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“Uh, okay,” You answer, taken aback by the speed at which the conversation has escalated into the invitation. After a second of processing, your mind reverts back to his comment on your bandana, and the need to justify yourself rises. “And the reason I wear the bandana is because the Sith carved his name on my face. I won’t perpetuate his legacy or memory.”
Denon simply shrugs at your reply, less curious about your scars at this point, finding himself far more interested in whatever he plans to show you, “Mh hmm, I hear what you are saying. But in my mind, you are giving him power; you are hiding your face due to his actions, you know? I would personally deny him that. Are the scars in galactic basic?”
Not liking his words, you reply with defensive, clipped sentences, “I disagree. And no, it is in the ancient Sith language.”
“Well, no one would even know the scars are a name or even letters, and the few that would across this galaxy of trillions either would be your sympathetic brothers in arms or people you’d want to stick your Lightsabers through. Eh, sorry, it isn’t my business. Anyway, let me take you to my ship.” He says, nodding you in the direction of the front entrance of the temple with both doors propped wide open and begins to walk. “Was your Master not there to stop the Sith?”
“Yes, he was there, but the ghost got the better of us both.” You suppress a snort at the idea that Master Porro could defend anything from the Sith Lord Merek; his skill with a Lightsaber was far from impressive coming from one who is titled Master.
The pair of you make small talk about inconsequential things as you walk across the soft sand, the rays of heat from the stars tickling your exposed extremities due to your very un-Jedi-like shirt and shorts. Soon, you reach the nearby landing strip, a sliver of flat, worn stone juts an inch from its bed of sand. Scuff marks born from years of landing gear scraping black stone cover the pad. The number of ships that rest silently on the rock heated by the stars is sparse; all are relatively small. This is not the landing dock of the Jedi Temple on Coruscant or the industrial one on Thule; the largest vessel is a modestly sized freighter; it is an elegant ship in the shape of a sleek naval vessel; it is a pure, unblemished white with decorative gold edging the grows into a face of a roaring predator at the rear of the craft. The most common ships are personal starfighters, only able to fit a singular being, with a half dozen batter and worn freighters for larger groups to travel in and, of course, Porro’s Anhinga.