#shared characters

But right now, he’s more than a little flummoxed. 

He’s getting looks.  He’s been getting looks ever since he came back from his horse ride!  Is it the cape?  Is it too flashy?  Are his pointed ears and blond hair showing...?  It’s been a few hours since he got home, and so many people have looked at him!  He hopes not. 

The nearest mirror is found and he pauses to examine himself.

No...no.  He’s fine!  Rounded ears, dark hair, different colored eyes...all of that’s the same.  His cape is not too flashy at all, and it quite compliments the little girl with bluish hair who’s perched on his shoulders..! 

...

Anyone walking by the hallway at that moment would’ve heard a rather un-manly, un-powerful, positively un-sorcerer-esque shriek coming from a sitting room. 

Ulu jumps back, and the girl tumbles backward, using his cape to roll down his back and onto the floor by his feet. 

“Again!” she laughs, clapping her hands.  Her eyes are all squinted with joviality.

“How loNG-?!” 

Ulu’s voice shoots up an octave.  He stops and coughs, tugging at the collar of his cape. 

“-...How long were you there?  Who are you?  How’d you get there?”  He hadn’t felt her weight!  Were people staring at her this whole time?

The little girl chooses to answer the second question along, rocking back and kicking out her bare feet as she blinks up at him.

“I’m Glenn!  Your cape’s really pretty.  It’s sparkly!”

Ululate looks down at her, blinking for a long moment.

“...Thanks.”

He leans down and gives her a gentle push.  Probably some servant’s kid or something..or worst case scenario, someone who ran away from the village.  And climbed his horse.  And rode on his shoulders this whole time. 

“How about you go find your Mommy or Daddy, okay?  I’ve got things to do.”  With that, Ululate nods to himself and turns around, stepping into the hallway. 

He’s met by a round, smiling face of a girl who must be about six or seven.  She’s staring up at him with large, purplish eyes. 

“Are all your clothes so sparkly?” she asks him earnestly. 

Ululate blinks again. 

He looks over his shoulder. 

“..Can I come with you? Please?”

Ululate rubs his eyes.  Hadn’t the girl..?  But-...then-..

He sighs out, suddenly feeling far too tired to face whatever else this day was intending to hurl in his direction.  Instead, he stretches out a hand, allowing this odd little girl to tuck her tiny fingers around his own.

“You’re Glenn, right?” he asks as they begin walking.  “I’m Ululate.  You can call me Ulu.”

“That’s a pretty name!”

“Thanks. I like it, myself.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There were padawans of various ages, as well as species, but the eldest stood a good few inches taller than most, and certainly was the eldest by at least a year, if not more.  That’s what happened when your species happened to be Firrerreo, though.  Short Firrerreos weren’t the norm. 

He was dressed in rather simple robes..or...simple compared to those trappings he had worn in the past.  Make that about a thousand or so years ago, give or take.  This Firrerreo was, by and large, the oldest of all these padawans, certainly, if not the tallest. 

Some of the younger padawans had drifted over to his corner of the room, abandoning their own exercises to watch this padawan, Harmonolith, progress through a few saber moves.  His Mistress had taught him much of what he knew, though being stuck in a Force Rift had made it impossible to practice. 

He still remembered her body, still, motionless, her almost surprised expression, and the flickering red blade of the Sith who had felled her. 

And there was nothing Harmonolith could’ve done.  He’d been stuck- stuck! - in a Rift of his own making, trapped for...years!  Only to be grabbed by a small padawan and pulled into this new Temple, with new Jedi.  His own life, like his old robes and Mistress, were long dead and gone. 

This fierce energy, this hidden rupture of feeling, coursed through the saber in his hands.  His robes swished to-and-fro as his feet danced along the tile.  Dead..dead...dead!

Dead and gone!

He didn’t know these padawans, the ones who watched him with silent wonder.  He didn’t know this Temple, though he’d wandered it for years, drifting through it like a ghost, unable to do more than watch the world move on around him. 

Every slash of his saber pulsed with a fresh outpouring of silent grief and frustration.  He could never go back..he can’t ever go back...!

His saber slices through one of the droids, ending its short-lived existence with a fizz and electronic shriek. 

“You aren’t allowed to kill them,” a padawan piped up in the silence that followed.  Harmonolith sheathed his saber, glancing toward the padawan.

“..I know,” he sighed heavily, running a hand down his face.  Wonderful.  Something else to tell his superiors about.  Not that they didn’t talk to him enough anyway, prodding him for the odd detail about his past life, or about these past centuries!  They’d all blended together, memories lumping into memories, everything springing up new and then growing old and withering and dying and starting all over in an endless cycle. 

One day all of these padawans would die. 

