The Suns of Solamonn - Chapters 1 and 2

Hello there!

This is a fan-fic in progress, which some of you may have seen on the OS and on my own blog - but I thought I could use another outlet and maybe get some feedback.
I'll post it in large-ish chunks until we are all caught up - let me know if these posts are too long for your liking though!

Chapter One.

Slender tendrils of lightning chased each other through the violet clouds of Kiffu, crackling and whispering as they collided and dissipated into the atmosphere. The air at ground level was dry and constantly charged, evident by the fine hairs standing to attention on Scarp's nape. The Jedi Knight ran his massive hand across the back of his neck, flattening the hairs temporarily, and then gazed at the sky, half expecting one of the electrical charges to smite him down like a burst from the fingertips of a Sith Lord.

Despite being slumped upon the fallen column he claimed for a seat, Scarp Hed'n was huge. He was one of the few humans who could rival a wookiee for height and girth, and combined with his armor and robes this made him an imposing figure. Even now as he sat, weary and unfocused, desperately trying to clear his mind so that he might meditate, he looked immovable.
Scarp's long hair hung unbraided and wild, framing his thickset, heavily scarred features. His eyes were tightly closed but, had they been open, their color would have rivaled the arcs of blue energy coursing through the skies above.



He grimaced and tightened his grip on his broadsaber, twisting the pommel into the dusty ground at his feet. His two-handed weapon had not been used for almost a week now, but he never let it out of his grip, even when sleeping, and he relished its support now more than ever.
Scarp shook his head again, trying to dislodge the waves of sorrow that washed over him, but he knew it was to no avail. Like his younger brother, Pel, Scarp was acutely sensitive to ripples in the living force, and the recent acts of utter evil and misery had pummeled him relentlessly for days as he listened to the screams of his betrayed brothers and sisters. It had been eight days since Pel had received a coded message spelling out the actions of the Republic and the details of Order 66, and this explained that single day when both brothers had been crippled by the psychic screams of the Jedi Order. Even now, new, terrified voices added to the mix, and Scarp knew that the survivors of the initial purge were being systematically hunted down. Meditation had never come easily to either brother, and Scarp was starting to believe that he would never know inner peace again.



"Master Hed'n, Master Hed'n! I'm doing it! Look!"
The tiny voice came from behind him, and Scarp opened his eyes, twisting his upper body to gaze at the latest efforts of the youngling.
Dwarfed by the towering ruins of the abandoned lightning harvester they called home, a tiny Togruta girl in Jedi robes kneeled before a dancing collection of levitating rocks. She looked at Scarp, excitement in her jet-black eyes, and the rocks fell to the ground. Her face fell equally fast and she sighed.
"I was doing it, Master Hed'n."
Scarp attempted a smile of encouragement, but it came off feeling like a sneer so he masked it quickly.
"Focus, Lig. Keep your mind on your actions, don't look for approval."
"Sorry, Master."
"And don't apologize to me. Save that for Master Pel, he is the disciplinarian."
"Yes, Master."
"Now, try again, and focus on the rocks until you see nothing but the rocks, feel nothing but the rocks, until you are the very rocks."
"Yes, Master."
Scarp finally managed a smile, then turned away from the aqua-striped youngling and scanned the far ruins.
"Now, where are the other two?"
Pidluk 'Lig' Sha'Ligg pulled herself to her feet and stared in the same direction.
"They are sparring, Master. Out by the wells."
"Thank you, Lig. Strange that I could not sense them."
Scarp threw back his hair, rubbing his temples as he stood, throwing the little Togruta into shadow. Sliding his broadsaber into his back sling, he began to stride towards the collection wells, and Lig gathered up the hem of her robes to scurry along in his wake.

