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]

_________________________________________________
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.​

​

 

[Corazona von Ascania]

There was an order to the refugee camp, even as it grew day by day, sprawling over the open fields of Ukatis like a tangle of fast-growing vines.

Vines that, she hoped, would bear more flowers than thorns.

Cora pivoted onto a the packed dirt of a side path, boots squelching in the mud as she made her way down an artery that fed the tent city for new arrivals. Each individual would receive a general health exam, after which they'd be sorted into housing - or relayed to a medical facility, if necessary.

It wasn't a perfect system, but neither was war. Cora hefted the bundle tucked beneath her arm a bit higher, careful to keep it away from splashes of mud and rain water.

The tent flap shifted as she passed through, stirring stray drops that streaked along the canvas. The air might've been cool and clammy, but her smile was warm.

"I've brought some blankets," she said as she took a knee before the children and helped to wrap them each in a wool afghan. As her hands moved, that placid smile never left her face, not even when she looked to the Whiphid.

A silent acknowledgment passed between them - something grave and sincere - before she turned back to the Twi'lek children with a tone that was both bright and soft.

"How would you two like to get out of this muddy old tent and into some place dry?"

Cora tilted her gaze to the healer beside her.
"We've been able to expand the semi-permanent housing bloc, so there's more room available now."

Durak'Tur

 

[Durak'Tur]

​

Ukatis​

Tag: Corazona von Ascania​

The Whippid Jedi’s ears twitched at the sound of her voice, a melody of calm amid the distant clamor of field medics and shuttles. His great hands stilled their motion as he looked toward her, the soft light filtering through the tent’s seams painting streaks of gold across his fur. “Good,” he rumbled, his tone low and thoughtful. “They need something to hold on to besides ration packs and old stories.” The faintest curl of tusked amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth as he watched her drape another blanket over a child’s shoulders. “And you bring warmth, not just in the fabric.”

He moved closer, the ground trembling faintly under his weight as he knelt beside the Twi’lek boy he had just healed. The boy’s eyes fluttered open at last, confusion giving way to shy recognition as he met the Whippid’s gaze. “See?” the Jedi said quietly. “The galaxy still has kind souls left in it.” His amber eyes flicked to Cora, the tone not just one of gratitude but a shared understanding, an unspoken truth between Jedi who had both seen too much of the galaxy’s pain.

The tent flaps stirred again as a breeze carried in the scent of rain-soaked grass and ozone. Beyond, the sun was still strong, breaking through the thinning clouds in pale shafts of light that cut through the gloom of the camp. The Whippid rose, his massive silhouette framed in the light as he nodded toward her words. “Then let’s move them. They’ll heal better beneath the open sky than trapped in shadow.” He turned slightly, signaling to a medic to prepare a stretcher for another wounded refugee.

As the children rose, clutching the wool blankets around their small shoulders, the Whippid stepped aside to let them pass, lowering his head respectfully. The hum of generators and the rhythmic patter of rain seemed to fade for a moment, leaving only the quiet sound of young footsteps squelching through the mud toward shelter. When he looked back at her, his eyes carried both fatigue and faith. “Perhaps,” he said, voice roughened but sincere, “it is not the Jedi who bring balance, but those we protect.”

 

[Corazona von Ascania]

Cora's smile, calm as a summer's breeze, seemed to gain a measure of gratitude at the Whipid's words. "Ukatis is not a planet that has much," she murmured, "but perhaps that is why the people here understand the importance of giving."

Of course, an incredible influx of foodstuffs and supplies now flowed into the little agriworld while it struggled to modernize. It wouldn't do to house and feed refugees while their own people starved. Cora moved to adjust the blanket over the boy's shoulders, ensuring that he was snug as could be, especially around his healing leg.

The Twi'lek boy, his skin a dusky blue, looked up to the strange Jedi Master in a mix of awe and admiration. Never had he witnessed someone's simple touch mend flesh and bone before. Cora's lips quirked into a knowing smile.