His one friend here, his one, true friend, Raelyn, would also die.  Raelyn, who had pulled him to freedom.  Raelyn, who was so bubbly and curious and wanted to grow up to be some mishmash of Jedi Knight and budding scientist...

Harmon dragged his feet out of the training room, saber swinging lightly against his belt.  

What would his Mistress want of him?  To turn these people aside?  To turn off his heart, allowing himself to become cold and unattached to the offers of belonging and friendship, here?  

He wasn’t sure. 

He really just..wanted to go home. 

“Would you forgive me, Mistress,” he mumbled softly, rubbing at his golden eyes as he walked, “if this was a home to me?  Would you forgive me for making a new home, here?”

The air rang with a deafening silence.  No consoling thought or word sounded in the quiet that blanketed the grand Temple hallway. 

Like all other things, his Mistress had faded to a terrible silence.  

And if everything only ever came to silence, then what was the point in even asking? 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

King of Cowardice!  Selfish Prince!  

Those were the titles murmured amongst the minority in the kingdom.  These were the dark rumors that clawed their way through the city streets and seeped through the cracks in the palace walls.  These were dark words, poisoning the minds of those who thought only of their year of personal pain and suffering.  How quick were they to judge young Safar, a prince who for a year had no home, no family, no comfort of familiar things! 

Dark words and pain could fuel anyone to do anything.  It could manifest in many ways.  A few sly movements, perhaps.  A head that willingly turns away.  A few drops in a glass that’s to be set before the King’s plate at one of his first public dinners, even. 

Ah, but here he is now, following quickly after the maid with wobbling steps.  Even after a day or two, the flat, still earth quakes and rolls under his feet.  He has the legs of a sailor, the pointed ears of an elf, the softer, rounder eyes of a human.  Whether the human in him came from his mother or father, he didn’t know and didn’t wish to find out.  

He is Alabaster, and there isn’t much more than that worth knowing.  He’s a pirate, a scoundrel, a flirt, and definitely not best friends of a merman who, for some outlandish reason, has been hugging land life as hard as a serpent constricting a deer! 

“Your Majesties,” the maid chirps with a small curtsy, “I present Alabaster!” 

That must be his cue to go in, he supposes, and so he makes the entrance only a pirate could, with strutting steps, flinging out the ends of his worn coat, with its polished buttons of copper.  His boots *clack, clack* on the polished tile, the earrings and chains around his neck and rings on his fingers glint in the lamplight and throw sparkles on his silverware as he takes a seat beside the Mountain Elf.

The King, Nikolaj being his name, stares at him before looking at his wife.  He looks around the table with a vague sense of curiosity.  Everyone else is still standing..though Nikolaj pulls out his chair and takes a seat, followed by the elf and the queen.  Not that Alabaster has really noticed the awkward stares; he’s too focused on other matters, like the steaming breakfast cakes and chilled pastries topped with whipped cream and berries. 

“So,” he drawls at last, reaching for a tiny glass cup.  It’s filled with hot coffee, and it smells absolutely divine!  No offense to the cook on the ship, but he’s never had a coffee smell this good.  He could live on just this drink!

Ah..right.  He was talking!

“..How’s Fishy doin’ these days?” 

Not that he cares, of course! 

He’s not getting an answer, so Alabaster glances around the table, at the advisor, at the king, the queen, and the elf.  Maybe ‘Fishy’ isn’t the best title, then. 

“Adrian, I mean?  How’s Adrian doin’?” He follows the question with a slurp of coffee, realizing a second later that the hot, bitter taste is not what he was expecting after getting that amazing smell. What follows is the cup being slammed on the table, splashing dark liquid onto the tablecloth, and the utterance of a singular expletive that makes the queen choke on her bite of pastry and the king to go beet red. 

“If you could,” the advisor says abruptly, so abruptly that the crow on his shoulder almost falls off, “please watch your language in the presence of Queen Shara and King-”

“King Nik, I know.” Alabaster waves a hand, growling quietly at the patch of coffee that’s stained his coat. Now he’ll have to wash it!  Bother it all.  He reaches for a scone and takes a big bite, munching loudly while the other four scrape their silverware and look at each other. 

“As for my tongue..I’ll have to apologize to the queen most heartily.” The elf nods toward her, smiling a bit after swallowing. “You’ll see in time that I’m master of sweet words, just as much as the vulgar ones.”

The Mountain elf’s ear twitches and he takes a tiny bite of his food while looking at Alabaster.  For his part, Alabaster chooses to ignore the icy stare in favor of picking some loose food out of his teeth with his dagger. 

Queen Shara glances at her husband. 

Why did we allow him to stay, again?

