#lasat fanon

[heyclickadee]

Okay but (Ahsoka spoilers under the cut):

I LOVE the clarification that the force sensitive/not force sensitive dichotomy we tend to imagine in fanon is just not how it works. The Force binds the galaxy together, it’s present in everything. Luminous beings, and all that. It’s like the magic in Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell; it exists, and almost anyone can learn to manipulate it, but some people have more of an aptitude than others and most people aren’t going to learn how. Heck, it’s like making visual art or music in the real world. Most anyone can learn to create art of some kind, but it’s a lot of hard work, some people have more of a natural aptitude than others, and I imagine that in the Star Wars universe you have a lot of people assuming that they can’t use the force ever because they weren’t floating rocks at the age of five, the same way a lot of people assume that they can’t ever draw because they currently don’t know how. But then you’ll also have people, like Sabine, or like a friend of my sister’s (who had negative artistic talent starting out but eventually landed a job as a board artist at Laika), who are stubborn and throw themselves into it anyway.

And I love how this tracks with there being other force traditions in the galaxy that weren’t as focused on just training those who had an obvious aptitude for the force at a young age, and how it’s a bit of a rejection of the Sith tendency to always be trying to recruit candidates with a lot of raw power. AND it makes even more sense of why Palpatine went out of his way to wipe out cultures that had other force traditions (you know, besides the whole hatred thing he had going on). Like the Lasat; Lasan had a force tradition well outside that of the Jedi, and Zeb was 100% using the force in a traditional Lasat way to navigate the ghost through that star cluster in Rebels even though that show never gave us any other indication that he was force sensitive, and now it makes sense why. Or Baze, Chirrut, and the Guardians of the Whills. Or the Nightsisters. It always kind of struck me as odd that basically every Dathomirin woman we met was apparently force sensitive, but no—at this point, I think it was just that they had a tradition of teaching all the girls from a young age, regardless of talent. And all of them were wiped out, kids who showed any obvious talent for the force were rounded up, because Palpatine wanted to consolidate his power and make everyone else too afraid to use it, or to believe it was impossible for them to do so.

Also, force sensitive clones FORCE sensitive CLONESforcesensitiveclonesforcesensitiveCLONES Clones establishing their own force tradition outside the Jedi pllleeeaaassssseeee I need it

[martianbugsbunny]

Bout to make myself look like a real doofus, but when I first got into other people’s Kalluzeb content, I was clueless to the fact that Sasha is a nickname for Alexsandr, so I assumed it was a fanon Lasat word for ‘dear’ or ‘darling’ or something along those lines. I’m pretty sure I didn’t realize I was wrong until I looked on Wookiepedia to see if it was maybe a canon/canon-inspired word, and there was zip on the Lasat language. Then it occurred to me it was probably a nickname so I googled “Is Sasha a nickname for Alexsandr?” and I finally understood.

Anyway, can we come up with a fanon word in Lasat for ‘darling’ or ‘dear’? Because fics that use Mando’a have really spoiled me, there are so many cute pet names and ways of referring to your various people, and I need words like that in Lasat.

(Also, writers who have Zeb call him Sasha, ILY, I will lie down in the street so you don’t have to walk through puddles and ruin your shoes/the hems of your pants if you’re short, I want to give you all of my high-fives and hugs if you don’t mind, it’s literally the cutest softest nickname for him e v e r and it melts me)

[creativealmonds]

What if….the clones weren’t human?

So I saw this fic awhile ago and can’t find it so I’m doing this instead.

In the fandom there’s this headcanon/fanon idea that the clones are just slightly different. Not in a way that is noticeable to natborns but in subtle ways. Like, most clones are around 6ft~ or 1.8m~ with 2 inches or 5 cm in either direction. So you’ve got clones that are “little brothers” because they’re like 5’10 when all their batchmates and squad mates are 6ft or over.

I love, think it’s really cool. I also like the idea that some clones were genetically altered for specific tasks. Like scouts with cat like eye sight, Kit Fisto’s troops having bigger lungs and are generally more dense weight wise. Command batches just being a CT+, ie taller, stronger, more durable, faster.

That’s cool but the Star Wars galaxy is FILLED with so many different species. There had to be more bounty hunters that met the requirements. A togruta is a better hunter than a human any day, nautolan or mon calimari would be better as a SCUBA division. Trandoshans or lasats are known for being excellent warriors and hunters.

There’s just so much room for potential. There could be human Jango clones but also togruta, nautolan, twi-lek, wookiee, lasats and just about any species you can find in the wiki or make up. The sky’s the limit!

And think of the angst. We all known most of the Jedi saw the clones as people and we see that a majority of the galaxy is made up of human and human adjacent beings. How would togruta Jedi take seeing little togruta children and not having the culture they had. Just. The possibilities!

[valkeakuulas]

002 and Agent Kallus

Oohhh, Kallus you say? :3

How I feel about this character: Kallus' story within the Rebels was an interesting to watch. At first he seemed like your regular enemy of the week but then they gave him more depth and wow! I found myself liking him quite a lot. All the people I ship romantically with this character: ... Can there be anyone else besides Zeb? My non-romantic OTP for this character: I kinda the fanon idea where Kallus spends time with Cassian Andor after he has defected to the Rebels. My unpopular opinion about this character: I don't really have one. One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon: I would've loved to see more scenes involving Kallus' work with the Rebellion once he was part of it. My OTP: Kalluzeb all the way! My cross over ship: Don'y really have one. A headcanon fact: Kallus let his beard/muttonchops and hair grow wilder to make him more alluring by Lasat beauty standards.

[findswoman]

Sparks

Chapter 5 (Epilogue)

Two seasons later

The lightning torches at the front and back of the room were lit. Festoons of white seerflowers adorned the walls and arches, tinged jewel-like colors by the light from the windows. At the front of the sanctum—which faced southward, toward the noonday sun—sat the eight Revered Masters in an arc, their Ashla staves and chalking sticks beside them; a small pile of embroidered cushions sat at the center of their arc. The other shamans sat facing them on the east side of room. Across from them, in the sanctum’s western half, sat a varied group of townspeople, young and old, including several miners in the attire of their trade. A few toward the front of the room wore foremen’s patches; beside one of these, a tall, stern-faced male with lilac fur, were two adolescent males of a similar color who were also clad in miners’ attire. An adolescent girl-kit with purple-blue fur carried a basket of seerflower blooms to the front of the room and scattered them around and over the cushions, then took her own place along the guests on the western side.

At this point the High Shaman of the Consistory—Chava Merkavitou Behanrrocha, known as Chava the Wise—rose from her seat. Golden sparks flew upward as she struck her staff with an echoing clack on the stone floor. At this signal the seven other Revered Masters rose also, as did the assembled guests, and Chava spoke in a clear voice:

“Let the postulant be brought in.”

All eyes in the room now turned to the four figures that stood and came forward. A bespectacled adult female in a colorful dress, an older female with long silvery hair, and a very elderly female walking with a cane escorted a pretty girl-kit in a simple white dress. The girl had purple-black hair that was done up in twists at the sides but flowed long down her back, and hints of wine-colored stripes were just beginning to be visible on her lithe lilac arms. As they approached the Masters at the front of the room, the girl knelt on the cushions with head bowed, the three others standing behind her. Then Chava addressed the assembly with hand upraised.

