Tilon Quill
Intergalactic
Bastila Sal-Soren
Raised on Ziost, Hoth, and Pagodon, Tilon shouldn't have needed a coat tonight, but the desert got cold early this time of year. He'd forgotten Jakku could be like that. He tucked his speeder bike out back under a dusty tarp and warmed his hands against the engine housing for a minute, watching the black horizon. No hazards emerged. Once his fingers swelled with the pain of warming up, he ducked into the house — one of the houses — he'd grown up in.
Desert creatures skittered into the deepest gloom and held their breath in the corners. A little rodent or some such ran into a disaggregated, sand-choked set of Jakku Chimes with a mournful clunk.
The goal here was to remember, to see if the Force would call up memory, of the complex panicked days here, days when Tilon had felt sure the Jedi were going to cast him out, kill him like they'd tried to kill his father at the main enclave. These days right here had played a role in making Jend-Ro Quill his father, he thought, but he'd been...what, twelve, thirteen? Fresh from his own traumas at Jedi hands, and feeling like the ground was about to be yanked out from under him?
Formative days, but not good ones. The more he understood them, the more, maybe, he'd understand himself. Why he'd chosen to join the Jedi despite all of that; what purpose he'd hoped to find.
He poked around by a dim flashlight: the main room, the side chambers, his father's room, his, all sand-choked and tired. There might be nothing here after all.
Raised on Ziost, Hoth, and Pagodon, Tilon shouldn't have needed a coat tonight, but the desert got cold early this time of year. He'd forgotten Jakku could be like that. He tucked his speeder bike out back under a dusty tarp and warmed his hands against the engine housing for a minute, watching the black horizon. No hazards emerged. Once his fingers swelled with the pain of warming up, he ducked into the house — one of the houses — he'd grown up in.
Desert creatures skittered into the deepest gloom and held their breath in the corners. A little rodent or some such ran into a disaggregated, sand-choked set of Jakku Chimes with a mournful clunk.
The goal here was to remember, to see if the Force would call up memory, of the complex panicked days here, days when Tilon had felt sure the Jedi were going to cast him out, kill him like they'd tried to kill his father at the main enclave. These days right here had played a role in making Jend-Ro Quill his father, he thought, but he'd been...what, twelve, thirteen? Fresh from his own traumas at Jedi hands, and feeling like the ground was about to be yanked out from under him?
Formative days, but not good ones. The more he understood them, the more, maybe, he'd understand himself. Why he'd chosen to join the Jedi despite all of that; what purpose he'd hoped to find.
He poked around by a dim flashlight: the main room, the side chambers, his father's room, his, all sand-choked and tired. There might be nothing here after all.
