When I was a youngling..

[Yena]

((This thread is intended for people to share their character's memories of being a youngling in the Order or to tell stories of how a young Force Sensitive would grow up if outside the order. If people want to take the stories further, I encourage you to start a new thread. PM me with questions, if any.))
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Yena remembers...

I'm snuggled into a large bedroll, the bodies of my foster sibs warming either side of me while the night time sounds of the Temple on Coruscant form a backdrop to the the song my fosterer - Sana - is singing as she tries to nurse the newest addition to our little family.

The baby is around 7 months old, brown as a nut with a small fringe of blonde hair and he's trying to let us all know, both loudly and telepathically, that he's not happy to be away from his mother. Sana is sending waves of <calm> and <acceptance> over all of us as she unhurriedly sings her tune to the squirming, sleepy infant. We've all gone through this with her, some more recently than others, and all of us welcome the reinforcement that we're safe and cared for here in the temple.

The baby sighs and accepts the offered breast, making contented sucking sounds while his mental complaint fades away.

I sleep.

[Hawking]

Hawking Remembers...

His opponent never stood a chance.
It was a warm day on Coruscant, and the 12 year old's robes were already soaked with sweat, his long dark hair slick with perspiration. He stood off, training saber raised at a 45 degree angle, held in both hands. The boy controls his breathing, reciting the code in his head to clear his mind. There is no emotion... He was facing off with another boy of twelve, a Mirialan, and one of Hawking's good friends. His green skin was also slick with sweat, the two had been going at it for a couple of hours now. The two circled each other, both waiting for the other to strike first, tangoing on the training grounds on Coruscant. Their masters watched, stony faced, assessing. Quite a crowd had gathered, including Hawking's 6 year old twin sisters, Cass and Ryles. The other boy struck, training saber humming as it lashed out. Hawking slapped it aside, before going for a counter strike, slashing horizontally at the Mirialan's abdomen. The other boy leapt backwards, barely managed to block the strike. Hawking pressed on, his newly learnt Form II: Makashi and Form V: Soresu\Djem So manoeuvres being put to good use, overwhelming the other boy and blocking his now weakening strikes with ease, Hawking flipping rapidly between the 3 forms with almost natural grace. The Mirialan Initiate went for one last attack, pirouetting and delivering a vicious horizontal sweep, while at the same time kicking out with his foot, roundhouse style. Hawking dived under the blade, hearing it hum over his head, but in doing so took the boot to the face. His world spun, but he held out long enough to deliver what many in the order called a "Falling Avalanche" strike, bringing his saber down from over his head and lightly tapping the boy on the shoulder. Had this been a real fight, he would've been cleaved from shoulder to hip. "Tag."  Shatari said, exhausted. There was an eruption of cheers from the assembled crowd. Hawking held out his hand and helped his opponent to his feet. The Mirialan, called Rotark, simply cracked a smile. "Think I'll stick to archiving for now." The two walked over to the assembled crowd, their respective masters both smiling warmly...

[Esk]

The Jedi recruiter paused before the nursery. The infant in his arms was awake and wide-eyed. She pulled at his robes, seeking sustenance. Finding none, she instead curled her small red fists by her face, making soft noises with puckered lips. Her tiny nails scratched against her tattooed face.

The recruiter nudged the infant's arm away from her cheek, tucking it back into the swaddling; she was starting to cry, her small voice trembling. "Shhhh..." He whispered, patting her on her back, swaying backing and forth to quiet her, then with a deep breath, he walked into the nursery.

The younger infants lay in their cribs, or swayed in Force-propelled swings, lulled to sleep by the repetitive motions. There were several fosterers present: one was holding a small twi'lek baby, whose congested breathing could be heard all the way across the chamber; another watched on the side as an older infant crawled along the floor, reaching for a large stuffed manka cat; the third, who had been making rounds among the foster group, stopped and looked up at the recruiter. "By the Force," she said, "Another one?"

The Jedi recruiter simply nodded, walking to meet her. He placed the small bundled infant into her arms. The fosterer, a human, studied the baby. "She can't be more than a few weeks old. Why so early?"

"Her mother was to be executed; some allegation of murder. The child would have been taken by Empire sweepers had I not found her first. She was a clear one; there was no doubt."

"How has she been fed then? She can't have yet been weaned."

"Wet nurse. There were kind neighbors on that world, despite its reputation."

"And the tattoos? We don't get many of..." The fosterer paused.

"Her mother placed them on the child herself, before her arrest. It's unfortunate... But the younglings will learn tolerance, as they ought to."

The fosterer nodded, shifting the infant in her arms. The child woke at the motion, her small eyes looking around; then she clamped a fist on the woman's tunic, pressing her head with its soft horn buds against the fosterer's chest.

The human woman pulled out a corner of the red swaddling blanket, where several letters had been carefully embroidered in black thread. "E-tir-za," the woman read, "That must be her name."

The Jedi recruiter nodded. "Thank you for taking care of her."

The woman smiled. "Of course. We all have our paths in the Force." She swayed back and forth with the infant in her arms, continuing to smile. "Welcome, Etirza."

[Semah]

((This piece is set roughly 2 years prior to the reclaiming of Korriban. The
Empire is building up its forces but it is not yet wartime. The subject of the
story is taken to be trained as an acolyte, but Korriban itself comes later.))

