Jovian Grey

Under Construction This page seems to be Under Construction. Watch out for large groups of Rebel fighters. After construction is complete, please place a note on the article's talk page and remove this message.

Jovian Grey
Biographical Information
Date of Birth:	20 ABY (age 23)
Physical Description
Species:	Twi'lek
Gender:	Male
Height:	1.9m
Weight:	220lbs
Hair:	None
Eyes:	Red Iris
Cybernetics:	None
Personal Information
Lightsaber Color(s):	Purple
Fighting Style(s):	Wrruushi
Chronology & Political Information
Profession:	None
Affiliation:	House Sunrider
Known masters:	Yuki Suoh
Dossier:	16853
[ Source ]

Jovian Grey is an Odanite padawan.

Character History

Jovian's striking appearance only reveals a fraction of his extraordinary life; his body tells a story through the intricate tattoos and scars etched into his skin. Hailing from a far-off world, he was born to a mother deeply entrenched in the interstellar trade. In his formative years, Jovian's perception of the universe revolved around servitude. Even in infancy, he was regarded as an adornment, often tethered to the individual he was meant to enhance. His unique crimson complexion and distinct features deemed him unfit for manual labour, leaving him at the mercy of those who sought to enlist his services.

At the tender age of 13, he was sold into servitude to a merchant destined to be bound to him for life. As a small Twi'lek, he trembled with fear while his mother, with a heavy heart, consented to his departure, choosing to erase his existence from her life. Left to spend his final night in solitude, he grappled with profound sadness and uncertainty. When the merchant arrived, he was captivated by Jovian's striking appearance. A sense of unease emanated from Jovian, compelling the merchant to flee, yet fear held him in place. The merchant enticed Jovian with the prospect of travelling to his planet without constraints, granting him the freedom to roam the ship at will.

Jovian, feeling unsteady, seized the opportunity to explore the ship, relishing the newfound freedom from the weight of a chain. As the ship descended, Jovian sensed a black bag being placed over his head. Memories flooded back of the steps he had taken and the dampness against his skin before a collar and shackles were fastened onto him. The shackles on his hands were then connected to a large ring around his neck, severely limiting his field of vision to the small space between his jewelled fingers. He was forced into a large cell, and when he removed the bag, he was greeted by absolute horror.

Male Twi’lek; Black, Blue and bloated, lay strewn around him, sharing his likeness. His horror could have echoed through the chamber and to the sky above. His wails and animalistic cries were greeted by the echoes of his suffering. For days at a time, he was forced to sit with these bodies with his hands, the only things to cradle his sobbing face. Between the days of horror, the merchant would send his men to tattoo Jovian; during this time, his hands were free but paralysed from fear.

Within the dim cell, the moonlight illuminated a face in the corner. While Jovian usually blocked the small window on the door, this time was different. As time passed, an echo started to emanate from the decaying face. "Jovian," it cried. There was a different darkness now emanating from it. Jovian was arrested “Obtain your freedom, they will be here tomorrow. Destroy them.” The face was different; a man with glowing blue eyes called to him. Jovian felt his body slide closer to the man standing in the corner “You know what you have to do. Destroy them.” He called out to Jovian. A scream echoed from his head, and he knew what he needed to do.

Jovian lived out the next three years in a life of planning; he began to notice the guards' routine, and a new power seemed to surge through him. Small applications of this power drug the bodies around the room… unfortunately, sometimes unleashing the foulness contained within them. One night, from what Jovian knew, was his sixteenth birthday. The guards came for Jovian and escorted him to the upper bedroom. He was extensively bathed and oiled in things that he had never smelt. This was a complete change from the environment that he spent his time in. Other servants dressed him in Nightsister armour and escorted him into the bedroom. Having practised coming in tune with the force, the voice came to him again: ‘You know what you have to do!’