As the knight and padawan reached the sunken levels of the harvester, the unmistakable hum of a training saber reverberated the parched air around them, followed by the short yelp of a child. Scarp rounded a pockmarked wall and leaned against a plasti-steel pillar that thrust seemingly without purpose into the sky. He watched as two children, a male Bith and a female Nautolan, squared off on opposite sides of a dark rimmed sinkhole. Lig sat at Scarp's feet, leaning back as far as she dared to rest upon his shins. She knew this would never have been allowed back at the temple, back when her universe made sense. Her comfort seeped into Scarp's consciousness, muting the swirling troubles echoing in his mind, and calming him, so much so that his breathing became deep and slow.
'She truly is a remarkable healer', he thought to himself, gazing down at her budding horns, a smile creasing the skin around his azure eyes as he noticed her perfect meditative form. Scarp then turned his attention back to the other younglings.

The Nautolan, Janst'orr, twirled a training saber in her left hand and smiled, reminding him for all the galaxy of Master Fisto. Janst'orr's coloration was decidedly darker than Kit's, but this only served to add contrast to her brilliant grin. If it hadn't been for the soothing thoughts of the little Togruta at his feet, Scarp would have surely relapsed into mourning for his lost friend. Suddenly the Bith threw his hands out before his scrawny, black-clad body, and Janst'orr flew back in a flurry of tan robes into a pile of stone flakes, scattering them into the air like razor confetti. She clicked off the training saber and threw her arms across her face to shelter from the inevitable rain of sharp stones, but it never came. Tentatively pushing one head tentacle from her face, she risked her large eyes to gaze at the cloud of stones, which floated above her head as if suspended on Kaleeshan glass threads.

"Very good, young Soolad." Scarp acknowledged the young Bith's skill with a trio of slow handclaps. "Now, allow Jan to regain her footing."
"Yes, Master Hed'n." The padawan nodded his bulbous head as he motioned with his hands in the air, drawing the shards of stone away from Janst'orr and allowing them to fall harmlessly down the collection well.
Scarp was impressed. He gently pushed Lig forward as he walked over to Janst'orr who was picking herself up sheepishly. Soolad walked around the well's perimeter to join him as he reached the little Nautolan.
"Your control has developed well, Soolad. You have a mightier force push than any youngling I have ever known."
Janst'orr shot Soolad a curt glance, and then craned her head to look at her master.
"It's not fair when he pushes me over like that."
Scarp immediately forgave her outburst, knowing full well that Pel would never allow a youngling to speak to him in such a manner.
"It is perfectly fair, youngling," he gently chided, "you held the weapon, Soolad merely held his ground."
The Bith approximated a grin beneath his cheek folds and winked one saucer-like eye at the fuming Nautolan.
"Shoulda let me use the saber, Jan."
Janst'orr bit and took a step toward him, her tapered fingers toying with the buttons on the saber's hilt.
"Master Hed'n gave it to me, Sooly."
"And for a very good reason, Jan," interrupted Scarp before the younglings could begin scrapping, "you have certainly proven yourself to be the blade master of our little class, might I ask where you picked up that flourish?"
"You mean this?" Janst'orr flicked on the saber, twirling its bright blue blade dangerously close to Soolad's face before shutting the weapon off. "I'm practicing Ataru. Master Yoda always let me..."
"Form four is a little advanced for a youngling," Scarp said, cutting her off, "I would prefer that you practice what I have shown you."
"But I've done that, Master."
Scarp cocked one eyebrow and fixed her with a hard stare; a stare known to whither wroshyr saplings. "Really?"
Two large pieces of sponge stone, hard enough to bruise, suddenly flew from the ground and seemed destined to connect with Janst'orr's chest. In a blur the blue blade simultaneously flashed on and cut through both missiles, repeatedly.
Janst'orr snapped off the saber and returned it to her belt.
Scarp poked at the pieces of sponge stone on the ground with the toe of his boot.
"Hmm, eight pieces. Master Yoda would be impressed."

