THEIR COMPASSION LEAVES A TRAIL.

He takes one step, then another, as he releases the discomfort -the exhaustion, the pain- into the Force, then takes another step. One after the other, hunching over only when the wind and the sand are too strong to let him stand up straight.

He doesn't know where he's going. He doesn't even know where he is, as matters stand, but he trusts the Force.

He has nothing else but the Force, his Jedi attire and his Lightsaber, and a vague direction to follow. It is not even certainty that he's on the right path, but he's somewhat certain it's not the wrong path to take, and so he'll settle for that. That, and the way he thinks he'd seen a building as the ship crashed.

He almost thinks it's a mirage, at first. A building, and after an eternity -hours, merely hours- in the desert, someone. A lifeform. Or perhaps many, in the distance. But he's certain enough of the building, even here and now.

It has taken Ben years to stop seeing phantoms in the dunes; it is only through nigh-constant meditation that he has banished them enough to trust that the visitor he sees across the desert is real. Sporting a death wish, most likely, but real.

He has rescued the odd lost traveler or two in the past and fretted about it for nights - what they knew, what danger they posed to Luke, who they would tell about the old hermit in the Wastes. He could weigh the cost of one additional loose end, but it seems he need not bother: the distant figure grows less distant as Ben observes them from the small dust-stained window of his hut.

It feels as though all his days here eventually come to this. To the tumultuous inner conflict of rationality - of safety, of his duty - and, standing against it, empathy. The most worthwhile calling a Jedi can pursue, or so he was taught.

"Very well," he sighs to the empty hut, as though the Force cares whether he acquiesces to it. What's one more trip to Anchorhead? After all, the approaching visitor is hardly in any shape to keep traveling without a lift - that much Ben can tell as he braces against the doorway and lifts his hand, shielding his wary gaze from the sunlight that glints off the stranger's lightsaber.

It means nothing. Likely it is in the hands of a would-be Inquisitor. Or a vulture, a bounty hunter, collecting whatever it takes to turn a profit. He's not sure which notion unsettles him more, but he does know no Jedi would have lasted so long walking around in a display such as this. But if they knew who he was, if they were truly hunting him, surely they would not have come alone. Not in broad daylight.

@whatmust ʟɪᴋᴇᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛᴇʀ ᴄᴀʟʟ !

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

He is… not drunk… but on his way. Life felt a little easier, a little lighter, with something to ease nerves, or really just numb the nervous system in general. With a half-finished drink in hand, Casimir leans against the cantina's bar and turns to the man beside him. Although he looks him over, he wasn’t actually sizing him up.

“What are you drinking?” he asks when his gaze lingers on the man’s drink.

“Is it any good?”

He realizes belatedly, once he's gathered that it's him who is being addressed, that he has no idea what exactly that something may be.

"Hm? Oh. Yes, it's, ah..."

He lifts the glass to the light and squints, giving it a cursory examination.

"...Green." The look he gives the man beside him is apologetic. "But serviceable. I'm afraid these days I don't use much discretion when ordering." There is no polite way to say that you would be hard-pressed to find anything particularly drinkable so far out here, not without getting tossed out by the bartender. Ben is not in the mood to make more enemies than he already has at this particular bar.

" i have, " he pushes then, not for argument's sake, but rather distraction's. even in the cold, lacking proper gear, the telltale signs of frostbite have failed to settle in. a slight armor, carved in the force like sediment layers to a river, seems to take its place.

its stability shifts for a brief moment as qui-gon, behind the tree, calls upon the force to sense his master's signature ; the tactic is dropped nearly as soon as it is attempted.

he doesn't reply to obi-wan's observation, engaged in said distraction to try and lure the other out from the vastness of the snow.

" i studied all species documented, from flora to fauna, " though with the creak of a branch, his voice echoes from higher up, " i'd enjoy informing you about all the icebeetle's unique features, if you prefer. "

Now that, he does believe.

Obi-Wan lifts his gaze as his target moves upwards amongst the tree's branches, scanning each snowoak around the clearing in turn. "Hm. I would prefer to hear about the icebeetles. I thought insects to be rather rare in climates such as this."

