Raphael Caelestis had been away for a while. The Alderaanian enclave that he had not set foot in for over a year had barely changed in appearance, but even to somebody without the finely attuned senses of a Jedi master, it would feel very different after such a long time. If this was a shock to his system, he could only dread setting foot on Ossus, where he had grown up, or on Coruscant, the closest place to a home he had had before the temple had been destroyed and he had found himself needing to get lost in the deep reaches of the galaxy.
He walked gingerly down the exit ramp of the small shuttle he had piloted here, which had seen better days, and began to walk across the landing bay. So far, it was empty. It figured, he supposed. His ship was not expected, and although much hustle and bustle took place here through the working day, and when Jedi were leaving or arriving, few found a need to use a small bay in the hour leading up to dawn, before the sun had begun to rise, and when most Jedi found time to sleep, or rest in their meditations.
He was wearing the same clothes he had been on the day he had set off, long before, a pair of black boots, more grey with scuffs and marks than black now, a pair of black trousers, also worn and bearing a few holes and tears, held up by a tattered, brown leather belt. On his top he wore a black t-shirt, also tattered and torn, that had been close fitting before he had left, but now seemed almost to hang from his frame a little, as though he had lost weight. His cloak had been lost months before, along with almost eveything else he had set out with. All he carried in the way of possessions was a silver cylinder, with crusted mud, bloodstains and dents along it, hanging from his belt. His hair was longer and more unruly than when he had left, and his bare arms, and face, bore bruises, scratches, cuts and grazes. He doubted that he smelled particularly fresh either, he had not washed himself or his clothes since before he had begun his journey back, almost a week earlier.
Before any kind of welcoming party arrived, as he was sure once the temple was in full bustle the watchman, or whoever was in charge at the moment, would want him to go through a full debrief and have a medical check-up, before sending him on to Ossus, and while the room was still empty, he walked over to a particular receptacle in the midst of several alike containers, this one with a red 'x' on it. This container was for confiscated items that certain visitors (and occasionally troublesome young Jedi) were not allowed to bring into the temple. He waved his hand gently over the catch and the crate clicked open. He barely had to root around before he found exactly what he was looking for, a small box and a smaller plastic device.
Sealing the container and walking back to the centre of the room, where he perched himself as comfortably as possible on another block of crates, he took a cigarette from the box and lit it, the small orange tip shining through the eerie blue iridescent light that seemed to stream in through the openings for the ships as the moonlight reflected from the snow covered mountain tops. He took a long drag on the cigarette and exhaled a sigh. He was home. Ish.
He walked gingerly down the exit ramp of the small shuttle he had piloted here, which had seen better days, and began to walk across the landing bay. So far, it was empty. It figured, he supposed. His ship was not expected, and although much hustle and bustle took place here through the working day, and when Jedi were leaving or arriving, few found a need to use a small bay in the hour leading up to dawn, before the sun had begun to rise, and when most Jedi found time to sleep, or rest in their meditations.
He was wearing the same clothes he had been on the day he had set off, long before, a pair of black boots, more grey with scuffs and marks than black now, a pair of black trousers, also worn and bearing a few holes and tears, held up by a tattered, brown leather belt. On his top he wore a black t-shirt, also tattered and torn, that had been close fitting before he had left, but now seemed almost to hang from his frame a little, as though he had lost weight. His cloak had been lost months before, along with almost eveything else he had set out with. All he carried in the way of possessions was a silver cylinder, with crusted mud, bloodstains and dents along it, hanging from his belt. His hair was longer and more unruly than when he had left, and his bare arms, and face, bore bruises, scratches, cuts and grazes. He doubted that he smelled particularly fresh either, he had not washed himself or his clothes since before he had begun his journey back, almost a week earlier.
Before any kind of welcoming party arrived, as he was sure once the temple was in full bustle the watchman, or whoever was in charge at the moment, would want him to go through a full debrief and have a medical check-up, before sending him on to Ossus, and while the room was still empty, he walked over to a particular receptacle in the midst of several alike containers, this one with a red 'x' on it. This container was for confiscated items that certain visitors (and occasionally troublesome young Jedi) were not allowed to bring into the temple. He waved his hand gently over the catch and the crate clicked open. He barely had to root around before he found exactly what he was looking for, a small box and a smaller plastic device.
Sealing the container and walking back to the centre of the room, where he perched himself as comfortably as possible on another block of crates, he took a cigarette from the box and lit it, the small orange tip shining through the eerie blue iridescent light that seemed to stream in through the openings for the ships as the moonlight reflected from the snow covered mountain tops. He took a long drag on the cigarette and exhaled a sigh. He was home. Ish.
