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Coruscant.
The acrid fumes of tibanna. The agitated beeping of speeder traffic, bustling about day in, day out. There is, quite fortunately, no other planet like it.
Somewhere in this glowing planet, on a floor of rough stone, sat a nervous, young Zabrak. His legs were crossed in a crude imitation of Jedi meditation techniques as he took deep breaths, in, and out, in and out.
This would never work.
He’d been here for hours; he simply could not keep calm for so long. He wrinkled his nose at the pungent odor of industry, something new to him, and unfortunately, his secluded perch in the monastery’s courtyard did little to mask the stench. From his home planet of Iridonia’s arid canyons to its lush rainforests, no smell came as unpleasant, no sounds as unsettling to him, as those of Coruscant.
He hunkered into his cross-legged position, clamped his eyes shut and dropped his chin to his chest in a vain attempt to purge the tension from his quivering system.
Beep! Beep! Some accursed speeder honked in the distance.
Mol started from his reverie. He cursed under his breath and began to refold his legs, but stopped. What was the point? He instead pulled himself off the ground and began to pace around the monastery impatiently, his boots tapping on the limestone and padding on the soft grass.
When would this alleged master finally make his appearance?
He paid no heed to the brown-robed Jedi meandering all around him, murmuring quietly, respectfully to one another. At least they knew how to keep their silence. He touched his spiky head and realized that he was sweating, but not from the heat. He had seen friends get heat strokes from the summers on his planet.
No, he knew why he was sweating, and that reason was late!
He checked his chrono. Frack.
Mol briefly glanced up and found that he had just walked up to a big, white stone statue of some Jedi, died ages past. He touched his hand to the cool, smooth stone before hoisting himself up onto the stone pedestal. He tipped his head back and regarded the silhouetted lines of speeder traffic which spiderwebbed the sky. The sky, Coruscant’s prettiest feature, was made a brilliant shade of orange by the Coruscanti dusk.
He idly watched as one speeder’s silhouette detached itself from the traffic web and began to slowly spiral down. Vague interest turned to excited fascination as he watched it gracefully glide down and alight on the Order’s landing pad!
But no; the boarding ramp hissed down to the ground and some diplomat strutted out. No Jedi master here.
Mol sighed, resigned, and regarded the orange skies once more. This could take awhile.
The acrid fumes of tibanna. The agitated beeping of speeder traffic, bustling about day in, day out. There is, quite fortunately, no other planet like it.
Somewhere in this glowing planet, on a floor of rough stone, sat a nervous, young Zabrak. His legs were crossed in a crude imitation of Jedi meditation techniques as he took deep breaths, in, and out, in and out.
This would never work.
He’d been here for hours; he simply could not keep calm for so long. He wrinkled his nose at the pungent odor of industry, something new to him, and unfortunately, his secluded perch in the monastery’s courtyard did little to mask the stench. From his home planet of Iridonia’s arid canyons to its lush rainforests, no smell came as unpleasant, no sounds as unsettling to him, as those of Coruscant.
He hunkered into his cross-legged position, clamped his eyes shut and dropped his chin to his chest in a vain attempt to purge the tension from his quivering system.
Beep! Beep! Some accursed speeder honked in the distance.
Mol started from his reverie. He cursed under his breath and began to refold his legs, but stopped. What was the point? He instead pulled himself off the ground and began to pace around the monastery impatiently, his boots tapping on the limestone and padding on the soft grass.
When would this alleged master finally make his appearance?
He paid no heed to the brown-robed Jedi meandering all around him, murmuring quietly, respectfully to one another. At least they knew how to keep their silence. He touched his spiky head and realized that he was sweating, but not from the heat. He had seen friends get heat strokes from the summers on his planet.
No, he knew why he was sweating, and that reason was late!
He checked his chrono. Frack.
Mol briefly glanced up and found that he had just walked up to a big, white stone statue of some Jedi, died ages past. He touched his hand to the cool, smooth stone before hoisting himself up onto the stone pedestal. He tipped his head back and regarded the silhouetted lines of speeder traffic which spiderwebbed the sky. The sky, Coruscant’s prettiest feature, was made a brilliant shade of orange by the Coruscanti dusk.
He idly watched as one speeder’s silhouette detached itself from the traffic web and began to slowly spiral down. Vague interest turned to excited fascination as he watched it gracefully glide down and alight on the Order’s landing pad!
But no; the boarding ramp hissed down to the ground and some diplomat strutted out. No Jedi master here.
Mol sighed, resigned, and regarded the orange skies once more. This could take awhile.
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