“Honor, greeting, and brightness to all who have come.”

“To you honor, greeting, and brightness,” came the response—mainly from the shamans’ side of the room, though a few on the other side joined in tentatively.

Chava gestured to them to be seated, and continued. “Finding the spark of the Ashla in the heart of youth is like finding a precious gem in a cave, or the growing season’s first bloom in the valley, or the first star in the nighttime sky. We have among us a new gem, a new flower, a new star.” With these words she gestured to the girl kneeling on the cushions, who inclined her head deeper. “Let us rejoice to welcome her, just as that cave or that valley or that sky rejoices.”

Next she addressed the three women who had brought the girl in. “You, her foremothers, the ones through whom the sacred spark has come down to her: do you give permission for these sacred rites to be performed?”

“We do,” came the reply from all three.

Chava and the shamans on either side of her—one tall and graceful, the other large and stout—inclined their heads and saluted hand over fist, a gesture the three foremothers returned. The tall, graceful shaman handed them her chalking stick, and each of them used it to trace a monogram glyph on the floor beside the cushions before taking their places in the front row of the assembly.

“And now,” Chava announced, “let our light rise to greet this new light.”

At this, she nodded to Shaman Jenthai, who took up her chalking stick. With it she drew an elaborate pattern of flamelike or wavelike shapes on the floor, encircling the cushions where the long-haired girl knelt and the flowers strewn around them. Two of the shamans seated on the east side of the room joined her with their own chalking sticks, and the three of them began tracing long lines on the floor that radiated in all directions from the edge of the circling pattern.

Once this was done, Chava rose and took up her Ashla staff; the other Masters did the same, as did the first two rows of shamans seated on the east side of the room. Simultaneously they struck the ends of their staves on floor, softly but deliberately. The focusing stones in the middle of each staff began to glow, and the glow moved down the staves and along the chalk lines on the floor like water through riverbeds, until it illumined the corona of flame-shapes surrounding the girl. A resonant, musical zinging sound filled the room. Chava raised one hand aloft as she declaimed this prayer:

“Sovereign Ashla of all being, spirit beyond all spirits: this young maiden comes before you this day to be initiated into your service. The fiery sparks within her have cried out to you; bind her to you in love.”

As she spoke, the glow along the chalk lines brightened steadily. The girl kneeling on the cushions seemed to feel the change; she shifted and shuddered slightly but kept her head bowed. Chava continued.

“As she begins her study of your ways, let your eight strengths be near to strengthen her; let your hidden and revealed brightnesses shine forth to illumine her. May she go from wisdom to wisdom, growing joyfully in your knowledge, that she may be all her life long a light to all Lasan and a blessing to all Lasat.”

The chalk lines now glowed bright golden-white. Chava raised her hand and her staff high into the air and called out:

“And now, O sacred lightning, fill her, hallow her, bear witness!”

As one, she and the other seven Revered Masters struck their staves on the ground, conjuring dancing golden lightning along their lengths, then thrust them forward toward the young postulant. The lightnings flared forth to join in a blazing fireball above her, then spread into a luminous column that surrounded her, following the outlines of the chalked flame-circle. Longer and longer, brighter and brighter, closer and closer to her it blazed; those assembled shielded their eyes. Through it all the thrumming zing still sounded, growing ever louder, ever higher—

—and Shulma on her cushion felt ecstacy course through her along with the light and the sparks and the energy, and shivered and fell—for oh, in that moment was she not the strontium ore from which the Ashla’s own hand drew sparks?—

Just then the room came back to focus. The column of lightning was gone, the staves and chalk lines at rest; all was as it was before. Pairs of gentle hands steadied her and raised her and placed the shamanic ring-medallion in her hair, directly above her forehead. And once more Chava’s voice rang out:

“Rise now in the splendor and favor of the Ashla: ai Shulma ai Vizuli kh’se’-Yokheva-ghe’ Trilasha, initiate of the sacred light, shaman of Lasan!”

the end

[findswoman]

Seems like my opportunity, for no good reason, to share my fanon that the Lasat have a sort of upright or semi-upright version of this instrument where the crank turning the bow-wheel is operated by the foot. (And sorry, I can only dream these things up, not draw them. But maybe it’ll be in a story sometime, who knows?)

Medieval Dance by Andrey Vinogradov

[sl-walker]

Zabrak (and Nightbrother) Canon v. Fanon

Okay, so like-- fanon is viral.  It spreads fast and people new to fandom sometimes don’t bother to check to see if things are actually canon, or just someone else’s headcanon.  Which is fine, but only until such time as viral fanon gets mistaken for canon and people get obnoxious about it.

Don’t be one of those.

So, here are basic canon v. fanon facts (and easily extrapolated assumptions of facts) about zabraks (and Nightbrothers) in both current Disney canon and also in Legends.

1. Zabraks have claws, canon or fanon?

Fanon.

Despite Savage’s fingernails growing after his transformation, despite Maul’s being vastly overgrown on Lotho Minor (manicures would not be common there!), their nails definitely are nails.

No male zabrak nor Nightbrother in any canon or Legends work has long claws. Or even claws at all! They have normal fingernails just like a human.  While Savage’s grow longer (along with his horns):

They are clearly nails.  They are flat and straight and don’t come to an extreme point.  (Nice shaping, too, damn bro, your nails look way better than mine.  They’d look great with some french tips.  Also, get her ass!)

See, actual claws are built very differently from nails; both in their shape (not like Savage’s) and in their internal structures.  Claws are more often hooked, they’re rounded and -- most importantly -- if you cut them back enough, they bleed.

No zabrak nor Nightbrother in canon has hooked claws or, for that matter, even fingernails that extend past the tips of their fingers, absent those two examples.  So, one can safely assume they trim their nails (when they’re sane and not being mindraped by Nightsisters), and that this does not result in bleeding and pain.

In canon: It is not yet confirmed whether Nightbrothers are zabrak-human hybrids. In Legends: It is confirmed that Nightbrothers are, indeed, some part human.

Either way, they still don’t have actual claws.  (But if you wanna play some culture-building, you can totally have culture about them shaping their nails and painting them, etc. to mimic claws and still be canon compliant.)

2.) Zabraks purr, or are essentially just big cats, canon or fanon?

Oh god, Fanon.  Absolutely fanon.

Beyond the fact that there are actual cat-like species in Star Wars that are way more likely subjects of such speculation (zygerrians, lasats), none of these things are confirmed in canon.

But Steff, you say, didn’t Maul and Savage growl and roar and such in TCW?

Yes!  But before his transformation, every noise Savage (or any other Nightbrother) makes is one that a human can make with their vocal cords.  (I literally just checked.)  So, even though he was rough-voiced and metaphorically snarling at Ventress, grunting and making other noises of anger or stress, all of them were-- well, human sounding.  You would think, in that case, that Savage would haul out those wild ‘animalistic’ vocalizations then, wouldn’t you?  But he didn’t.

