Saga - Legends Outcast | Ἀνάγκη prequel, drama | OC, Quinlan Vos/Khaleen Hentz | Clone Wars, short story collection

Love your story and it's an great response to the challenge

 

Oh, loved this. So satisfying! She lost her precious dress, but she won't need it. She's found something better...a friend and a protector. I love that Khaleen found a way to prove that she trusted Nameless, with the credit chit. And this...

Nameless proves that she can trust Khaleen by returning the chit. And she'll get a name, although Khaleen may invite her to choose her own. Can she remember what her parents called her? She's not entirely a nobody, and maybe she'll find a way to find some roots. YAAAY!

I liked this a lot! You are so good at characterization!

 

I am sorry that I did not find time to leave a comment on this one earlier. RL has been such a challenge the past months. But I lurked around and read bit by bit. Today I took the time to re-read everything you updated in so far.

I am glad that friendship & light still find their way down to the Lowest Levels of Coruscant. There is hope. Right?

 

Chapter 4.

The little dancer is so beaten down by her experiences! She assumes, as a matter of course, that people will treat her with indifference at best, cruelty at worst. I found it interesting that she is almost “the anti-Rey” - Rey waits for her family on the slimmest of hopes, crossing off days on that heartbreaking tally, always waiting for them to come back. The dancer, however, has accepted that her family is gone and they are never coming back for her.

The ending of this chapter - what a sad scene! She won’t allow herself to hope that this time might be different because when that hope is smashed, as it inevitably will be, she will be disappointed again.

Chapter 5.

I like how the title of the chapter, “Daylight,” corresponds to the growing brightness of our girl’s life. Things are definitely looking up, although it started with disaster - the destruction of her dancing dress.

This is so touching. She wants so desperately to belong, to be safe and wanted; after all, she knows what it was like, once, with her own parents. And yet she’s realistic - the only people who she thinks would want her are those who would exploit her. So the idea of being part of someone’s family, to have the luxury of a childhood, well, that's a dream. And if what Khaleen is saying all turns out to be a deception or a hallucination or a trick, at least she had, for the briefest of moments, the sweetest of dreams.

And the end - the idea that it’s Khaleen who gives our Ayesha her name. I’ve often played with the power of being named - it means you count for something, you matter. Having no name or being stripped of a name reduces you to an object that can be forgotten and discarded. Of all the possessions that she’s lost - her dress, her money — nothing compares to the loss of her name. And now that she has one, she is not a slave or a nothing, she matters.


Beautiful story, and a wonderful addition to the ever expanding world of Ayesha!

 

Well, I'm coming around for replies a bit later than I expected, but it's better than turning up six months late, right?

Thank you again for all the reviews and to everyone who dropped by to read!

WarmNyota_SweetAyesha Thank you for your comments! Khaleen is such a cool character in Legends, I absolutely wanted to write her at some point and I wanted her to have a good relationship with Ayesha. I have vague plans for a sequel to this story, when they go for lunch with Quin who's a much tougher cookie, I'll let you know when I get around to writing it.

DARTH_MU Thanks for the reviews! I hadn't thought of someone adopting Scar, but now that you mention it he'd make a perfect pet for Darth Maul... I need to consider that option now!

earlybird-obi-wan Thanks for stopping by! I'm glad you enjoyed this story.

Mistress_Renata Thanks for reading and reviewing! I struggled a bit to find a way to show that they trusted each other – especially for the little girl, it would be difficult to trust anyone at this point in her life, but I figured that being entrusted with a personal credit chip would mean a lot to her, because it's something she so desperately needs. She never had a name so far (that's part of my fanon on how Zygerrians treat their slaves) but she'll be getting one in the next story, whenever I get around to writing that.

AzureAngel2 I hope RL is giving you a break now Thanks so much for taking the time to follow and review this story! You've read the rest of Ayesha's stories, so you know that there's still a lot coming up for her, some of it terrible but a lot of it good.

divapilot Thank you for your thoughtful review! The little dancer doesn't feel that she had much to look forward to in life so far, with her parents passing away and then the Jedi saving her for slavery only to abandon her afterwards, so she's understandably pretty downbeat, especially after spending so much time in the constant darkness of the Underlevels. To me it would make sense that she starts feeling better, more confident and more willing to trust Khaleen in the light of day – it's the moment when she realises that no, it isn't a dream she's living, it's real and it's bright in every sense of the word. You know the rest of her story (or most of it at any rate), so you also know that having a name – and ultimately a rather long one – will do wonders for her self-confidence

Thanks again to all the reviewers as well as the lurkers out there!

 

I'm just over five-and-a-half years late replying to your very kind review @Findswoman, and for that I can only apologise and say 'better late than never'

As you may remember, I've come up with a very detailed background for Ayesha, but most of that never made it into stories or was just mentioned in passing in Ἀνάγκη, so writing any spin-offs that involve her, and in particular about her childhood, is an interesting experience for me because I'm essentially fleshing out my long, long list of bullet points. With The Dancer and the Thief, one aspect that I wanted to focus on was the fact that her parents and in particular her father gave her a very strong moral compass from a young age, and that was actually an obstacle to her survival in a world at war where so many people like her get left behind. If she hadn't found Khaleen, or rather if Khaleen hadn't found her, she probably wouldn't have lasted very long, but the stars aligned on that day and put her on track to become the adult I've written so much about. The other aspect, of course, is Khaleen herself, who I always imagined as having a form of 'honour among thieves', and in particular a life-debt code of sorts because she's such a survivor herself. In the Republic comics she does all sorts of unsavoury stuff, but there's a logic to it and there comes a point where she stops being only on her own side and picks a side in the war.

Thank you for this wonderful review, and apologies again for having failed to reply for so long!

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And now (drumroll) the muse strikes back and I decided to turn this thread into a series of (tentatively) five stories about Ayesha's life during the Clone Wars. The one I'm about to post takes place immediately after The Dancer and the Thief and has been laying dormant in the depths of my computer for I-don't-know-how-long. There was just the end missing, and after struggling with it for the better part of two weeks, I finally wrote an ending and I'm posting it as it is. There will be yet another story in this series later this month, and I'm hoping to write the rest before the summer, but I don't trust myself to do it, and neither should you if you're reading this

 

Title: The Name of the Ancestor
Timeframe: 21 BBY, immediately after The Dancer and the Thief further up-thread
Length: One-shot
Characters: Khaleen Hentz, Quinlan Vos, Dexter Jettster, OC

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The Name of the Ancestor

Dexter Jettster was beginning to think that he should intervene. Quinlan Vos was truly the creepiest Jedi in the galaxy, if he could be called a Jedi at all. His eyes had a heinous yellow shine that made him come across as frankly unhinged, he was twitching like an addict low on spice, he radiated anger and frustration, and he had been going on and on about Khaleen’s shortcomings since the moment they set foot in the diner. Meanwhile, Khaleen, who could have a pretty sharp tongue when she wanted to, was letting him bash her in the blatantly mistaken hope that he would drop it at long last, and the little girl she’d brought along hadn’t looked up from her plate for the past half-hour. At first the kid had been eating like there was no tomorrow – and, seeing how painfully skinny she was, Dex was confident that she’d just gobbled up the equivalent of several meals, or rather what she thought of as a meal, which probably wasn’t much. But now, even though she was still working her way slowly but steadily through her fourth bantha slider, the Besalisk was quite certain that she wasn’t really hungry anymore and that focusing on her food was a cover to stay away from the bickering. He was stepping forward to tell Quin to shut the bloody hell up when the li’l one raised her head and looked at the Kiffar straight in the eyes.

“Are you sure you’re a Jedi?” she asked.

Quinlan Vos was taken aback. For a moment, he looked at her curiously. “Of course I am,” he spluttered. “Why’d you ask that?”

She shrugged. “Jedi are good people. But you, you’re mean. You’ve been shouting at Miss Khaleen since we got here. You’re nasty.”

The Kiffar was lost for words. “Listen, kid,” he said, trying to sound reasonable – and failing rather miserably, at least in Dex’s opinion. “Khaleen and I have an important –”

“– job to do. I know, you said that a million times already. It doesn’t mean you can’t ask if she’s okay, or say you were worried, or something like that. She told you that we had to hide all night because of the hive-rat. But you started shouting at her on the spot. You’re just a bully.”

Quin’s eyes narrowed. He looked at the woman who was sitting across the table from him, visibly determined to redirect his anger towards her. “Great. Just great. You went and picked up a stray, and now I got a kid on my hands mouthing off, and you’re just sitting there and letting me deal with her. Because I have nothing better to do.”

The child shrugged again, visibly unfazed. “I live in the street, Mister Quin. I know a bully when I see one. You can say that you’re a Jedi if you want. But I know, and Miss Khaleen knows, and Mister Dexter here knows that you’re just a bully.” And with that, she returned her attention to her plate and stuffed the last piece of the slider in her mouth.

Dex noted with great satisfaction that the little girl’s determination had stunned the Jedi into silence. He pushed him further into the booth to sit at his side and gave the child a toothy smile. “What else d’ya wanna eat, li’l one? It’s on me.”

She looked at Khaleen, as if asking for permission, and pointed at her plate. “Can I have another one?”

The woman chuckled. “You can have as many as you like, kiddo, but there are other good things you could try. Dex is a great cook. We’ll come back for sliders another day.”

“But what if we can’t –” the girl began. She suddenly caught herself, as if she were about to say something stupid.

Dex knew that look. The look of the Coruscant street younglings, who ate as much as they could when they found food because they didn’t know when their next meal would be, and for whom fresh meat was an unfathomable luxury. “Here’s an idea,” he said. “I’ll put a few sliders in a takeaway box for tonight. But now, I’m gonna bring you something special. A very special surprise. ‘N’ if you like it, I’ll put some of it in the box too. Okay?”

