Skeletons Of The Past

• Aryn Dessika
• Dal-Sovuh-Ferathu
• Darro Khensa
• Eyton Kella
• Dal-Sovuh-Ferathu
• Nezuel
• Sestri Amena

• Confederation of Independent Systems (Somehow they returned, and were destroyed)
• The Jedi Order
• The Rimworld Pact

• Nojin Hu
• Imperial Knight Jindral Elka
• Also his unnamed squire, who was a bit of a hot head
  
  

• Space, somewhere on the border between the remnant and the new republic, near the corellian run

Sestri's gaze locked onto the nearby remote droid, its mechanical eye gleaming mockingly in the dim training chamber. The task Knight Wincott had assigned felt like a cruel joke. Strike the droid with a pole representing her lightsaber, then return to the starting position—all in a heartbeat. Any mistake, any hesitation, would trigger the infernal buzzer that shrieked too close to her ear.

With a deep breath, she swung the pole, the weight of her emotions colliding with the metal. She envisioned the face of the imperial squire superimposed on the droid—his eyes, sharp and filled with contempt, boring into her and her fellow Jedi. The hatred in his gaze was palpable, ready to rend apart anyone who dared oppose him. Her strike connected with a satisfying thud, but as she rushed back to her starting pose, the buzzer erupted with a deafening “BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.” Too slow.

Her blood surged with frustration, the squire’s sneering face returning to her mind, a taunting reminder that she was unworthy, a mere shadow in the presence of that smug man. The imagined weight of her peers' eyes bore down on her, their judgment palpable. With a fierce determination, she swung again, and again, but each time, the buzzer’s shrill wail echoed her inadequacy. “Sloppy handwork for a Jedi,” the voice of the tactical droid haunted her thoughts, unraveling her concentration like a fraying thread.

In a moment of rage, she hurled the metal pole aside, narrowly missing the remote droid, and stumbled to a nearby bench. She could feel her heart racing, the inadequacy, the anger, how desperately she wanted to get just this one thing right. All she had ever wanted to do was prove to herself and those around her that she was worthy of standing beside her heroes. Still, at some points she felt that her peers doubted her. Was it really so strange to them that she was ready to confront the squire if he had attacked? Jedi stood for peace, but peace did not mean capitulate. Or was she perhaps in the wrong?

She had to admit, part of her wished the Imperials had tried to fight. For a fleeting moment, she indulged in the fantasy of tearing through the Knight, the Squire, even the stormtroopers. Then, an unsettling image flashed before her—one of a stormtrooper's helmet slipping off to reveal her own face. She opened her eyes, shaken. The fog of anger began to clear, revealing a truth she had been avoiding. The Imperials hadn’t come to kill or fight; they aimed to put an end to the same madness the Jedi sought to stop. These were not the boogeymen from her youth. They had even sacrificed their lives in that effort, leaving without incident.

Sestri felt an immense wave of shame wash over, her anger had clouded her judgement. At letting the squires zeal to confront the jedi fed her own desire to confront the empire at every turn. At indulging in a childish and immature violent fantasy. She hadn’t met that man before, nor had he met her. And then at last she placed herself in his shoes, and in turn those of her friends and peers, everything clicked into place. They were worried about escalation, about how the squire’s threats might provoke a response that could lead to greater conflict.

I lacked control. she thought to herself. Basic self control. I must look like a real mess. Is that what I am. I see imperials and all I want is bloo…

She paused the thought. …I need to do better

Sestri stood up from the bench and retrieved the metal pole. Ready to begin again she faced the droid.