Aziraphale was collecting rare and exotic amphibians that lived almost exclusively on the planet of Dagobah—a task that many would call hopeless, bordering on madness, for good reason. The creatures he sought were practically the stuff of legend. Each species was an evolutionary oddity, and locating even one was akin to catching starlight in a jar.
The translucent amphibian so delicate that its skin rippled with the faint glow of bioluminescent algae it had symbiotically bonded with. This peculiar trait rendered it virtually invisible amidst Dagobah's perpetual mist, save for the fleeting shimmer it left behind as it darted into shadow. They nested exclusively in hollowed-out, centuries-old gnarltrees, whose trunks exuded a particular resin so pungent it deterred even the most determined predators. To find one, Aziraphale would need to locate a gnarltree during its brief blooming season—an event that occurred once every seventy-seven years—then hope the amphibian deigned to be present.
Then there was the Singing Newt, a creature so elusive it had only been documented in the fevered writings of a half-mad naturalist. According to legend, the newt's song could calm storms and lure swamp predators into a trance. However, it only sang during the planet's rare solar eclipses, and even then, only if the ambient temperature fell precisely within a five-degree window. The catch? Eclipses on Dagobah were famously unpredictable due to the planet's erratic orbit, and the swamp's humidity played havoc with any temperature-regulating gear Aziraphale brought along.
And who could forget the Fang-Toad, a carnivorous, venomous oddity whose diet consisted solely of a particular type of marsh wasp. These wasps, unfortunately, were notorious for building nests that hung over sinkholes filled with sulfuric acid. To make matters worse, the fang-toad itself was nocturnal and shunned light, which meant any attempt to observe one required a combination of blind luck and a significant tolerance for being bitten by the planet's myriad mosquito-like pests.
The sheer rarity of these creatures wasn't due to their specific requirements or natural camouflage, though that was daunting enough. Dagobah itself seemed to conspire against would-be collectors. The swamp was an ever-shifting labyrinthine hellscape of sinking mud, uncharted caves, and root systems. Maps were a joke, and compasses were useless thanks to the planet's magnetic anomalies. And let's not forget the ecosystem's other residents—hulking reptiles, quicksand slugs, and unnervingly intelligent predatory birds that seemed to mock anyone foolish enough to tread there.
But Aziraphale was undeterred. These creatures, as rare and absurdly elusive as they were, would fetch a very pretty credit if they could be harvested. A collector's market existed for everything, after all, and few could resist the allure of owning a creature so exotic it might as well be a myth.
The air was heavy with the damp, earthy aroma of Dagobah's endless swamp when a sudden burst of light split the perpetual gloom. The sky lit up as something metallic streaked overhead, trailing smoke before crashing into the muck with an earsplitting
thoom. For a brief moment, even the symphony of croaks, clicks, and eerie howls that defined Dagobah fell silent in the wake of the intrusion.
Aziraphale turned, adjusting his thoroughly mud-splattered coat and wiping swamp grime from his gloves.
"Well, that's... unexpected," he muttered, squinting toward the plume of smoke rising in the distance.
"Who could possibly be in a place like this?" His curiosity, already piqued by the strange flashes of light, soon outweighed his frustration at the day's fruitless tromping through the swamp.
He took a moment to glance at his pack, where his assortment of nets, jars, and vials remained depressingly empty. Even the promise of a fortune in rare amphibians hadn't managed to compensate for the endless bug bites, the treacherous footing, and the overwhelming stench of Dagobah's murky waters. His last attempt to capture a Luminous Veil-Skitter had ended with him flat on his back in a patch of carnivorous moss—an experience he was in no hurry to repeat.
"Perhaps a brief detour," he mused, already convincing himself that investigating the crash was the logical course of action. Surely, whoever had crash-landed would have little use for their ship's supplies now, and it would be terribly wasteful to let them sink into the swamp.
Pulling his coat tighter against the damp chill, Aziraphale set off toward the crash site, his boots squelching in the mud with every step.
As he trudged toward the rising column of smoke, Aziraphale couldn't shake the feeling that the swamp was watching him. The amphibians he sought might have been elusive, but something about the stillness of the trees and the way the mist seemed to curl unnaturally around his path suggested that Dagobah wasn't done playing tricks on him yet.
He spotted a familiar silhouette—a Keldor, unmistakable in their distinctive mask and robes. Aziraphale's senses sharpened as he recognized the Force signature accompanying the figure, a signature that stirred a memory. It was the young boy he had once plucked from afront the jaws of a dragon like predator some time ago.
A slow, predatory smile curled across Aziraphale's lips. The boy, now grown, was clearly no longer a mere Padawan but carried himself with the weight of experience—and perhaps, a touch of arrogance. Aziraphale masked his own Force signature effortlessly, cloaking his presence in the same shadowy subtlety that had served him so well in the past.
He couldn't resist the allure of tormenting a lost Jedi. After all, what better sport was there than unraveling the composure of someone who fancied themselves noble and untouchable? The last time they had crossed paths, the Keldor was just a wide-eyed apprentice, still wet behind the ears and clinging to idealistic Jedi platitudes.
Now, as Aziraphale watched from the cover of the swamp's gnarled roots and curling mist, he wondered just how much the boy had changed—and how far he could push him before those Jedi teachings began to crack.
Ko's every sense screamed danger as the mists coiled unnaturally, parting just enough to reveal a figure standing amidst the tangled roots of a gnarltree. Aziraphale. His silhouette was half-obscured, but the glint of his piercing gaze shone through the fog.
"My, my," Aziraphale drawled, his tone honeyed with mock concern.
"You look positively wretched, little Jedi. Lost, exhausted... ah, and ill-prepared for Dagobah's more unforgiving hospitality." He stepped closer, the mud barely making a sound beneath his careful stride. His voice carried a chilling steadiness, like a serpent offering a lullaby before the strike.
Aziraphale
