jedi-exile

Another expression ask from dA!

Someone asked for Linli Arathasis, my Jedi Exile, being angry. Linli does not get angry often, but when she finds something worthy of her anger, watch out. She believes it’s okay to get fired up for a cause you care about, including protecting her husband and son.

(She’s not a very conventional Jedi.)

Atton Rand and my Exile Keshani, she’s neutral leaning to the light side but not looking to return to the order–or join the Sith.

Kesh: Can you teach me to shield my thoughts?

Atton: No.  I can only teach you to play pazaak.  Do you understand what I’m saying?

Kesh: wtf atton no I don’t???  Then I want to learn to play pazaak.

Atton: Good.  Now you understand.  All right.  I’ll deal, then.  If you’re ever fighting someone who has the power over your mind…whether light or dark…play pazaak.  And when they try to use their powers on you, suddenly it’s not as easy as they thought.  Because you’ll be right here with me, playing pazaak, where they can’t reach you.

momentarilyhere  asked:

Antton/Halosia - Water

set right before the the civil war on Iziz!! my Exile beats herself up for appointing Atton’s as the temple’s team leader bc oh geez what if he dies I literally cannot lose him what have I done, so I’ve always hc’d that they share their first kiss right before, in the rain, on what is probably one of the Exile’s least favorite planets…….


She watches him go, ‘saber in hand, stalking through the wet Dxun grass. And maybe it’s the Force, or just her own heart, that pulls the word from her—his name, a spear, hurtling through the air.

“Atton!”

He stops. Turns. His lips twitch, curling at the corners, and suddenly, he’s grinning—lopsidedly, crookedly, like he’s not about to lead half their crew into an ancient Sith temple. Fear gnaws at her, clean through. “Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind.”

And there it is. Doubt. He tries so hard to keep it hidden, but she always recognizes the signs: hands stuffed in the pockets of his trousers, boots scuffing the grated floor of the Ebon Hawk. And, really—after all this time, he still doesn’t know? “I chose you, Atton.”

“Doesn’t answer my question, though, does it?”

She sighs. “I haven’t changed my mind.”

He grins. “Good, because I was really looking forward to, y’know, trekking through the jungle, possibly murdering a Sith or two…”

“Don’t forget the beasts,” she adds, halfheartedly.

“The beasts,” he echoes, nodding. “I’m sure there’ll be plenty of those. Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll get to try out that new thing you taught me–”

“Atton.” His name. Just his name. It lingers in the air between them, heavy, the shadow of a noose.

He peers through the rain. At her, or maybe just through her. In any case, she’s not entirely sure where to look. “Halo,” he says, after a moment. Just her name. Soft, low, pounding against her skull.

“Just–” She huffs out a breath. “Be careful.”

The grin returns. Brighter, this time. It doesn’t quite fit right. “You know me.”

“Exactly.” A pause. “I chose you to lead this mission, Atton, and–” she lifts a hand, palm outward– “before you say anything, no, I still haven’t changed my mind. I trust you. But just because I trust you doesn’t mean I’m ignorant to what you’re going to face.”

Silence. Raindrops pound into the ground, tearing up grass, bits of soil, rock. She sees Bao-Dur, in the distance—or, she supposes, his silhouette. Kreia, too. They should leave soon. And, she thinks, the sooner the better; Dxun is, in many ways, the same moon it was years ago. A dark, harsh curve, cutting out parts of sky.

Finally, he speaks, and she can feel the rage in him. It ripples outward, bending the air, the water, the silence. She wants to touch it, wants to let it buck beneath the weight of her palm, but knows she shouldn’t—there are things he doesn’t let her see, and she has to respect that, has to respect the part of him that still, after all this time, wants—needs—to hide.

“If you don’t think I can handle it,” he says, and his mouth hooks an awful sneer, “then maybe you should send–”

Atton.” His name, again. The first thing he’d trusted her with, and even that was a lie. “I have sent–” and here her voice breaks, almost imperceptibly, another crack in that vast white wall– “so many people to their deaths. Good, innocent people–”

“I’m neither of those things.”

“Well, neither am I.” She hadn’t meant to snap. But it comes out that way, reckless, needy. “What I’m trying to say is that– stars, Atton. I trust you more than anyone, and if you die, I don’t think I’ll be able to–” Her eyes are stinging, but she can’t tell if it’s from the rain or her tears or the Force, digging its claws into her.

She turns away.

A moment passes. And then, a hand, resting lightly—hesitantly—on her shoulder. His fingers curl against the solid plating of her armor, and she thinks, Don’t let go.

He doesn’t.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice is– she wouldn’t call it soft, but it’s somewhere near there. “I’m not going to die, Halo.”

“You better not.”

He squeezes, and a breath leaves her—warm, misty. Solidifying. “I promise,” he says, and she wants to believe him, but–

But she keeps seeing his body. His dead body, to be precise. Eyes glazed over, hands cut off, blood pouring from his open mouth. And she knows it’s the Force. Showing her the future or, at the very least, a possible future. The bodies of her crew, ravaged, just like Atton’s—they line the path she walks, prostrating, sometimes even headless; a reminder, really, to not stray too far. A warning.

She closes her eyes, and her heart lurches. Even there, behind that veil, he is there. Staring at her, lifeless, but his mouth still forms a word.

Her name. Always her name.

Her eyes snap open. She turns, pivoting on a heel, and he startles, stepping back. Halo, he starts to say, but she’s already tugging him towards her, grasping at anything, everything, even the fabric of his hood.

His eyes find her—dark, gleaming. And there’s something there: regret, or guilt, or something different altogether. She likes to think it’s want.

He exhales. Blinks. Are you sure?

She nods. And then he’s leaning down, and she’s arcing up, and their mouths meet, teeth clashing together.

She wouldn’t even call it a kiss. It’s quick. Too quick to mean anything, but his hands still find her hips, pressing half-moons into the bone; his arms still find her middle, crushing her against him. Her hands find his hair, his jaw, the scar on his left temple from the fight with the Twi’leks on G0-T0’s ship, and it’s– desperation, and fear, and something dark. Nameless. Reflective, like liquid. The Force flares, a gust of heat, and–

She pulls away. He lets out a small, breathy sound, chasing after her, but she presses her palm to his chest. He bows his head, panting.

He looks strangely penitent.

“Come back to me,” she says, finally, once she’s found her voice. “Please, Atton.”

He shudders. She feels it through the Force, but also through their bodies, pressed so firmly together. And it’s almost too much—what she wants; what she can’t have, not here, not now. And, underlying all that, what he wants: not the images he projects to keep her and Kreia from probing his mind, but similar. Softer. Something meant for another world, or maybe just other people.

She steps back. He reaches for her, arms outstretched, but the rain separates them—a nearly impenetrable wall.

“Remember,” she says. “You promised.”

She leaves.

He doesn’t follow her.

I commissioned @beastqueenart for art of my Jedi Exile, Wren Sloane, and the pilot of her heart, Atton Rand. It came out exactly like I wanted! Thank you so much for your hard work. They warm my heart and can always make me smile. <3