The girl nodded eagerly. He stood up and went behind the counter, but he kept an eye on the table in case Quin got going again. The Kiffar was still sulking in his corner of the booth, but the girl and Khaleen were smiling at each other. There was something really special about the kid, the Besalisk mused, and it wasn’t only the fact that she had the happy face of a child who had just been rescued from abject poverty by a complete stranger. She was simply radiant, like a bright beacon in the dimly lit diner, and as he observed the trio he saw that Quin’s gaze was irresistibly attracted to her, even as he remained withdrawn.

Dex was pouring a generous dollop of syrup on the slice of cake he had prepared when the Jedi spoke up in a tone that was far more measured – one might even say friendly – than before.

“What’s your name, kid?”

The little girl blushed a little. “I don’t have one.”

“Yet,” Khaleen interjected.

The girl gave her another bright smile. “Yet.” She turned to Quin. “I was a slave before, you see. But now I’m not anymore, so Miss Khaleen is going to give me a name when she thinks of a good one.”

Dex returned to the table, placed the desserts in front of the kid and plopped himself on the bench at Quin’s side. “Here ya go, li’l one.” He started pointing at the different elements on the plate. “Doughnut holes with shredded Ishi Tib-cracked coconut, conifruit ice cream, a Wookiee-ookie to scoop it up, blue cream fudge, ‘n’ this one” – his finger hovered over the thick brown slice in the middle of his composition – “is ryshcate with muja syrup and extra vweilu nuts.”

The girl stared at the plate in disbelief. “Wow,” she said after a while. “My Papa told me about ryshcate, he said it’s the best cake in the galaxy.” She looked up at him. “My Papa was from Corellia, you know.”

Quinlan Vos twitched in his seat. “Really?” Khaleen asked. “I thought your parents were from Kiffu.”

“My Mama was from Kiffu,” the girl said through a full mouth. “I told you, she was a Guardian. But my Papa was from Corellia.”

Before she could say more, the Jedi spoke up. “You’re Namajib and Thriyé’s daughter?”

The kid’s spoon stopped in mid-air. “You knew them?”

“I don’t think there’s anyone in the galaxy who doesn’t know Namajib Eskari,” Quin said. “He’s the most famous poet of our times.”

“He was,” the girl corrected. She blushed again as the two adults and Dex looked at her curiously. “Papa always said I should speak of him in the past and look to the future after he was gone.” She paused and added, “I don’t really understand what it means, but I know he’s not really gone anyway. I have his poems here.” She tapped the spoon to her forehead. “Poems about him and me and Mama. When I go to school I’ll be able to write them down.”

She gazed at her platter of sweets for a moment, decided that the time had come to try the ryshcate, and took a small, measured mouthful. Her eyes bulged in surprise at the cake’s rich, luscious flavour. “Papa was right,” she muttered. “It’s the best cake in the galaxy.”

Dex watched her eat for a moment, then turned to Quin. “So you don’t actually know her parents.”

The Jedi shrugged. “Not really, no. I met Thriyé, her mother, a few times. She was a Vos, and she was a Guardian, a darn good one too from what I’ve heard. But then she met Namajib Eskari, and it was a whirlwind romance, and they ended up eloping and fleeing Kiffu. The Guardians don’t take kindly to deserters, so they hunted them down. Then Namajib and Thriyé got captured by Zygerrian slavers, Thriyé died some time later and the Guardians let it go. They were hell-bent on getting a hold of her, I can tell you that.” Khaleen gave him a puzzled look. He merely nodded. “Yeah. The Kiffu Guardians are a bit old-fashioned when it comes to secrecy and loyalty. More like outdated and paranoid, if you ask me. As law enforcement comes, they’re mostly okay – until you cross them. If you cross them, they become mean. Nasty.” He noticed that the girl was looking at him and winked at her. “Bullies.”

The child turned beet red. “I’m sorry I insulted you,” she mumbled. “It’s just that Miss Khaleen is so nice to me, and –”

He shook his head. “Don’t apologise, kid. You were right. I was being a bully.”

The girl looked at him uncertainly. Khaleen laid a comforting hand on her shoulder, and as she glanced at the woman and gave her a shy smile, Dex noticed once more that special radiance about her. He was pretty sure that Quin was noticing it too; he was staring at the kid, scrutinising her with such intensity that the Besalisk would have worried for her had the Jedi not reverted to a serene, austere expression far removed from his earlier disturbing antics. The li’l one wasn’t apparently too sure how to react to this, so she settled for returning to her dessert.

There was a long silence until Quin spoke again. “You know, kid, back home… your mother’s homeworld, it’s twin planets. Kiffu and Kiffex. You knew that? Well, the two planets are very close to each other so there are often electrical storms in space. We call it the Mingling. The story of our people is that, a very long time ago, before the Republic, an explorer ship crashed on Kiffu because of one of those storms. The survivors founded the forty-two clans of the Kiffar.”

The girl nodded. “I know. My Papa wrote a poem about it. It goes:

From the dark sky came the lightning,
And over the territory, between explosion and twilight,
The ship bent as a twig in the wind…”​

“Shadow of war, shadow of conquest long gone,” Quin continued,

“travellers united in desperate toil
to lift the dying from the scorched earth.” ​

The girl swelled with pride. Her face was shining with love for her dead father, and Dex had to wonder how a child so young found the fortitude to convert the grief of loss into the joy of memory – even more so when she had, apparently, been raised a slave of Zygerria. The Kiffu Guardians may have thought of her parents as deserters and traitors, but they must have been quite remarkable people if their daughter was anything to go by.

“What the poem doesn’t say,” the Jedi went on, “is that the expedition’s leader was the ancestor of my clan – of our clan, yours and mine. Clan Vos. The stories say that the colonists of Kiffu couldn’t have survived without her. She was very brave, very strong, but very kind and fair too. She stood up for her friends and family, she always defended them, but it was never at the expense of the other clans. Our community has many problems – you and your parents know that better than most. But she always argued that the Kiffar people should care for their own. She never let the bullies win.” He paused and added, “Like you.”

The girl blushed crimson. In the corner of his eye, Dex saw that the Jedi was extending his hand across the table to Khaleen, who entwined her fingers in his. Apparently confident that he had her approval, Quin straightened himself before speaking again. “Our ancestor’s name was Ayesha, Ayesha Vos. I think Ayesha would be a good name for you, kid. What do you think?”

The girl looked at Khaleen. The woman smiled and said: “Ayesha Eskari of clan Vos. Try saying it. It rolls nicely off the tongue.”

Dex could see that the child was exceedingly nervous. “You can just say it in Khaleen’s ear, li’l one. We won’t be listening.”

The little girl stood up. “No, I’ll say it.” She took a deep breath. “Ayesha Eskari of clan Vos,” she whispered, then repeated louder, “Ayesha Eskari of clan Vos. Ayesha Eskari of clan Vos.” She grinned and clapped her hands cheerfully. “I like it. I really like it. Ayesha Eskari of clan Vos. Thanks, Mister Quin.”

The Jedi gave her a warm smile. “That’s Uncle Quin to you, kiddo. We’re family now.” He inhaled deeply and added, “I started all this on the wrong footing and I’m sorry about that. But I’ll make it up to you” – he followed the child’s gaze to Khaleen – “and I’ll make it up to Khaleen too, because she deserves better than me.”

Well, Dex thought as he stood up to clear the table while Quin and Khaleen collected their belongings to leave, he’d be kesseled if he could have expected this outcome to the conversation when it had begun a couple of hours ago. He’d been friends with Quin for years and he knew him to be more capricious than most Jedi, but his mood swings had been pretty wild lately and today was a rather extreme example of that. He could only hope that Khaleen knew what she’d gotten herself into – but the li’l one didn’t really have a choice, and she was way too young to bear the burden of the Kiffar’s volatility. He was wondering how to take it up with the man himself while he handled his payment, but Quin just dropped a pile of credits on the counter, gave him a nod of thanks and made for the door.

“Hey, Quin,” Dex called after the retreating Jedi. “Don’t fail that kid.”

The Kiffar spun around. “I won’t.” He took a few steps closer, and when he spoke again, it was in a low, urgent voice. “And Dex? If you see me going off my rocker again, call Tholme. The work I’m doing… it’s still early days, but let’s just say that it’ll get worse before it gets better, and Ayesha won’t be able to bring me back from the brink when it does.”

Dex glanced at the diner’s window, behind which the little girl could be seen chatting animatedly with Khaleen. “She’s special, that one.”

Vos followed his gaze. “She is. There’s something unusual about her presence in the Force. She’s… luminous. When the war is over, I’ll bring her to the Jedi Council.”

The Besalisk rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t talking about fantastic Force feats, Quin. I was just talking about… her. She’s a really sweet kid.”

Quin looked at Ayesha again. His face softened. “Yes. She really is.”

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Fanon notes and Wikipedia links

Spoiler

Of the desserts listed in the story, the doughnuts, ryshcate, muja fruit and vweilu nuts are Legends food items. Conifruit is the brainchild of @Cowgirl Jedi 1701 and blue cream fudge is just something I came up with on the spot as a SW version of clotted cream fudge.

The proximity of Kiffu and Kiffex causing electrical storms is borrowed from Legends, as are the Kiffu Guardians as an organisation. However, all the backstory about the explorer ship crash, the founding of the clans of the Kiffar, and the Guardians’ view on deserters is my fanon, which I’ve (mostly) written up in a fanon post here. The word ‘Mingling’ to describe the electrical storms is borrowed with permission from @Mira_Jade ’s story So Few Things, which I will be pillaging shamelessly for the next fic I’m writing for this thread.