"I think he'd fare better traveling with you," she insisted kindly. Indeed, the boy nodded eagerly, clutching the blanket a little tighter as he was lifted in the Whipid master's arms.

Cora held the tent flap open, grasping the girl's hand gently in her own. As they moved through the muddied streets, the camp flowed easily around them. Things were busy here, but the seeds of life were beginning to flourish.

Cora could not help but think that she would much rather be here than on some far-flung battlefield full of Sith and imperials and death.

The Whipid spoke, and she tilted her head, neck craning slightly. "You could say that," she considered after a long moment in thought. "To serve the galaxy, we must not forget what it is like for those who live in it. Their struggles are our struggles."

Her thumb brushed the girl's hand idly, watching as the child seemed to have gained a curiosity in her active surroundings.

"From which sect do you hail, Master Jedi? Or are you the nomadic sort?"

Durak'Tur

 

[Durak'Tur]

​

Ukatis​

Tag: Corazona von Ascania​

Durak’Tur adjusted his hold on the boy with a careful, practiced gentleness, his broad arm serving as both perch and shelter as they stepped back into the light. Mid-day sun had returned in soft patches through tattered cloud cover, gilding the puddles and glistening off refugee tarps like dew on stone. His long strides slowed to match Cora’s and the young Twi’lek at her side, making a corridor of calm between the bustle of carts, medics, and slow-moving families.

“I have worn many banners in my life,” he answered after a moment, voice deep as distant thunder. “The Temple on Coruscant taught me form. The enclaves of Ossus taught me stillness. The Guardians of Tython taught me patience.” His gaze swept the camp, not in vigilance, but in witness. “And when war burned them down, I learned how little banners matter beside the ones made of compassion.”

The little Twi’lek boy shifted against his furred chest, peeking out from beneath the blanket. Durak’Tur lowered his tusked muzzle slightly, speaking in a tone meant for ears smaller than his own. “When your leg is strong again, you will help someone else stand. That is how the galaxy remains whole.” The boy blinked, startled, but he nodded, as if accepting a vow he did not yet have words for. The Whiphid’s warm breath eased the nervous tension in his shoulders.

Only then did he return his regard to Cora, walking beside him through the ruts of soft mud and sunlit rainwater. “I wander now,” he said, unhurried. “Not as one without a place, but as one whose duty is where suffering gathers. Some orders root themselves in temples or councils. Mine is wherever a soul cries out and is not heard.” There was no pride in it, only truth, worn smooth by time.

He paused as they reached a rise in the path, a vantage where the refugee camp curved out across the fields like a living tapestry. Children’s laughter mixed with hoversled hums, with soft prayer chants, with moments of peace stitched between ache. Durak’Tur watched it all with the quiet fondness of a guardian who did not need to own what he protected.

“Nomadic,” he rumbled at last, a glint of dry humor flickering in his eyes. “Though the word is small for what the galaxy asks of us, hm?” His voice softened again as he nodded toward her. “And you, Cora, do you serve a temple, or have you chosen the road as well?”

 

[Corazona von Ascania]

Coruscant. Ossus. Tython.

Something sobered in Cora's expression as the Whipid recounted three beacon worlds of the Jedi - all fallen to war. It was difficult to parse out which loss had stung the most. Coruscant had been home. Tython, she'd fought for on several fronts - only for it to fall into the Empire's grasp shortly after. Ossus, changing hands between imperials.

The New Jedi Order had hemorrhaged. Those who'd survived the imperial incursion were scattered across the galaxy, many gathering just beyond the edge of Alliance territory to regroup. Cora and a handful of remaining Jedi did what they could to try and stem the imperial tide with their allies, but they too had become overwhelmed.

Was it smarter to have their smaller numbers dispersed among the galaxy, or should they try and consolidate what remained? On Ilum, they'd chosen the former.

"I serve the New Jedi Order," she decided. "What remains of it."

