First Reply The Shape of Tomorrow

[Corazona von Ascania]

Ukatis
Nuvar province​

When the great galactic war machine churned in the core, it spat out a host of problems. Problems that reverberated through the galaxy, far beyond the killing fields of the Empire.

Ukatis was no stranger to extra-galactic threats. First came the Mandalorians, then the Sith. They'd rained down fire, cut with steel, and choked with toxins. After each attack, the little agriworld slowly began to rise from the ashes, blooming a little brighter every time. The people here, though cautious of an influx of outsiders, knew what it was like to be stripped of all normalcy.

Cora's boots struck the mud as she made her way down the central lane of Nuvar Hollow, the High Republic's latest refugee camp established to accommodate the influx of displaced sentients fleeing the core. While Ukatis had neither the capital nor the infrastructure, they did have the space. Raw materials, food, and medicine were supplied by Naboo's coffers.

To say that the people of Ukatis welcomed refugees with open arms would be an exaggeration. They were tentative. Perhaps a bit standoffish, even, concerned about what strange customs or even ills that the strangers from beyond the stars would bring. Still, they tended to their work with pride, raising shelter and cooking meals.

Slowly, though, they were beginning to thaw. Not always with smiles and kind words, but through actions.

Cora passed by the bones of what was slated to become a schoolhouse, tended to by a crew of local and off-world muscle. Several of the workers lingered near the foot of the building, perched on a piece of scaffolding for their break. A Ukatian contractor with a greying beard broke his scone in half, and handed the piece to a Rodian refugee.

All around them, the settlement buzzed with the steady hum of rebuilding lives.

 

[Durak'Tur]

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UKATIS
Tagging: Corazona von Ascania
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Durak'Tur moved with deliberate grace through the heart of the refugee camp, his tall, fur-cloaked frame cutting a solemn figure among the wounded. The scent of bacta hung heavy in the air, mingling with the low murmur of displaced families and the hum of portable generators. His deep amber eyes scanned the rows of makeshift cots, metal stretchers laid out beneath tattered canvas, each occupied by beings scarred by blasterfire or fear. A healer’s hand rested on one patient’s chest; a faint shimmer of blue light pulsed beneath his palm. “Easy,” he rumbled in a low voice, more felt than heard. “You’re safe now. Breathe with the Force.”

He had seen too many camps like this, across the galaxy, and now here on Ukatis. War always came dressed in new colors, but its shape never changed. He moved to the next cot, where a young Twi’lek clutched her brother’s hand, the boy’s leg wrapped in crude synth-bandages. The Jedi knelt beside them, his shadow swallowing the cot, yet his touch was gentle as falling snow. “He will walk again,” he said, his tusked muzzle dipping as he focused. The Force flowed through him, a river of warmth that mended torn muscle and quieted pain. The boy’s breathing steadied, his small fingers loosening their desperate grip.

Outside the tent, rain began to fall, soft at first, then heavier, drumming against the tarp overhead. Durak'Tur rose, his silhouette framed against the glow of lanterns as he looked beyond the perimeter. Med-transports glided overhead, their thrusters stirring the wet dust, while volunteers ferried food and supplies through the mud. He could sense exhaustion and fear in every heartbeat around him, but beneath it all, something brighter. Hope. The same fragile, stubborn spark that had survived every war the galaxy had ever thrown at itself.

He was a warrior by nature, a healer by choice, and a guardian by oath. Every cry he eased, every wound he mended, reminded him why the Jedi endured, not for glory, nor the politics, but for the simple act of standing between suffering and silence. His gaze lifted toward the dark sky, toward distant stars still burning despite it all. “May the Force keep them,” he murmured, and for a moment, the rain seemed to still in reverence.

May the Force Keep them All.​

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