Tholme was Quinlan Vos’s master both in Canon and Legends. This series of stories goes with the Legends versions of both characters; and as of this particular point in time, Quin is at the beginning of his infiltration of Dooku’s team and thus still in the early days of being tempted by the dark side.

Lastly, I wish I could take credit for the poem in this fic, because it’s not entirely bad, but it’s really just a riff on Pablo Neruda’s Discoverers of Chile. Neruda is one of my favourite poets and I always imagined Namajib Eskari’s poetry to be similar to his.

 

Ha! So I'm not the only one who envisions all kinds of stories, songs and poems coming out of meetings at Dex's Diner!

There's plenty of in-story information, so despite not knowing the backgrounds of either Khaleen or Ayesha, I had no trouble following this story's plotline or character development. I will have to make it a point to go back and read earlier pieces, now that I've gotten acquainted with Eliskandro & Co. in their thread.

Oh, and I would also like a piece of the ryshcate with muja syrup and extra vweilu nuts, with a few of the doughnut holes on the side, please....

 

Beautiful back story on Ayesha's personal past and also that of Kiffu. Enjoyed Dex's forthright POV ... The desserts sound scrumptious. And the poem is lovely!

 

And apparently, the biggest idiot in the galaxy, lol. I love your portrayal of the main character, here. Her loneliness, then terror at Scar and feelings of worthlessness, followed by wanting the other woman she hears to be able to live, only to give in to temptation and try to steal from her, all within a short space of time. And it's all so wonderfully written.

I'll be back to keep reading. This is superb, @Chyntuck

 

It's time to add a new story to this thread! (And this qualifies as progress, since it took me more than 5 years to post again after the first one, whereas it's only two weeks since the second one. Go me! )

But first, a few replies:

@Seldes_Katne Thank you for the review!

Oh, trust me, you're not. Forget Coruscant, the Jedi Temple, the Senate or the Imperial Palace. Dex's Diner is the true epicentre of every important development in the galaxy, whether political, social or cultural. We should rename it Dex's Literary Salon.

Thanks! You don't need any background other than what is in the (so far) two stories of this thread, really – or you shouldn't, at any rate, if I've done my writing job properly, since these stories are the prequel to everything else in this 'verse. I have three on-going threads where I elaborate on the backstory of Ayesha Eskari, and this is the one where she's youngest. So basically you could say that these fics flesh out a long list of bullet points that I've had in a notebook for nearly 10 years.

Haha! That's bound to happen when you visit Dex's Diner!

@WarmNyota_SweetAyesha Thank you!

A lot more of both is coming up in the next story!

I wish I could take credit for that, but I can't It's basically a riff on Neruda's Discoverers of Chile, which is a truly spectacular poem. I can't write poetry in English to save my life, so I just adapted a few lines of it here.

@Vek Talis Thank you and welcome to this thread

Thanks This is a seven-year-old child we're talking about here, and one who isn't very good at fending for herself, so she does what she can to survive with the coherence and consistency of a seven-year-old. But things will (eventually) improve for her!

Thanks again

Thank to all readers, reviewers and lurkers! The beginning of the next story is coming right up.

 

Title: The Day of the Founders
Timeframe: 20 BBY, a few months after The Name of the Ancestor further up-thread
Length: Multi-post short story
Characters: Ayesha Eskari (OC), Manôl Vos (OC), Tinté Vos, misc. other OCs
Challenge response: This story is a response to the 2023 Spring Bingo and uses the entire bingo board.
Notes: I wrote this fic to develop my fanon pertaining to Kiffu and the Kiffar more than anything else, so I’ll admit straight away that the plot is weak with this one However, the reason I chose to develop my fanon here is that the amazing @Mira_Jade allowed me to borrow (or even pillage) as much as I wanted of her Kiffar fanon from her story So Few Things (which you should go and read instead of hanging out in this thread, because it’s awesome). For the sake of keeping this opening note short, I’m just thanking her now and I’ll detail what I borrowed from her and what is mine in the chapter endnotes.
Jump to: Chapter I (this post) – Chapter II – Chapter III

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The Day of the Founders

Chapter I: The March of the Lost

It was the hymns that awakened her.

Seven-year-old Ayesha Eskari slipped out of bed and padded silently to the window. The house where she lived with her grandfather in Krete, the capital city of Kiffu, was located on the main pedestrian thoroughfare that climbed Vrea’s Hill, halfway between the cliffs that stood above the Saiferu Sea and the sheyf’s palace at the top of the steep slope, and the cobblestoned street was now crowded with hundreds of people whose heads were covered in oversized cowls. The dancing flames of the candles they carried cast an eerie glow on what little could be glimpsed of their faces. Jeddo Manôl had told her that there would be special ceremonies on the equinox, but he hadn’t mentioned that a procession would pass outside their home before sunrise. She was trying to open the old-fashioned casement to better hear the psalms when she realised that she was not alone.

Manôl Vos came to stand at her side and rubbed her shoulder affectionately. It had taken her some time to get used to his gruffness when she’d first come to live with him. He was such a quiet, reserved man that he sometimes came across as rather aloof; and, after her time with Quin and Khaleen, and even more so with Dex who was all about hugs and cuddles, she’d thought in the beginning that he wasn’t happy about having her around, or even that he didn’t like her very much. But now she was accustomed to his surly manner and she knew how to read the subtle signs through which he expressed his true feelings: the tiny curl of the corner of his mouth that scrunched up his wrinkles and gave him dimples, the minute twitch of his eyebrows that told her she’d managed to surprise him, the way he swept his dreadlocks behind his shoulder to hide his amusement when she said something silly, and of course, the sparkle of his eyes. Like the vast majority of Clan Vos, Jeddo Manôl had olive skin and jet-black hair – no matter that he was greying now – but he was one of the few whose eyes, instead of black, were a bright shade of blue, like the Saiferu Sea on a sunny day; and Ayesha understood that, because he wasn’t a talkative man, he let his eyes speak for him and say what he wasn’t able to put into words.

She leaned into his touch and pressed her little hand to the window, where the last of the procession could be seen trudging uphill. “What are they doing?”

“This is the March of the Lost,” he answered. “Do you remember what I taught you about the Day of the Founders?”

She knitted her eyebrows as she sought to recall his exact words. “On this day we commemorate the arrival of our ancestors on our homeworld,” she recited. “We celebrate the memory of the explorers who crashed on Kiffu, those whose bloodlines live on in us and those whose bloodlines were lost.”

“Those whose bloodlines were lost,” he repeated. “What do you think it means?”

She took a few moments to ponder the question. “It means those who died in the crash,” she decided. “Those who weren’t able to start a clan.”

Jeddo Manôl gave her one of his almost-smiles. “Very good. And that is the meaning of this procession. These people are going to the Hall of Lost Memories. They will leave their candles near the ancient Hearts of Fire that are said to hold recollections of those who could have been but were not, and they will tell them that they are not forgotten.”

“Isn’t that important? Shouldn’t we be going too?”

At this the elderly man very nearly grinned. “We didn’t go because there was a little girl who needed her beauty sleep. But now that you’re awake” – he rubbed her shoulder again – “go wash your face and hands and brush your teeth. Then we’ll get you ready and we can stop by the Hall of Lost Memories before we go to the palace.”

“We’re going to the palace?” Ayesha asked excitedly. She bounced to the fresher, and it was only when she came back and Jeddo Manôl had switched on the bedroom lights that she realised that he was in full ceremonial attire. He wore the black cuirass of the Kiffu Guardians and the traditional vraq, a type of baggy trousers tucked in knee-high boots, and he had covered his forearms with leather gauntlets that let his upper arms bare to accentuate the sinewy muscles playing under the skin, like Uncle Quin did. The five-pointed golden star of Clan Vos was embossed on his chestpiece and pauldrons, and the tips of his braids were wrapped in bright yellow yarn. He looked very handsome and strong like this, so much so that she was a little intimidated.

He beckoned for her to come closer and crouched near the bed, where an oblong box lay open. He unfolded from it a flowing pullover dress. The fabric was a mottled charcoal grey, with golden edging along the collar and sides and the Vos star embroidered on the front. “This is the caftan that your mother wore for the Day of the Founders when she was your age.”

She ran a finger over the material. It was soft and snug and silky, like a little of her mother’s love made real. “It’s my Mama’s?”

“It was,” he confirmed, and she noticed that his voice had gone a little bit funny. “I kept it for her, in case she came back. But now you’re here, so… Do you want to wear it today? You don’t have to,” he added hurriedly. “Children aren’t required to come in formal garb. But I thought maybe you’d like it.”

It was the first time she heard her grandfather mumble like that, and he seemed to be on the verge of tears. She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Of course I like it, Jeddo,” she whispered. “Thank you for giving it to me.”

She stayed in his embrace as long as he would allow it – he had never hugged her so tightly before – then slipped on the dress and sat quietly while he did her hair. He had explained to her that it was custom to thread plain yarn through one’s hair on this day, in remembrance of the sparing lifestyle of the Founders who couldn’t afford anything more valuable to embellish themselves, and indeed he twined gold-yellow string into her braids and wrapped it around the tips, like he had done for his own. She finally put on her sandals and spun happily in front of the mirror. “It’s so pretty, Jeddo!”

He was staring at her intensely. “You look just like her,” he muttered. His voice was all funny again, but he shook his head in that way that meant he wanted to think of something else. “Come. There is something I must show you before we leave.”

They stopped by a heavy wooden chest in the entrance hall, from which he extracted a harness and a double-bitted axe with symmetrical curved blades. Both the head and the haft were ornamented with elaborate carvings and inlays, but Ayesha could see that the wood was worn and the metal pitted with rust. It was obviously very old.