Nik can only shrug his shoulders, watching with a hapless resignation while Alabaster throws his feet up onto the table.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“What was I thinking?” the young priest grumbled, not for the first time that week. 

His glasses..slipping off his face..he trips, nearly, managing to catch himself before he faceplanted on the slimy patch of concrete underneath his feet.  It was usually a more presentable part of town.  However, the villain of the night happened to be some deranged scientist-person who couldn’t aim to save their life. 

And there was Father Bartholomew in the middle of it all, dressed in his masked costume and ready to assist anyone caught in the fray.  And, as usual happened, he was the only one caught, tonight. 

Father Barry rolled up his sleeve, checking where the dart had stuck into his arm.  He really hadn’t tried to get shot!  He really hadn’t!  Hopefully he could get that across to Sister Mary before she bit off his head..

....it’s swelling. 

Nice.

When Sister Mary saw this, he was a dead man. 

“It would be nice if I could give myself Last Rights,” he muttered to no one, wrapping a bit of the cape around his shoulders.

Fortunately, the walk from his current location to the rectory and little Church where he served the people of this city wasn’t far.  Unfortunately, about halfway back, his legs and lower back began to throb painfully.  His legs were like jelly, and, though one moment he held himself up easily, the next he was stumbling and flailing for some hold.  His palm brushed the wall of a nearby building, and he leaned heavily against it. 

Was he dying?

...The only thing that had happened tonight was that skirmish..so..

The dart.

He grabbed his sleeve, still propped up against the building, and peered at the swollen patch of skin.  The prick made by the dart itself was hardly noticeable anymore, but the skin around it had altered in color, becoming paler (though that could be the poor night lighting).  It felt rougher, too..though he wasn’t sure if that was just the more paranoid part of his mind trying to find something wrong. 

“..Church,” he mumbled, staggering from the wall and coming to rest by a fountain.  It was a largely unimpressive structure, more of a circular stone basin with a stone tower rising out of its middle.  The tower was decorated with little scrolls and flowers, well worn from being exposed to water, wind, and sunlight for a few decades.  Water bubbled from the top of the tower (shaped like an enormous bird with its head pointed up at the sky), spurting several inches into the air before spattering into the basin. 

Fr. Barry took a seat on the rim of the fountain, clearing his throat and tugging off the cape.  In addition to his shaking legs, the air had turned dry and he couldn’t force it down his throat.

Didn’t he have a phone?  Sister Mary told him to have it, just in case...

..he fumbled weakly for it, trying to fight through a hazy fog that made the dusky street and chirping crickets and rustling leaves and spluttering water all melt together.  Sights and sounds piled into an indistinguishable pile of sensations that he couldn’t define.  Then silence slowly swallowed his world, and Father Barry couldn’t even be sure of when he gave into darkness; a darkness deeper than the nighttime itself.

That being said, death by drowning was far easier to stop than..say...most other forms of demise.  It wasn’t like finding a cure for poison, or plugging a stab wound, or having to amputate a limb to save someone from gangrene.  Nope!  All you had to do was...stop the person from drowning.  Get some good old oxygen back into their systems rather than great mouthfuls of cold, and sometimes salty, frothy water. 

What it came down to, then, was how to get the person breathing air again.

Oh...there were a great many possibilities!

Obvious selection was to..well..just pull the flailing pilot out of the water and plop him on the shore with a wave of her fingertips.  But that was boring!  That was blah and so human!  Absolutely no thrill in that option, whatsoever!  And why ever would a species as high and powerful as herself - a Q, no less! - stoop such a mundane rescue?

No, thank you!  

She brushes a hand absently through her frizzled curls, watching the current rush about.  A few members of the landing team were crowded on the bit of shoreline where K’Aelir had slipped, the soft ground giving way to his weight and sweeping him into the river.  They were waiting with baited breath, watching his hands and head bob above the current.  They were waiting for her, though they didn’t know it.  Waiting for her miraculous, last-minute save that had filled their daily lives with confusion and chaos.

She’s working on it!  Sheesh.  Give a Q a break!  They didn’t even know that she existed!

She could see K’Aelir’s dark hair bobbing underwater again.  He really wasn’t handling these strong waves well at all, was he?  Poor Orion..too bad he wasn’t some water-dwelling species.  This would make it so much easier.

Q floats about the riverbed, unseen by the frantic ground team.  She could..maybe a boat could appear in the middle of the river!  Or a raft...but he might not be able to grab on.  She could make the entire river dry up, certainly.  But that seemed like a lot of trouble all to save one drowning Orion. 

Really, there were so many options, and all of them were downright -

-...wait.

Back up twelve steps.

Back up.

Water-dwelling.

Water...dwelling..?