The merchant was seated behind a grand oak desk positioned prominently in the centre of the lavishly decorated room. His gaze was fixed on Jovian as an unsettling sense of dread washed over the young man. With cautious steps, Jovian advanced towards the merchant. The merchant, realising his oversight, offered Jovian a "snack" as a peace offering, consisting of fresh air, a bath, and some food. Though Jovian was seething with anger, he managed to suppress his emotions, using them as a source of determination. The merchant beckoned Jovian closer until they were mere feet apart, their tension palpable in the air. The merchant looked at Jovian and asked for his forgiveness, suddenly, the man that Jovian saw stood behind the pair. Time seemed to slow as Jovian looked at this cloaked man ‘Jovian, are you so quick to give him forgiveness?’

Jovian seemed to fade out of consciousness. There was a warm sensation on his hand and a scream. He heard that in the cell, and when the darkness seemed to fade, the merchant's entrails were displayed in front of him. Jovian's hands shook as he fixed his gaze on the struggling merchant, his own breath coming in short gasps. It felt like an eternity as Jovian watched the man's desperate battle for air.. When he felt like life was nearly gone, Jovian started to stab him more, feeling the rage of the dark cell, a slave and an adornment. Being abandoned by his mother for credits, it all flowed out of him like a raging river. The cloaked man laughed as he faded away, leaving Jovian covered in the merchants' blood and a new freedom.

Early Life

Jovian’s early life was far removed from the opulence and objectification that would later define his years as an ornament. His childhood was spent in the heart of a nomadic Twi’lek community, traveling across harsh and desolate worlds. Born into a tight-knit family, his crimson skin made him stand out among his kind, and from an early age, he was often the subject of whispers and curious glances. His people revered beauty and grace, but his vibrant red hue, though rare, cast him as something of an oddity.

Despite this, Jovian’s youth was not devoid of joy. He was close to his mother, a strong and resilient woman who led their small group with a quiet authority. She taught him the importance of survival, of navigating the dangers that came with their transient lifestyle. His father, on the other hand, was a warrior—a protector who had seen many battles. Jovian idolized him, following in his footsteps whenever he could. His father would often take him on scouting missions, teaching him to move silently, to observe, and to defend himself. The lessons were practical but also served to shape Jovian’s view of the world—a place of constant danger, where trust had to be earned and rarely given.

In his early teens, Jovian discovered a natural talent for dance and acrobatics. His lithe frame allowed him to move with a fluidity that fascinated those around him. He would perform for his family and community during celebrations, often improvising to the rhythm of the drums and the hum of Twi’lek chants. There was freedom in movement, a rare joy in an otherwise stark existence, and for those brief moments, he felt untouchable.

But life in the nomadic Twi’lek community was never easy. Resources were scarce, and their group often found themselves at the mercy of larger, more powerful factions. When he was fourteen, a devastating attack by slavers shattered his world. They raided his village, tearing apart everything he had known. Jovian watched as his parents fought desperately to protect their people, but it was futile. His father fell in battle, his mother captured alongside many others.

Jovian, too young and too small to be of much use to the slavers as a laborer, was taken for a different purpose. His striking appearance, once a source of pride, now marked him as a valuable commodity. He was sold off to the highest bidder and thrown into a life of servitude. His captors quickly realized his beauty and grace could be exploited, and he was groomed into something far more degrading than a simple servant. He was transformed into an ornament, trained to entertain, to dazzle, and to submit.

It was in these early years of captivity that Jovian’s spirit began to harden. The boy who once danced for the joy of it now danced to survive, his every movement a mask to hide the growing rage inside him. The lessons his father had taught him—patience, observation, and survival—became more vital than ever. He learned to bide his time, to endure, all the while waiting for the moment when he could reclaim the freedom he had lost.

Though his early life was marked by both love and loss, it was these experiences that forged the foundation of who Jovian would become—a man driven by a quiet but unyielding strength, shaped as much by his heritage as by the chains that would later bind him.