Jeddo Manôl spread the wrapping cloth on the chest and placed the axe reverently on top. “This is the Pelekys,” he said. “Did your parents tell you about it?”

His tone was so fervent, so intense, that Ayesha knew that she would disappoint him. “Not really,” she stuttered. “Only Papa’s poem where he talks about it. It says something about a… custodian.” She stumbled a little over the difficult word, but she was almost sure she’d said it right.

Her grandfather took her hand and laid it on the handle. “Your father was correct. This is one of the most valuable relics of our people. It’s said to have been crafted by Vaseel himself – the son of Ayesha Vos, the founder of our clan. And we – the Kunisu, our branch of the clan, those of the Vos who bear this particular qukuuf” – he drew with his fingertip the single yellow facial marking that underlined her left eye – “we have kept the Pelekys for generations. Right now, I am its keeper – its custodian – and after I am gone, this duty will pass on to you.”

She brushed her palm over the wood. It was smooth and glossy; she could feel that Jeddo Manôl had been taking very good care of it. “Is it true, Jeddo? Is it really Vaseel’s axe?”

His eyebrows twitched – apparently it wasn’t the question he had been expecting. “The memories held in the axe say so, Ayesha, even if they’re very old memories. Vaseel lived thousands and thousands of years ago. But what matters is that we are the custodians of the Pelekys. We were granted this honour because we are among the truest of the Kiffar – my forefathers, my father, me, your mother, if she were still with us, and, someday, you. No one can challenge that you are a worthy member of Clan Vos as long as you have this axe. Do you understand?”

There was a shine of burning embers in his eyes. She didn’t know how to answer. “Not really,” she finally replied. “Not yet. But I promise to you that I will.”

He merely nodded, then strapped the harness to his back and sheathed the Pelekys in place. The ornate double blade framed his face like a halo and made him look even more handsome and strong. She wondered for a moment, at his stony expression, how badly she had failed with her answer; but then he opened the door to reveal the early morning light, and when he took her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze, she understood that this was only the first lesson of many, and that he would give her all the time she needed to learn.

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Fanon notes and Wookieepedia links

Spoiler

The words from the bingo board that appear in this chapter are: hymn, awakening, candle, equinox, procession and love.

As noted above, this story borrows a whole lot of fanon from Mira_Jade’s So Few Things. In her notes and replies, MJ mentions that she decided to build her image of Kiffu as space!Greece, and more specifically as space!Minoan Crete after finding out that the Cretans of the Bronze Age were among the populations that braided their hair; and she came up with a description of Krete, the capital city of Kiffu, so mouth-watering that you’ll want to book a holiday there. On my end, I had developed some fanon of my own for Kiffu, which is mostly mentioned in passing in my stories and revolves around a different region of the planet that I modelled after the lower Jordan valley and Dead Sea area in Palestine. However, it turns out that reconciling the two isn’t all that difficult, especially since, in an amusing twist of fanfic fate, we chose two cultures that are connected by myth in the real world (it’s said that the Palestinian people are descended from settlers from Minoan Crete, although evidence for it is rather scant).

For this chapter of the story, I tried to keep Mira’s general Minoan vibe, and I borrowed the names Krete, Saiferu Sea and Vrea’s Hill, as well as the layout of the city with the cliffs overhanging the sea and the Sheyf’s palace being located at the top of the hill. I also borrowed Mira’s concept of Halls of Memories, where each clan keeps their Hearts of Fire.

The origin story of the Kiffar, who came from an explorer ship that crashed on the planet, as described in The Name of the Ancestor further up this thread as well as in my fanon post here, is my own fanon. In this story, I further added the Day of the Founders and all associated rituals, ceremonies and customs, and I finally came up with a name for the son of Ayesha Vos, Vaseel, based on the Greek pronunciation of the name Basil, which means ‘royal’.

The word Jeddo for grandfather is Arabic, which I considered changing to Greek to match the development of my fanon thanks to MJ, but it’s been with me for so long that I ultimately decided to keep it as it always was. However, the baggy ceremonial trousers that I call the vraq in this chapter are a reference to the Cretan βράκα (pronounced vráh-kah), of which you can see a few examples here (there are still a few older men who wear this costume in Crete to this day). I should also note that the blue eyes/black hair/olive skin combo is surprisingly common among Cretans.

The idea of a religious procession for the Day of the Founders came of course from the Easter rituals of the Greek Orthodox church, but also from the fact that Minoan-era works of art often depict processions; one example of many is the Hagia Triada Sarcophagus.

My main contribution to the Minoan vibe here is of course the Pelekys. Πέλεκυς (pronounced péh-leh-kees) is both the ancient and modern Greek word for a double-bitted axe with curved blades, and one of the best-known examples of such ceremonial axes from the Minoan era is kept in the Archaeological Museum of Heraklion, Crete.



Lastly, I have a whole bunch of fanon elements about the qukuuf and how they establish a Kiffar’s clan and subclan affiliation that I will develop in the next chapter (the Wook erroneously describes a qukuuf as a black facial marking; this is obviously incorrect since every single member of clan Vos is shown having a yellow one, and some are even green). The next chapter will also further develop the Minoan aspect of this culture, whereas the Jordan Valley/Dead Sea-inspired worldbuilding will have to wait for the chapter after that.

 

How intriguing and exotic! I like Ayesha's granddad. She can win the hearts of anyone it seems.

 

Yes, more about the Kiffar and the Vos family

 

Sounds like Khaleen figured out what to say after all.

Poor kid. So sad to be so young AND alone. Thankfully, it seems she has a friend now.

 

Thank you al for reading and reviewing! I have an update for you today, but first, a few quick replies.

@WarmNyota_SweetAyesha Thank you!

You of all people would know that the grandfather has been in the works for years and years and years Though I would say that winning the heart of your own granddad isn't a major achievement, and in the coming chapter Ayesha will meet some more difficult customers.

@earlybird-obi-wan Thanks! Lots (and by that I mean LOTS) more about the Kiffar and the Vos intra-family politics coming right up.

@Vek Talis Thank you! As far as I know the EU never said anything about Khaleen's childhood, so I imagined her as someone who had been on her own from a very early age, and that taught her how to be a survivor – contrary to this kid, who is pretty clueless in the end. The main character's backstory comes up in the next two chapters of TDATT and in the following story, so I won't spoil it for you, but there's a reason she feels so alone and wants so badly to belong.

Thanks again to readers, reviewers and lurkers! Next chapter coming up as soon as I format the text.

 

Chapter II: The Frugal Feast

The throne room of the palace was already full when Manôl and Ayesha arrived. As was custom for the Day of the Founders, all furniture except the throne itself had been removed from the great hall. The lateral chambers delineated by heavy red columns that supported the painted ceiling had been assigned to individual subclans, and attendees sat crossed-legged on the floor around plain burlap tablecloths, leaving only the central aisle open for newcomers to reach Sheyf Tinté and present their respects before joining their kin.

Manôl Vos couldn’t help but feel a little awkward at his tardiness. It was, of course, a privilege of old age to be allowed to join clan gatherings in his own time, even more so now that he had a youngling in his care, but he had been scrupulously punctual when he was in his prime and it was a habit that was difficult to shake off. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to regret the time he had just spent with his granddaughter in the Hall of Lost Memories further down the hill, and then in their own clan’s Hall of Memories in the basements of the palace. Ayesha’s curiosity and eagerness to learn were a delight in and of themself, and everything about her – the shape of her face, her big dark eyes, her delicate hands and feet, but also the spark of joy that came through in her every word and gesture and the kindness she projected towards all beings – reminded him of the daughter he had lost. Furthermore, it was essential that she be able to hold her own as the custodian of the Pelekys. Not only was Manôl loath to see the precious historical artefact pass into the hands of another bloodline, let alone another subclan, but it was also her best protection against those who would deny her the rights of a true Kiffar.

Manôl knew that his people had always been wary of offworlders and that unions with non-Kiffar were frowned upon by many, but the rampant xenophobia that had taken hold of the populace since the beginning of the Clone Wars was unlike anything he had ever experienced. Given the hostile gazes that turned towards Ayesha as they entered the room, he could only confirm to himself that his concerns for her safety weren’t far-fetched at this point. For the umpteenth time, he wished that Thriyé had made a different choice, that she hadn’t eloped with a Corellian and deserted her commission with the Guardians in the process – but then, he couldn’t begrudge his daughter the fact that she’d found love so deep that it had been worth renouncing everything she ever was. He’d had the good fortune to know such love himself when he was young; his marriage had granted him the joy of the most beautiful daughter in Thriyé, and Thriyé, in turn, had given him little Ayesha. He had lost his wife to internecine warfare and his daughter to the Guardians’ code of absolute loyalty, but he would do everything in his power to keep his granddaughter safe and happy.

He held the child’s hand a little tighter as they came to a halt in front of Tinté Vos. The clan kapoojy who stood at her side pounded his staff three times on the stone floor and announced formally: “The sheyf of sheyfs recognises Manôl Vos, bek of the Kunisu, custodian of the Pelekys, and his granddaughter Ayesha Vos.”

Manôl went to bow to the sheyf. He was stopped mid-gesture by a small voice that uttered a single word.

“Eskari.”

A disapproving murmur ran across the assembly. Manôl looked askance to see that Ayesha was facing the kapoojy with her head held high. She was visibly a little intimidated by the man’s angry glare; yet Manôl experienced a surge of pride when she stood her ground. “Ayesha Eskari,” she repeated softly but firmly. “That’s my name. Ayesha Eskari of Clan Vos. My uncle Quin gave it to me.”

Sheyf Tinté looked at her appraisingly for a few moments, then blinked at the kapoojy. He pounded the stone floor once more and began anew. “The sheyf of sheyfs recognises Manôl Vos, bek of the Kunisu, custodian of the Pelekys, and his granddaughter Ayesha Eskari.”