Oh.

Oh!  Yes!  She could work with that! 

Q rubbed her hands together, shooting off toward where K’Aelir had last been seen.  Most Q’s could simply vanish and appear where they wished..but she preferred this less-orthodox version of travel.  It made her feel more like a superhero, to boot.  And besides, she could remain perfectly unseen if she wished.  No one to gawk at her or interfere with her grand plan to save this poor pilot. 

Ah...he was approaching a bend in the river, a tiny drop where a waterfall poured into a connected, flowing reservoir with no small amount of force.  K’Aelir would go over its side and be pummeled by a strong rush of pounding water.  That would certainly suck away his last bit of strength!  He would be pushed down..down...until he gave way to that velvety blackness of unconscious and, quite soon after that, death itself. 

She rubbed her hands together, bringing her right hand up in a slicing formation, thumb and middle finger pressed together. 

A simple rearrangement of biological functions was all it was.  The addition of some gills, tiny slits in the neck..it was child’s play, really!  She made the simple gesture, waving her hand out and to the side, channeling her inter-dimensional abilities (some would call it “magic”) through the body of the pilot.  

Water-dwelling Orion.

What a delicious notion!

An odd fix, perhaps..an impossible one, certainly!

Ah..but he could learn to appreciate it, she’s sure. 

After all, it would save him from drowning, and that should be a win in anyone’s book!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

K’Aelir the Drowning Orion belongs to @supesofherown

And..well...I know we’ve never done this before...but if @supesofherown..wanted to add on?  Maybe a part two from another perspective..? 

It’s Safar who stirs first, rolling onto his side and blinking his eyes open slowly.  One hand is wrapped around a smaller, slimmer figure; an elf girl, not much more than a child in appearance, with tough skin and long, silvery-black hair that tickles his chin and nose when he tries to sleep.  She’s curled in his arms, smiling a little as she dreams. 

Safar watches her a moment, blinking and yawning and bringing his free hand up to his cheek.  He scratches the stubble there, fingering his once-smooth skin with a moment of thoughtful silence.  Then he pokes the elf, pushing himself into a sitting position. 

She grunts, shifting and pulling herself to sit up, stretching and opening her eyes.  They’re wide, sunken, a light, light blue, almost white.  They stare at the landscape without seeing it; she’s an elf from the depths of mountain crags, and had been born without sight. 

Safar stretches himself out, rubbing one eye and combing through his tangled hair, trying to rid it of the brambles and leaves it had accumulated the night before.  The elf chirps, wriggling up against him, running her fingers up and down his scraggled cheeks with a happy crooning. 

“Mhm,” he mumbles with another yawn.  “‘M here.  Mornin’.”

She trills in response, untucking herself and standing.  She’s noticed that Safar walks about upright, and so has been doing the same.  Less and less has she been crouching and slinking along, as she did to get over and around rocks in the dark caverns she had once called her home.  She, too, begins combing through her own hair with her fingers, and Safar smiles at the sight. 

He stands, leaning against the tree for support as he stretches his tired muscles.  His body is still adjusting to beds made out of Earth, with the sky and tree limbs for ceilings.  It is rather nice, he will admit, to roll onto his back and see all the stars in the great dome overhead.  It’s..beautiful, and he cherishes every little bit of beauty that he can find, these days. 

He certainly isn’t beautiful anymore, he muses as he glances down at himself.  He can hardly recognize the clothes he’s wearing, mussed and torn and dirty as they are.  He’ll need a change, soon enough!  They’re a far cry from the royal robes he had worn the day he had been exiled from his kingdom, sent out by that tyrant, Renan.  And now his hair has grown longer, shaggier, to match his disheveled outfit.  A beard, too, is joining his new fashion trend.

If Hafsa saw him now, what would she think?  Would she “tsk” her husband’s fashion statement?  Or would she hold him all the same, pressed close to him, not minding the stubble or the stench..?

“Safar?” 

His thoughts are interrupted by the voice of his partner, who is tugging on the hem of his shirt.  He’s been teaching her a few words, and his name was the first that she seemed to understand.  The elf even called herself “Safar”, sometimes!  She’ll need a name.

“I know,” he murmurs with a soft chuckle, patting her hands.  They’re cold and thin and rough, much rougher than his own. 

“Breakfast, right?  No servants carrying in plates for us out here, hm?”

She doesn’t quite understand all his words, but she certainly knows what “breakfast” means!  She bounces around him, pausing to chirp happily or grab his hand again.  

“Safar!  Safar!  Safar!” she cries.  He grins, swinging her hand in his. 

“I’m happy to see you, too.”

Now, breakfast.

Later...she’ll need a name.  A name all her own.  

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