You hold in your hands a series of scrolls, lovingly painted with Mirialan caligraphy. The brush work and illumination are painstaking, representing months or even years of work. Within, there seems to be the life and beliefs of a Force Sensitive priest.
Once, there was a boy. He was not born to grandeur, to knowledge. He was born in a desert, where the cold wind stirred pink and green dust and elder priests augured the patterns. When he was born, pink and green blew across one another – their fingers entwining and pulling taught. They knew that he was to be a priest, and so he spent his earliest days at the great academies of Mirial elbow-deep in the ancient sutras of his people.
The sutras opened his eyes, and he began to perceive Fate as only the Readers could. It was the first time he noticed that Fate seemed to settle over the world like a second skin, another more subtle, ineffable space just beyond his vision. He caught the attention of an old knight, distant from his Jedi Order and its Council, returned to study the ways of his people after growing disillusioned during the Mandalorian Wars. He saw that the boy had a clear view of the Force.
The boy began a study under the first, a secondary and deeper study into the ways of the Force. He was told of the Jedi, of the Light and the Dark, of how the Galaxy beyond the deserts of Mirial saw Fate. He studied dutifully, and for the first time he truly knew the meaning of faith. There was one way, one truth – and he would pursue it to the ends of the Galaxy. All that was hidden from him was the light of truth, his master’s lightsaber, refused to him. He wouldn’t make another Exar Kun. The boy would read Fate, he would never seek to cut its strands.
The boy studied without complaint, delving into the deeper mysteries. The One Way, as he had believed, was his to follow. He turned his mind away from its deeper nature, its darker instincts, and focused on channeling the truth. Peace. Serenity. Truth. There was only one path forward, wholeness. The Force is All, the Light is all. Nothing would dissuade him.
Then, he was broken. The Jedi Revanchist crusade against the Mandalorians began. The boy’s teacher, never a great fan of the Jedi Council, believed that it was Fate. The boy refused to see it. He had been forbidden to learn battle, had turned away from the warrior traditions of his people. It was not Peace. They quarreled, and in a rare turn, the student was abandoned by the Master rather than the other way around. Revan would never know how he shattered the boy.
He was not born to grandeur, to knowledge. He was shattered, he was broken. All he had left was Fate. He turned to the teachings of his people, following the way his Master had left. He had never worn the title of Jedi, Padawan, yet still he had held them in his heart and turned his back on them. It was not until the boy was a man, that Fate finally showed him the means of finding wholeness again, showed him a lonely planet within its tides. It showed him Viscara.