Tiranae’sioth (Tirana e’Sioth)
(teer-AHN-eye-SEE-oth, or teer-AHN-ah ay-SEE-oth)
Tira for short
Age: 29
Species: Twi’lek (Subspecies: white?)
Pronouns: She/her
6’2" tall (187 cm)
Force Sensitive
The white twi’lek curled up in a messy foldout bed. Not a stone’s throw away from the captaining seat, nor a long walk from the cramped head on the stolen vessel. Her tattered, blood-stained coat crumpled and discarded in a wastebin, she wore the clothes of the Weequay that had been her master not forty eight hours prior - who now was surely going to die for what Tirana and her fellows did.
The blood was not solely hers - in fact, very little of it was hers. A fact that she knew painfully well.
Her father had taught her that the Force was something sacred, something good, that the Whill of the Force was to be honored - but that those filled with cruelty and hatred - darkness - worked against its Divine Whill.
Had she acted against the Divine Whill, yesterday? When she murdered a man while trying to render him unconscious so they could begin to escape? When she killed a man, filling him with suffering in his final moments, in a futile attempt to save her brother? When she did not accept that slavery was her lot in life? Or was this justice?
She could not know - she was no Jedi, she heard no whisper of the Force, save in the deepest of meditations. She knew only breath, and air. Not the Force.
“It should have been you,” Deliane’sioth had spat in her face, with vitriol metaphorical and blood literal, using his last breath to be cruel. But was it cruel? Was it… cruel, or was it true? Surely he knew what he was talking about - he was the eldest, the wisest of her brothers. Right?
Firithe’sioth had fallen in a hail of blaster bolts from guards shortly before, and he had never been kind to Tirana, laughing at the metal arm she gained from her own foolish attempt to grab something that was perhaps of value. He was always the one with the best vision - both in sight and in planning. The revolt was partially his brainchild, and the route was one he planned. Surely he should have survived. Right?
Zeladae’sioth was fast, bold, and he had defeated many of the guards in the process before he succumbed to the wounds inflicted by one of the men who he had slain. He had always been brilliant and daring, unwilling to slow himself for anyone. He worked harder than any three other slaves, because he believed he could work off his own wage and buy his freedom, trade his slavery for indenture. He was so full of hope… surely he should have survived. Right?
The first to die yesterday was Yunede’sioth, who was loud, and boisterous, as his name expected of him. Yuned drew attention after Tirana had bludgeoned the first guard so hard he stopped moving, and for that he was paid with a burn in his back and a quarrel passing through his chest, punching into the wall. He was strong, though. He could carry more than Tirana ever had been able to - he was a Twi’lek but as strong as some Wookiees. Surely he should have survived. Right?
There were going to be seven survivors on six ships - two to Coruscant, one to Tatooine, one to Taris, one to Alderaan, one to Manaan, one to Viscara. But Tualine’sioth demanded he not have to draw straws, that he be given the ship to go to Coruscant, alone, having to worry for none other. He always had been proud, declaring he would be like Calo Nord, slaughter his slavers and all those who came for him. Instead, he was like one of the hunters who came for Nord, falling to the ground with a simmering hole between tchin and tchun, courtesy of fellow slave Jate’nau Bes’bavar. But he had the drive, the passion, he knew what he wanted and how to get it. Surely he should have survived. Right?
But… even if… even if all those others had survived. Shiritale’sioth… he was not the strongest, proudest, boldest, smartest, loudest, but he was the least unkind, the most liked by all the other slaves. He was a gentle soul, even if not to Tirana, whom he used as his sole outlet for his pent up frustrations. He had the most beautiful voice, he made people happy - he would never let Tirana sing, but Shirital was a Tyrian, while she was a freak, so… that’s fine. It was his right, not hers. He would have become a legendary jizz vocalist, had he been the one to make it. Surely he should have survived. Right?
But instead it was Tiranae’sioth. Whose music lay inside. Whose skin was white, not purple, whose eyes were strange. She was the one who survived. The freak that not just was the wrong skin color, but didn’t even have the wearwithal to accept herself as man like her six elder brothers had. The one who, as soon as her father died, lost her arm, only for what little arm flesh could be salvaged to be turned into a mockery of a Twi’lek woman’s cones, rather than the ears that she and her brothers had. She had taken her father’s teachings more to heart than any of her other brothers - and that ingratiated her into his heart. But when he was struck and killed by a swoop bike in an illegal race… he died not knowing his dearest boy was his daughter.
Tirana was broken. She was on a ship she didn’t know how to fly, in a life she felt she did not deserve, feeling she had betrayed not just everyone she knew - save for the other five survivors - and now she was going to a planet she knew nothing about.
She prayed to the Force, she begged her father for guidance, she even called out to Kika’lekki, the white-skinned mother goddess of the Twi’lek people.
She heard nothing as she prayed, not even the soft clatter of Master Ghund’s utensils as they rose and fell from the meal-nook’s table, touched by no hand.
“Please,” she begged each in turn. “Please… let me understand why I was the one that survived. Please may it be the Whill of the Force. May it be the way it should be, not born of denial and hate.”
She was alone on the ship. No one could judge her here, she supposed. So she tried to sing a song that her father had once taught her. Shakily, but… well, her name was supposed to be a pun on ‘the music within.’ So maybe…
When you feel you’ve lost it all,
When you don’t know who’s your friend or foe,
You wonder why you’re so alone
Worry ends where faith begins.
Don’t be sad by what you see
It’s true, life has its miseries
But one thing’s always worked for me
Worry ends when faith begins
As the Czerka station above the planet drew closer, she shuddered, clinging tight to her faith in the Force, in her father. One day, she hoped, she may even have faith in herself.