Meri Vale
Character
Naboo looked like a painting when she first stepped off the transit platform—sun-washed stone, arching bridges, waterfalls scattering light into drifting mist. But as Meri crossed the plaza, she realized that nothing in the travel journals or holos had prepared her for how alive the city felt.
Theed didn't just stand. It breathed. Its architecture carried a rhythm: curved balustrades echoing river flow, mosaics patterned like drifting petals, old palace columns carved with stories no one read anymore. Her fingers traced a swirl of etched stone as she walked, noting the familiar Naboo script looping through the design. Water as memory. Stone as record. A quiet poem in architecture.
She adjusted her satchel strap and slipped into the Royal Archives, grateful that the attendants hardly looked at her—just a small scholar with a shy posture and too-large boots. The upper floors were open to visitors; the lower stacks…not so much. But she had learned long ago that quiet people were easily overlooked.
The map she needed was on the third shelf of an older survey collection. She found it by the worn binding—someone a century ago had marked it with a faded rose petal between the pages. She opened it carefully, breath catching as she read the handwritten notes in the margins.
Southern site undisturbed. Pre-Republic stonework? Ritual significance unclear.
Her pulse quickened. Undisturbed. Forgotten. Perfect.
She copied the coordinates into her notebook, slid the archive volume back exactly where she found it, and stepped out into the warm afternoon sun. The river path carried her beyond the city's polished symmetry and into the soft green edges of Naboo's countryside.
By the time she reached the indicated clearing, the light had dipped into late-day gold. The structure wasn't quite a ruin, but not a functioning place either. Curved stone arranged in layered arcs, half-choked by vines—architecture that had once been graceful, now quiet and waiting. Meri approached slowly, letting her fingertips brush the pattern of carved lines, worn nearly smooth.
She whispered the translation under her breath, building the meaning piece by piece. A shrine. Maybe a meeting place. Perhaps something older than either.
Her notebook opened with a familiar rustle as she began to sketch the repeating motifs, committing their rhythm to paper. The world around her softened; the sound of the river faded into background hum. Here, in forgotten architecture, she could breathe.
A branch snapped in the treeline.
Meri stiffened but didn't look up immediately—old habit, old caution. The sound wasn't frantic. Not a predator, not a storm shift. Something large, moving with deliberate quiet. The forest seemed to hold its breath with her.
Another step. Heavy. Measured.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of her notebook.
Not yet. Not now. She wasn't ready for anyone—especially not someone who might ask questions she couldn't answer.
Keeping her breathing steady, she shifted her satchel closer and turned a page, pretending she hadn't heard it. The ruins were still waiting to be read, and she wasn't leaving until she understood at least part of their story.
Whatever—or whoever—moved through the trees could wait.
Fate, however, rarely did.
Kuhbee
Theed didn't just stand. It breathed. Its architecture carried a rhythm: curved balustrades echoing river flow, mosaics patterned like drifting petals, old palace columns carved with stories no one read anymore. Her fingers traced a swirl of etched stone as she walked, noting the familiar Naboo script looping through the design. Water as memory. Stone as record. A quiet poem in architecture.
She adjusted her satchel strap and slipped into the Royal Archives, grateful that the attendants hardly looked at her—just a small scholar with a shy posture and too-large boots. The upper floors were open to visitors; the lower stacks…not so much. But she had learned long ago that quiet people were easily overlooked.
The map she needed was on the third shelf of an older survey collection. She found it by the worn binding—someone a century ago had marked it with a faded rose petal between the pages. She opened it carefully, breath catching as she read the handwritten notes in the margins.
Southern site undisturbed. Pre-Republic stonework? Ritual significance unclear.
Her pulse quickened. Undisturbed. Forgotten. Perfect.
She copied the coordinates into her notebook, slid the archive volume back exactly where she found it, and stepped out into the warm afternoon sun. The river path carried her beyond the city's polished symmetry and into the soft green edges of Naboo's countryside.
By the time she reached the indicated clearing, the light had dipped into late-day gold. The structure wasn't quite a ruin, but not a functioning place either. Curved stone arranged in layered arcs, half-choked by vines—architecture that had once been graceful, now quiet and waiting. Meri approached slowly, letting her fingertips brush the pattern of carved lines, worn nearly smooth.
She whispered the translation under her breath, building the meaning piece by piece. A shrine. Maybe a meeting place. Perhaps something older than either.
Her notebook opened with a familiar rustle as she began to sketch the repeating motifs, committing their rhythm to paper. The world around her softened; the sound of the river faded into background hum. Here, in forgotten architecture, she could breathe.
A branch snapped in the treeline.
Meri stiffened but didn't look up immediately—old habit, old caution. The sound wasn't frantic. Not a predator, not a storm shift. Something large, moving with deliberate quiet. The forest seemed to hold its breath with her.
Another step. Heavy. Measured.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of her notebook.
Not yet. Not now. She wasn't ready for anyone—especially not someone who might ask questions she couldn't answer.
Keeping her breathing steady, she shifted her satchel closer and turned a page, pretending she hadn't heard it. The ruins were still waiting to be read, and she wasn't leaving until she understood at least part of their story.
Whatever—or whoever—moved through the trees could wait.
Fate, however, rarely did.
Kuhbee