Semah remembers...

It was a rare sunny day in Kaas city, and the girl had gone outside to work on
her weaving. Her fingers moved nimbly over a small synth-loom that she held on
her lap.

Push the shuttle through; tamp down the threads.

Her father was one of the more sought-after tailors among the middle-ranked
Sith---those who were wealthy enough to afford hand-sewn clothing made by free
citizens, but not powerful enough to command the truly celebrated artisans.
Even in a fairly prosperous family, she needed to work; she was her father's
only child, and it was understood that she would take his place one day.

Shift the pattern; pull it tight.

He had taught her well, and she wove quickly and deftly as the sun rose higher
into the sky. This cloth would become the border of a robe, perhaps, or the
decorative band of a traditional Sith crown. When the bolt was finished, she
held it up to the sun, eyeing the pattern critically. As she did so, she heard
her father approaching. One of the few free zabrak on Dromund Kaas, his own
father had earned his freedom with his skill, and he had carried on the craft.

"It's beautiful, Daughter. Lord Karg will be pleased."

He reached down and, picking up a pair of thermal shears, separated the cloth
from the loom, then tied and fused the cut ends. Sith sometimes demanded
synthweaves of the most outlandish material, and cutting it could require as
much skill as weaving it. She frowned. Her father smiled down at her.
"Patience, Sem'ah," he said, "In time, you'll learn to cut a thread."

***

The troopers came for her that night. Random testing had detected her
force-sensitivity, although the trait had never appeared in her family before.
Her father was understandably ambivalent. He was frightened---what parent
wouldn't be?---but he was an Imperial through and through, and would never
question the way in which his world worked. His own father had been a slave;
his daughter could become a Sith. But what if she failed? She was only
thirteen, and had never touched a weapon.

As she left the shop, looking back over her shoulder, she saw her father's
face. It was full of pride. As for his fear, he hid it well.

[Colton]

Drexa remembers...

All she wanted to do was read. That's it, that's all she asked for. But what she wanted and what she actually got were rarely the same thing in the Korriban Academy.

"What are you going to do now, Drexa?" the boy teased, his words bringing up laughter from his friends. The Sith acolytes cornered the little girl in the library, datacards scattered around her from where they'd dropped when she defended herself from getting hit by their practice sabers.

"Hey, Carnath, I think she's crying," one of them pointed out, which started up a whole new round of laughter and taunts. By the Force, did she hate this boy and his gang.

"Are you crying, Drexa? Are you sad that you're forced to skulk about in the shadows here in the academy while the rest of us learn how to become real Sith?"

Drexa balled her hands up into fists, shaking with the need to teach this boy an important lesson. But her trembling was misinterpreted by Carnath and his friends. "Oh, is the little pureblood orphan scared?"

"No," she said softly. "But you should be."

"Me? Afraid of you?" More laughter.

"No... him."

Before Carnath could say another word, he gasped for air, then lifted off the ground, clawing at the Force hold on his throat. Vexilan, easily twice the size of the boy or any of his friends, threw him across the library to collide hard with a shelf. "Get out," he growled at the boys.

"You... you can't touch us," one of them stated, trying to be brave in the face of the anger-fuelled pureblood. "You hurt us outside of training, and it's you the masters will be punishing."

"Then pray I don't remember this when next we spar," Vexilan threatened.

Drexa's brother comforted her as Carnath's friends grabbed the boy and ran off, helping her pick up her spilled datacards. That day, Drexa learned an important lesson. Sometimes, it's not what you know, it's who you know.

[Auryn]

Aolanni remembers...

The smell of pine and sandalwood in the meditation rooms, subtle and calming.

It was where they had taken her first, upon arriving at the Temple. She had been awed with the walk through the main hall, how the building had felt vast, towering, yet somehow humble. The noise of the emotions and desires of thousands of species that cluttered Coruscant seemed to fall away within this haven of the Force.


The Republic soldier had looked up, shaking his head in dismay. “I'm sorry. We thought it would be best to bring her to you, Master Jedi.”

The Kel Dor regarded her, a Miralukan child of seven years or so. She tilted her little head at him, once elegantly maintained braids a mess of frizz and dirt about her veiled face. Her clothes were simple though well-made, but worn from whatever trials she had endured. She was the only one – no more of her race were aboard the vessel, and she held the soldier's hand tightly.

She was a Force Empath. A rare and trying ability. Whether she realised it or not, it was easy for the Master to sense. Calm on the outside, she was riddled with confusion and grief, such strong emotions bubbling inside a tiny body, and without knowing she vented them through the Force. He did not allow the grief to grip his own heart, carefully shielding himself, though his Padawan took a quiet shuddering breath, unprepared.

“And there was no response from the other colonies on Edan Prime?” The Kel Dor asked calmly. Meanwhile, the Padawan, a human female, swept over and knelt before the girl, with a tender smile that wouldn't be seen.

“What is your name, little one?”

The child raised her free hand, chewing apprehensively on the edge of her sleeve. “Aolanni...”

“How pretty... you know who we are, Aolanni?”

She nodded, dropping her arm. “Jedi. We're on Coruscant,” she trailed off, then looked across the landing pad towards the other vessels, as refugees spilled out of them. There were only two other transport vehicles, and they held a sorry amount. She paused, whole body still, as though searching, waiting for something.

