A fierce, red sun set over the vast expanse of the Doaba Badlands and cast irregular shadows across the black sands of Socorro. A hundred kilometers west of Vakeyya, the planetary capital, the dusk silence was interrupted by the engines of a YT-1300. Kicking up a cloud of sand and ash, the Kierra lifted off and slowly departed east toward the distant outline of the Rym Mountains.  

"Thanks for the ride, Ross!" Tabraile shouted into the comlink. He raised his arms and used his jacket to shield Anayera and himself from the thruster exhaust.

"Clear skies, kid," came the reply. The freighter banked sharply above the desert floor and sped away into the darkening horizon.

"He seemed nice enough. For a smuggler." Anayera covered her face beneath her hood until the dust settled. "Plays a ruthless hand of sabacc. You didn't stand a chance."

"Ross knew my father from way back. We were lucky to find him in Kor Bha'lir and catch a ride."

"What's a ke'dem?" she asked. "I heard the two of you talking in the cantina before we left Talus. "Whenever he said it, he would stare at me."

"Don't be offended." Embarrassed, Tabraile sighed and shook the sand from his collar. "It means condemned. It's an Old Corellian term for people like you."

"You mean people like us." She narrowed her eyes and glared at him.

"It's just a word, Ana." He tugged playfully at her dreadlocks and rolled them between his fingers. "Come on, this is my place. I think we both could use a shower, some grub, and a few hours of sleep." Tabraile looked down at the mouse droid at his feet. "Yes, RK-O, there's a charging station for you."

Half buried beneath the sand as insulation from the heat, the oblong living module and its outbuildings were weathered by exposure, but built sturdy to withstand the harshest elements of the desert. When the gray, exterior door slid open, a blast of wind took Tabraile's breath away and forced him to step back.

He instinctively threw his left forearm up to fend off the rapid strikes of a quarterstaff. Wielded in the hands of a figure dressed in faded red robes, the staff was a blur in the shadows. Anayera reached for her lightsaber, but the weapon only stuttered and sparked in her grasp.

"Ouch! Knock it off, you crazy, old fool!" Tabraile shouted at the shaman. "I've been home an hour, and I've already had my fill of you!"

"This is your grandfather? The Bronwen?" Anayera whispered demurely, standing behind Tabraile.

The old man lowered the staff, but stood vigilantly, guarding the doorway. A shaggy mane of silver dreadlocks complemented a beard that had grown to the middle of his chest. Though he was well into his later years, the smooth contours of his black face showed few wrinkles. "Marric?" He then stared at Anayera like he was appraising a ship for purchase. "And a girl?"

"She's with me."

"She's with you?" There was a menacing, unspoken accusation in the inquiry.

"She's with me, Elba!" Tabraile growled, angling to push passed the old man. "Quit with the interrogation!"

"She is ke'dem." Elba slammed his quarterstaff across the door to bar entry into the home. He stared intently at the hilt in Anayera's hand. "May I?" He held out his hand, and without question, as if in a trance, she gave it to him. Examining the blast-scored hilt, Elba shook it beside his ear and listened to the rattle of shattered rocks within the housing. "The lightsaber is a formidable weapon, but not without its flaws. Like the hands that wield them, they are not invincible."

"I'm not sure what to do about replacing the crystal," she said, the confession compelled from her lips. "My uncle kept such secrets to himself."

"The Empire demands something no Sith can give," Elba said.

"What is that?"

"Submission. True power lies in our obeisance to one mistress—the Force. Regardless of what side we choose to serve."

"That's enough, old man!" Tabraile tried to shove passed him, but with preternatural speed, the shaman intercepted him. The gnarled head of the quarterstaff soundly rapped him on the chin to silence further protests.

"From time to time, we are all lost ... either by choice or indecision," Elba said to Anayera. "We become ke'dem only when we choose to remain lost." He returned the damaged lightsaber to her.

"Leave her alone!" Tabraile shouted, holding a hand over his split lip.

"Tabraile, stop," Anayera said. She pushed passed him to the Bronwen. "How do I become un-lost?"

"Know your heart and its desire, and when the voice of the desert calls to you ... answer truthfully. Only then can you forge your own destiny." Wearing leather sandals, the shaman stepped outside and bowed respectfully from the waist. "Forgive my grandson's manners. He was raised in the Ibhaan'I traditions, but chooses not to acknowledge them."

"Uldyr," Tabraile swore, "here we go." Rolling his eyes, he spit into the sand.

"It was not my intention to startle you, child. I am Elba Tabraile." The shaman smiled kindly. "Doaba ol'val tru."

"Doesn't that mean goodbye?" Anayera asked.

"Socorrans have no such word," Elba said. "It is a greeting for family and friends ... and strangers who become friends ... and then family. You are?"

"Anayera Vannre."

"Welcome to my home."

"My home," Tabraile corrected. He wiped the back of his hand across his bloody lip. "My father left it to me. You're just a squatter." He massaged the bruise swelling at his chin. "Why don't you take a walk, old man? A long one."

"A good idea. I will hunt and find fresh fruits to cook for breakfast," Elba said. "There is no food worthy of a guest in the house. You've caught me unprepared. I shall rectify that." Using the staff as a trekking pole, the Bronwen turned toward the open desert and walked away from them into the darkness.

Taking Anayera by the arm, Tabraile led her inside the modest dwelling, through the living area, and into a narrow corridor to a small room. "Sorry, if he spooked you. Should have given you more warning. He's a little eccentric."

"He didn't frighten me at all," Anayera said. "He is a man of profound wisdom. You might try listening to him."

Tabraile rolled his eyes and pointed into the bedroom. "Fresher's in the back left corner. Sheets and blankets are in the cabinet."

Anayera glanced around the room. As it was underground, there were no windows. Amid holo-posters of starfighters and speederbikes, the walls were covered with the crude murals of animals drawn by a child's careful hands. "This is your room?"

"Yeah," he nodded, scratching the back of his head. "I'll sleep in my dad's room. It's down the hall on the left, if you need anything."

"Is your grandfather really going hunting? Tonight? In the dark?"

"He's a Bronwen," Tabraile said in contempt. "The desert is their only true home. He'll be fine." He gingerly touched his fingertips to his swollen lip.

"Is he the one who trained you and your brother?"

Tabraile clenched his jaw. "I come from a long line of Bronwen. On my father's side. Only my dad didn't follow in the family traditions and became a pirate. So Elba took it upon himself to mentor me and my brother."

"Where is your father?" Anayera asked. "Will I have a chance to meet him, too?"

"He's dead," the Socorran whispered. "Died a few days after my brother."

"Tabraile," she pleaded, "I didn't mean—"

"Folks around here say it was an accident. His ship collided with an asteroid, but I knew the truth." Tabraile stared at the floor. "He couldn't live with himself after what happened to Levv."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"He sent me a message ... three words: I'm so sorry. He didn't need to spell it out for me." Tabraile leaned against the inside of the door. "There should be some Socorran ravva in the nightstand and a glass. I suggest sipping until you get used to it, especially on an empty stomach. Might help you sleep though. You're going to need it."

"Why's that?" Anayera asked, answering his challenge.

"You're on Socorro now, Lady Vannre. Among smugglers and pirates. It's time for a real adventure. Doaba tru. Sleep tight.