- Joined
- Aug 10, 2009
- Messages
- 2,528
- Reaction score
- 55
Twilight fell on Munto Codru's principal starport, and on Ahzidal along with it. The coming of night did little to stem the flow of traffic to and from the backwater world, the ships pulsing to some unseen rhythm, the glittering lifeblood of a galaxy that could reach even the most isolated of peoples.
The Codru-Ji hated everything about it. The outlanders that stayed there (for they rarely ventured out into the planet proper) were toxic to their way of life and their culture, or so the backwards aliens believed. It was a place to be shunned, where only the lowest of the low found work, where only outcasts went. For all the lights and sounds and smells Codru Spaceport had to offer, it was but one shining beacon on a planet mired in xenophobia and mistrust. It was little wonder the off worlders seldom went beyond its limits, there wasn't much for them out there but thinly veiled hatred.
Such was how it had always been to the Codru-Ji, they cared not.
Yet a culture is never pure, no matter how much people would like to believe otherwise. There are always oddballs, those who shun the ways of their forefathers for whatever reason and make their own way. Often it is these individuals that shape history, for who truly remembers an ordinary life? Ahzidal was one such oddball, young and still unsure of his destiny. Unlike the rest of the Codru-Ji he did not see visitors to his world as dirt, in fact in recent months he had even come to enjoy their company. It was refreshing to find something new everyday.
Recently he had discovered a burning dissatisfaction within his life. Home was all of a sudden no longer on this world, where it had gone he could not know. He had grown distant with his friends and family, spending more and more time away from his kind. He shed his family name, instead preferring to go only by his first - a mark amongst the Codru-Ji of a man at odds with their isolationist way of life. They began to shun him as he ignored them, eventually culminating in his departure from the place of his birth, never to return. Now he wandered the planet, searching for what he could not find: Home.
He spent a lot of time in starports, though there were few of note on Munto Codru. Surrounding himself with strangers, many of whom were not even Codru-Ji themselves, was extremely liberating to him. He enjoyed their strange ways, their mannerisms and the like, and tried to figure out why they had ever come to a world that wanted them gone so badly.
This was mostly what he was doing at Codru Spaceport, he had come to the capital some days ago and had spent most of them observing whatever strange goings on that he could. The thought of just getting on a ship and heading offworld had crossed his mind more than once, but the thought terrified him. Munto Codru was all he had ever known: What if the other people of the galaxy hated aliens as much as his did? Besides, even if the war was over the galaxy still was far from a safe place. There were pirates, rebels, cultists and worse in the dark places of the universe, and Ahzidal knew he was not well suited to encountering them. He didn’t want to die.
And yet... Here he was. He turned away from the terminal gate, and headed for the cantina. Perhaps a drink would settle his head, he had a pounding headache coming on. It felt as if there was something old and dry scraping its way through his brain, a sensation he had come to know more and more often recently. He worried if they were connected with his wound.
Arriving at the cantina he stepped past the threshold into a gloomy, poorly lit room. Lights flickered somewhere above and there was a haze in the air - a potent mix of deathstick, spice and cheap cologne. Places like this were more and more becoming home, the thought depressed him but there was no other way to survive on Munto Codru if one wished to avoid the general populace. The seedier places were all there was to outcasts and offworlders, it was how it had always been.
Even here as he approached the bar he noticed the supposedly famous inhospitability of his people. The barman, ‘Ji himself had all four of his arms crossed over his considerable bulk. He’d fixed a Rodian firmly in his sights and was glowering as if the alien had just spat in his face. Ahzidal hadn’t heard the start of the disagreement, but he knew how to diffuse it.
“Hey, barkeep. I’ll get his,” he called softly across the bar as he approached. “I’ll get a juice, whatever you’ve got and whatever the Rodian wants. No need for his first encounter with a Ji to be your ugly face, sober at least.”
He put some credits on the bar, more than enough to cover the drinks. The bartender grumbled something about foreigners under his breath but took the cash and poured. Ahzidal nodded at the Rodian, who thanked him in Huttese (though Ahzidal had no idea what he said) and then went to find a seat. Once he had his juice, Ahzidal did the same. The tables were grimy and the tinny music playing from the speakers was bad, but at least it was quiet. He shut his eyes and nursed his forehead gently, watching starbursts explode beneath his eyelids and knowing he had a migraine coming on. Juice always helped, so long as the fruit it came from wasn’t from Munto Codru for some reason he had yet to identify. He looked at what he’d bought suspiciously.