A wave if disappointment and devastation washed over the Padawan, almost overwhelming. From nowhere, a gasping sob escape her, as her lilac eyes welled with tears.

“He's not here,” Aolanni murmured, faintly.


“She belongs with her people. They have suffered a great loss, with the devastation of another colony,”

They didn't think she heard. Voices floating down the hallway.

“The Miraluka are protective and close with their own kind. They will take the child in, most likely have her for the Luka Sene.”

She had always wanted to be a Luka Sene. Just as mother had been; beautiful, kind, wise mother. The girl tucked her knees to her chest, laying her head against them gingerly. It hurt – her whole body hurt, though she was uninjured, as though the sadness had made her joints ache. She missed mother, she missed father, but at least she could accept they were gone. The ache was for her brother. He had wanted to be a Jedi.

“Yet she is here, now, Orgus. The Force has brought her into the arms of the Jedi,”

“Normally I would agree, however it would have made no sense to go to Alpheridies. Our Miralukan cousins would surely want to be made aware of any survivors-”

If she just waited here, for him...

“And they will be made aware, but we have no obligation to ferry the poor girl off on another long, exhausting trip so soon after her ordeal-”

“Excuse me,”

Both men, the alien from before and the human called Orgus, looked up as the door slid open with a quiet hiss, and the girl stepped out.

“Can I... be a Jedi?”

She wondered if Kel Dors smiled. Aolanni was certain she heard one, in his voice, as the other nodded with resignation.

“Come, child. We shall find you the baths, and some clean clothes... then we shall talk.”

[Hawking]

Ralakan remembers...

The gun was hot in his hands, the heat of the barrel almost audible. Steam rose from the front of the blaster pistol, and the young Miraluka smelled blood.

Ralakan dropped the gun in equal parts fright and horror. Did...did I just...? He looked at his hands, searching them as if they were alien. The corpse of the man smoldered, blood seeping out into the dirt of Dromund Fels. Perhaps the worst part about the whole encounter was that Ralakan felt the life leave the man,  watched as his essence bled away.

The 9 year old was frozen on the spot, his grimy face and clothes slick with sweat, in equal parts to the sweltering heat of his homeworld and to the exertion both physical and mental of killing a man. Everything was hazy, but he heard a voice buzzing nearby, droning on..."This is Williams, the boy just kriffing killed Adams! Please advise?" Ralakan felt as if he was dreaming, watching the blood flowing out of the dead Imperial's body. "Do the Sith not want him for Korriba-...Sir, he's just a chi-...understood, sir."

Ralakan was snapped out of his haze when he heard the click of a rifle being cocked. He spun, and saw the other Imperial official who had moments ago attempted to kidnap him and deliver him to the Sith's doorstep, pull back the bolt on a rifle. The Miraluka's adrenaline flowed. He didn't feel himself run, but he found himself sprinting through the Bazaar, knocking over things and dodging people left right and center to escape the man. "NO! I WON'T BE ONE OF THEM!" He shouted, trying to make his prepubescent voice as deep and scary as possible. The officer seemed unphased, and continued chasing him. "You could be a great Sith, child! The galaxy could be yours!" Ralakan ignored the stupid man.

He cut through a nearby building, diving over a table and out the window, closing the flap behind him. He ran along the rooftops, never stopping, trying to get away from the man. As he ran, he suddenly began to notice some alarming things. He felt the pain of a woman being mugged, he felt the anger of a merchant who had moments ago been robbed, felt the depression of a man putting a noose around his neck...

Ralakan froze on the rooftop, grasping his head as the feeling overtook him. The pain was overwhelming, unbearable. So much suffering. So much. He screamed, adding his own pain to that of his surroundings. His vision blurred, and he the images began to fade, the feelings receding as he cut himself off to escape the pain. He turned around, now thinking clearer, to see the officer walking along the rooftop with the rifle raised. "Last chance, boy. Come with me, become Sith, or die on this rooftop like a dog." He snarled. Ralakan lashed out, pushing the man at center mass. He felt fear in the officer, as he lost balance, tumbled....and fell off the 3 story rooftop, directly to the ground below with a crunch. Ralakan dared not look over the edge...

[Audaine]

Audaine remembers...

The sound of a long since warranty-expired craft drumming past her, the distant call of docking procedure and advertisement in strange language she now knows as Huttese. Lots of ships came and went, all busy shuttle-pilots and freighter-pilots off to see to their cargo being moved and ferried to the appropriate locales.

She had no idea where she was, it had been days... Weeks. It was all a jaded mixture of things. It was like being stuck in a noisy corridor that mirrored every possible noise. It made her edgy, a bit horrified. To top it off - she was a small fifteen year old Miraluka amongst scum and villainy on some old dingy and smelly space station that was simply a refueling station and trade hub.

She hid in the gloomiest corners to keep out of direct sight, though it still felt like eyes were fixed on her. She was unused to this place, the people and the atmosphere. It was so artificial, it was as if she had been stuck in a room that had no clean air to cycle, stale and dank.

"You see that one?" The Sith Scout murmured with a devilish grimace. He wore heavy robes that concealed the entirety of his form, his demeanor was that of a proud Expansion and Diplomacy Sith.

"I see her. Miraluka, practically reeks of promise." The second one spoke, softer in tone but in the same garb.

"Think she belongs to anyone special?"

"Nah. I think she's worth liberating."