Manôl placed a hand on Ayesha’s back and nudged her to bow together with him. He then straightened himself and looked the sheyf in the eyes, fully aware that, in an unexpected turn of events, it was he who was now channelling a little of the child’s defiance – but Ayesha had unknowingly thrown down the gauntlet with her small moment of self-assertion, and he would not fail her. Tinté nodded in greeting, but the shadow of a scowl over her face told Manôl to remain on his guard. The sheyf was known to be a devious woman – there were persistent rumours that she had gone so far as to poison her brother in order to ascend to the throne – and the elderly man fully expected her to twist the situation to her advantage one way or another.

“Greetings, Manôl-bek, and you, Ayesha Eskari. I understand that you are acquainted with my great-nephew Quinlan Vos.”

The little girl shuffled a little awkwardly on her feet. “It’s true, Sheyf Tinté. It was Uncle Quin who named me.”

“Then we can only welcome you as one of us,” the sheyf said. “You are blood of our clan, granddaughter of a Guardian, and namechild of our kinsman who represents us among the Jedi.” She turned to Manôl. “Manôl-bek, do you designate Ayesha Eskari as the next custodian of the Pelekys?”

And there it was, Manôl thought. The old harridan had seen an opportunity to sow discord among her people, and she wasn’t going to miss it – not when it was only the delicate balance of tensions between the clans and subclans that allowed her to hold on to power. He had no choice but to play along; but he wasn’t going to fall headfirst into Tinté’s trap either. “It is indeed my intention to designate her as such” – he paused for effect – “when she comes of age.”

The murmur in the room became louder. There was a scuffle somewhere behind him, and Manôl spun around to see that a man in elaborate robes was standing up clumsily. His qukuuf consisted of two thick strokes that ran from his temples to his jaw. “The Paito subclan will never accept a halfbreed as the custodian of the Pelekys,” the man said angrily. “If this is to be, we will issue a formal challenge to the Kunisu.”

A woman sprang to her feet on the other side of the room. She was attired in full Guardian regalia and the single yellow line that ran across her cheekbones on either side of the bridge of her nose identified her as a member of the same prestigious subclan as Quinlan Vos. “If Balfo-afenti of the Paito wishes to issue a righteous challenge,” – she emphasised the honorific to remind the man that, as a puffed-up burgher, he was in no position to issue any challenge at all – “he should demand to face a worthy opponent. Manôl-bek laid down his Guardian blade years ago and his granddaughter will not be of age for years to come. My subclan has long coveted Vaseel’s axe, but if Balfo-afenti seeks to claim it from the Kunisu by defeating an elder and a child, I will gladly offer myself as their champion.”

“I am grateful to my friend Sawdé-aqa of the Zakoro for her intervention in the name of honour,” a deep voice interjected. Manôl could not see the speaker, who was hidden behind one of the columns that adorned the room, but his familiar voice projected such confidence and authority that the rumbles of the assembly died out instantly. “But it will not be necessary. I will stand for Ayesha Eskari and for my subclan should the need arise.”

Balfo Vos frowned. “And may we know who you are, so as to issue the challenge to you when the need arises?”

There was the rustle of fabric and leather on stone, and a giant of a man appeared from behind the column. He, too, wore the ceremonial armour of the Guardians, and he bore the same single yellow facial marking under his left eye as Manôl and Ayesha. “It is I, Fanees Vos of the Kunisu,” he said calmly. “And I will accept your challenge in due time. However, that time is not today. Today is a day of sacred truce between all clans, and it is unacceptable that we would consider discussing a breach of this truce in the sheyf of sheyfs’ palace.”

The Paito dignitary was visibly about to let out an acid retort, but Tinté intervened in her sharp voice. “It is so,” she said sternly. “No challenges will be discussed today. Balfo-afenti, Sawdé-aqa, kindly return to your seats. Manôl-bek, if you and Ayesha Eskari will join your subclan’s circle, the feast will begin.”

Manôl bowed again to the sheyf – he saw in the corner of his eye that Ayesha followed his lead – and he took her hand to walk back to the Kunisu gathering. Like every year, his subclan were sitting in the section of the room whose wall depicted a bantha-leaping event; the frieze that framed the fresco consisted of a series of brightly coloured symmetrical half-circles that were an unmistakable reference to the Pelekys. He unsheathed the ancient axe from the harness strapped to his back and placed it carefully on the embroidered silk runner that had been laid out for this purpose over the the rough-spun tablecloth – tradition dictated that, on this particular day, the Kiffar should forsake all forms of splendour and opulence, but it seemed that the Kunisu could not bring themselves to follow this rule when it came to the valuable relic in their care. He didn’t fail to notice that his kin were reshuffling their seating arrangements and that the comfortable cushion they had reserved for him as the subclan’s bek was now positioned in such a way that he would be turning his back on the sheyf. Clearly, everyone in attendance had understood and interpreted Tinté’s mention of the future custodianship of the Pelekys for what it was: a thinly disguised ploy to portray the Kunisu as vulnerable and thus unleash the greed of the other subclans against them.

He took his place with Ayesha at his side while Fanees settled to her left. Being so tall, muscular and broad-shouldered, the young man slipped naturally into the role of the protector that he had just assigned to himself, and his stature alone was a physical but also a psychological deterrent for anyone who thought to challenge the Kunisu. The assembly remained silent as palace workers appeared to bring the customary platters of boiled gamefowl eggs, steamed greens, unleavened bread and wild berries, with only a bowl of salt from the southlands and a bottle of unripe yolv oil for seasoning. Manôl led the recitation of the words of remembrance that were drilled into every Kiffar since childhood, and the Frugal Feast began.

He knew that his granddaughter had lived through untold hardship, first as a slave of Zygerria, then as a street youngling on Coruscant, but the way she remained absolutely indifferent to the bitterness of the greens even as the adults in their circle winced with every mouthful told him that he hadn’t taken the true measure of the deprivation she had endured. Instead, she was looking around curiously as she ate, gazing at the bull-leaping fresco on the wall and at the painted ceiling that depicted a very large woman with a yellow qukuuf sitting on a throne-like chair while a much smaller servant whose face was unmarked washed her feet. He followed her eyes and was about to launch into an explanation about the room’s decoration when he heard Fanees whisper, “You don’t have to eat that.”

He glanced at Ayesha to see that her hand was halfway to her mouth, holding the pieces of an eggshell. She was giving the young man a puzzled look. “My Papa told me to eat them when I was little. He said it would help my bones grow strong.”

A few snickers were heard around the circle. Manôl was sorely tempted to roll his eyes at his kinsmen’s small-mindedness, but he elected to ignore them and spoke to the child instead. “Your father told you to eat eggshells because you didn’t have enough food, Ayesha. But now that you’re with us, you have everything you need, so you don’t have to eat them anymore.”

“But Jeddo,” she objected, and those big black eyes were swirling with questions again, “you said that the Founders became so hungry that they even had to sacrifice part of their first harvest to survive.” She pointed at the greens, where buds had been left on the stems as was required on this day. “Wouldn’t they eat the shells too?”

The snickering died out instantly. Manôl had to stifle a chuckle. “They would,” he told the child. “But you don’t have to do it. What we do today is symbolic. We enact the lives of the Founders in the early days, but we don’t have to follow every detail.”

“Besides, the greens are bad enough to remind us that they didn’t have it easy,” Fanees muttered under his breath. “No need to make it worse with eggshells.”

At this, Ayesha laughed and several members of the little assembly allowed themselves a grin before finishing their meal with exaggerated grimaces. The atmosphere was much friendlier now and the overall sense of formality and ceremony across the hall was relaxing, with many people leaving their subclans to join friends and relatives in other circles while the palace workers came around to collect the empty plates. Manôl noticed that Sawdé had come to sit near Fanees and was holding his hand – he knew that there was a budding romance there, and he was mildly surprised that the young man hadn’t asked him yet to pay a visit to the bek of the Zakoro and formalise their union when they were displaying their love in such a public fashion.

The shaykhanji arrived and began touring the room to serve mountain tealeaf brew from the large carafe she carried on her back, indicating that the feast was nearly over and that the clan would soon be travelling to the White Mountains for the rest of the day. Manôl merely accepted the proffered cup with a polite nod, but Ayesha, who was now in the middle of an animated conversation with Fanees, looked up at the servant, gave her a bright smile and said “Thank you.”

And once again, silence blanketed the assembly.

The shaykhanji left hastily while the Kunisu looked at each other, and an older woman who had been sitting on the far side of the chamber, just under the bantha-leaping fresco, finally spoke up in Old Kiffar. “Manôl-bek, did you not instruct your granddaughter to not address the Forgotten?”

Manôl had to resist the urge to roll his eyes again. The habit of the High Clans to look down on those who were dominated and treat the Forgotten in particular as little better than droids was one he had long thought petty at best, and while he did not wish to engage in a debate against it during a momentous occasion such as the Day of the Founders, he would certainly not allow anyone to indoctrinate Ayesha with tales of Vos superiority. Before he could answer however, the little girl asked, “What are the Forgotten?”

Her accent in Old Kiffar was a little unusual, but she had spoken the words fluently enough. All eyes turned to her once more, and now Manôl didn’t even know where to begin. Many among his kin, and even among Clan Vos at large, would demand to know how the child of an offworlder could speak the secret language of the Guardians. It was Sawdé who came to his rescue.

“There were many wars between the clans in our history,” she explained, reverting to Basic as if nothing unusual had happened. “Some clans were defeated so soundly that they stopped existing.” She pointed at the painting of the two women on the ceiling. “The servant you see there is of the Forgotten, like the shaykhanji and all the palace workers. That’s why they don’t have a qukuuf. They used to belong to a clan, but after they lost in one of the wars, their Hall of Memories was destroyed and their name was erased.”