Chains of Silk and Steel: The Merchants Grip

Jovian’s life with the merchant from Dathomir was one of constant tension, a bizarre dance between cruelty and rare moments of twisted kindness. The merchant, a hulking man with pale skin and dark, feral eyes, had purchased Jovian at an auction, outbidding several other eager buyers. He saw something in the young Twi’lek—perhaps it was the crimson skin, or the fluid grace that marked him as different—but whatever it was, it didn’t take long for Jovian to understand that this man viewed him not as a person, but as an investment.

The merchant, known simply as Varrek, hailed from Dathomir, a world known for its harsh wilderness and fierce warriors. Varrek embodied that cruelty, his demeanor cold and calculating. He rarely spoke to Jovian unless it was to give an order, and when he did, his voice carried the weight of expectation. To disobey meant punishment, swift and severe.

For the first few months, life was brutal. Jovian’s body still bore the scars of his capture, and Varrek had no patience for weakness. The mornings began before dawn, and Jovian was forced into a strict regimen of tasks: tending to the merchant’s collection of exotic goods, cleaning the transport ship, and, most humiliatingly, entertaining guests. Varrek’s clientele were wealthy and powerful, and they expected to be dazzled. Jovian was dressed in ornate, barely-there silks and commanded to perform his graceful dances for their amusement. He despised it, but his defiance was met with the merchant’s whip or worse, a long, drawn-out silence punctuated by icy glares that promised retribution later.

Yet, there were moments of strange reprieve.

Varrek, for all his cruelty, had a bizarre sense of possessiveness over Jovian. When he wasn’t showing him off to others, he would sometimes engage in unexpected moments of kindness that left the young Twi’lek confused and uneasy. It might be a plate of food richer than his usual rations or a new set of clothes—nothing too grand, but enough to suggest that Jovian’s survival was of some value to him.

Once, after a particularly grueling night where Jovian had been made to dance for hours without rest, he collapsed in exhaustion. Varrek said nothing as he watched him fall to his knees, his chest heaving from exertion. But instead of the expected blow or punishment, the merchant merely tossed a water flask at his feet.

“Get up when you can,” Varrek had said, his voice unusually quiet, almost detached. “You’re no use to me dead.”

Jovian had stared at the flask for a long moment before taking it, feeling the cool water trickle down his parched throat. It wasn’t an act of kindness, not really—Jovian understood that. Varrek was preserving his investment. But it was one of the rare instances when the merchant seemed almost human.

That duality haunted Jovian during his years with the merchant. One moment, he would be the cruel overseer, pushing Jovian beyond his limits, meting out harsh punishment for the smallest infraction. The next, he would offer a word of encouragement or a rare, almost paternal gesture—like when he once gave Jovian a small, intricately carved stone from Dathomir. “A good luck charm,” Varrek had said, his tone flat, though his eyes seemed to study Jovian with an intensity that made him uncomfortable.

Varrek’s cruelty, though ever-present, was not always physical. He knew how to wound Jovian with words, how to chip away at his spirit. When guests would praise Jovian’s beauty or grace, Varrek would lean in and murmur in his ear, “Remember, they’re not looking at you. They’re looking at what I’ve made of you.”

It was a reminder that, despite the fleeting moments of kindness, Jovian was never truly free. He was a possession, a tool for Varrek’s benefit, and that gnawed at his soul. Even as he grew stronger, learning to hide his pain behind a mask of grace and composure, he couldn’t shake the deep-seated rage simmering beneath the surface.

As time passed, Jovian began to understand Varrek’s motivations more clearly. The man thrived on control—over his wealth, his clientele, and, most importantly, over Jovian. The small acts of kindness weren’t out of compassion but were calculated moves to keep Jovian tethered to him, to make him doubt his hatred for the man. And for a while, it worked. There were days when Jovian caught himself softening toward Varrek, confusing survival instincts with gratitude. But then the cruelty would return, harsher than before, and any illusions of kindness would shatter.

The rare moments when Varrek wasn’t overseeing his every move, Jovian allowed himself to dream of escape. The merchant’s ship traveled to countless worlds, and Jovian memorized every exit, every vulnerable spot in the security systems. But there was always something stopping him—the chains of loyalty that Varrek had subtly wrapped around him with each act of conditional mercy.