The answer felt strangely hollow, almost like a lament. Instead of mourning too long for what they'd lost, she tried to shift her focus toward what remained. "My priority now is tending to the enclave here. It's a small thing, no grand temples and such. We tend to the land and give back to the community. You're more than welcome to stop by if you need a place to stay. Or, if you'd like to impart some wisdom unto our students."

Again, she had to crane her neck back in order to look up to the Whipid. They were nearing the housing bloc, where identical wooden structures stood in rows of brown and grey. They weren't the prettiest sight, but far more comfortable and sturdier than the tents.

"Cora," she offered her name. "Jedi aren't supposed to play favorites, but Ukatis is my homeworld. I suppose that makes me rather soft to her plight."

Durak'Tur

 

[Durak'Tur]

​

Ukatis​

Tag: Corazona von Ascania​

Durak’Tur slowed his pace as she spoke of the New Jedi Order, of what had survived, and what still clung to purpose through sheer will. There was a steadiness in his gaze, but also a quiet sorrow shared between veterans of too many broken sanctuaries. “Walls can be rebuilt,” he murmured. “But the spirit that built them must live somewhere while the stones are scattered.” It was not praise, simply truth, spoken by one who had seen ruin and rebirth enough times to know which outlasted the other.

When the housing bloc came into view, the Whiphid shifted his weight slightly to support the Twi’lek boy, his voice softening as he regarded the structures. “This is more than shelter. It is breathing room… the kind hearts need before they remember how to stand tall again.” The child looked up at him, and Durak’Tur gave a small nod, gentling his presence until the fear slipped further from the boy’s shoulders.

He inclined his head when she extended the invitation.“Your enclave’s hearthlight is a rare gift in days such as these,” he said, baritone warm with sincerity. “I will accept a stay among you for a time, long enough to rest, to heal a few souls, and to share what teachings may be useful to those walking their first steps along the path.” There was respect in his phrasing, not possession, not presumption, only an honored guest answering kindness with dignity.

“And when the road calls me onward,” he added gently, “I will carry your people’s resilience with me, so that others remember such places still exist.” He looked down to her, eyes kind beneath the weight of years. “Ukatis has roots still growing. I would walk beside them awhile… before the wind takes me elsewhere.”

He stepped forward toward the doorway, pausing only long enough to offer the faintest ghost of a smile.

“Lead on, Cora. Your hearth welcomes strangers well.”

 

[Corazona von Ascania]

The Whipid's wise words rolled over her like a warm breeze. Gentle, soothing in a particular way, and sure. Rooted in sentiment, not platitude.

"We'd be pleased to host you in any capacity," she admitted, a small, hopeful smile quirking her lips. "Jedi Masters have become far more rare in the galaxy as of late. Your guidance would be welcomed, in any capacity and for however long you stay."

They entered the first building to their right, greeted by the steady warmth of a hearth and the jubilant, pitched sounds of children playing. Several women draped in dark cloth, their hair veiled, tended to them.

Cora knelt before the Twi'lek girl, grasping her shoulders gently.

"The sisters here lookafter the children who've lost their homes. They'll take good care of you and your brother. Promise me you'll try and make some friends, okay?"

The girl nodded slowly, looking between her brother and the group of children. One of the nuns left the room, and came back with a small hoverchair, gesturing for Durak'Tur to lower the boy into it. The pair of siblings were welcomed into the circle of kids as they explained the game they were playing.

"It never gets any easier," Cora murmured to the Whipid, careful to keep her voice low enough so as to not disturb the children. Something in her gaze dimmed, as if the recollections of countless aid missions had hit her all at once. "I'd rather be doing this than swinging a saber, but it…"

She sighed, rolling her shoulders before peering up at the Jedi Master. The blonde was a teacher herself, having instructed many Padawans through their own trials, but there were times where she could still use guidance herself.

"How do you deal with it all? The weight of not being able to save everyone."

Durak'Tur

 

[Durak'Tur]

PRESENCE

Tag: Corazona von Ascania

Durak’Tur’s heavy frame shifted as he knelt beside her, the floor creaking faintly beneath his weight. The warmth of the hearthlight played across the ridges of his fur and the faint glint of moisture that caught in his eyes when he looked toward the children. For a long moment, he said nothing. The sounds of laughter and soft chatter filled the silence between them, a reminder of what they fought to preserve. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and resonant, each word deliberate, measured, almost like a prayer.