For the first time, Manôl saw a flash of what was unmistakably anger in his granddaughter’s eyes. “You mean they’re slaves?” she asked indignantly.

“They are not slaves,” Fanees intervened. “They cannot be bought or sold; they are paid wages for their work. But they’re very poor, and many people of the High Clans think that we should ignore them, or even… not be nice to them, to remind them that they were beaten.”

The little girl frowned. She was obviously finding it difficult to wrap her head around this concept. She finally looked at her grandfather. “Do I have to be mean to them?” she asked pleadingly. It was obvious from her tone that she was hoping with all her heart he would say no.

Manôl thought to burst with pride. He allowed himself a proper, open smile. “No. No, you do not. With respect to those of our blood who think otherwise” – he nodded at the woman who had opened the subject – “some of us believe that the Forgotten should be treated with the same kindness and courtesy as all sentient beings.”

He stood up, collected the Pelekys and sheathed it back in place between his shoulders, signalling that the conversation was over – although he knew that Sawdé had only bought him time, and that, after so many public missteps in a single day, the traditionalists would be demanding answers in the weeks to come. “Shall we go? The other clans must be already waiting for us in the White Mountains.” He rubbed Ayesha’s shoulder. “And you still have much to learn about the Day of the Founders.”

And maybe, he thought as they made their way to the door, maybe a few of the Vos would learn a thing or two about compassion from Ayesha too.

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Fanon notes and Wookieepedia links:

Spoiler

The words from the bingo board that appear in this chapter are: worker, egg, buds, leavening, berries, sacrifice, colours and sowing.

As I mentioned in my previous post, this story borrows and expands upon the Kiffar fanon that @Mira_Jade developed for her story So Few Things. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to separate what is hers from what is mine as our fanons get intermingled in this story but I’m going to give it a try.

Mira established the general Minoan vibe of Kiffu; she mentions in particular the red columns (as can be seen for instance in the palace of Knossos north portico) and the frescoes, of which there are many examples (see Wikipedia). I added a few specific aspects to this, namely: 1) the layout of the throne room, 2) the fact that elite women are portrayed as much larger than servant women on frescoes (see for instance this one from the archaeological site of Akrotiri in Santorini), 3) the bull-leaping, which was a popular sport in Minoan Crete and is the subject of one of the best-known frescoes, and 4) the stylised pelekys shape used as a frieze to frame frescoes, as can be seen in the Minoan frescoes of Tell el-Dab’a in Egypt. Furthermore, I named the subclans of Clan Vos after the great Minoan cities, using the Linear A form of their names (Kunisu for Knossos, Paito for Phaestos, Zakoro for Zakros).

Mira also created the Hall of Memories and the position of sheyf of sheyfs, which I was all too happy to use, and she hints at various points of her story at a history of inter-clan warfare that led to a hierarchy of clans on Kiffu, with the High Clans sitting at the top of the food chain and the Forgotten at the bottom. In her fanon, the Forgotten are clans that were vanquished so thoroughly that their Halls of Memories were destroyed, their Hearts of Fire taken over and made to hold the memories of the victors, their land confiscated, etc. They therefore do not belong to any clan in particular anymore and form a caste of their own on the margins of Kiffar society, and they have no more facial markings to identify their lineage.

I clearly must have thought that Kiffar society and politics were not complicated enough like that, so I added subclans to spice things up. In Legends, each clan is shown to have facial markings known as qukuuf in a specific colour (yellow for Clan Vos, although they seem to be greenish in some illustrations) but the comics show that there are sub-groups of individuals with the same qukuuf within a clan (e.g. Quinlan Vos, his mother and his son have a straight horizontal line running across their face over their cheekbones, whereas his father and this great-aunt Tinté Vos have a wide strip running from their forehead to their chin). I took this idea and ran away with it to create subclans that are identified by the particular shape of their qukuuf.

I also created the idea that there are ranks and titles in Kiffar society, both for notable civilians and for warriors. While I was reading about Crete, I got sidetracked for a while with Ottoman Crete, and that reminded me that the Ottomans had the best titles ever. I thus adapted bey into bek (the Ottoman version of the word), ağa into aqa (the Persian spelling), effendi into afenti (from αφέντης, the Greek word from which the Turkish one is derived) and kapuji into kapoojy (from kapıcıbaşı, which means ‘master of ceremonies’ in Turkish). I further made up shaykhanji from the word çayhane (teahouse) and the suffix -ji; I imagine the carafe to be similar to those carried by water- and tea-sellers in the Middle East (see for instance here).

As stated above, the Day of the Founders and all its traditions, rituals and ceremonies are my fanon, as are the idea that the Kiffu Guardians are a highly secretive organisation that demands absolute loyalty of its members and the fact that Kiffar people are wary of outsiders at best and xenophobic at worst. However, Tinté Vos and her brother Kurlin are Legends characters, and it appears indeed that she murdered him to ascend to the throne. The language Old Kiffar is also my fanon (more here).

Lastly, Mira created the yolvs (olives), but the rest of the foods eaten on this day are my invention and were inspired by a mishmash of RL cultures and traditions. I just want to note that eating eggshells is actually a thing, especially in situations of hunger and malnutrition: my late mother-in-law, for instance, who had grown up in extreme poverty, ate not only eggshells but also cartilage and chicken bones, as does my Somali friend who grew up during the famine in Somalia. In fact, a lot of the calcium supplements we buy in pharmacies are made from eggshells.

 

Love how you give more insight in the Vos family and Manol and Ayesha

 

Super update as Ayesha and Manol remain poised and true to their character instead of getting sucked into the various traps and conflicts amongst the clan members

 

All righty doo! I managed to put together the last chapter of this story despite an unrelenting attack by a nasty cold over the past few days, so we're good to go. @earlybird-obi-wan and @WarmNyota_SweetAyesha, thank you for the reviews, and thank you to everyone who stopped by to read. Chapter III is coming up as soon as I'm done formatting it.

 

PSA: This chapter describes flying high-tech kites during an electric storm in order to harvest power from the lightning. DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME. In the real world it’s an outright dangerous thing to do and will likely get you killed, no matter what pseudo-scientific mumbo-jumbo I came up with for the sake of storytelling.

Chapter III: The Dagger and the Axe

From the moment Fanees and Sawdé had declared their love for each other three years ago, the young man had known that he would have to perform an act of valour for her family to accept him as kin. After all, she was already an aqa of the Guardians, and one from the Zakoro at that, whereas he was a mere chawoosh with no ambition to rise to a higher rank. The opportunity to prove his mettle hadn’t presented itself yet, but Fanees had been looking forward to the moment when he would finally be allowed to live with his beloved and start a family.

After an hour in the cockpit of his patrol craft with Ayesha Eskari on the way to the White Mountains, he wasn’t so sure about the family anymore. Were all young children such indefatigable chatterboxes? It was true that Ayesha’s curiosity about anything and everything, her endless flow of questions and her often surprising comments and interpretations were endearing. They were also exhausting.

He brought the small ship down carefully to land amidst the speeders, airtrucks and shuttles on the outskirts of the plateau between the two mountain peaks and helped the little girl disentangle herself from her safety webbing. She immediately stood up and glued herself to the viewport. “Mount Aigaion and Mount Idaea,” she repeated for the umpteenth time, gesturing at the dormant volcanoes to the east and west. “And the one in the back is Mount Kaspros.”

“Very good,” Manôl-bek said approvingly from the other passenger seat, and Fanees had to wonder once more at the man’s treasures of patience. “Come outside now, and you can take a better look at the Marjari shrine.”

As soon as they walked down the boarding ramp, Ayesha pointed excitedly at the façade that had been built in front of the cave where, according to legend, the Founders had sought shelter in the aftermath of their ship’s crash. Manôl-bek began to explain to her that the shrine was a good defensive position, as the River Yurdnan that wound down the slopes of Mount Idaea formed a natural moat between the wall of the mountain and the plateau it bordered; and Fanees took a few steps away from them to enjoy the vista. The thaw had begun and the White Mountains were an eruption of greenery, with thousands of honeybees buzzing around the bright flowers. The levels of the Yurdnan had risen already; its tumultuous waters frothed between the rocky banks before flying over the edge of the plateau in a dramatic waterfall that crashed into Lake Tabariya several hundred metres below. The river then resumed its course across the barren lands of Clan Malki to the south. Even the arid escarpments of the Ghor Valley had a little vegetation to show in this season, and Fanees’s eyes could follow the silver ribbon through the lowland city of Ariha before it split into dozens of rivulets that flowed into the salt marshes of Hamavet in the distance. A little to the east, a fortress atop a tall mesa stood as a reminder of Clan Malki’s might among the Kiffar, and beyond it began the scrublands of Urdun where the Malki and their vassals herded the dune banthas that, together with the salt of Hamavet, made up most of the region’s wealth.

Many families had already arrived from the coastal areas of the continent of Keftiu and had settled down to picnic on the meadow grass, and the younger children were running around chasing butterflies and what seemed to be little balls of fluff floating in the air that Fanees knew to be playful dust bunnies. The familiar itch on his face reminded him to grab a tablet in his utility belt and swallow it immediately. He had failed to take his medication last year, and what was supposed to be a pleasant day out in the countryside had evolved instead into a full-fledged bout of hay fever. He wouldn’t let himself be overcome by seasonal allergies today – because of his large stature, Clan Vos had chosen him as their holder in the bantha-leaping contest, and he was determined to do everything in his power to assist in their victory.