Suddenly Lig snapped her head to one side and cocked it as if listening to a faint tune.
Scarp looked at her, and then realized whom she was sensing. He smiled as Lig and the other younglings ran to the edge of the ruins to watch a small dust cloud grow ever closer to their location.
“Master Pel is returning!” Soolad climbed onto a fallen column for a better view.
“Perhaps he brings food!” exclaimed Janst’orr, jumping onto Soolad’s perch and jostling him for the prime spot.
Scarp reached out with the force and probed his brother’s thoughts, but was surprised to find that Pel had clouded them. Try as he might, Scarp could not penetrate the swirling shroud that Pel had created, and the first tiny warning tingles began to dance on his scalp.
“Younglings, get back to the center of the structure.”
“But why…” Soolad began, however he was cut off by Scarp’s sharp rebuff.
“Obey me, youngling!”
Shocked, the little Bith slowly started to climb down, followed by Janst’orr.

Lig, however, had not moved. She pointed one tapered finger in the direction of Pel Hed’n. “There’s something behind him.”
The other two younglings paused and looked in the direction she was pointing. Scarp squinted as he looked past his brother’s rapidly approaching swoop, then his face fell in alarm as he recognized the unmistakably bulbous silhouette of the object in the sky behind him.
In an instant he had unsheathed his broadsaber and snapped it on, its red and blue twin blades combining to create a violet swath of energy. “Get behind me!” he yelled.
“What is that thing?” asked Soolad from behind Scarp’s leg.
Scarp narrowed his eyes and called on the force for strength.
“That, Soolad, is a Republic gunship.”

Chapter Two

The charged particles of Kiffu’s air stung like scatter-shot on Pel’s exposed lower face, although he knew the sensation he felt was just electro-static pinpricks, and that no physical damage was actually being done to him.

Through the enhanced display of his swoop goggles, he could see Scarp’s towering frame holding fast; his legs splayed in readiness, his twin blades creating a diagonal slash above and behind him. Pel could also see three tiny heads – actually two tiny heads and a Bith forehead – peeking out from behind a fallen column. He knew how confused they all felt, and he was acutely aware that the dark shape looming up behind him symbolized extinction to their tiny group. He tried to ignore the remorse eating away at his stomach.
‘I should have warned them…’




As Pel brought the bike to a stop, the staccato throb of the gunship’s engines grew louder, no longer masked by the whine of the swoop’s jets. He didn’t need to look back to see where it was, and instead leapt from his ride, barreling towards his brother with his hands outstretched.
“Scarp! No!”
It was too late. The gargantuan knight had already drawn back his arms and let fly with his broadsaber, which was now spinning above Pel’s head and in direct line with the gunship.
‘Typical Scarp’, Pel thought as he skidded to a halt and twisted to watch the weapon’s gently looping trajectory, ‘bring the ship down, then finish them off face to face’.

As Pel considered his course of action, time seemed to slow to a crawl. Around him, dust motes floated lazily on the air, kicked up by his own feet, settling into the folds of his dark green, Kiffuan poncho. The stammering roar of the gunship’s thrusters became a low and steady heartbeat, and Scarp’s saber rotated gracefully through the air, its multicolored blades creating kaleidoscopic pinwheels in the sky. As Pel watched it, he knew he had one of three choices. Try to leap for the weapon and grab it, bring it down with the force, or deactivate it. The latter choice seemed the most immediate and he stretched out with his mind until he saw the long hilt of Scarp’s saber, found the activation button, and slid it down, just as the weapon reached the gunship and bounced harmlessly off the cockpit. This entire action had taken fractions of a second, but to Pel it felt like a two-hour workout, and he paused to catch his breath.