She spent minutes moving through the halls, attempting her very best to keep out of dodge. It was difficult, the feeling of being shadowed and watched was niggling at the base of her thoughts. If she had listened any better to her teachers home on Alpheridies among the Luka Sene, she'd have known to keep her wits about her; but she was a victim of foul practice and study habits. Bogan called for her, but she was fearful to accept it, accept the fate she was destined for.

Her neck was grabbed, she was pulled into a dark corner with one tall hooded man at the end of the arm. "What's your name, girl?" His words were honeyed in all the wrong ways. Like a venomous snake for a gatekeeper.

"A-Audaine!" Her words were shaken, gripped by a panicked fear.

The second one moved down the corridor, his hood perching in a slow nod as if to agree or acknowledge. "Come," The first one stated. He escorted the girl away as she begun to hyperventilate - she had no idea where she was going, but it was the only guidance she had.

Audaine would trust anyone who offered her assistance, when she had no other to turn to. She was a victim of cultural stigma - her people were trusting and sincere.

[Ollin]

Jeeran remembers...

Orange rays struck the Jedi Temple on coruscant as a very young boy wandered down the temple holding a master’s hand. The young half-miralukan boy reached up, clutching tenderly to old jedi’s withered hand.
The sun set slowly, it was time the young boy was sent to bed. He’d been caught alone in the garden again, avoiding meditation even if that wasn’t why he was away.

The young boy looked up at the master, curiosity radiated from him and the old master looked down at him. “My boy, what do you wish to know?” The old jedi asked, a subtle rasp in his voice like a lot of old tired men get. The boy stopped, he went quiet before quietly asking “Master...who were my parents? I don’t remember them...”

The master knew well enough the answer to this, it had come unexpectedly but he was ready for it. His mouth fidgeting slightly as he searched for the right words. “My boy...” He began, “Take a seat for me, will you?”
“O-ok...” The young boy sat down on the edge of a raised garden.

The old man took a knee, letting out a quiet groan as his knee hurt from the age, he looked at the young and bright boy. So much youth in him, so much life and love for life, he though.

“Your small tendrils around your jaw...they’re not normal for a miralukan.” The boy was too young to fully understand his past...maybe this was bad idea.

“These things?” He pointed to the little tendril hanging from his jaw. He played with them when he was bored, they never had any real meaning. “I have them because I’m a miralukan.” He beamed with a smile, showing beautiful white teeth.

“No son...you don’t.”

“Wh-what do you mean?” The boy asked, shocked and surprised that he was wrong.

“You’re not...you’re not wholly Miralukan...” The old man said, trying to find the right words. “Your father was...different.” He stopped for a moment, placing a hand gently on the young boy’s shoulder. “Regular Miraluka don’t have eyes at all...my boy. They are not just blind like you are...my boy.”

“O-...ok, why was my father different?” He asked, trying to take in the information and suddenly shocked to hear he wasn’t who he thought he was.

“He wasn’t miralukan...he was what we call a ‘sith’. That is where you get your tendrils from...your mother was the miralukan.” The man said slowly, wondering how much the little boy could understand.

“A...a sith? I sometimes hear about them...they say they’re...evil.” The boy said, confused and dissapointed about his father. He had always pictured him as a hero of the republic, a grand jedi saving the republic from its enemies.

“Not quite, but yes... At least their order could be viewed that way.” He said, it wasn’t the time to get into ideological teachings. “Sith are like humans, except they have  bumps all over their skin and tendrils like yours.”

The boy slowly nodded, running his hand across the little things that stuck out from his near his chin.

“Jeeran, my boy... perhaps we talk about this another time in more detail. In the morning perhaps.”

The young boy said quietly “Ok, master...”

“Come now, we’ll get you in your bed before the sun sets.” He said, grasping the boys hand gently and beginning to walk along.

[Auryn]

Reithan remembers...

“Master Yhana. I am at my wit's end!”

“Master Nishan-Del, I understand this must be stressful for you, but you do remember where-”

“Yes. I know that he is to be treated gently. However, at this point I would expect a little more self control on his part! If the boy does not stop biting his fellow students, and myself, in my classes, then he will not be allowed back in!”

Yhana was too slow to hide the lip-twitch. Nishan frowned disapprovingly at him,and he bowed his head quickly in apology.

“I will speak to him,” he assured, and beckoned to the far end of the now-empty classroom. “Reithan. Come here, boy.”

The scrawny human child skulked over, and gave the Zabrak master the usual gloomy look – the one that said he knew exactly what he'd done wrong, but refused to acknowledge it to anyone else. That would mean having to admit his fault, which was a sign of weakness... some lessons from his past had stuck in his mind like that, stubborn, unable to be swayed easily.

Yhana sighed gently, brushing his cloak back and kneeling on the floor in front of the boy, trying to catch his eye. Instead, the young initiate was completely taken with the nearby rack of training sabres against the wall. He twisted his hand idly back and forth, by his side, making some of them roll around and around, with the gentle scraping sound of metal sliding along wood. The dark hair he'd grown out on the right side of his face, to hide the scarring, did a good job hiding his eyes as well. Other initiates stared at the sight of both – and Reithan hated it when they stared.

“You will stop that, and look at me.” Yhana urged, patiently. His hand ceased, and the sabres fell still. After stubbornly letting his eyes wonder over a few more things, Reithan centred his pale gaze on the master.