“You do not deal with it,” he said softly. “You learn to carry it.”

His gaze lingered on the young Twi’lek boy now seated among his peers, blanket draped like a cape across small shoulders. “Every life you cannot save becomes a lesson the Code cannot teach. The Code speaks of serenity, of letting go. But those are not commands, Cora, they are stars to steer by, not chains to bind you. A Jedi who clings too tightly to words risks losing sight of what those words were meant to protect.”

He turned slightly, his amber eyes meeting hers, grave but kind. “The Code is not meant to strip us of compassion or sorrow. It is meant to teach us balance, that even as our hearts ache, the ache itself can serve the Light if we do not let it harden us. To feel sorrow and still choose hope, that is what makes us Jedi. Not obedience. Not perfection.” His tusks dipped as he looked back toward the sisters tending to the children. “The Force does not ask for victory, only presence. Be there when it matters. Let that be enough.”

He rose slowly, cloak brushing the floor, his massive form momentarily casting a long shadow across the flickering light. “You feel their suffering because you must,” he continued. “That is how the Force speaks through us, through empathy, through shared burden. The Code tells us to be mindful of the living Force, not untouched by it. We must not live by the words alone, but by their meaning. The meaning is love.”

Durak’Tur looked down to her once more, a faint smile softening his otherwise stern countenance. “So when you feel that weight upon you, do not see failure. See proof that your heart still listens. As long as it does, the Light endures.”

 

[Corazona von Ascania]

"Not for victory, only presence," she repeated in a low, almost reverent murmur. For all the lessons she'd taught, for all the guidance she'd given, there was still so much more for her to learn. Books and tomes and instructions had their place, but nothing could replace wisdom gained from going through the motions of life.

"It can be hard to untangle my own feelings, at times," she confessed. "Even with meditation. But…" her tone lifted with consideration as the children broke into a chorus of high-pitched giggles. She hadn't been paying enough attention to hear what had been said to elicit such a response, but basked in its warmth all the same.

"…I suppose that work like this is meditation in its own sort of way."

This time, she met Durak'Tur's gentle smile with one of her own. There was a little more understanding behind her expression.

"Ukatis has never been a particularly advanced world. Nor a rich one. Most of the core thinks that we're some backwards, backwater planet that's more trouble than it's worth. But the people here…"

Her gaze passed over the nuns, over the dark veils that framed their faces.

"They've endured so much. Two attacks that burned the capital in my short lifetime. The Enclave and the Sith. But each time, we rebuilt, and came back a little stronger."

The children had reformed their circle, and she could see now that their game had something to do with marbles. The sharp clicking of glass on glass was a giveaway that she should've noticed earlier.

Cora glanced back up to the Whipid. "Now, Ukatis hosts one of the largest refugee camps in Republic space. Not all of our people are convinced that welcoming foreigners is a good idea, but quite a few have stepped up to help. Like them," she gestured towards the nuns with a tilt of her chin.

Durak'Tur

 

[Durak'Tur]

HEARTS

Tag: Corazona von Ascania

Durak’Tur’s tusked muzzle lifted slightly, his amber eyes narrowing in quiet fondness as he watched the children’s laughter ripple through the hall. The sound, light, and innocent seemed to wash over the room like cleansing rain. “It is,” he said after a moment, his voice a slow rumble that seemed to resonate in the very timbers of the structure. “Meditation, I mean. The kind the scrolls never mention. The kind that reminds us what it is we meditate for.”

He turned his gaze toward the nuns as Cora gestured, watching their calm efficiency and unspoken unity as they moved between the younglings. “I have walked among the people of a hundred worlds,” he continued, “but I have never found wisdom bound to wealth or technology. The Force does not favor the Core, nor the Rim, nor the hidden worlds between; it listens only to the hearts that reach for it.”