Suddenly an object flew past his left shoulder, missing him by an arm’s length, and he saw the broadsaber snap back into Scarp’s mighty gloved hands as if on elastic. In an instant, Scarp had re-ignited the blade and was thundering towards Pel.
“Scarp! No! Stand down!” shouted Pel over the sound of the gunship behind him as it commenced its landing cycle.
“Are you insane?” yelled Scarp in return, reducing his speed not one iota.
“Trust me, brother!” replied Pel, and he sent a soothing pulse into Scarp’s mind, attempting to cool the giant’s blood.
Scarp was almost alongside Pel when he finally slowed, looking at his brother with confusion, but not turning off his saber.
“Scarp, trust me,” repeated Pel, this time more quietly, trying to keep the situation as calm as possible, “this isn’t what it seems.”
Scarp stopped and looked first at his brother, then at the military ship settling down behind him.
He adopted a defensive stance and spoke out of the side of his mouth, never once taking his eyes from the craft.
“Then, what is it, Pel?”

Lig watched the unfolding scene with wide eyes. The turmoil from the brothers’ minds bombarded her senses and she had to lean on Janst’orr for support. Masters Scarp and Pel were talking out of earshot, their voices reduced to whispers, and Lig couldn’t make out anything that was being said. The high-pitched howl from the gunship’s engines had finally subsided; the last of the dust clouds had settled, and Lig watched as the brothers walked steadily toward the craft.
“What are they doing?” Janst’orr sounded concerned. The little Nautolan’s voice always rose in pitch when she was troubled.
“I don’t know,“ replied Lig, “but they wouldn’t leave us.”
“How do you know that?” whispered Soolad as he bunched closer to Janst’orr than he had ever dared before.
“Master Pel is very calm, and Master Scarp’s anger has faded.” Lig’s quiet voice, along with the waves of tranquility emanating from her tiny frame, was immensely soothing, and her companions relaxed a little.

Lig turned her attention back to the two Jedi Knights as they reached the ship. The orange dust had settled enough for her to see the craft quite clearly now, and she marveled at its shape.
‘How could such a thing fly?’ she wondered as she looked at it.
The gunship did indeed look graceless, like a large bovine creature, belly-flopped onto the ground and wheezing gently. The entire ship was matte black, including the plasti-glass cockpit and weapon blisters, so black in fact that it seemed to suck the strobing blue light from the sky, creating its own, irregular, void. Heat shimmers rose from the tail section, creating glittering eruptions in the electrified air.

She watched, eyes wide, as her masters waited under the left wing of the craft. Then the entire side of the ship appeared to lift off and slide back, and a figure emerged. Lig heard Janst’orr catch her breath sharply, and felt her reaching for the training saber. She nestled closer to her, and reached around to rest her hand on Soolad’s shoulder, then the three of them began to breath as one; slowly, deeply.
The visitor was as tall as Master Pel and looked like a droid; however, Lig recognized the unmistakable curvature of a clone trooper’s armor, and the way in which those soldiers held themselves ramrod straight.
“That’s a clone!” whispered Soolad, “Aren’t we supposed to be fighting them now?”
“Not this one,” hissed Janst’orr, regaining some of her old spunkiness, “otherwise Master Scarp would have his head off already.”
The land may have been tinged with blue and violet, but Lig’s eyes had adapted to the color-shift many days ago, and yet she was having trouble picking out the features of the clone trooper’s suit.
“Aren’t they normally white?” said Soolad, deciding he had to ask all the unspoken questions of the moment.
“Yes.” replied Lig, peering harder as a second clone trooper exited the ship and joined his comrade in conversation with the Jedi brothers.
Suddenly Scarp turned in the younglings’ direction and indicated to them to join him.
Lig immediately stood up and began to skirt the edge of the column. Janst’orr leapt forward, her head tentacles flapping wildly, and grabbed Lig by the hood of her cloak.
“You’re not going out there, are you?”
“Why not, Jan? Master Scarp wants us there.”
“It could be a trap!”
“I don’t think so. I sense no hostility towards us. Coming Sooly?”
Lig looked for the little Bith, but he was already up and over the column, and jogging towards the gunship.
“For such a big head, he’s got very little brains…” grumbled Janst’orr as she allowed Lig to pull her towards the meeting between supposed enemies.