“We have been over this. No matter how you are feeling, Reith – and I know your eyes hurt from the new implants – there are better forms of communication than biting. A wild animal will lash out and bite if it feels threatened – you are a sentient being, who is never threatened within the Temple,” he raised a brow, “and you will act like one. Am I understood?”

The boy didn't answer right away. Yhana watched him think it over – or possibly, watched him decide if he wanted to speak a reply, or resort to using his teeth again.

“Yes Master,” Reithan mumbled.

“Good. Now do you have something to say to Master Nishan-Del?”

Reithan looked up at the Twi'Lek master. Undoubtedly, with all the innocence he could muster. “You taste weird,”

Again, Yhana could barely conceal the smile. Why, you little brat.

[Nagashi]

Balkiri remembers

Tatooine, sand everywhere, that was all he could remember for the longest time, no parents, no humans, just sand and surviving.  Then the dark man came, he found him, a boy of no more than five.  He inflicted such pain upon him, the lightning scarring his body and mind, but he would not be defeated so easily.  Korriban, the dark man said he was going to send him there, to become... Sith, like he.  Sand snaked up towards the dark man's neck as he slept and watched the life fade from his eyes before walking on his little legs to the shuttle to Korriban, Sith... yes, that will work well.

The sands of the Korriban Academy soothed him, the rolling dunes and the dark temples perched within called to him, even as a boy of only seven.  The long dead voices carried on the grains of sand spoke to him, telling him of things long since past.  This was his home, the sand called to him, it comforted him like the parents he never knew.  Stepping over the corpses of the initiates who were foolish to run after him in a sandstorm he grinned, yes, everything was working out just fine.

Stepping across the dunes he began to laugh as the sand swallowed the corpses, walking back to the Academy he grinned.  Sith, yes, a little seven year old demon in the sand would make a fine Sith.

[Orell]

Shaantil, Age 10. Norland, Age 9

"H-hey, wait up!"

Shaantil turned at the voice, smiling faintly as seeing the young Mirialan in the one-size-too-big robes jogging after her across the academy's grounds. "Norland, hello. How is the Force treating you?"

Norland panted as he stumbled to a stop, bowing his head briefly to his classmate. "...I am well enough? I was heading to get some lunch... and wondered if you wanted to come along?"

His nervous smile at the older student was missed by Shaantil, who simply nodded. "I suppose I can eat before Master Doren's course. Another lecture on the Jedi Civil War, I think..." She sighed, moving towards the dining hall. "You have taken that course, yes?"

Norland nodded eagerly. "Yes, I took it last term. Do you need help with anything?" he asked, his tone clearly hoping the answer was yes.

"Does he ever tell why we use that name? Clearly it was a Sith invasion, not a civil war between Jedi. If it were a civil war, worlds like Taris would not have been attacked, yes?"

She glanced over at the groan from Norland. "Don't ask. When I asked, he went on for a half hour about the 'proper' name for the war that should be used but couldn't because the galaxy had already decided what to call it. And then we got extra assignments because he couldn't finish the actual lecture topic, AND he sprung another one on why 'Jedi Civil War' is the wrong name." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "And I had a Calculus exam the next day too..."

"You make him sound obsessed..." Shaantil observed.

He snickered, glancing at her. "Then ask him yourself. He's just very sure of himself."

There was a moment of silence from the Miraluka, and then, "...perhaps I will take your word for it, Norland." There was a flash of a smirk from Shaantil. "What do you have in the afternoon?"

A sigh from Norland. "Lightsaber practice. Again. Master Holdas thinks I'm the worst student in the class, I know it."

"You are not that bad, Norland."

"Yes, I am," he muttered, looking away. He'd seen Shaantil with the practice sabers. She was just so graceful, always in the right place with them, far better than he could ever be, he just knew it.

"No, you are not. You simply need a little more practice."

He sighed. "Last time? I tripped, stabbed myself in the... stomach, then fell over, lost my grip on the practice saber and it went right by Master Holdas's head."

Another moment of silence, and then, "...a lot more practice, perhaps?" Shaantil said, smiling kindly at the younger initiate. Before he could respond, she turned away and started jogging to the dining hall door. "Come on, I don't want to be late!"

Norland groaned at her, stumbling after her, turning the corner just in time to see the door whoosh open and Shaantil almost run into an Astromech droid. "Miraluka = no running!" the droid chirped, and Shaantil backed away, mumbling apologies as an older Miraluka stepped out, clad in formal robes, her red hair streaked with gray, frowning down upon the young initiate.

"Have care, youngling," the Jedi Master spoke, her voice dry and firm. "T7 is not a comfortable thing to run into." It wasn't one that Norland knew, probably one from offworld? Maybe even all the way from Coruscant...

"I apologize, Master," Shaantil said, bowing down, her voice shaking slightly. "I... did not see it through the door..."

The woman's face was impassive, gazing down at the girl. "Yes, droids can be somewhat difficult on that regard."

More chirping came from the droid, and it almost sounded amused... "Miralukas = show-offs! // T7 sensors = better // T7 = not say so all the time!"

A brief sigh from the Master. "Yes, T7, we are aware." She turned her head to Norland. "Youngling, do you know where Master Holdas can be found?"

He nodded quickly, pointing out towards the training fields. "I-I think he's dealing with the morning class, Master."