So, it’s fair to say that in both Legends and canon, the only examples we have of zabraks making any noises that humans can’t are confined to Savage, post-transformation, and it’s a more than fair argument that his transformation is what made him able to.

Not natural biology.

Speaking of Maul (voiced by Peter Serafinowicz)-- he also growls in TPM.  In Peter’s voice.  A perfectly human growl, because shit, we also do that too when we’re mad enough or worked up enough.  I do believe he also growls (and makes other noises) in Witwer’s voice, for the most part.  The only evidence of Maul growling in any way even maybe inhumanly is in TCW, after he’s been basting in the dark side for twelve years.  Also not exactly a control case.

So, again, this is fanon.  It’s very persistent fanon, I even know the author who I believe originated the whole purring thing back in 2016, but it’s so, so utterly fanon.

3.) Zabraks have true horns, canon or fanon? or 3a.) Zabraks have antlers, canon or fanon?

Debatable.

While it’s never confirmed either way, though, Savage gets some of his horns sliced right off via lightsaber, and shows no pain.

See, true horns have a hard keratin layer overtop a bony, living core:

Cutting those in this world requires sedation and local anesthetic, because that’s living tissue being cut off.  If you just sawed through, it’d bleed and open up the horn-bearer to infection.  Usually horn buds are burned out when horn-bearing species are very young, before they grow, because the bigger they are, the worse it would be to have to cut them.

So, when Savage has those overgrown horns of his and then gets a couple sliced off in battle via lightsaber, revealing nothing inside but clean, white core, it’s reasonable to assume that those aren’t horns as we know horns.

Antlers, on the other hand, grow inside velvet seasonally, lose their velvet, and then fall off entirely at the end of the season.  While they’re in velvet, surrounded by living tissue (before calcifying), they’re vulnerable to injury.  But after the velvet dries and is rubbed off, all that’s left is sharp, white bone.

My theory is that zabraks have antlers, then, but since there’s no true, hard evidence otherwise, either answer’s acceptable.  (But like, if you can’t see the potential adorableness of zabraks in velvet, I dunno what to tell you.)

4.) Zabraks have sharp teeth!  Canon or fanon?

Mostly fanon.

Eeth Koth has regular teeth:

This poor guy has regular teeth:

And Feral has regular teeth:

And-- you get the point.

They have regular, normal teeth.  Not even elongated canines.

The only evidence of otherwise comes from some (but not all) written Legends materials: That Maul (and only Maul) has sharp teeth, but also, that he filed them to be that way.

However, that’s pretty easy to ignore, because his are also straight in all visual canon.  And not pointy. (And white at least some of the time.  Like pre-TPM and in Rebels.  It’s another point in favor of him painting them as battlefield psychology, rather than this serious warrior letting his own natural weapons rot, which I believe I am the first asshole to actually write down explicitly.)

So, while there’s some evidence that at least one zabrak can have pointy teeth via filing them, they do not have pointy teeth (or even elongated canines) as a rule in canon.

5.) Nightbrothers are half-human, canon or fanon?

Fanon in canon, Canon in Legends

Current canon hasn’t established it such, but in Legends, all Nightbrothers were some part human, including Maul.

6.) Nightbrothers are born slaves.

Canon.

Literally in both current canon and Legends, Nightbrothers are born slaves to the Nightsisters.  Every Nightbrother is born a slave, included Maul.  Their enslavement is literally stated on-screen in TCW.  In Darth Plagueis the novel, which is Legends, it’s stated by Sidious that sometimes Nightbrothers are sold off of Dathomir when they were speculating why Kycina had marked Maul as a Nightbrother.

While we don’t get to see any free-roaming Nightbrothers in canon who aren’t armed with lightsabers and murderous intent, it’s pretty fair to extrapolate that their status as born slaves would be reasonable common knowledge in slaving circles.

Anyway, there’s some common fanon v. canon there to get y’all started.  I will add, very gently, that many people do view Nightbrothers as men of color.  That the argument that they can’t be because they’re *~aliens~* holds no water when we can acknowledge Ahsoka Tano as a woman of color, or Watto as a notable anti-Semitic stereotype.

So, I would really suggest that whatever canon or fanon you adhere to, you maybe keep that in mind and be respectful, any which way.

--

@jayofolympus​, @deathdovesong​

[rebelmarsh]

Kallus seeing the Mercenary Lasat again

There are a few I’ve read that involve Kallus either meeting again or dealing with what happened on Onderon but I just want more fics about it. This is the storyline that I would have liked for them to have done more with on Rebels. I do have a fanon idea that maybe one of the people that was killed on Geonosis that was part of Saw Guerrera’s crew  there was the Mercenary Lasat. Also with Kalluzeb. 

[baraste-legacy]

Star Wars/SWTOR Fan Art Collection Masterlist

A collection of SWTOR Fanart and Fanon-related reblogs, and a few fully attributed reposts (tentatively adding Tumblr-only orphaned art, too). Entries may contain adult themes. Each post’s last tags show the artist or author of the original work. More of their art in this blog can be found by clicking on or pressing their tags.

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[findswoman]

Like these ideas! I’ve wondered about this for a while, too. Yes, I imagine there being a skunk-like tinge, combined with a sort of husky, musky B.O.-type smell, but with just a whiff of ancient pine forest in there, as well, if you sniff closely...

I have a question what does zeb smell like?

I'd like for it to be sulfuric but I realize that that's not right

[fairytrashmother]

Listen, we fanon that Lasat are a lot like cats, and so I’m going to offer you all this:

Kallus likes to idly trace Zeb’s stripes sometimes, and it feels nice, so Zeb decides to do the same for Kallus

Kallus realizes there’s a definite pattern to where Zeb’s fingers are wandering and asks him, sleepily, what he’s drawing with his fingers

Zeb respond that he’s tracing Kallus’s stripes

Kallus thinks this is a joke and goes “no love, I have spots” and Zeb is like ?????

At which point Kallus realizes that Zeb is making his serious face and he’s very confused

The rest of the humans on the Ghost are all VERY confused the next day. Zeb just assumed they knew??? But you don’t just comment on other people’s stripes if you’re not like, ya know, sleeping with them or something, so he just never said anything??? But they didn’t know?????????

(Kallus is suddenly very concerned about whether his invisible stripes make him look sexy or not)

(Zeb very much thinks that do)

[findswoman]

Sparks

Chapter 4

Startled by the appearance of this august visitor, and still achy and groggy from her mystical experience, Shulma could manage no more than a weak “huh…?”

“Not to worry, child, not to worry. I’ll explain everything. You see, I was just walking along on the other side of the academy—on the terrace over by the Main Sanctum—when I started feeling your currents moving through the Ashla. Oh, I didn’t know they were your currents yet, of course,” Chava reassured Shulma as she gasped in surprise. “But I could tell they were strong currents, and they moved very rapidly and very violently. Like the storm we’ve been having, you know. Anyhow, I followed them, and I wondered to myself: could this be what our ancient prophetesses meant when they spoke of the storm-dreamer currents that carried them along to their visions?”