The Whiphid drew in a deep breath, the sound like the stirring of a great wind. “Resilience is the truest form of strength,” he said, his tone thoughtful. “Each time your world has burned, it has not fallen. Fire not only destroys, it tempers. You say the Core calls Ukatis backward.” His eyes softened, and there was the faintest curl of tusked humor in his tone. “Then perhaps the galaxy would be wiser if it walked backward a while.”

He moved closer to the window, the sunlight catching along the silvered edges of his fur. Beyond the glass, the refugee camp stretched across the green fields, alive with movement and color, a tapestry of species and stories interwoven by shared need. “To open your gates to those in pain,” he said, more softly now, “when your own wounds still ache, that is the way of the Light. The Jedi may learn from your people more than they will learn from any holocron.”

Turning back to her, he inclined his head, the gesture slow and deliberate. “You see them rebuilding, again and again. You help them do it. That is the meaning beneath the Code’s words, Cora, the truth the galaxy forgets when it chases order and perfection. The Force is not in victory… nor in doctrine.” His gaze flicked once more toward the playing children. “It is in the simple courage to care, even after everything has been taken.”

A moment passed before his deep voice softened further, carrying the warmth of shared respect. “You call this a small world,” he said, “but I see a vast one here, measured not in cities or fleets, but in hearts still willing to give.”

Leave It Better Than How You Found It.​

 

[Corazona von Ascania]

Cora's smile slowly shifted from somber and polite to something a little more warm and appreciative.

"If only all Jedi thought as you did," she mused. "Or rather, more. Not all. If everyone had the same views, then we'd lack a proper check and balance."

As it was, the Jedi were now more divided than ever. Chased from the core and scattered among the stars, they were divided by politics and distance alike. Total unification would never be realistic, but splintered groups, exhausted by war, didn't paint the most heartening picture.

"I do what I can," she intoned softly. "A part of me wondered if I should've remained on Ilum, to help guide the remnants of a broken order. I was gravely injured during the battle for Arkania, and came here for respite. I was never particularly good at resting. Then the need for refugee housing arose and well..."

Cora idly watched the Whipid as he moved towards the window, the motions of his body slow and sure. Strength held in reserve. Bands of sunlight stretched over his fur and splashed along the wooden floorboards.

Set against the sound of children's laughter, it should've been able to life her spirits a little more.

"The rest of the council left. I remained, and then I…left, too," she muttered, low and guilty. Her head tilted forward, unbound blonde strands partially obscuring her forlorn expression. "We made the decision to leave Ilum, to spread ourselves among different temples and enclaves. It would be safer that way, but…when there's so much work to do, it's hard to know that what you're doing is the right thing."

Durak'Tur

 

[Durak'Tur]

THE RIPPLE

Tag: Corazona von Ascania

Durak’Tur turned from the window slowly, his immense frame bathed in sunlight. The warmth traced across his fur like molten gold, gleaming faintly as he regarded her with those deep, amber eyes that seemed to see not just the present, but every ache that lingered behind her words. He took a step closer, each movement deliberate and heavy with quiet intent, like a mountain deciding to shift.

When he stopped before her, he reached out one great hand and extended a single clawed finger, careful and steady as a sculptor. The curved tip came to rest lightly at the center of her chest, just above her heart. For all his size, the touch was impossibly gentle, a whisper of contact rather than a weight.

The Force stirred.

It was not a surge, nor a push, but a ripple, subtle, luminous, like the concentric rings formed when still water is touched by falling rain. The air between them hummed softly, alive with the pulse of something ancient and kind. Cora would feel it, an echo that spread inward rather than out, flowing through her chest and unraveling the tightness there. The grief, the doubt, the fatigue, all softened beneath the Force’s touch, as if it reminded her that they were not shackles, but merely weather passing through.

