They call him Kenobi, the Wizard of the Black Hills.
He is legend come to life, they say. His boots have stirred the dust at the galaxy’s edge, and the stars trail in his wake.
Some say he has lived for countless years in the Black Hills of Tatooine, his life extended by clandestine arts. Others claim they saw him fall from the night sky, an infant in his arms. They say the child is his heir, rescued from wrath and fire, brought to live a humble existence until his birthright is revealed.
A few have seen a cloaked apparition roaming the barren sands when the skies grow dark and shudder with the gods’ displeasure. They say the lightning on these nights springs from the wizard’s very hands, that they’ve watched as he conjured blue flame from the desert air and danced with it, the sky flashing bright around him.
They speak of him when he passes by, trading legend as fact. He has toppled governments, laughed at enemies, counted royalty as friends. Justice is his battle cry and mercy is woven through his very bones.
They say he is the last of an ancient race of mages, magical beings who fought for the oppressed. His wrath is terrible, his compassion unconquerable, his life a conduit for something greater than himself, greater indeed than all the worlds he has left behind.
They call him Kenobi, the Great Wizard of the Hills, the Conqueror of Stars, a friend to the helpless, the bringer of Hope