One evening, after a successful trade on a remote planet, Varrek seemed in a better mood than usual. He allowed Jovian to share a meal with him—a rare occurrence—and they ate in silence. At one point, Varrek looked across the table and said, “You know, you could have had it worse.”

Jovian didn’t respond, his fingers clenching around his fork. He could feel the anger rising in his throat, but he swallowed it down, as he always did.

“I’ve given you something, haven’t I?” Varrek continued, his tone almost conversational. “A life better than what those other slaves face. You could be out there, broken and forgotten. But you’re here. You’re… something.”

It was that night, as Jovian lay awake in the cold quarters Varrek allowed him, that he realized fully what he had become. The merchant’s cruelty was not just in his punishments or harsh words—it was in his manipulation, in the way he made Jovian question his own worth, his own freedom.

But underneath the layers of submission and forced obedience, Jovian’s spirit was not broken. The rage he had carried since his capture still burned bright, and as the years went on, he fed it, waiting for the day when Varrek would finally misstep. The merchant thought he had control, thought he had tamed him. But Jovian was patient, learning every weakness, every flaw in the man’s armor.

For now, he played his role. But when the time came, he would remind Varrek that even the most beautiful ornaments could become dangerous weapons.

The Haunting from Within || The Bent-Neck Lady

After escaping the merchant’s grip, Jovian believed that his torment was behind him. The years of captivity, the indignity of being treated like a living artifact, the cruelty and the occasional twisted kindness—all of it was in the past. He had broken free. He had his body back, his choices. But as much as he tried to outrun it, the past had a way of lingering.

The freedom Jovian had fought so hard for now felt like a hollow victory. He moved from planet to planet, hiding from the life he once knew, trying to rebuild something resembling normalcy. Yet, no matter how far he traveled, no matter how much distance he put between himself and his former captor, there was something that followed him. It crept in at night when he was alone, during moments when he let his guard down. A presence.

It wasn’t physical, not like the chains or the punishments had been. This was deeper, lodged somewhere in his mind, a manifestation of something unresolved. She first appeared in the dark corners of his new home, barely a silhouette at first, barely a memory. The Bent-Neck Lady. He never called her that aloud, but in his mind, he knew what she was. Her presence wasn’t an accident. It was something far more insidious, a representation of the parts of himself that he had buried but never healed.

She would visit him at night, always in the same way. His mind would drift into uneasy sleep, and she would appear—a twisted, silent figure standing at the foot of his bed. Her head hung unnaturally to the side, neck bent at an impossible angle. Her eyes, always hidden behind matted hair, seemed to burn into his soul, even though he never truly saw them.

Jovian would wake in a sweat, his heart pounding in his chest, but the fear was never just of her appearance. It was what she represented. He understood, deep down, that the Bent-Neck Lady wasn’t just a ghost or a figment of his imagination. She was his past, his unresolved trauma, personified in this broken form.

During the day, Jovian could rationalise it away. He could tell himself that she wasn’t real, that the visions were nothing more than the echoes of too many sleepless nights. But at night, when the lights were out and the silence settled in, he felt her presence looming over him. She was his guilt, his pain, and the part of himself that still felt powerless despite his freedom.

Her visits grew more frequent, more oppressive. Sometimes she appeared even in his waking moments, always at the edge of his vision, like a shadow he couldn’t shake. His hands would tremble, his breath quicken, and he would feel the tightening in his chest, as though her bent neck was slowly wrapping itself around his throat.

In one dream, she finally spoke, her voice a raspy whisper that sent chills down his spine. “You’re still mine,” she said.

Jovian awoke in a panic, gasping for air. The words echoed in his mind for days, haunting him more than her silent visits ever had. It was true, wasn’t it? He had escaped the physical chains of the merchant, but the mental ones still held him. She wasn’t wrong—he was still trapped, still owned by the trauma that had defined so much of his life.