"Splendid. I hope he will not take too long..." she said, to herself if to no one else, starting to walk off.

"A-an honor to meet you, Master...?" Shaantil stuttered out, the unasked question clear.

The Master sighed slightly and turned, again gazing on Shaantil. "Master Soldin, and my companion here is T7-L5."

"Initiate N-Norland," Norland said, wincing at his own stutter, not wanting to offend the unfamiliar Master, and relaxing with relief as she simply nodded at him.

"...Initiate Shaantil, Master," Shaantil said, bowing her head once again.

The Master's gaze turned to Shaantil once again... and for a moment Norland could have sworn he heard something from her, a... sharp breath or something? The Master's gaze lasted for a few seconds before she nodded sharply, finally speaking. "A pleasure to meet you both. Your studies here progres well?" After the blank, instinctive nods from both the students, she added, "Do you excel in anything in particular?"

Shaantil just muttered something, but something made Norland speak up. "...history for me, Master Soldin, and the Lightsaber for Shaantil."

There was a faint smile on the Master's lips now. "Lightsabers can be difficult for one so young. I assume you show simply more than Master Holdas' usual comment of 'showing promise'?"

Norland snickered, earning a reproachful glare from his classmate. "I heard she disarmed Master Holdas once!"

"...i-it was just a practice spar! He was not truly trying!" Shaantil said, an embarrassed blush rising on her cheeks.

Master Soldin let out a very, very brief chuckle, raising her hands. "I will have to hear that story from Master Holdas, then. On your way, both of you. May the Force be with you."

"May the Force be with you," echoed the initiates, and Shaantil immediately hurried off, Norland in quick pursuit, snickering as he passed the droid, and enjoying his fellow initiate's embarassment far too much for his own good... and completely oblivious to Master Soldin's gaze, watching the pair race off with a very odd look on her face...

[Aylaa]

Aylaa remembers...


It was too early for the sun to be up yet, but Aylaa was awake. She got out of bed, put on her slippers then tugged her coat from the hanger in the closet. The house was mostly quiet as she padded through the halls to the garden courtyard. One of her father's akk's was snoring in front of the grand fireplace, and Aylaa could hear the kitchen staff talking as she passed by the door. She was still sleepy and yawned as she stopped to pull on her coat. She could do that all on her own and didn't need any help with the closures anymore. Wearing a heavy coat inside was warm, but she wasn't going to stay inside. It was cold outside, especially when the sun wasn't up yet.

Aylaa crossed the side of the house that was by the garden. Aylaa liked the gardens. In summer there were places to play hide and seek and a stream and fountains and flowers and lots of space to play with Papa's akks. In winter she didn't play in the water but it was fun to build snow forts and tunnels and make snow monsters. When she was older she'd get to go out into the forests like her brother Evir did sometimes, but for now she was only allowed to play in the garden behind the walls.

Aylaa found the door she was looking for and looked outside. There was a layer of fresh snow on the walkways that crossed the gardens to the other side of the house where Papa did Work and where all the staff lived. The covered patio had been swept clear of any snow that had blown in during the night. She wasn't too late though, she thought with glee as she saw the solitary person sitting in the center of the patio.

Aylaa opened the door quietly like she was supposed to do, it seemed wrong to be noisy when everything else was quiet anyway, and went outside. She closed the door behind her and sat on the couch by the door. The fabric cushion was cold, but not as chilly as the floor would have been. Aylaa focused on making herself very small and well behaved. That was a rule. She had to be on the couch or on the step by the door and had to behave.

Her Mum hadn't moved when she'd come outside, but Aylaa knew her mother knew she was there. Aylaa copied the folded position her mother sat in and watched. Her mother's eyes were closed. It was something called "meditation," and seemed both very important and very boring. Her mother did it every morning to it had to be important, but Aylaa didn't like doing nothing. Sometimes Papa did meditation too but Mum said he was sleeping and if her father heard they'd make silly faces at one another. Or kiss and be really noisy about it. Parents were weird.

Aylaa watched her mother in silence. The wind blew and Aylaa pulled her head into the collar of her coat and her hands into the sleeves. Her mother's hair swirled in the gust of snowflakes, unbound. She'd shaved the sides of her head and had pretty gold jewelry fastened there. Aylaa only had little gold studs in her ears. She couldn't wait to get something to wear on her face. Mum said that was for older boys and girls. When Mum went to Work with the army, Aylaa knew she braided the hair in the center and coiled it up under her helmet. Aylaa had seen pictures of her with all her hair shaved off. Papa hadn't liked that as much, he said. Aylaa agreed.

Her mum's hair was long and pretty and Aylaa liked it when her mother let her braid it. Aylaa hoped her hair would be like that when she was older. It was the same color, too. Her father's hair was a little red like her brother's. Aylaa liked Mum's hair better, partially because it was the same as hers. She watched long strands wave around in the wind. She wasn't allowed to have long hair until she could brush it all herself. She could mostly do it now. Sometimes the brush got tangled though. Maybe that's why her mother shaved so much of it?

Her mother rose to her feet and Aylaa grinned behind the high, furry collar of her coat. When she was out here, Mum only wore leather armor, not the heavy stuff when she went to Work. This didn't clank or creak. It had to have been warm though because it was cold outside. Her mum mostly complained about the cold to make her Papa laugh. Parents were really weird. But they also knew a lot.