Chava leaned closer to Shulma as she said this, peering at her earnestly through big, round golden-green eyes. The girl’s head was swimming even more now. She could barely follow the elder shaman’s garrulous words: what was all this about storm-dreamer currents and ancient prophetesses and visions? All of this was new to her. She could only nod weakly in response.

“Well, in any case,” Chava continued, “your currents led me here, and I remembered that Talla had mentioned a prospective initiate coming today. But when I came into the room it startled you so much—even in your trance—that it upset all your currents and sent you into vision shock. And oh, child”—she placed a small, wizened hand gently on Shulma’s shoulder—“I am terribly sorry that happened, I really am. I didn’t expect it at all! Talla here must have been rather annoyed with me.” She and Shaman Jenthai turned to each other and chuckled a bit. “But that kind of sensitivity… it’s the mark of a real storm-dreamer, you know.”

Again Chava peered at her earnestly, nodding. Shulma still didn’t know what the elder shaman meant by this storm-dreamer business, but some things seemed a little clearer to her now as she thought back to what she had seen and felt during the probing procedure. First there had been that large spark that had burst into the image of the pretty, doll-like shaman, which had then exploded with a bang into nothingness and left her with tremors and pain. Perhaps, somehow, one or both of those things had happened when Chava had entered the room—how or why Shulma didn’t understand, but it seemed like it could fit.

But if so, didn’t that mean—

Curiosity suddenly consumed her. She just had to ask—it was probably presumptuous and improper and her mother would probably scold her, but she had to. She inhaled deeply.

“Er—um—Mistr—Sham—er—”

“Your Reverence,” prompted her mother.

“Your Reverence—er—I—”

“Yes, child?”

“Does this mean that I have—I mean, that I can—I mean have the, er—”

“The gift of the Ashla?” Chava finished for her. “Why, yes, child, I would definitely say so!”

“R-really, your R-reverence?—”

“Oh yes, really! And very much so! Wouldn’t you say so, Talla?”

“Indeed so,” agreed Shaman Jenthai. “Even from the first look at your currents I could see that the Ashla has already given you many visions. I caught glimpses of some of them—oh no, don’t worry, young one,” she added as she saw Shulma’s look of embarrassment. “We promise to keep everything a secret. And I couldn’t reach them all, anyway—some because they’re still raw and indistinct, others because they are hidden very deeply in your consciousness and we could only feel a faint glow from them.”

“But your consciousness wouldn’t go that deep and have those hidden parts at all if the Ashla weren’t strong in you,” Chava continued. “And it will only get stronger, you know. Your visions will get stronger, your sparks will get stronger, and you’ll have to learn how to keep them in control.” She turned to face the other shaman and Yokheva. “So, if my revered colleague agrees, and if your mother agrees, you may begin an initiateship this coming cold season.”

Shulma’s mouth and eyes gaped. Had she heard that right, or was this another one of those weird visions? “A-an initiateship?”

“Yes, child.”

“Like, here, at the Academy of Shamans?”

“Of course, child! Where else?”

“Wow! I… er…” She shifted and turned to her mother, who smiled in confirmation. “But… well, I guess I still have to finish my mine shifts, don’t I?”

“Yes, you do,” Yokheva spoke up. Shulma sighed, but her mother stroked her hair reassuringly. “I think you’ll be able to manage, little gem. There are only two weeks left. And I’m sure the foreman will understand once we explain everything to him.”

“Oh, he’ll have to understand!” Chava grinned widely, her gold-green eyes glinting. “Talla, go write the usual letter, so he will have no doubt whatsoever.” The other shaman inclined her head and went over to the desk. “And you, my dear girl… your currents are still trembling. Why don’t you relax here for a little while. There now, there you go,” she said, as Shulma inhaled deeply and cuddled closer to her mother. “Be sure you get a good night’s sleep tonight.”

“Yes, Your Reverence…”

“And let me say”—Chava patted Shulma’s shoulder heartily and repeatedly—“I am so glad to have gotten the opportunity to meet you, child. One doesn’t come across the storm-dreamer talent every day, after all! Be proud of yourself!”

“Er… thanks, Your Reverence.” Shulma managed a smile. Her head was still whirling, and she still had so many questions—what on Lasan was a storm-dreamer, for one thing? And yet there was something about Chava’s warmth and earnestness that gave her the assurance that those questions would someday be answered. After all, she was someday going to return to this academy as a real initiate… Just thinking of it warmed and brightened her, calming the remaining tremors.

And a little while later, as Shulma and her mother made their way home along the mountain thoroughfares, she noticed that the sky was clear and that stars were shining.

*

“Hmm,” grunted Novalos, his brow knit as he perused the letter the long-braided, lilac-furred girl-kit had just handed him. “Very interesting. Guess that explains a few things.”

“Er… y-yes, Foreman Novalos.” The kit shuffled her feet, and her toes twitched nervously.

“But don’t let it go to your head. You still gotta do your work.”

“Of—of course, Foreman Novalos!”

“Good. I’m countin’ on ya.” He smiled toothily and gave her a small punch in the shoulder. “Now get your gear on and get to work.”

“Yes, Foreman Novalos.” Shulma smiled back, sighing with relief. She ran to suit up, then headed to her usual station in the workroom, where Ninqua was calling and waving to her.

to be concluded

[findswoman]

Sparks

Chapter 3

“Oh Mama—”

Shulma crumpled into her mother’s arms, tears flowing anew. Yokheva held her close as she listened to Trothidd’s nervous account of all that had happened in the workroom. “A-and we can’t have that sort of thing on the floor, y’know,” he concluded. “We’ll probably have to report it to the company.”

“Oh, leave that to me,” came the chill response.

“Can you do it? Aw, thank you, ma’am!”

“Most certainly.” Yokheva’s deep green eyes narrowed to smoldering slivers. “The company will no doubt be interested to know that some of their youth supervisors are in the habit of roughly handling kits who mean no harm.”

“Er… yes… ma’am…” was all an extremely chagrined Trothidd could manage before turning tail and hurrying back to the workroom. Meanwhile, Yokheva stayed still, holding her daughter until she calmed.

“Are you going to be all right, little gem?” she asked.

“Yes, Mama.” Shulma looked up at her mother. “It was just kind of scary, that’s all.”

“I know. And I know you never meant to hurt anyone. Now listen, you’re probably wondering why I’m here and not Papa like usual. I’ve finally gotten us a meeting with one of the shamans on Mount Straga.”

Shulma’s face brightened. Finally a chance at some answers about all these sparks and visions—just what she’d been waiting and hoping for all week long! “Wow, that’s great, Mama!”

“Yes! I think so, too. We’ll pick up a little supper in town and head over there. But just one thing first”—and at this her daughter cocked her head quizzically—“I think it would be a good idea for you to go back into the workroom for a moment and  tell the foreman you’re sorry about what happened.”

“Oh, but Mama, I really—I didn’t mean to—”

“I know that, and you know that, but he doesn’t yet. Telling him so would be the honorable thing to do.”

“But he was so mad—”

“Yes, but he’s probably calmer now. Go ahead, it won’t take you long.”