Manôl-bek was now showing to Ayesha a gulp of blue-backed hirundinids that were flying in from the coast. Like every year, the birds were coming to roost in the mountains for the warm season, and the rugged cliff above the Marjari shrine was already dotted with nests where they would be raising their young. “This is how our ancestors knew that they should migrate before the winter,” the elderly man concluded. “They saw the avians leave and followed them to the sea – and this was also the time of the Great Divide. One of the Founders chose to go to the Ghor instead of the coast and took some of our people with him. His name was Hasayn Malki, and Clan Malki remains the most powerful clan of the southlands to this day.”

He’d barely completed his sentence when a cloud of dust and the sound of thundering hooves announced the southerners’ arrival. Soon a herd of dune banthas was riding at full gallop around the plateau before spreading out into a single file and settling on the outskirts. A lone rider brought his mount in front of Sheyf Tinté, and, after taking a few moments to stare at her from above, he climbed down from the saddle and gave her a perfunctory bow. Like every member of his clan, Paraseel Malki’s qukuuf consisted of three vertical red lines on his forehead and his braids were twined with the customary red and white yarn, but the ancient golden dagger that he carried on his belt marked him as the heir to Hasayn Malki and to his absolute authority over the people of the Ghor. The yellow shine of his eyes reminded Fanees how much he disliked the man – there was, of course, an old tug-of-war between the Vos and the Malki for leadership of the planet, but Paraseel Malki simply exuded malice, and the way he nurtured his people’s militaristic tendencies did not bode well for Kiffu, especially in these times of galactic turmoil.

The young man followed the Malki sheyf’s malevolent gaze to a spot behind him, and he turned around to see that he was staring at little Ayesha, who was still listening to her grandfather. Fanees sighed. Not so long ago, the clans were so fiercely protective of their own that not a word of the comings and goings in the throne room would make its way to the ears of a stranger. The Clone Wars and the identity crisis they had sparked among the Kiffar had changed that. Rumours were now swirling of Vos subclans seeking alliances with the Theos, the Mlio or the Hara in order to pressure Sheyf Tinté to improve their standing and give in to their various demands; and, if Paraseel Malki’s focus on the girl was any indication, one or more of the guests who had attended the Frugal Feast that very morning had made the time to contact the Vos’s most powerful rivals and report on the unusual profile of the future custodian of the Pelekys.

A sudden flurry of activity interrupted his train of thought. Kiffex had just appeared on the horizon, announcing that the Mingling was about to begin and with it, the traditional Harvesting of the Light. The electric storm that occurred daily when the twin planets’ magnetospheres grazed against each other lasted longest on the equinox, and it was custom to fly small plasmacore kites in order to capture the energy released in the atmosphere and store it in capacitors, like the Founders had done to power the pieces of technology they had been able to salvage from the wreckage of their ship. Ayesha was looking curiously at the families that were setting up their children’s stands and instructing them how to best catch the breeze for their boxlike kites to fly high when Sawdé, whom Fanees had been wondering about, appeared and laid a crate at her feet.

“With respect, Manôl-bek,” she said, “I saw that you weren’t able to procure a kite for Ayesha, so I went and fetched my own.” She waved for Fanees to come closer and turned to the little girl. “This is the best part of the Day of the Founders,” she explained with a grin. “Trust me, you want to try it.”

Fanees had to grin back, both for Ayesha’s squeal of delight and for her anticipated reaction when the lightning struck – and indeed, he was not disappointed. As soon as the base was affixed to the ground and the boxy structure was airborne, she grabbed the handles and planted her feet apart comically, as if fearing that the wind might carry her away, and she kept her eyes fixed on the darkening sky where wispy lightning bolts were already flashing. Within minutes, the two planets came closer and the heavens erupted with horizontal electrical arcs. Tendrils of energy began to extend towards the plasma cores that floated below; one of them found her kite, the current ran through the cable and into the capacitor…

… and Ayesha fell to the ground in an uncontrollable fit of giggles.

“It tickles,” she yelped gleefully. “Jeddo, it tickles, it tickles!”

Her delight at the titillating sensation induced by the minor leak of energy into the handles of her kite was so infectious that even Manôl-bek’s stern face broke into a smile. It was a well-known fact that the Kiffar were more resistant to electrical current than baseline Humans, but for most children, the Day of the Founders was the first opportunity to experience the otherworldly tingle of power running through their bodies. For the next two hours, the entire plateau was a cacophony of laughter as the little ones caught the lightning, plummeted to the grass and picked themselves up excitedly to do it again. It was loud and irksome and exhausting, Fanees thought as he lay back on the blanket that Sawdé had spread out for him, herself and Manôl-bek, but it was also lively and playful and joyous – and maybe this was what having a family was like after all.

Night had come by the time the Mingling faded. The evening air was still chilly in this season and bonfires were lit to keep the assembled festival-goers comfortable while youth from the Planetary Sports League cleared the central part of the plateau to make space for the bantha-leaping event. The musicians took up their positions, the teams lined up, the cattlemen of Clan Malki brought their herd into position and the contest began.

As holder, Fanees stood at the end of the line of the Vos team. To his left were the dancers who held each other by the shoulders and performed the stationary steps of the cinquepace with dizzying speed, while leapers came to anchor themselves on his right hand and improvised various acrobatics until a bantha surged forth. At that point, the entire line broke into a run to build momentum, and a final push from Fanees helped the leaper vault over the galloping beast and somersault to the other side. It was a well-rehearsed tradition and one that was far more impressive than it was dangerous. Dune banthas were considerably smaller than their imposing cousins from Kashyyyk or Tatooine, and they were mostly docile creatures. This particular herd was well-trained to come to a halt after each jump, the true contest of skill being in the elegance of the stunts.

It quickly became obvious that Sawdé had no equal. The crowd burst into cheers every time she took her turn and soared above the banthas, performing a variety of flips and twists in the air before receiving herself on her feet with whisperkit-like grace. She was returning to her position among the dancers, and Fanees could see the flush of her cheeks, the sparkle of her eyes and the impish grin playing at the corner of her mouth that told him how much she was enjoying herself, when an ominous rumble drew his attention towards the audience.

The next bantha in line had broken free of its keeper and was charging at the front row of onlookers, straight at Manôl-bek and Ayesha Eskari.

It all happened too fast to see. The crowd retreated precipitously, the beast ran forward, and Manôl-bek could only shove back his granddaughter before the horned head rammed him in the chest and sent him flying towards the dancers. Fanees barely had time to rush to his side before Sawdé shouted to catch his attention. The bantha had come to a halt and spun around; it was pawing the ground, as if getting ready to charge again – and its yellow eyes, once more, were fixed on Ayesha, who was screaming for her Jeddo while a few spectators scrambled to hold her back.

There was only one thing to do. Fanees was unarmed, as carrying weapons was forbidden on this day of truce, but stopping a crazed bantha with his bare hands wasn’t within the realm of possibility. He unsheathed the Pelekys from Manôl-bek’s harness – this was the first time he ever held the relic, and he was surprised by its heft, – then rose to his full height as he came to stand in the bantha’s way and gave Sawdé a nod.

As soon as the beast hurtled forward, Sawdé dashed at it, leapt into the air and grabbed it by the horns, letting herself vault over it and fall to its left. Her momentum dragged it to the side, exposing its neck, and Fanees raised the Pelekys and brought it down to decapitate the bantha with a single blow.

For a moment the entire assembly froze as the young man stood alone in the bantha-leaping area, his head held high, the Pelekys dripping with blood in his hand. Then several things happened at once: Sawdé rose to her feet, apparently unhurt; families hastily collected their children and belongings to leave; the cattlemen pulled back their herd and corralled it away; and a team of medics rushed towards Manôl-bek while Ayesha escaped the spectators who had been holding her back to come to her grandfather’s side. Fanees was about to join them when a cold, indifferent voice spoke behind him.

“The Malki will demand compensation for the slaughter of their bantha.”

Before Fanees could even turn around – but he knew full well already that the comment had come from none other than Paraseel Malki, and he was sorely tempted to use the Pelekys against him right then and there – Sawdé intervened. “The Kunisu will also demand compensation for the injuries sustained by their bek,” she snarled. “The Vos as a whole will further demand compensation for one of their own, and I, as an aqa of the Guardians, will personally conduct an investigation into your kin’s failure to intervene and restrain your beast when it was attacking a fellow Kiffar on the Day of the Founders.”

“Enough!” a sharp voice snapped. The crowd parted to reveal Tinté Vos, whose eyes were blazing with fury. “There will be no demands for compensation for an unfortunate accident. Fanees-chawoosh, you will go deal with the evacuation of your bek. Sawdé-aqa, stand down. I said, stand down,” she repeated when the young woman gave her a mutinous look. “I will have you confined to the barracks if you do not. Sheyf Paraseel, you will ensure that your clansmen’s training is improved so as to avoid such incidents in the future. Surely you can understand that the loss of a bantha is of no importance when we might be mourning the loss of Kiffar lives on this sacred day.”

Paraseel Malki held Tinté’s gaze just long enough for all in attendance to note his impertinence, but he ultimately bowed to her, even though Fanees could see that he was fingering his ancestor’s dagger on his belt – and once again, the young man felt the urge to raise the Pelekys, if nothing else to see how it would hold up against the Malki blade. But Sheyf Tinté had issued her orders and her word was law. He contained his anger, nodded at Sawdé and made his way to Manôl-bek. The first responders had already removed the elderly man’s ceremonial armour and untangled him from the harness strapped to his back, and they were bringing forth a stretcher.

“How is he?” Fanees asked.

The lead medic looked up. “I believe that he is fine, Fanees-chawoosh. It seems that his cuirass absorbed most of the shock, although my scanner indicates a few broken ribs. We will transfer him to the Guardians’ medical facility in Krete to ascertain that there is no internal bleeding, but at first look, this isn’t anything bacta can’t fix.”