With a lift of his hand, he nudges outwards in the Force, snapping a twig that lies amidst the snow some distance away, if only to buy him a moment longer of scanning for - ah, there. Though Qui-Gon may have a more sheltered vantage point from up on high, surrounded by the arms of the tree, he stands out starkly in contrast to his surroundings. Obi-Wan emerges from over his wall of snow to fling an armful of snowballs his way. Most explode into powder against the trunk; only one finds its mark.

he's already making distance between himself and obi-wan when the snowball lands. although he stands a good while away now, there's a definitive grin on his face, crooked and awkward in such a way that'd imply smiling, like most things, needs practice. having expected obi-wan to retaliate, his arm raises similarly and tries to stop the incoming wave of slush targeted in his direction - and although some of it is stopped, most of it isn't, staining his uniform in wet patches nearly immediately.

" i'm afraid i've forgotten mine at the temple, " an untruth - his gloves are in one of his bags, he's sure - but he's hoping conversation will distract obi-wan for just long enough he can plan out the next course of action. " along with most of my gear. you can check for yourself, if you prefer! "

gaze darting around wildly, it locks on a tree's trunk wide enough to pose as a valuable shield. quickly, he sprints behind it, sticks his hands in the snowy ground. as they raise and shape the snow into a ball, he peeks from behind the trunk, hoping to spot his master across the icy vastness. were he not utilising the force to block out the cold, he could easily sense the other's signature .. but just looking will have to do.

"No, you haven't," a fact Obi-Wan knows because he made a point to ask him at least twice whether they were packed. Qui-Gon will inconveniently forget to don his armor before sprinting off into a battlefield - Obi-Wan can't be blamed for being overly cautious.

As he speaks, he ducks down to roughly lump snow into a serviceable enough wall, crouching behind the barrier to vanish into the snow as he continues to pack snowballs. "And you're trying to distract me. You assume I don't know your tactics," though Master Qui-Gon hadn't ever tended to be as frivolous as this on missions. In other ways, certainly, but never like this - and when Obi-Wan had been younger, he'd been too unsure of how to read his Master to even venture whether this sort of thing would have been indulged.

When next he lifts his head, Qui-Gon has vanished, but Obi-Wan had last seen him making for the treeline. Even his goggles cannot fully protect him from the brightness of the snow, and he squints warily over the top of his shelter as the padawan's voice carries across the field between them.

"I'm sure more people would be if you lead with that more often, blueberry, instead of your sci-fi LARPing info. Now!" He claps once, then sliding the holodeck towards the stranger, and in its place, resting a forearm along the table. "I'll be honest - never seen these wittle blokes in my lifetime. But I miiight have something you can use to get us started."

Obi-Wan merely arches a brow in response to that, but he's preemptively decided against attempting to master the slang of this planet. He'd rather he didn't have to negotiate a reward before even finding a lead, but the other is right in one regard - he's not making any progress with the people here otherwise.

"Do you?" Though the look Obi-Wan gives him is sharp, his tone remains dubious. He's starting to get an idea of the level of technology here, and it leaves him doubtful that whatever the stranger has to offer will be any more useful than the scanners on their ship. Still, it's a place to start, and it's clear that they've both arrived at the same conclusion when Obi-Wan's next words are interrupted.

@whatmust sent ; ❝ you’re gonna get us both in trouble. ❞ during the exile era.

from some starter i dont remember anymore.

HIS LIPS PURSE, LOOKING BETWEEN THE HAND OBI-WAN EXTENDED TO HOLD HIM BACK AND THE SCENE PLAYING OUT A SHORT DISTANCE AWAY. Above the ambient noise of Tatooine, a frantic voice pleading in Huttese can be heard - one of a slave begging to their master for what may be their life. The population moves around the scene, maybe stopping for an occasional glance, but otherwise paying it little mind - it's a common occurrence on planet. He understands that all too well.

He looks back at him, a deep seeded pain twisting in his gut and reflecting through his eyes.

His need for justice, immediate and decisive, burns brighter than any reasoning Obi-Wan could level at him: the man has broken no laws, and to act would put them - put Luke - in danger. This is not unfamiliar to Obi-Wan, who finds he again and again must stand opposed to what Anakin knows to be fair.