Eternal Father
Janara III was an oft overlooked system, comprised of sprawling hills and vibrant green grass. There was nothing remarkable about Janara III, there were no factory complexes, no resource mines, no shipyards, nothing that would make a passing traveler look twice. But that did not bother the inhabitants of Janara III, they were content in their solitude and galactic insignificance. They lived in various settlements across the planets, most no bigger than a village, and remained connected through communication and trade.
The people of Janara III were no strangers to outworlders, they saw them come and go frequently. People looking for a way station, traders looking to sell their goods, and fugitives needing a place to sleep for the night. But they also knew the look of military men, and the troop that emerged from the boarding ramp of an innocuous transport vessel fit that description. Their commander, for he could be nothing else, stood out from them by the arrangement of his attire. In addition to the officer's tunic, he wore a field jacket by his shoulders alone, with both sleeves empty and dangling at his side. Both of his eyes had been replaced by cybernetics, the glowing red photoreceptors causing many nearby to shrink away in uncertainty.
Tensions were uneasy as the soldiers began to fan out at the base of their transports, for though they did not hold any weapons, their mere presence was enough to create unease. The soldiers said nothing and appeared to pay little attention to the villagers, off-loading various sealed crates without a word passed between them. One of the villagers had mustered the courage to step forward and was about to speak when a bright light emanated from within the transports, briefly causing the villages to shield their eyes. When they opened their eyes, what they saw took their breath away.
A female Togruta was walking down the boarding ramp, her body swaddled in ritualistic garb that did more to accentuate her natural beauty than to conceal it. Her montrals and lekku were decorated with various bands of silk, runic letters sewn into each length of fabric that appeared to form sentences that none of the villagers could discern. She smiled warmly as she approached the villagers, her mere presence inviting them in to listen to what she had to say. When she opened her mouth, it was as if the most beautiful music was being played for them.
"I have come to show you the way."
That was three months ago. In that time, the village had undergone an incredible transformation. Children no longer ran, laughed, and played through the unpaved streets. Animals no longer wandered aimlessly, and the fields were no longer haphazardly arranged in inefficient patterns. Since the arrival of the Preceptor and her dutiful attendants, the village had been shorn of its rural upbringing and thrust into the future. The streets were paved, errant houses had been torn down and replaced with geometric housing blocks. The fields had been ripped up and reestablished along efficient patterns. Animals had been confined to newly constructed stables and holding pens.
A new structure dominated the village, built at its very center. The villagers called it the Temple of Enlightenment, and it was there that the Preceptor held mass over her vast new congregation. It was not only the villagers that came to listen to her wisdom, but the occupants of other nearby settlements came as well. The transformation that had gripped the village was spreading outward, taking hold of other villages and slowly converting them in the same manner.
Major Osvakol sparked the end of his cigarra and took a long drag, exhaling a plume of dark gray smoke that quickly dispersed in the mild autumn air. Cigarras were typically prohibited by the Provisions of Health and Purity laid down by ORDER, excluding any faithful from partaking in bodily pollutants. Undoubtedly, one of his subordinates would file a report to ORDER, and he'd be reprimanded and sentenced with intense lashings.
Not that he feared such reprisals, they were commonplace among the faithful. The Sith called it Qoritwaishâsot, the Eternal Struggle. Adversity and pain were essential for the betterment of the individual, necessary for the advancement of the group. If one was not enraptured by struggle, then they were succumbing to weakness and had to be made an example of. These days, the faithful willingly submitted themselves to be lashed so that they could become accustomed to pain. Some among them craved it.
Osvakol turned to look at the Temple, cigarra embers falling gently to the paved street as he tapped them away. The congregation was sequestered inside, heeding the words of the Preceptor and giving thanks to the Father for their very existence. Once upon a time, Osvakol would have been among their number. Since then, he had been given a higher calling. He wore the uniform of the Father's blessed Grand Army, assigned to accompany one of the Preceptors as they toured the galaxy and converted the backwards flocks to the Father's enlightenment. Given enough time, they would convert the entire world to His teachings.
Movement drew his cybernetic eyes to his left, an adjutant approaching with a sense of urgency in his steps.
"Major," the younger man saluted.
Osvakol mirrored the gestured, "Speak."
"Long-range scanners have detected an inbound vessel, X-Wing class." The adjutant handed the Major a parcel, containing all the relevant data pertaining to the detected vessel. Osvakol shuffled through the pages while puffing on his cigarra. He finished by slipping the parcel under one arm.
"Alert the garrison, and put them on stand-by. That's a Jedi craft."