Aylaa watched as her mother's hands went to the hilts of the weapons on her hips. This, it had been explained, was the reason Aylaa was confined to the step or the couch. She shivered, remembering the nerf her Father had carved with his lightsaber as a practical demonstration of what the weapon could do to a person, or an unwary little pureblood girl. The knife Chef used had cut the meat slowly and he had to go around the bones. The saber had parted the meat and bone like it was air.

Weapons were to be respected (which is why they didn't use lightsabers to cut food at dinner even though they were way better than knives) and she had to follow her parent's orders until they felt she'd learned how to properly respect a lightsaber, before she could touch them. Even Evir wasn't allowed to touch a real one and he was a whole four years older than Aylaa.

Her mother began to move slowly, extending the brilliant red blades of her lightsabers. They hummed in the air, hissing when snowflakes hit them and vaporized. Her mother did high jumps and kicks and spins and twirls in summer, when she could practice on the grass. Sometimes she and Papa would pretend to fight. Papa liked only using one lightsaber. His blade was black with a red glow. Evir wanted one like that. Aylaa wanted two like Mum. Aylaa liked watching when her parents did pretend fights because it was fun to watch. It looked like they were having fun too. They usually ended up laughing. And kissing a lot. Evir thought it was kinda gross, so did Aylaa, but they felt so happy Aylaa didn't think it was bad, even if it was gross and weird.

The two red blades hummed and sang in the air as her mother began to do faster movements and footwork, crossing from one side of the patio to the other and dashing back in an incredible flipping leap. It was graceful and elegant and so effortless. Aylaa still had troubles with her hair and coat sometimes, stupid baby stuff her brother said when he was being mean, but her mother never fell or stumbled or wavered. Aylaa watched the swirling, dancing arcs the red blades inscribed in the air, scarcely knowing how one movement connected to the last or the next. But her mother knew all the steps.

The blades struck and swung, killing imaginary enemies and monsters. An elbow jabbed and a kick lashed out, followed by the dangerous but beautiful weapons. Aylaa rose to her knees so she wouldn't possibly miss anything, but some of the steps and moves were so fast she couldn't tell what had actually happened. Aylaa had tried imitating her mother with a stick and had ended up falling more often than not. When she didn't, it wasn't as fast or as graceful as her mother. She wanted to jump off the couch and do what she did too, jump high, do a spin kick or two, dance with blades of energy, but she remained firmly on the couch. Her mother might not let her come watch in the mornings anymore if she moved before she was told she could.

Her mother's dance slowed in pace, falling into a set of held poses, the thrumming blades still loud, though more noise was coming from the household as people woke up. Her mother finally looked her way and smiled. Aylaa shifted on the couch before remembering that she hadn't yet been invited off. Her mother's smile widened and she nodded in approval. Aylaa sat back, feeling good about herself as she watched her mother turn off her lightsabers, put them back on her belt, and sink to her knees on the floor. Aylaa bit her lip and waited, one hand tugging idly on the pull of her coat's hood.

"Little one," her mother spoke, "would you like to learn?"

Aylaa nodded her head very quickly. "Yes!"

Her mother held out a hand and beckoned her off the couch. Aylaa's feet scarcely touched the ground as she flew across the patio. Her mother laughed and hugged her.

"You're father thinks you're too young to start training," her mum said, then her voice took on a conspiratorial whisper. "But I'll tell you a secret. All fathers think their daughters are too young." Aylaa giggled with her. "So," her mother said with a final kiss to Aylaa's temple. "You start by standing like this..."

[Haelen]

Anaris overlooks the dunes of Tatooine and remembers....

Anaris at 12 years old.

He sits on a small shuttle, on it's way toward the planet Korriban. Sitting beside him is the sith who'd discovered him, Darth Argentious Fenris, whose dead eyes gazed upon the planet.  “This my child, is Korriban, the cradle of the sith, this is where you will call home for a long while, and where we will mold you into my champion....” Anaris dared not to face the old sith, for his eyes frightened him, and just focused on the planet. “What exactly will I learn there?”

Fenris laughed and patted Anaris' shoulder, to which Anaris inched a bit closer to the window, “The question shouldn't be what you'll learn, you should be asking whether or not you'll be coming out of this with all your appendages”. Anaris grimaced at the thought, although the prospect of such power had it's allure, the path to reach it seemed to outweigh the prize. As his mind began to wander, his thoughts began to focus back on his mother and father, their faces, winkled and old, but still full of life, his mother's scent, his father's voice, he missed them deeply. Before he could even begin to tear up over missing his mother, the ship began to rumble, and disturb his chain of thought.  “We're making re-entry, fasten in”, said the pilot over the intercomm. Anaris sighed deeply, and put his thoughts in the back of his head as he put on his seat restraints....

Making his way through the desolate  behind Fenris was a quiet walk of fear, and worry.

“What will I learn here?”
“Will I survive?”
“What if I can't ...do anything right?”
“What if the others don't like me?”
“Will I ever leave this place...?”
“Will I see them again?”

Fenris stopped immediately and faced down the young boy, his eyes glaring at him. “Put your parents out of your mind, your life no longer will meld with them. Sacrifices must be made to attain power, and you must sacrifice that to which you hold so dear to obtain it. You do want..strength and power don't you? To be the best at everything? That's what you told me, you wanted to so you could be the most powerful being in this galaxy right??”