“All right, Mama,” Shulma sighed, then returned to the workroom. Order had more or less been restored. The kits had all returned to their stations and were back to their sorting work, though several of them looked up as Shulma entered, and a few whispered to each other. Gondrav, who was going down the rows to check on them as usual, turned to her, too. Novalos, however, still sat on the stool in the corner, his face to the wall as he rubbed an aching spot on his back. Shulma braced herself and went up to him.

“Foreman Novalos?

He eyed her warily as he turned to face her. “Yeah?”

“I—I’m really sorry about—I didn’t know—I mean, I hope you’re—”

“’S all right, ’s all right, kid, and I’m fine. Just be careful, okay?”

“Er, yes, Foreman Novalos.”

“Good. Now go with your ma. See you tomorrow.”

“You too, Foreman Novalos.”

He gave Shulma a gentle punch to her shoulder, and with relief on her face she went to rejoin her mother.

*

After picking up a quick supper at one of their favorite eateries in central Flowstone Vale, Yokheva and Shulma headed northward, deeper into the Gosrrallan Mountains, where Mount Straga—Lasan’s holy mountain and stronghold of all her spiritual power—loomed mistily and majestically. It was a long, dizzying ride as the family speeder made its way painstakingly along the switchbacked mountain roadways. Meanwhile, dusk was falling, and gray clouds began to gather over the peaks, portending a storm. Yokheva raised the canopy of the speeder.

At last the sacred peak towered before them. Yokheva parked the speeder at its base, and she and her daughter boarded the rattling funicular car to the top. The clouds churned darker and darker as the car clanked upward along its ancient track, and the rain now beat the windows in a steady drizzle. Shulma pressed closer to her mother and turned her eyes from the dizzying, stormy view; her heart, both eager and nervous, was now pattering like the rain. By the time she and her mother finally alighted in the academy’s round, bare stone entrance chamber with its flickering lightning-sconces, that patter—both within and without—had grown to a pounding roar.

“Good evening.”

Both Yokheva and Shulma turned to look. The figure that came forward to greet them was one of the most beautiful Shulma had ever seen: a tall, stately woman, with dark-lilac fur and bluish arm-stripes, who wore a long dress and cloak that reminded Shulma of her favorite doll—the woman even wore the same kind of ring-shaped silver ornament in her hair. She inclined her head slightly to the newcomers and placed hand over fist in greeting.

“Talla Jenthai, First Prime, mistress of initiates. You are welcome to the Academy of Shamans.”

Yokheva returned the gesture, as did her daughter. “Yokheva Barzellati Trilasha, and this is my daughter Shulma.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” The woman held out the palm of her hand to Yokheva, who touched it with her own. “Come this way.”

Shulma and her mother followed her through torchlit stone corridors, vaulted atria, and an expansive library hall. The rain still sounded in the distance as they walked; Shulma thought she now heard the low growl of thunder as well. At last, at the far end of the library, the shaman led them through a pair of double doors into a smaller, more intimate book-lined room. At its center was a cushioned chaise or couch, surrounded by a few upholstered chairs, and a desk stood off to one side, holding not only assorted books and papers but also several pieces of different crystals and minerals, arranged in a row. A staff with a large ring at its top leaned against a bookcase in one corner. Shulma noticed that in this room she could no longer hear the storm outside but could feel all the more the nervous, rainlike pounding of her heart.

“Please sit.”

Shulma and her mother sat together on the couch, and Jenthai sat in a chair directly facing them. “So, young Shulma,” she began, “I understand that you might have an Ashla gift?”

“Er… well��� I guess…” Shulma barely looked at the shaman as she spoke. It still felt strange to her that she—a tiny, insignificant kit from Flowstone Vale—could possibly have any such thing as an Ashla gift.

“That is what we shall find out tonight,” the shaman smiled. “May we begin by asking you some questions?”

“Yes, Mistress Jenthai—”

“Shaman Jenthai,” corrected her mother quietly.

“Yes, Shaman Jenthai.”

And so the questions began. First, Shaman Jenthai asked Shulma to give basic information about herself: her full name, her age, the names of family members, her general state of health. She inquired whether any other members of the family were known to have or to have had the talent of the Ashla, to which both she and her mother answered that they knew of none except Great-Great-Gran Shatha. Next came several detailed questions about Shulma’s experiences in the ore workroom during the course of the week: what exactly she had felt and seen when she had handled the different types of ore, what had happened during her ride down the mine shaft, how she had felt afterward during her bout of vision shock. Much of it was painful for Shulma to relive, but with her mother’s gentle encouragement she was able to tell all. The shaman listened attentively and sympathetically, occasionally taking notes.

Once this was done, Shaman Jenthai led Shulma to the desk, where the row of crystals sat, and asked her to handle each of them. Many were the same ore types that Shulma had seen while working at the mine, so she at least knew what to expect when she touched each one—though she was glad her mother was there to steady her when she picked up the pieces of blue-purple strontium ore and greenish-bronze copper ore. One brilliantly fiery purple-red crystal of a type she had never seen before brought on not only a flurry of golden sparkles but also a strange, not entirely unpleasant fluttering sensation deep within her. She put it down quickly, unsure if what she had felt was unseemly.

All the while, Shaman Jenthai observed Shulma’s reactions closely and noted them down. Occasionally she asked her to comment on what she felt or asked her to pick up the same specimen a second time. Shulma’s hands were becoming sore from all the tingling, but she did her best to comply with everything the shaman asked her to do. Her mother reminded beside her the entire time.

“How are you feeling, Shulma?” asked Shaman Jenthai at last, after the girl had put down the last specimen (a spiky, dusty chunk of raw quorodium) and was rubbing her hands together to soothe them.

“I’m fine, thanks,” she answered.

“You’re doing very well. I must say I’m impressed at how patient you’ve been—and your mother, too.” She nodded to Yokheva, who nodded back. “Now, from what I have observed, it seems indeed likely that you have some kind of connection to the Ashla.”

Shulma drew her breath in sharply, still incredulous; her mother placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. Shaman Jenthai continued.

“There are many different kinds of connections that the Ashla forms with us Lasat, and in order to learn more about yours I shall have to probe your currents.” Shulma cocked her head wonderingly, and the shaman explained. “First, you will relax into a dream trance so that your currents open themselves. Then I’ll trace the Ashla through them and follow it into the deeper parts of your consciousness, so that I can learn from what it has shown you and where it has led you so far.

“This should not cause you any pain, but I have to warn you: it probably will cause some of the visions and sensations you had before to return, and there is about a half-and-half chance that it may do the same with your vision shock, too. And probing procedures like this can take some time, perhaps a few hours. So I won’t proceed until both you and your mother have given us your complete permission.”

Shulma looked at her mother, who turned to look at her as well. “I leave this up to you, little gem.”

The girl paused for a few moments, thinking back to all she had experienced. Some of it had been a bit odd and nothing more—like the vision of the three bright figures colliding into one. But so much of it had been troubling and painful: the hurtling ride through time and space in the mine cart, the unrelenting aches and chills and dizziness of the vision shock, the accidental shocking of Foreman Novalos. And, of course, all those painful sparks—sparks everywhere, flying up from her own tiny hands, uncontrolled and uncontrollable.

