deserve to know it all the same.
After a few hours of walking in the industry-laden atmosphere of Fondor, Kanet Gannegar arrived at the designated coordinates.
