There were so many worlds out there, so many already explored, with forms of life that might boggle the mind if it tried to comprehend each and every sentient. Cultures. Politics. Business. A meager being in the grand scheme of things was only gradually learning the difference.
His upbringing, his way of life, his land and his tribe and their customs were so much simpler in comparison. He would hunt, day and night, so very often alone, but always knowing he would find company when he returned home to his brothers and sisters.
Out here? In this very strange galaxy? Where there are both stars and starships? Where war isn’t between clans, unless Mandalorian, but entire systems? Where leaders are emperors, a chieftain a king, no place is safe, everything is strange, and there are things called lightsabers and blasters that might put his own sword and axe to shame?
It was all he could do to stay sane. Truly, if not for his being banished from his own home, this Orcolan would have never left. He already regretted his decision to stray away from the space of his planet, but it wasn’t as if he had much of a choice. Yet I do have a voice.
The thought came to him amid the noise of this establishment. Oligtaz was the name of this planet, forested, reminiscent of Orsimer Prime in that respect, but otherwise so very different. Maybe that was simply because it had no Orcolans as far as this one’s eye could spy.
Yet, that said, there was a sense of familiarity among these beings that did not make him feel like he was being stretched or peeled. They were a simpler folk, here in this tavern called Wind’s Whisper in the village of Rolk, and the Orc could not complain. No, he had remained brave as he passed through the door.
That was some moments ago. He got some odd looks from patrons, not because of his basic garments, but perhaps because of his mask. It covered the lower half of his face, skull-shaped, and his green skin was not like that of a Trandoshan. He wasn’t reptilian. He was Orcolan.
Lukrozub had ordered fermented milk, the bartender had looked at him like he was ill, so mead proved to be the next best thing. He had found a corner and sat alone with his instrument, his tovshuur, a lute in comparison, if different.
He sat, he sang, he played away, proud if not loud, like his tribal necklace from collarbone to chest. Stringing, singing—throat-singing, specifically—humming a fundamental pitch and simultaneously manipulating the overtone, fluctuating in melody. In this moment, this was peace and bliss for him, or the next best thing, at least.
His upbringing, his way of life, his land and his tribe and their customs were so much simpler in comparison. He would hunt, day and night, so very often alone, but always knowing he would find company when he returned home to his brothers and sisters.
Out here? In this very strange galaxy? Where there are both stars and starships? Where war isn’t between clans, unless Mandalorian, but entire systems? Where leaders are emperors, a chieftain a king, no place is safe, everything is strange, and there are things called lightsabers and blasters that might put his own sword and axe to shame?
It was all he could do to stay sane. Truly, if not for his being banished from his own home, this Orcolan would have never left. He already regretted his decision to stray away from the space of his planet, but it wasn’t as if he had much of a choice. Yet I do have a voice.
The thought came to him amid the noise of this establishment. Oligtaz was the name of this planet, forested, reminiscent of Orsimer Prime in that respect, but otherwise so very different. Maybe that was simply because it had no Orcolans as far as this one’s eye could spy.
Yet, that said, there was a sense of familiarity among these beings that did not make him feel like he was being stretched or peeled. They were a simpler folk, here in this tavern called Wind’s Whisper in the village of Rolk, and the Orc could not complain. No, he had remained brave as he passed through the door.
That was some moments ago. He got some odd looks from patrons, not because of his basic garments, but perhaps because of his mask. It covered the lower half of his face, skull-shaped, and his green skin was not like that of a Trandoshan. He wasn’t reptilian. He was Orcolan.
Lukrozub had ordered fermented milk, the bartender had looked at him like he was ill, so mead proved to be the next best thing. He had found a corner and sat alone with his instrument, his tovshuur, a lute in comparison, if different.
He sat, he sang, he played away, proud if not loud, like his tribal necklace from collarbone to chest. Stringing, singing—throat-singing, specifically—humming a fundamental pitch and simultaneously manipulating the overtone, fluctuating in melody. In this moment, this was peace and bliss for him, or the next best thing, at least.