And if she let the shaman probe her currents, she would feel all of it again. Did she like the idea of that? No—and yet—

If she really did have some sort of connection to the Ashla, surely it was worth a little pain to find as much as she could about that connection? It seemed a shame not to, and she had already come this far, after all. And now both Shaman Jenthai and her mother were looking at her, waiting for a reply.

“Yes,” she said finally. “I’ll do it.”

*

So the probing procedure began. Shulma was asked to lie on the couch, with her mother sitting beside her to provide a calming touch if needed. Meanwhile, Shaman Jenthai went to fetch the staff that leaned in the corner of the room. She took one of the stone pieces from the desk—the brilliant red purple crystal, Shulma noticed—and affixed it to the pronged mounting the middle of her staff’s crowning ring-ornament. Then she stationed herself at one end of the couch, near Shulma’s head, holding the staff upright before her.

“Now close your eyes. Breathe deeply, regularly.”

Shulma did so. As she relaxed into the cushions surrounding her, she could hear faint, almost whispered chanting from the shaman. Then there was a sudden loud clack of wood striking the floor, followed by a strange, harmonic, thrumming zzinggg that echoed through the vault of the room and seemed to vibrate behind Shulma’s own eyes. Once again she became aware of the storm sounds that continued far away outside: rumble of thunder, whisk of wind, roar of rain. All such beautiful sounds, soothing sounds, hypnotic sounds… was this the sound of the song of the Ashla itself?

And then—

She was back in the gold-orange stardust-maze from the mine tunnel. But this time, instead of blazing and blinding, it glowed gently, like the sunset through the clouds—and this time she was not hurtling through at full speed but floating gently on solar zephyrs. The many-colored light was there, too, singing as it flowed around her like a stream…

A golden spark jolted her: like those that had come from her hands on the stones, only bigger. And another and another, like Storms’ End fireworks exploding inside her consciousness. In each burst an image erupted: Novalos, Trothidd, Ninqua, Father, Mother, the boys. Burst, burst, and burst again: foremen, family, friends, others. On and on, for many minutes, in that stream of gold-orange light.

And then, out of nowhere, bigger bursts, more like lightnings than sparks: the laughing dancer, the spear-wielding fighter, the frolicking kit with smiling leaf-green eyes. Again and again, bursting in and out, for many more minutes. With each, this time, a twinge of pain—twinges she now recognized. The gold-orange firmament churned like muddy water, and white chalk lines cut through it, almost like strange lightless lightning—

And then BURST went the biggest spark of all, into an image she had not seen before: a lovely shaman in a dress and cloak like the one her doll wore, with piercing emerald-green eyes—that really opened and closed—

BANG! As quickly as it had appeared, the image disappeared in a loud thunderclap. The universe shook as though from an explosion. Sparks and lightnings zigzagged ruthlessly through Shulma’s mind and body. Again the violent shaking, again the shooting pain. She felt hands holding her—she didn’t know whose—maybe shaking her, maybe steadying her. She heard voices conferring and exhorting...

The room popped back into focus. Shulma saw her mother beside her, holding her close, and Shaman Jenthai peering down at her, but now a new face had joined them.  A second shaman, elderly and very small, her white hair done up in an old-fashioned style, once again with the ring-ornament in the middle—someone Shulma knew she had seen in pictures before and at big public ceremonies in the capital like Storm Solstice…

Chava with the long, hard-to-pronounce last name, the one everyone called Chava the Wise. Chief Shaman of the Academy, head of the Revered Masters, spiritual leader of all Lasan. Here, beside silly little Shulma Trilasha of Flowstone Vale. And she said:

“Oh! Oh sovereign mercy, child… I’m afraid I owe you an apology!”

to be continued

[findswoman]

You know I’m always up for Lasan Thoughts! Love this expansion of the Prophecy of the Three, especially the idea that these stories and prophecies were a way for the Lasat to remember their way back! And it makes sense that they would be understood metaphorically too and reflect revered paths within Lasat society. I wonder, too, whether Lira San itself had analogous Exodus prophecies itself concerning those who left long ago to go to Lasan (and/or elsewhere); I can imagine that that exodus, and those who made it, are just as legendary on Lira San as Lira San (and the eventual exodus thereto) was on Lasan.

Reblogging in order to keep this around as possible inspiration on future projects and possibly borrow it sometime, with your permission of course! 🙂

Lasan thoughts tonight gonna pull an excerpt I wrote in my worldbuilding doc but I just,,, tomorrow. Tomorrow I will go back to this doc:

Lasat religion is defined by their vast collection of myths, with their most well known being the prophecy of Exodus. The prophecy of exodus focuses on a large number of Lasat myths that detail the eventual journey of Lasats from Lasan to Lira San. While Lasats believe these myths are prophetic, in actuality, they were actually stories in which the lost Lasats used to remember their path back to Lira San when they first ventured out. These stories evolved to become the 'Prophecy', and feature many Lasats, but most prominently the Child, the Fool, and the Warrior, who often have to work together to lead their people forward. Most notably, the Child acts as the spiritual connector between the Exodus group and the Ashla, who helps her children find a better home. While the Prophecy varies in its details, the myths always begin with a catastrophic event that forces the Lasats to leave their homeworld, devastated and beyond saving.

While the Prophecy can be seen as a literal interpretation of the future, most Lasats believe that the Prophecy is a metaphor for what a Lasat should strive for in life. These collections of myth often place values of selflessness, unity, courage, and other similar values at its core, values and beliefs that are held highly by the Lasats. Children are often told these stories to help guide them through conflict, and are reminded to adults when they forget or struggle in life. The three characters, Fool, Child, and Warrior, can also be seen as symbols for the three groupings of Lasats revered in their society: the artisan, the spiritual, and the warrior.

[findswoman]