Jovian tried everything to rid himself of her presence. He avoided sleep, threw himself into work, traveled constantly, but the Bent-Neck Lady was relentless. It wasn’t until one night, after waking from yet another nightmare, that he realized something important: she wasn’t there to torment him. She was there because he had refused to face the full extent of his trauma. The more he ran from it, the stronger she became.

The Bent-Neck Lady was the embodiment of the boy he had once been—the one who had been sold, objectified, and broken. Her neck, twisted and bent, represented his own sense of distortion, the way he had been shaped by others, molded into something he never wanted to be. She was the part of himself that had been silenced for too long, screaming for recognition.

Jovian sat up in bed that night, breathing heavily, staring at the shadowy form in the corner of his room. She was there, as always, head tilted at that horrible angle. But this time, he didn’t look away. He didn’t try to escape her. Instead, he faced her head-on, his heart pounding not from fear, but from determination.

“You’re not real,” he said, his voice shaking. “You’re a part of me. You always have been.”

The Bent-Neck Lady didn’t move, but something shifted in the air. Jovian stood, his legs unsteady beneath him, and walked toward her. Each step felt like wading through thick fog, his mind and body both resisting the confrontation. But he kept moving, forcing himself to confront the shadow that had haunted him for so long.

When he finally stood face to face with her, he reached out a trembling hand. He wasn’t sure what he expected—cold skin, an empty void, perhaps nothing at all—but when his fingers brushed against her form, he felt… warmth. Human warmth. He drew in a sharp breath, and for the first time, the Bent-Neck Lady raised her head.

Her face was his.

The sight hit him like a punch to the gut. He stumbled back, breathless, as the realization settled in. The Bent-Neck Lady wasn’t just some abstract representation of his trauma. She was him—the boy he had been, the version of himself that had been broken and forgotten. She was the part of him that had been twisted by years of servitude, by the cruelty of the merchant, by the feeling of being less than human.

Jovian’s legs gave out, and he collapsed onto the floor, staring at the figure that now looked back at him with his own eyes. For the first time in years, he wept. The tears came in a flood, a release he hadn’t allowed himself for so long. And as he cried, the Bent-Neck Lady began to dissolve, her form fading into the shadows, piece by piece, until she was gone.

But she hadn’t disappeared. Not really. Jovian understood now that she was part of him, always had been. She was the trauma he had never fully acknowledged, the pain he had tried to bury. But now, he had faced her. He had faced himself.

In the days that followed, Jovian found himself lighter, though the scars of his past still ached. He knew the Bent-Neck Lady might return, but her visits would be different now. She wasn’t his enemy, nor was she a ghost to be feared. She was a reminder—a reminder of where he had come from and how far he had come. And as he moved forward, Jovian understood that he would never truly be free of his past, but he no longer had to be haunted by it.

The Knighting :  : First Hand Account

I remember every step I took across the courtyard, the echo of my boots striking stone reverberating in my mind. The Jensaarai had gathered at dusk in a wide circle—Knights, Consulars, and Acolytes alike—lit by the flicker of torches that formed a ring of dancing shadows. My lekku twitched with anticipation. Though I had faced countless drills, illusions, and moments of self-doubt, this was to be my defining moment: the culmination of years of learning and sacrifice.

At the far side stood the Council, their armor reflecting orange firelight. I saw Master Calis’tor among them, her posture calm yet expectant. She had been my mentor through each trial—she had witnessed my failures and my triumphs. Despite my swirling anxiety, a steady warmth bloomed in my chest when I caught her eye. In that look, she conveyed the same, unspoken encouragement she had given me since the day I arrived at the Temple.

Preparing for the Ceremony We had practiced for the knighting rite in principle—learning the histories of our Order, memorizing the vows, and understanding the solemn gravity of the Jensaarai tradition. But no amount of study prepared me for the raw feeling surging in my veins that night. My heart hammered loud enough that I swore everyone could hear.

