Master of the Spiral Way
The city roared beneath him.
Even here, in the heart of the Jedi Temple, silence was never truly still. It throbbed beneath the marble and stone; the thrum of repulsorlifts far below, the chatter of beings far above. Coruscant breathed in lights and sirens and voices that never slept.
Issar Rae'Velis had endured many worlds. But this one was not kind to silence.
He coiled in the soft moss at the edge of a low fountain, four arms resting loosely in his lap, robes drawn close around his pale blue form. The waters trickled through carved stone channels nearby, falling in gentle streams that echoed faintly through the vast chamber. The sound was meant to soothe. It did not lie, but it borrowed its peace, rather than possessing it.
The Room of a Thousand Fountains was the closest thing Coruscant had to stillness. Issar had come here often since arriving, seeking the echoes of water, of root and stone, of something deeper than duracrete. It was not the quiet of Selvaris. It was not the stillness of Hysalria. But it was enough.
For now.
He reached for his memory beads, fingers ghosting over each carved spiral with care. Soon, he would leave. Tython called; old soil, scarred and sacred. He was not summoned. He never was. But he had begun packing his few things from the quarters assigned to him here, residence only in name, not in soul.
Issar breathed in.
The air here was filtered. Artificial.
He did not mind. But he would not stay.