Anaris, having even forgot he said those words, now nods at him, “Y...yes....to be the best..” Fenris grins and pats his young protege on his shoulder, “Then come, and we will mold you into a god among ants....” Anaris takes in a sigh and nods, to which Fenris turns and grins to himself, “...and my pawn...”

[Ilireth]

     Ilireth will never forget...

     This was it. The moment of punishment he'd been marched into the Damaturo's House to receive.
     Ilireth stood trembling in the darkness, his bare feet on the cold stone achin to turn and flee. He might be as tall as many of the men in the city, but he was still a boy. And right now, here under the hand of the the native shaman, he felt very young and very alone. Waiting to be struck by whatever strange punishments the natives employed.
     All he'd done was smash a stick across Lanneth Damaturo's sneering face for calling his arranged marriage worthless or a sign of a House's weakness. And then called the stick a saber. And warned Lanneth one day it would be. Nor was he sorry for saying that. Because, truly, one day it would be.
     Bringing wavering torchlight, the shadow of the armored warrior loomed over him, nearer and nearer. Ilireth clenched his teeth and shut his eyes. This was it...
     "Strong! Yes, you're strong, Ilireth Aeglienne. That is good. Bosthirda will have need of you." The voice was stern. "Look at me!"
     Ilireth swallowed and opened his eyes. As always, the gaze of the elder pureblood in the ancient helm and battered armor seemed to thrust right through his skin and bone, right through Ilireth's own eyes to see inside his head. Which made Ilireth flush pale. There were a lot of things he didn't want to eyes of old man Damaturo to see. His spying on Aylaa's regular forest hunts, sneaking into the caves near the pilgrimage mountain that every person of station on Bosthirda told him were strictly forbidden, stealing almost-ripe fruit from the fields of the forest tribes...
     Unexpectedly, Shaman Damaturo laughed, and swept out a hand as swift as a striking viper to clap Ilireth's shoulder. "Grow stronger, Ilireth. I know you watch Aylaa of Zevinda... And approve. The purebloods of Zevinda are fair, and more than fair."
     Ilireth's face burned, but he knew better than to look away from the shaman's gaze. Those ice-blue eyes were like two dagger points thrusting into his, but they were smiling.
     "Stay here, on Bosthirda - work hard, grow strong, and you'll become great in Zevinda. There will be a day when all Bosthirda look to Ilireth as they look up to Jalandral."
     Jalandral? Tall, laughing Jalandral, whose shoulders were wider than most doorways? Jalandral who spun any tale he wished and left other Sith grinning rather than glowering? Jalandral who could snatch on a reign and drag a running, snorting tukata to a halt from sheer growling strength?
     Hah! Not thrice-damned likely! Not with his father-
     The shaman stiffened, and his eyes became two leaping blue flames. His hand tightened on Ilireth's shoulder, fingers digging deep like talons. It hurt, and Ilireth tried to twist away, but the old warrior was gazing past him at nothing, and starting to gasp.
     "Blood!" he said hoarsely. "Blood and... Much darkness, and the glow of kolto. Great waves of fighting, the clash of blades, and... A lash, scourging as hard and as often as a forgehammer! In a cavern so large that ancient castles stand in it! And - Rakata! Rakata everywhere!"
     Shaman Damaturo's arm was shaking so violently that Ilireth's teeth were chattering as he shook too, helpless in that steely grip. Then the shaman coughed, his hand fell away from Ilireth, and his eyes were flaming no longer. Clouded and empty, they stared at nothing from above a shaky smile.
     "Heh," he said vaguely, sounding old, his voice as kindly and empty as those of the old wives who dozed all day by the cauldron in the moot. "Heh-hem. Aye, there will come a day when all of Zevinda look to Ilireth as they look up to Jalandral. There will come a day when they will need to."
     'They'? Not 'we'? Ilireth frowned at that. There was always conflict between the natives and the city Sith, but it had never been more than background tension. But the shaman didn't seem to notice Ilireth's concern. He turned and shuffled away, mere bones in ruined armor, leaving the boy staring after him and frowning.
     Silence fell. After standing alone in the growing dimness as the torch faded with shaman Damaturo, Ilireth turned to leave the house. Only to freeze, fear racing icy fingers up his spine.
     Floating in the air behind him was a stick. His stick. The one he'd hit Lanneth with, and wished was a saber.
     For a moment he trembled before it, wondering if it would start to move and strike him with no one wielding it. But it did nothing. Not even when he dared to reach out and take it from the empty air. Or when he took a longer moment to examine it and reaffirm that it was indeed his stick.
     He felt somehow stronger with it returned, but now that he had it again in his hands, he could not help but ponder on the words of the shaman. He somehow knew the words about the blood and the darkness and the Rakata - whatever they were - had been meant for him alone, but it was before that which held Ilireth's attention. The shaman had seen all the things Ilireth had wished he hadn't. Read everything as though it were a book written for leisure. With that kind of advantage...
     Ilireth dropped the stick and strode towards the light of day outside the doorway, still frowning. He didn't need it any longer. Shaman Damaturo had shown him a much more powerful weapon. He would learn the Shaman's mind trick. With that kind of advantage...
     Ilireth could not help but grin quietly. Strange punishments, indeed.