I kept recalling the trials that led me here:

The Test of the Blade: facing two seasoned Jensaarai Knights, each skilled at weaving the Force into their lightsaber forms. I had sparred until my arms went numb, harnessing the flow of the Force to keep pace with their coordinated attacks. When they finally bowed and deactivated their sabers, I struggled to hide the tears of relief mixing with sweat on my brow.

The Chamber of Night: descending alone into darkness, confronted by illusions dredged from my deepest fears and most painful memories. My father’s voice echoed through the gloom, condemning me for every perceived failing. Old wounds I’d tried to bury flared open. Yet, I clung to the serenity I’d learned from the Jensaarai teachings, gathering enough courage to dispel the phantoms. When I emerged, my nerves were frayed, but I had survived the worst my mind could conjure.

Live Combat Against Intruders: an unexpected assault on the Temple had demanded more than simple training. Mercenaries had breached our outer perimeter with disruptor rifles, intending to ransack our archives. My adrenaline soared as I defended my fellow Jensaarai, lightsaber blazing. That real test of resolve proved to the Council I could rise to my responsibilities even when faced with genuine danger.

Recalling these moments, I inhaled. This ceremony—my knighting—was a testament that I’d overcome all of it.

Stepping Onto the Dais A hush fell over the assembly as Denvar Tarren, one of the most senior Council members, stepped forward. The scar beneath his eye caught the torchlight, giving him a fearsome yet regal air. “Jovian Grey,” he pronounced, his voice carrying in the still night, “by the will of the Council, and in accordance with the Jensaarai’s ancient rites, you stand ready to be named Templar. Kneel and receive this honor.”

My legs felt oddly heavy, but I forced them to move. I went down on one knee at the center of the circle. The stone was cool beneath me, and for a moment, I focused on that small, grounding detail to calm my racing pulse. The flames around us crackled, and the onlookers seemed to hold their breath.

Master Calis’tor approached, her robes softly brushing the ground. In her hands rested a newly forged helmet—sleek metal shaped in an elegant, curved design. The visor was tinted a dark green, giving it an otherworldly silhouette. I realized then that this helmet, once placed upon me, would mark me fully as a Jensaarai Templar.

The Vows Denvar Tarren spoke again, reciting lines that have echoed through Jensaarai history:

“We walk the path between Light and Dark, honoring both the truth of compassion and the necessity of strength. We bind ourselves to protect knowledge from those who would misuse it and to defend the innocent from those who would oppress them. Do you, Jovian Grey, vow to uphold these tenets, even at the cost of your own comfort or safety?”

My throat felt dry. Yet, the commitment I’d already made in my heart flared, and I lifted my gaze to meet his eyes. “I do.”

He nodded gravely. “Then in the eyes of the Jensaarai, you stand ready to serve and safeguard. Let your spirit merge with our Order and your actions embody our code.”

Receiving the Helmet Master Calis’tor handed the helmet to Denvar, who carefully positioned it before me. Its surface gleamed under the torchlight. A thousand thoughts raced through my head—memories of harsh training sessions, the quiet moments after nightmares, the day I first ignited my lightsaber in earnest. My hands trembled with anticipation as I reached out to accept it.

The metal felt oddly warm, as though it carried the collective energy of all Jensaarai who had come before me. I bowed my head, allowing Denvar to guide the helmet over my lekku. Once in place, the interior fit snugly around my skull, and the visor tinted the torchlit courtyard in a faint green hue.

A subtle hum of the heads-up display flickered along the rim, signifying that it recognized my life signs. The moment the helmet clicked into its seal, I felt a surge in the Force, as if every Jensaarai present extended a moment of camaraderie.

“In the name of the Jensaarai Council,” Denvar intoned, “arise, Templar Jovian Grey.”

I rose to my feet, heart pounding. Cheers and applause erupted from the gathered knights. The sound washed over me in a wave of exhilaration. Through the visor, the night’s colors took on a richer hue—purples, oranges, and the flare of torches against polished armor.