Sparks

Chapter 2

Some time later, after a good bit of searching, Foreman Novalos found the little long-braided kit lying unconscious, bruised, and shivering in the mine cart somewhere deep in shaft 38. With a sigh and a few grumbled oaths he felt for her pulse and breath, then checked her over for bruises and fractures following the usual first-aid protocol. Nothing was broken, but there were a few bruises on her arms, feet, and face, which he treated with bacta salve from his portable medkit. This done, Novalos hoisted Shulma onto one shoulder and carried her back up to his office in the main ore processing plant. Then he put in a call to his colleague Over-Foreman Ormgar Trilasha of the Southern Ridge Shafts, who was already off for the day, and told him all that had happened. Since he and his family lived not too far from the mining complex, Ormgar agreed to come collect his daughter. He laid her across the back seat of the Trilasha family’s old X-29 speeder and drove her home. Shulma came to with a jolt during the speeder ride, trembling and aching from her recent ordeal. “You all right?” her father grunted as soon as he heard her moving around. “Yeah...” “Good. You went a long way down. I keep tellin’ the admin they need to check the brakes on those things more often.” “Er… I guess...” Shulma was too tired and achy to argue the point beyond that, and neither father nor daughter said anything more the rest of the ride. Dusk was well advanced when they arrived home. The family had already finished its evening meal, and some remnants of it had been left out on the table in case Shulma wanted anything, but she was still cold and achy and not at all hungry. As soon as they saw she had arrived, her older twin brothers—some four dust seasons her senior and already doing some work underground—ran up to her, teasing and jostling her. “Heard you got in trouble today, little sis.” “Yeah, had to scrub off the belts on your first day, did ya?” Shulma turned her head away, feeling too weak to reply. “You two leave her alone,” scolded Ormgar, as he shooed his sons away and took his daughter upstairs to her small attic room, straight to bed.  Shulma pulled her covers around her. She tried to sleep, but her head still ached, her body still shook, and the world around her still seemed to swim and toss and turn. Images—perhaps snatches of dreams, she wasn’t sure—kept flitting at random across her consciousness. Every time she closed her eyes and tried to relax, something would burst in on her mind’s eye: the ore processing workroom, Foreman Novalos, the mine cart—but also her parents and brothers and other Lasats she knew, other places she had been, from the quiet streets of Flowstone Vale to the majestic purplestone cliffs and caves of the Gosrral. And those three strange figures running and colliding… the leaf-green eyes… the fiery tunnel of gold-orange light…  And everywhere, through all of it, those golden sparks. Sparks, everywhere sparks... Shulma shifted and reached for the doll that lay in its own little doll bed on her bedside table. It was her favorite doll, dressed in the gown and cloak of an ancient sage-maiden, with long hair and jewel-like golden-green eyes that really opened and closed. She hugged it close and sighed. Just then she heard a gentle knock at the door, and a familiar voice: “May I come in?” “Yes, of course.”  Shulma shifted to sitting upright as her mother entered the room. Yokheva Barzellati Trilasha, chief of operations at the Royal Lasat Mining Ministry, wore eyeglasses and a necklace of large, rough, variegated quartz beads; her black-purple hair was done up in a high bun, and a few strands of dark silver-gray wisped near her ears. She sat down on the bed beside her daughter and learned over to give her a kiss on the brow ridge. “How are you feeling, little gem?” she asked. “I don’t know… still kind of… funny. And tired.” Her mother stroked her cheek affectionately. “I don’t blame you,” she said. “You’ve had a long day. But please tell me: what happened, exactly?” Shulma shuddered, but Yokheva reassured her with a hand to her shoulder. “No, please don’t worry, love. You’re not in trouble.” “Er, all right, but—” “And yes, I know what the foreman said. But I don’t believe him. I’ve never known you to be lazy. So won’t you please tell me what happened? As best as you remember?” Shulma took a deep breath in and told her mother everything that had happened from the start. She told her of the way the sparks flew up when she first handled the copper ore, the vision of the merging figures that overtook her when she picked up the strontium, everything she saw and felt during her wild ride in the mine cart, and the pains and sparks and images that even now kept popping into her consciousness to keep her from relaxing. Yokheva listened closely to every detail, occasionally nodding. When at the end of the tale she sat silent in thought for several moments, her daughter asked: “Do you believe me, Mama?” “Yes, of course I do.” “Even about all the… weird stuff I saw?” “Even that,” Yokheva chuckled slightly. “Do you know… what happened? What it’s all about?” “Well… I have a guess. Give me a moment and I’ll be right back.” Yokheva kissed her daughter’s brow ridge again, then got up and left the room. She returned several moments later with a small, worn, leather-bound book in her hands, through which she paged intently as she seated herself once again on the bed. Shulma craned her head to get a better look at it, but the title embossed on its cover was in an old-fashioned script she couldn’t read. “What is that, Mama?” she asked. “Oh, it belonged to your great-great grandmother Shatha Dzenkachi, on my mother’s mother’s side,” Yokheva replied, still paging through. Shulma perked up, recognizing the name of a forebear her mother had spoken of many times before—one who had had the gift of the Ashla and been a shaman of Lasan. But she was puzzled, too: why look in some great-great-grandmother’s musty old books for advice on how to help a regular twelve-dust-season-old girl-kit? Weren’t there other books in the house about remedies and the like? Like, for instance, that herb guide her parents had consulted that time she had eaten a whole basket of unripe maznaberries... “Mama, what exactly is this book? What are you looking for?” Her mother looked up and leaned a little closer. “Well, Lasats who have the Ashla are sometimes prone to something called vision shock, and—” “Ashla?!” Shulma’s eyes and mouth gaped in alarm. “But Mama, I’m not—I’m just—how can I—” “Hush, little gem, don’t be upset! That will only make it worse!” “But vision shock?! That sounds terrible! Am I going to be all right?!” “Of course you’ll be all right!” Her mother moved closer and put an arm around her. “All it really means is that you’ve had some visions that have disturbed you and thrown your Ashla currents out of balance. That’s why you’re feeling so strange right now. Once we calm your currents back down, according to this, it should go away.” “But I mean, all that stuff in the ore room, and in the cart... was all that really the Ashla? As in, real visions? Like the kind the ancient prophetesses used to have?” Yokheva shrugged. “Why on Lasan shouldn’t it be? Great-Gran Shatha always used to say her talent was bound to come back into the family sometime. Look, let’s get you back to sleep so you can be well and energetic when you go in tomorrow.” Shulma’s face fell at this. “I know, I know it’s no fun. But for now just do your best. It’ll take some time for us to figure out what to do next, and in the meantime all we can do is carry on.” “All right, Mama,” her daughter sighed. “It says here that it can help to hear familiar sounds or voices… how about I read to you a bit? Maybe some stories from Tales of the Ancients?” “Sure, sounds good.” So Shulma lay back on her pillow, snuggling down under her covers and hugging her doll close, while her mother read her tale after tale from the beloved storybook: the origin of the heavenly bodies, the birth of the gems in the mountains, the founding of Lira Zel and the contest of its four warrior-rulers, the romance of Rolmvar the Rugged and Radiant Lalma, and of course her old favorite, the story of Bright Valthya. As her mother’s warm voice and familiar words washed over her, Shulma felt herself calming, her aches and dizziness melting away. But questions and worries still crept into her mind. Did she really have Ashla powers like her great-great-grandmother did? What did that really mean? Was it dangerous? What if others found out? And would any of it even matter when she went back to work at the mine tomorrow? But the warmth and calm soon won out, and she fell into a peaceful sleep. * The next morning