Scarp looked down as Soolad skidded to a halt, putting Scarp’s tree trunk of a leg between himself and the nearest trooper. The Bith’s eyes were wider than they had ever been, and his mouth folds quivered nervously.
“Calm yourself, youngling.” Scarp smiled at Soolad, then he stepped aside so that the armored visitor could see him better. “Sergeant Calz, this is Soolad G’att.”
The clone took a step forward and looked at the youngling. At least Soolad thought he was looking at him; for all he knew, the soldier could have had his eyes shut behind that visor.
“Force user?” Calz asked in a gruff and emotionless voice.
“They all are,” replied Pel, as Lig and Janst’orr arrived, “this youngling is Pidluk Lig, and this is Janst’orr Fenakkom.”
Sergeant Calz seemed to take more interest in Janst’orr than the others.
“She is a Nautolan.” It was a statement, not a question.
Janst’orr wanted to pipe up, but she felt voiceless, staring into the dark blue visor of the clone. Pel spoke for her. “Yes, she is.”
“I’ve seen them fight. Skillful warriors, underwater.”
“And on dry land, I think you’ll find,” added Scarp.

During the brief conversation, three more clone troopers had stepped down from the gunship’s running plate, and now stood facing the Jedi and their padawans, their weapons cradled in their arms.
Lig took this opportunity to study the five soldiers before her. They all wore full complements of armor, although there was something different about the Sergeant. Lig suddenly realized that he was wearing phase 1 armor; he looked just like the holo-recording images of the troopers from the Geonosis battle, the start of the Clone Wars. The other four troopers wore phase 2 armor, although two of them had different shaped helmets from the rest. None of them were the color they were supposed to be. Lig had only ever seen the clones wearing white or off-white armor, with the occasional splash of color to designate their division or rank. Aside from one olive green shoulder-piece on the Sergeant, all of them were dark gray, the color of smoke from an oil fire.

One of the other troopers, the one who wore the lightweight uniform of a scout, hefted his long DC-15x onto his shoulder and looked at the Sergeant.
“Five Jedi, Sarge! We hit pay dirt!”
“Stow it, Peko. I consider this lot three and a half.” Calz took a mini-projector from his belt and flipped it open in his palm. Several tiny buildings winked into view and rotated slowly in a red lined hologram.
“No time for socializing – if we’re getting off this dirtball, we’re doing it now.”
Lig looked up at Scarp, bewilderment in her dark eyes.
He looked at her, the twinkle gone from his eyes. “We are leaving, young one.”
The clone troopers moved as one, jumping onto the gunship as the engines powered up. The scout, Peko, fired up Pel’s swoop and steered it into a rear holding bay.
Pel looked at the other two younglings, who stared back at him, equally confused as Lig.
“Listen to us, younglings. Our best chance for survival rests with these men. We have to leave, now.”
“But, Master –“ began Janst’orr.
Calz’s rough tones drifted out from the interior of the gunship. “Today, gentlemen!”
Pel grimaced, and then took Janst’orr by her hand as Scarp scooped up Soolad and Lig, depositing them into the ship, yelling over the roar of the repulsors.
“We’ll explain on the way!”
The brothers leapt in as the gunship began to climb and the door slid shut.

Inside the belly of the black, metal beast, Lig gazed at the soldiers hanging onto webbing on either side of her. A sixth, helmet less, clone sat strapped into his seat, wrapped in bacta bandages, seemingly unconscious. Behind him she could make out the head of the pilot. One of the clones, wearing heavily dented phase 2 armor, leaned in close to her; so close she could see her own frightened eyes in his visor.
“Welcome to the Rang, missy.”
Scarp’s massive hand gently gripped her shoulder, and she heard him whisper in her ear. “It’s an old language. It means, Ashes.”