“Fanees,” Manôl-bek rasped. He still had the voice of someone who just had the air knocked out of his lungs. Once he was sure that he had his attention, he glanced at Ayesha, then at the Pelekys in the young man’s hand.

Fanees had known his bek for years, and it took him only seconds to process his thoughts. Manôl Vos couldn’t possibly be focusing on the ancient axe right now for the prestige its custodianship brought to their subclan; instead, his motivation had to be to secure his granddaughter’s place among the Kiffar. And while his incapacitation was a golden opportunity for other bloodlines of the Kunisu to claim the Pelekys as their own, the minute nods of the elders that had assembled around them was proof that all understood how unwise it would be to display anything less than absolute unity in the face of the other subclans’ greed. Fanees took a deep breath. As unfair as it was to put the child at the centre of an age-old dispute within their clan, he had to do this, and he grabbed Ayesha by the arm when she went to follow the medics who were now taking her grandfather away.

“Let me go,” she said angrily. “I want to be with my Jeddo.”

It was only then that Fanees noticed the intensity of her gaze. She wasn’t crying or screaming anymore; instead, she was staring at the old man who had thrown himself in harm’s way to protect her, and her eyes held a mixture of fear and concern and relief and – as Manôl-bek stared back – pure, unconditional love. In that moment, it dawned on him. He could only hope that, one day, there would be a child who would look at him the way Ayesha was looking at her grandfather. Yes, young children were talkative, and loud, and tiresome, but the bond they shared with a parent was unique, and he would be a fool to deprive himself of it.

“Ayesha, listen to me,” he said soothingly. He lowered himself to one knee so as not to tower over her and cupped her face in his hands. “Your Jeddo will be fine. The doctors said so, and they’re taking very good care of him. I’m going to fly you back to Krete in my ship and we’ll go and see him in the medcentre, and then I’ll stay with you until he comes home. Do you understand?”

The child looked at her grandfather, who was giving her a wan smile, and nodded reluctantly. Fanees held out the ancient axe. The bantha’s blood was drying out and forming a crust on the ornate blade. “But now, there’s something very important that you must do. Manôl-bek is the custodian of the Pelekys, but he can’t carry it when he’s hurt. So you’re going to have to carry it for him until he’s healed. It’s a big responsibility. You’ll make him very proud.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’ll help you. But you must do this. It’s very important to him, and I’ll explain later why it’s very important for you too. Okay?”

She nodded again, a little more confidently this time – clearly, Manôl-bek had impressed upon her the importance of the precious artefact. Fanees collected the harness that the medics had abandoned on the grass and fastened it to Ayesha’s back. He had to tie a knot in the shoulder straps to shorten them, as they were far too long for the girl’s size, and he used his wrist gauntlet to bind them together on her chest. Once he was confident that the harness was securely in place, he slipped the Pelekys into the sheath. The child staggered a little under the axe’s weight, but she pulled herself together and stood bravely.

“Yes, I know, it’s heavy,” he whispered. “But you won’t need to carry it very long. Just from here to the ship.”

He rose to his feet and took her hand. It felt tiny against his palm. Ayesha herself seemed so impossibly small all of a sudden – and Fanees experienced another surge of anger at the state of Kiffar society, where placing such a burden on a young child’s shoulders was the only way out of the quandary that the shadow of internecine conflict was creating. To his dismay, he could think of no better solution, but he made sure to choose his words with great care.

“Let it be witnessed that, until Manôl-bek of the Kunisu is back among us with good health and wise counsel, the Pelekys will remain with his granddaughter Ayesha Eskari,” he declared formally, his deep voice carrying over the Marjari plateau for all to hear. “Let it be witnessed that the Kunisu stand united behind Ayesha Eskari’s claim to keep Vaseel’s axe in her grandfather’s absence.”

He half-expected, half-hoped that the pretentious afenti of the Paito would issue his ill-advised challenge – after the last half-hour’s events, he wanted nothing more than to beat someone, anyone, to a pulp – but the assembly was still reeling in shock, and they simply stood aside to let him lead the little girl to his patrol craft. He lowered the boarding ramp and allowed for a few moments to stand in the ship’s light. The Pelekys’s double blade was framing Ayesha’s face like a halo, and he had no doubt that his massive stature next to her diminutive frame made for an incongruous sight, but it also sent a clear message to all that she had a protector who was not to be trifled with. He noticed that Sawdé was blinking at him, and as soon as she had his attention, she angled her chin to the left.

He followed her gaze to see that, alone among the crowd of grave, sombre faces, Paraseel Malki was smiling. He was, once again, fingering Hasayn Malki’s dagger absent-mindedly, and his yellow eyes were travelling from one spectator to the next, as if gauging their inner thoughts. The sense he projected was one of smug satisfaction, as if this particular outcome was one he had anticipated and knew would turn out to his advantage.

Fanees felt such loathing for the man that he could only spin on his heel and shut the boarding ramp before he gave in to the temptation of breaking this solemn moment with an undignified brawl. Clearly, more had transpired on this day than he could grasp, and he made a mental note to discuss the situation with Manôl-bek as soon as the state of his health would allow.

It was only as he helped Ayesha settle in the passenger seat and fastened her safety webbing that a happier thought crossed his mind. Taking down a frenzied bantha to protect his kin – and this with Clan Vos’s most valuable relic – certainly qualified as the act of valour that Sawdé’s subclan had been expecting of him. He allowed himself a small smile. Once Manôl-bek was fully recovered, Fanees would ask him to approach his counterpart among the Zakoro with a formal union request.

The End (until the next story )

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Fanon notes and Wookieepedia links

Spoiler

The words from the bingo board that appear in this chapter are: thaw, bees, butterfly, bunny, hay fever, migration, swallows, red & white yarn, kite, breeze and bonfire

Trying once again to untangle what I borrowed from @Mira_Jade and what is mine in terms of Kiffar fanon in this entry, here are a few notes.

The three dormant volcanoes described in this chapter (Aigaion, Idaea and Kaspros) were created by Mira. I elaborated on the geography of this continent by naming it Keftiu, after the ancient Egyptian name for Crete, and adding the White Mountains range, which I named quite transparently after the RL Lefka Ori. Furthermore, I also inserted another RL geographical aspect of Crete, which is that the northern part of the island is greener and more fertile, whereas the southern part is more arid. As mentioned in the notes for the previous chapter, bull-leaping was a popular sport in Minoan Crete. Another Cretan element I added here is the cinquepace, which I modelled after the Cretan dance pentozali, the Greek name meaning ‘five-steps’ in the Cretan dialect. You can see here a typical performance of this dance, where the ‘holder’ at the end of the line is a larger-bodied, sturdier man who can anchor and support the end dancer who performs acrobatics.

The specific description of the southlands of Keftiu, however, is not borrowed from RL Crete but from the lower Jordan Valley and Dead Sea region in Palestine, which is one of the most unusual landscapes you can hope to see on this Earth. The toponyms are all borrowed from RL toponyms of this region, notably: the Marjari shrine is named after the Monastery of Saint George of Choziba, known in Arabic as Mar Jaris; Yurdnan is the Syriac name for the Jordan River; Tabariya is the Arabic name of Lake Tiberias (the Sea of Galilee), Ghor is Arabic for ‘valley’; Ariha is the Arabic name of Jericho; Hamavet is borrowed from Hebrew Yām HaMāvet, ‘the sea of death’, for the Dead Sea, and Urdun is Arabic for Jordan (the river and the country).

Mira also came up with Clans Theos, Mlio and Hara, to which I have added Clan Malki. Paraseel Malki and his ancestor Hasayn are OCs. One aspect that distinguishes Clan Malki from other clans of the Kiffar in my fanon is that the clan structure is much more uniform and authoritarian; they all bear the exact same qukuuf (three vertical red lines on the forehead) and do not allow for the differentiation of subclans. Accordingly, their clan relic, Hasayn Malki’s dagger, is always carried by the sheyf, not by a custodian from the clan. To emphasise this militaristic aspect, I modelled this dagger after a Mycenaean artefact, the Lion Hunt Dagger that is kept in the National Archaeological Museum in Athens, as the Mycenaean civilisation was far more martial and bellicose than its more peaceful Minoan cousin. The dagger will be back in future stories of this thread.

The idea that the Kiffar are more resistant to electricity than baseline Humans was suggested by @Gamiel (see his fanon post here). It was Mira who baptised the electric storms between Kiffu and Kiffex the Mingling. To this I added the idea of using kites with mumbo-jumbo plasmacores to harvest the lightning, which I borrowed from the French comic Les trois soleils de Vinéa by Roger Leloup, where children harvest electricity from the wind.

Dune banthas as smaller, more docile relatives of common banthas are Legends creatures, while dust bunnies are a creation of Studio Ghibli that was introduced to the SW ‘verse in the adorable short animated film the studio created for Disney+. The hirundinids are my SW version of swallows; as usual, I went for a butchered version of the Latin name of the species, Hirundinidae.

Lastly, I added one more Ottoman title in this chapter: chawoosh, based on çavuş, which in Turkish means ‘messenger’ in a military setting; however, the Greek version of this word, τσαούσης, is understood to mean ‘sergeant’ – my idea here, which I will develop in future stories, is that Fanees is a non-commissioned officer of the Kiffu Guardians whereas Sawdé, who holds the title of aqa, is a higher-ranking commissioned officer.

 

Magnficent worldbuilding continues. I enjoyed meeting Fanees and seeing Ayesha and that indescribably smarmy Paraseel Malki through his eyes. Yes, Ayesha is talkative but as he points out, endearing and very poised in the uncertainty of such swift events.

 

Congrats on completing your magnificent story bringing to life the world of the Kiffar.