Local stuff. Brilliant. Perhaps he really should just go...
The Codru-Ji hated everything about it. The outlanders that stayed there (for they rarely ventured out into the planet proper) were toxic to their way of life and their culture, or so the backwards aliens believed. It was a place to be shunned, where only the lowest of the low found work, where only outcasts went. For all the lights and sounds and smells Codru Spaceport had to offer, it was but one shining beacon on a planet mired in xenophobia and mistrust. It was little wonder the off worlders seldom went beyond its limits, there wasn't much for them out there but thinly veiled hatred.
Such was how it had always been to the Codru-Ji, they cared not.
Yet a culture is never pure, no matter how much people would like to believe otherwise. There are always oddballs, those who shun the ways of their forefathers for whatever reason and make their own way. Often it is these individuals that shape history, for who truly remembers an ordinary life? Ahzidal was one such oddball, young and still unsure of his destiny. Unlike the rest of the Codru-Ji he did not see visitors to his world as dirt, in fact in recent months he had even come to enjoy their company. It was refreshing to find something new everyday.
Recently he had discovered a burning dissatisfaction within his life. Home was all of a sudden no longer on this world, where it had gone he could not know. He had grown distant with his friends and family, spending more and more time away from his kind. He shed his family name, instead preferring to go only by his first - a mark amongst the Codru-Ji of a man at odds with their isolationist way of life. They began to shun him as he ignored them, eventually culminating in his departure from the place of his birth, never to return. Now he wandered the planet, searching for what he could not find: Home.
He spent a lot of time in starports, though there were few of note on Munto Codru. Surrounding himself with strangers, many of whom were not even Codru-Ji themselves, was extremely liberating to him. He enjoyed their strange ways, their mannerisms and the like, and tried to figure out why they had ever come to a world that wanted them gone so badly.
This was mostly what he was doing at Codru Spaceport, he had come to the capital some days ago and had spent most of them observing whatever strange goings on that he could. The thought of just getting on a ship and heading offworld had crossed his mind more than once, but the thought terrified him. Munto Codru was all he had ever known: What if the other people of the galaxy hated aliens as much as his did? Besides, even if the war was over the galaxy still was far from a safe place. There were pirates, rebels, cultists and worse in the dark places of the universe, and Ahzidal knew he was not well suited to encountering them. He didn’t want to die.
And yet... Here he was. He turned away from the terminal gate, and headed for the cantina. Perhaps a drink would settle his head, he had a pounding headache coming on. It felt as if there was something old and dry scraping its way through his brain, a sensation he had come to know more and more often recently. He worried if they were connected with his wound.
Arriving at the cantina he stepped past the threshold into a gloomy, poorly lit room. Lights flickered somewhere above and there was a haze in the air - a potent mix of deathstick, spice and cheap cologne. Places like this were more and more becoming home, the thought depressed him but there was no other way to survive on Munto Codru if one wished to avoid the general populace. The seedier places were all there was to outcasts and offworlders, it was how it had always been.
Even here as he approached the bar he noticed the supposedly famous inhospitability of his people. The barman, ‘Ji himself had all four of his arms crossed over his considerable bulk. He’d fixed a Rodian firmly in his sights and was glowering as if the alien had just spat in his face. Ahzidal hadn’t heard the start of the disagreement, but he knew how to diffuse it.
“Hey, barkeep. I’ll get his,” he called softly across the bar as he approached. “I’ll get a juice, whatever you’ve got and whatever the Rodian wants. No need for his first encounter with a Ji to be your ugly face, sober at least.”
He put some credits on the bar, more than enough to cover the drinks. The bartender grumbled something about foreigners under his breath but took the cash and poured. Ahzidal nodded at the Rodian, who thanked him in Huttese (though Ahzidal had no idea what he said) and then went to find a seat. Once he had his juice, Ahzidal did the same. The tables were grimy and the tinny music playing from the speakers was bad, but at least it was quiet. He shut his eyes and nursed his forehead gently, watching starbursts explode beneath his eyelids and knowing he had a migraine coming on. Juice always helped, so long as the fruit it came from wasn’t from Munto Codru for some reason he had yet to identify. He looked at what he’d bought suspiciously.
Local stuff. Brilliant. Perhaps he really should just go...
Last edited by a moderator:
