THREE CLICKS TO THE SOUTH — those had been the directions given to them. Rumours festered through cities parable to a plague. Here, there, and everywhere; its point of origin grew muddled. To reattach the puzzle pieces out of contradicting hearsays and lies had been no easy feat. Obi-Wan and his master had spent a better part of yesterday and today questioning tight-lipped locals. Pale faces, cautious glances; both master and apprentice mutually agreed to conceal their status as Jedi. Shielding the most incriminating evidence underneath layers of thick robes and through creative usage of liquor ( his master’s idea; the padawan had been reluctant ) to lubricate social ties — tight-lips quickly unfurled and the pair received a better picture of the story pervading through this part of the galaxy.
A rogue Jedi. Such news sent waves of shock through the council. Whilst it was not uncommon to hear of a person who has left the order; however — one of their own slaughtering townspeople by the dozens? Impossible.
The very idea was heinous, absurd, an affront to the order’s hallowed grounds. Such claims could usually be dismissed but not this time around. Villages, emptied of life; Corpses dotted along the planet’s barren grounds, struck remorselessly with a wound only a lightsaber could inflict. The evidence was as clear as day itself.
Footsteps sunk into the deep sand as they stepped away from their speeder bikes. Gentle winds whispered in the air. Wintery blue eyes glanced around to the sight of a ravaged town.
Barren, dilapidated — could such a place harbour life still?
“ Master, I don’t think — “ The Padawan began, eyeing the torn down fences and broken droids. “ — We’ve arrived too late. There doesn't seem to be any survivors. “