found Shulma back at the counter in Ore Processing Unit Aurek-Two, clad in the regulation apron and foot covers. This time she was not in the corner of the plant, apart from the others; Novalos had placed her toward the middle of the central counter, among several other kits (“to keep an eye on ya,” he had muttered). She had pulled her collection bin close to her and was looking over its contents as closely as she could without touching them. This time there was a good deal of tin ore mixed in with the copper ore; she hadn’t had any tin ore the day before and didn’t know how it would react to her touch. Gingerly she picked up a piece. A few small sparks went up, and she felt a tiny, momentary shock, but nothing more. So far so good—she could work with that. She even wondered if things were getting easier for her already, after recovering from last night’s vision shock... To be sure, she also picked up a piece of rock streaked with veins of copper ore. Just as before, violent yellow sparks erupted, and she dropped the rock in pain back into the bin. That answered her question, of course. At least she didn’t see any strontium—or not yet. The bin was very full, and anything could be in it. An idea formed in Shulma’s mind. She leaned over to the kit at the neighboring station, a girl with pigtails and medium-dark purple-blue fur, who was busy cutting a large, shiny piece of copper ore from its host rock. “Hey, Ninqua, can I ask you something?” The pigtailed girl looked up from her work. “Yeah, what is it?” Shulma pushed her collection bin closer to her neighbor. “Would you, er, like to take my copper pieces?” “Um, okay, why?” “Er… well… they’ve been hurting my hands.” “Weird, are you allergic?” “Well, um—” “Back to work, you two,” barked Trothidd, who had just come alongside them in his regular rounds. “Y-yes, Foreman Trothidd,” said both girls almost simultaneously. Shulma breathed a sigh of relief as she picked up a rock piece and began to work on it, but no sooner was Trothidd out of earshot than Ninqua spoke again. “I guess it’s a lilac-fur thing. My auntie’s a lilac-fur, too.” “Oh...?” “Yeah. And she can’t wear any jewelry without breaking out in blotches.” “Er, sure…” replied Shulma, then, rapidly changing the subject: “And can I take your tin pieces? Because they, er, don’t hurt as much.” “Yeah, sure, I guess.” Ninqua moved her collection bin closer to Shulma’s. “Here, take whatever you want.” “Thanks, Ninqua.” “No problem.” This arrangement served them well the rest of the day. Both girls took pieces of rock from both collection bins. Shulma worked on the tin ore pieces, which gave her nothing worse than tiny sparks and mild static twinges; she always made sure to work facing partly away from Ninqua, so that the other girl wouldn’t see her hands. Ninqua, in turn, happily took all the pieces that looked like they contained copper ore. Novalos came by to inspect them as usual, side-eying Shulma hard, but ultimately passed on with a grunt when he noticed her calmly and unobtrusively at work.  They did the same the day after and the day after, and the day after that, and all was well. This way Shulma had no more of the troublesome flare-ups or visions, and definitely no vision shock—only a few of the tiny sparks and tingles that were at least easy to hide. The foremen still came by on their regular rounds, but they didn’t seem to notice or care that the two girls were sharing bins, as long as the job was getting done. Even Novalos seemed to grudgingly acknowledge that the troublemaker of the first day might actually be turning into a productive little worker. At the end of each day Ormgar Trilasha would come by the ore plant after his own shift to pick up his daughter and take her home. He would ask her desultory questions about her workday and she would answer them in an equally desultory manner, never mentioning the sparks. But her mother always checked in with her later, at bedtime, when they were alone. Shulma told her everything, and she would always listen closely and take note. Yokheva further confided to her daughter that she was trying to arrange for a meeting with one of the master-shamans who governed the academy on Mount Straga, who might better be able to assess her situation. It was difficult because of their very full schedule teaching the younger shamans and being called on for spiritual purposes, but she resolved to keep trying, for Shulma’s sake. Shulma looked forward every day to that meeting, though neither she nor her mother knew when it would be. One day later that week, toward quitting time, when the western sky was just starting to glow a brighter, lazier purple-gold, Shulma and Ninqua were working at their stations as usual. Their collection bins were close to empty and their sorting baskets nearly full, and as usual they had pooled their supply: Shulma took everything that would be less volatile for her, and Ninqua took the rest. At the bottom of Ninqua’s bin were several chunks of a bright silver-gray crystal that looked like the tin ore Shulma had been extracting most of the day. But when she reached over to scoop them up, such a huge shock of golden lightning erupted from her hands that she shrieked and nearly fell over backward. Surprised, Ninqua dropped her vibrochisel, her eyes and mouth gaping.  “Oh ’bast! Shulma!” “N-ninqua…” Shulma felt herself shaking as she realized what had happened. Those rocks were actually one of the rarer, less conspicuous forms of strontium ore—which had broken into even smaller pieces at her touch—and there was no way her neighbor could not have seen the sparks that had flown up as a result. “You’ve got the gift, don’t you!” “Shhh! N-not so loud!” But it was too late. Foreman Novalos was already looming over them, scowling, arms tightly crossed. “Oi! What’s all this din?!” “Er… um… well…” Shulma felt herself shaking more violently now. She looked down at her hands; even though she had dropped the strontium crystals, tiny sparks were still dancing at her fingertips. She clapped one hand over the other in a desperate attempt to quell or hide them, but to no effect.  Before she could say anything coherent, Ninqua piped up. “Shulma’s got the gift, Foreman Novalos!” “Gift?! What are you talkin’ about?!” “Look what she can do to the ore crystals!” “N-ninqua, p-please—” More trembling and harder, more sparks and brighter—and the other kits and foremen were now gathered around, watching. “And you been doin’ what to the crystals?!” The foreman noticed the broken rock pieces in Ninqua’s bin and spun to face Shulma with a ferocious glare. “Playin’ instead of doin’ your work, eh? An’ not even in your own—” He stopped short as his gaze fell on the yellow sparks that now crackled almost uncontrollably around her hands. “What. The Bogan. Is this?!”  He grabbed her hand to look closer—then let out a bloodcurdling screamed oath as the shock of the sparks threw him backward to stagger against the counter in a daze. Shulma shrieked and drew back, tears springing up in her eyes as she saw what had happened. Around her, the other kits were gasping and murmuring among themselves. The two assistant foremen ran up. Gondrav helped Novalos to a stool at the far end of the room, while Trothidd grabbed Shulma by the shoulder and hustled her away, trembling and weeping. “Please—I’m really sorry—” she sobbed. “I didn’t mean—really—” Trothidd snorted as he pulled her into the vestibule of Unit Aurek-Two. “You can tell that to your pa when he gets here,” he snarled. Just then the sound of a throat clearing made the foreman spin around. Before him, staring him unflappably down through bespectacled emerald eyes, was a distinguished-looking Lasat woman. She had lilac fur like that of the kit whose shoulder he was still gripping, and her long, brightly colored suit-dress was adorned not only with a necklace of large quartz beads but also the insignia of the Royal Lasat Mining Ministry.  “Is there a problem?” to be continued

[findswoman]

Lasan Honor Guard hymn

Words and music by yours truly, and performed by yours truly (please pardon my less-than-professional recording equipment). For @fuzzydemolitionsquad, with great admiration and affection; also kudos and thanks to @darkdranzer1988. In partial homage to a line from Fuzzy's poem "Sabotage": "The keeraws of Lasan still resonate."

https://soundcloud.com/user254680063/keeraw-lasan-keeraw

Lyrics: Keeraw, Lasan, keeraw! Our honor shall defend thee, For thee our roars we raise, For thee our bo-rifles blaze. Thy foes will cringe in awe; Keeraw, Lasan, keeraw!

EDIT: Oh karabast, it looks like the Soundcloud embedded link might not be showing up on mobile... sorry about that, and shall try to fix asap! Should show on a laptop or desktop, though...