#especially since there's a jedi in legends named k'ung fu

[kyberled]

Send 👤 and I will write more about an NPC in my muse’s life || ACCEPTING

Anonymous asked:

👤x3

👤 The Bothan Jedi Master Lo-Han Kyun has taught more younglings than he’d care to count (and yes, that includes Braig). That’s his job within the Temple. It’s been his job for at least a generation or two of knights. Probably more. It’s hard to figure out where one generation ends and the next begins, sometimes. It doesn’t really matter to him, anyway. He’s proud of all of his little ones, even when they stop being his. 

He takes great pride in shaping the future knights of the Order. Those that have trained under him would often describe him as strict and demanding, but attentive, wise, and humorous, as well. He expected nothing less than the best, and drove his students to believe they could do better than even that. Nobody ever left his classes without being covered in sweat and anticipating aching muscles, but nobody left without feeling accomplished and having learned something, either. The children would often say there wasn’t a fighting style invented that he didn’t know. This wasn’t true, of course, but he appreciated the sentiment. 

When he was younger, he had been a field agent, himself. Going out into the world, saving the galaxy, all that. It was an enriching life, at the time. He learned a lot, and was able to hone his skills. Over time, however, he felt as though the Force called him elsewhere. It called him back home. 

Before the war, like many Jedi, he had had the time to travel and research and work on self-improvement. He put the techniques and fighting styles he learned into his lessons, which allowed him to ensure that his lessons were unique from those of his colleagues. Quips he’d heard in his youth and in his travels were often playfully hurled at his own students in turn. That is, until they were thrown onto the front lines. Then it was harder. “The more you sweat here, the less you bleed in battle” stopped being a joke. His classes thinned out less because he could send his students off to their graduation and because the war sent them off to their graves. As a Jedi, he did what he could to accept the loss and carry on, though none could deny that it changed him. He grew more strict in his lessons, though he tried to remain fair - he just didn’t want to go to any more funerals that came far too often for those far too young. He remained critical of the Senate until his eventual death, during Order 66. He’d been engaging in some private training to try and re-center himself in the Force. 

It wasn’t the clones who finally took him down. 

👤 Raal Tessk has a grudge. A big one. See, he lost his father. Lost him in the war. Like a lot of other people, sure. A lot of them. It’s a war. But that’s the thing. His father fought in the war, but he did more than that. His father commanded in the war. His father was a general. General Grau Tessk of the Separatist Army. That was his father. 

Raal was one of many Grau fathered, one of few he claimed. Grau said he had something special. Something brutal. Raal took that to heart. He was going to be the ebay of however many siblings he had. He would be their father’s heir. 

And then his father was killed. 

Killed before he could name an appropriate heir. 

And then it was chaos. 

The other children - claimed and not - fought for the right to come out on top. It was bloody, it was cruel, it was exactly what Raal thrived in. What his father had seen in him. Raal came out on top, and would boast about the scars it left behind for as long as anyone would listen, and often longer still. This one on his face was from his brother, Kraad, who he killed, and this bite scar on his arm was from his sister, Ssil, who he killed, and this one-- And so on and so forth. He’s pretty proud of it. But it wasn’t just a pride thing, nor was it just an inheritance thing. It was a revenge thing. He didn’t know the specifics, of course, but he knew a Jedi had killed his father. He also knew that the Empire was paying people to go after whatever Jedi remained, and offering the resources to do so. It seemed like a win-win. Every time he faced off against a potential Jedi, he would announce his name. Most of the time, there was no recognition. That really annoyed him. Even aside from looking for his father’s killer, come on, didn’t his reputation precede him? Apparently not. Whatever. Most of them weren’t real Jedi, anyway. And then he found someone who did react. Not a lot, but enough. Enough for him to know. 

They fought, of course. 

The Jedi got away.

More than that, the Jedi cut off his kriffing ARM. The one with the Ssil scar! ... But he’s still alive. 

And he’s angrier than he’s ever been. 

And the hunt is still on.

👤 Mkhkhur, son of Mchiitkh, had never seen a Jedi before. Most of the galaxy hadn’t, though, so he didn’t think it was a big deal. They were all off fighting the Separatists, anyway. He’d heard stories, sure, just like everyone else, but that’s more or less all they were. Just stories. That is, until they weren’t. 

The Empire came to his planet. They came for his father, his mother, his brother, and himself. They were traitors, apparently. His father, the Prime Minister of their planet, resisted a military occupation. Resisted the Empire. Apparently, that was punishable by death. It’s a night Mkhkhur would never forget. The Imperial soldiers closing in. His older brother, Iitschii, clinging to his arm. Their parents trying to shield them even as they all accepted the end. Closing his eyes and waiting for a pain that didn’t come. 

And then a voice. 

Out of nowhere, a voice to draw the soldiers’ attention. A figure standing above them all. And two brilliant purple blades. 

He couldn’t see any more than that, since it was dark, and as soon as they had a chance, his parents had scooped him and his brother up and bolted. He’d felt entranced, staring with all of his eyes wide over his mother’s shoulder at the blur of light and colour until he could see no more. He kept staring long after. That image would be burned in his young mind, and remained there for the rest of his life. It was the moment that made him not only a supporter of the Jedi, but a fan. He began to idolize these mystical warriors he knew almost nothing about. 

His family lived in hiding while his Imperial-supporting uncle took over the government. At least they were allowed to live. Mkhkhur passed the time stealing his father’s bath robes and picking up sets of sticks to play at being a Jedi (which his parents tried to put a stop to to prevent drawing attention). He’d tell his parents made-up stories about what he thought Jedi were, and wrote them down later. As far as he was concerned, all Jedi were very tall (something people who knew Braig would find funny, but perspective and age distort the mind quite a bit), they could teleport (how else would you explain the sudden appearance?), they all had two lightsabers, and lightsabers were always purple. He made up stories about their adventures, about what it must be like to be a Jedi… Given that the Empire wiped out any trace of the Jedi they could find, there wasn’t anyone around to correct him. His brother joined the Rebellion first, as a political supporter (following in their father’s footsteps). Mkhkhur followed close behind. He was a decent shot with a blaster, but thought he was a pretty good swordsman, too. No, he’d never had a formal teacher. He’d never been to lessons. But he’d been fascinated with swordplay ever since that day, and had won a couple fights, taken down a few storm troopers in his time, and that was enough. Besides, as much as he loved Jedi (or, his version of the Jedi) and his family, he hated the Empire. He’d take any chance to be a thorn in their side. 

He was accompanied by his translator droid, CU-1770. Not having humanoid vocal chords would have been a problem, otherwise. Mkhkhur was in awe of everything he came across.

Especially when he found the Jedi. Not that tall, can’t teleport - and yes, he was disappointed - but two sabers. Two PURPLE sabers. He, with CU-1770 trotting dutifully behind him, had ran up and grabbed onto one of Braig’s hands. (He’s lucky the Force let Braig know he wasn’t aggressive, or it could have gone badly.) 

After about ten seconds of silence - confused and slightly concerned on Braig’s part, completely star struck on Mkhkhur’s - Braig asked if he could help him. Mkhkhur replied that he already had. It would be a while before Mkhkhur was able to find the right words, but given a week or two, he was able to explain himself a bit better, and Braig was able to talk to him about the truth of the Jedi. 

While it wasn’t anything like the stories he’d made up, Mkhkhur decided Jedi were still pretty cool.