Durak’Tur’s voice followed that sensation, deep and resonant, but low enough that it felt woven into the rhythm of her heartbeat.
“Do not wound yourself by measuring the past,” he said. “The Force moves as the current moves, through choice, through instinct, through what we understand in the moment we act. You chose to stay when others left. You chose to leave when others stayed. Each decision carried the same seed: to help. That is enough.”

He withdrew his claw, curling it back beneath his robes as the ripple faded. “The mind,” he continued, “will always reach backward to ask what could have been done differently. But the heart,” he tapped the center of his chest, “knows that to dwell there is to reopen the wound you already healed.”

He straightened, tusks catching the light as his gaze softened. “We do not see the galaxy as it is meant to be; we see only what is before us, and we act with what we have. That is all any Jedi can do. The rest… belongs to the Force.”

Outside, a child’s laughter rang again, pure and unburdened. Durak’Tur’s eyes flicked toward the sound.
“Let that guide you more than regret,” he said. “Presence, Cora. Not perfection.”

Presence, Not Perfection.​

 

[Corazona von Ascania]

As Durak'Tur leveled a clawed finger at the center of her chest, Cora drew a slow breath in through her nose. For one so large, the gesture was deceptively gentle. Kind, even. Was such a gentle creature even capable of malice?

For a few long, drawn-out moments, she felt her heart beat in time with the Force. Cora’s head tilted to the side, unbound blonde strands tickling the curve of her cheek as she let the Whipid's words flow through her.

"To help," she repeated. Help was a concept not always embraced by others, especially given the reputation that Jedi held in some parts of the galaxy. She couldn't blame those who were wary of the Lightbringers. They’d made mistakes, too.

"Sometimes I feel as though that what I'm doing is never enough." Her chest lifted, then lowered with a slow exhale through parted lips. "When one crisis is averted, two more pop up to take its place. I suppose it's all we can do to keep moving forward."

As far as she'd come, there were times where she still needed guidance. Cora had to remind herself that it was not a sign of weakness to seek direction.

"Thank you, Master Jedi," she murmured, and this time, her head dipped forward in a gesture reminiscent of a bow. "I will focus on being present. The people here deserve that much."

Durak'Tur

 

[Durak'Tur]

THIS MOMENT

Tag: Corazona von Ascania

Durak’Tur watched her as one might watch a fire rekindling from embers, quietly, patiently, with the kind of warmth that needed no words. The light of the hearth shimmered across his tusks as she bowed her head, and for a brief moment, the old Whiphid smiled. Not a wide grin, his face was too solemn for that, but a soft, knowing curve that reached his eyes.

“You speak of not doing enough,” he rumbled, the bass of his voice rolling low and steady through the quiet space. “Yet look around you.” He gestured with one open palm, fur catching the golden light. “The hungry are fed, the frightened find rest, and laughter lives where silence once reigned. There is no measure beyond that. The galaxy does not ask perfection of us; it asks that we do what is ours to do, and no more.”

He shifted his stance, lowering himself slightly so his eyes were level with hers, a mountain stooping to meet a flame. “You are right, Cora. There will always be another crisis, another wound to heal, another shadow reaching for the light. But that is the rhythm of existence, not its failure. To keep moving forward, even in weariness, is the triumph.” His tone softened, carrying a patient gravity that felt like the deep pulse of the Force itself.

Durak’Tur straightened again, the long drape of his cloak whispering across the wooden floor. “Gratitude is unnecessary, young one,” he said gently. “I am but a voice the Force chose to echo through for a time. The truth was already within you; you only needed stillness to hear it.”

He glanced toward the children still playing near the hearth, the click of marbles echoing like distant chimes. “The people here will not remember doctrines or titles,” he added. “They will remember that when the galaxy turned away, you remained. Presence is not the absence of pain; it is the courage to stay within it.”

His gaze returned to her, steady and full of quiet conviction. “Be as you are now, Cora. Awake. Listening. Here. That is all the Force ever truly asks.”

Then, with a soft exhale that was almost a chuckle, he turned his eyes toward the window, where light spilled across the muddy fields outside. “And when the next burden finds you, and it will, remember this moment. Not my words, but the peace between them.”