Removing the helmet for a moment, I stood there, blinking at the once-familiar courtyard that suddenly felt new. Knights clapped me on the shoulders, congratulating me. A few old friends grinned and offered jokes about how I looked more imposing than ever. Initiates looked on with awe, perhaps imagining their own future moment on the dais.

Calis’tor embraced me briefly, whispering, “Well done, my Padawan… Templar.” Pride shone in her eyes, mingled with the calm strength that had always defined her. In that embrace, I felt not just the relief of finishing a journey, but the weight of new expectations settling on my shoulders.

The Jensaarai seldom swore oaths lightly. Becoming a Templar meant continual growth—learning to balance Light and Dark in ways the galaxy might misunderstand or fear. I glanced down at the helmet in my hands, an unmistakable emblem of both power and duty. Part of me felt an undercurrent of fear: Would I be enough? Could I truly live up to this station?

But even that fear was tempered by the unwavering support of those around me. If there was one thing the trials had taught me, it was that I had enough resolve to face my shortcomings head-on.

Now, I stand at the precipice of this new life, with the crisp night wind stirring my robes and the helmet tucked under my arm. The cheers have died down, replaced by the glow of camaraderie among the Jensaarai. My gaze drifts across the courtyard, lingering on the banners that ripple softly in the breeze, each marked by symbols that represent the melding of Light and Dark.

A solemn thrill courses through me. I’m not who I once was—no longer a frightened Twi’lek child hounded by old traumas, but a Jensaarai Templar entrusted with the defense of knowledge and the bridging of opposites. In the days to come, I’ll be tested further—by enemies, by the balance we strive to maintain, and by the eternal challenge of living with integrity.

Tonight, though, I savor this moment. The sky above is clear and strewn with stars. My senses remain alert to the subtle waves of the Force. And for the first time, I feel the hush of triumph and belonging settling in my bones. I am Jovian Grey, Templar of the Jensaarai—eager and ready for whatever fate has in store.

Malken Qoss - Between Duty and Desire

Jovian Grey felt his pulse jitter as he guided his small scouting vessel past the chaotic halo of ionized debris surrounding the star known locally as Korow’s Flame. The star’s unusual electromagnetic field reportedly scrambled most modern sensor arrays, leaving any who approached reliant on old-fashioned, “vintage” scanning equipment—or, in the case of those with hyperspace capabilities, forced to navigate by gut instinct.

He’d come prepared: a battered sensor module installed at his ship’s stern that predated the Empire. While it hummed and clacked in archaic patterns, it gave Jovian a rough read of the swirling cosmic energy. He almost missed the faint glimmer that was The Comet’s Edge, tucked behind an asteroid’s silhouette where the star’s radiation messed with newer tech but left older systems largely functional. The result: Malken Qoss had effectively cloaked his ship in Korow’s shadow, evading nearly all official or underworld eyes.

The Jensaarai Templar took a steadying breath. He had skirted detection himself by taking a circuitous route into this stellar labyrinth. The moment he neared the asteroids, a patch of emptiness resolved into the shape of a YT-series freighter shimmering with half-activated cloaking tech, set to mask most hull readings. Anyone scanning the region with standard sensors would see nothing but solar interference.

“Always one step ahead,” Jovian murmured, both impressed and slightly unnerved. If the Jensaarai discovered he was involved in these hush-hush meetings… But he banished the worry. Duty or no, the star’s veil allowed him a rare window of closeness with Malken Qoss—something he’d craved more than he cared to admit.

Just beyond the star’s electromagnetic horizon, an improvised docking tube extended from The Comet’s Edge. Jovian used manual controls—his own “vintage” style approach—to align and lock down, the hiss of pressurization validating a secure seal.

The airlock slid open, revealing Malken Qoss in the dim corridor beyond. His towering height and broad-shouldered frame struck the same confident impression as always, accentuated by a fitted shirt showcasing his defined upper body. When he lifted his head, the overhead glow caught the angles of his strong jawline, highlighting a neatly trimmed beard that gave him a borderline roguish polish.

“Took you long enough,” Malken teased. His warm brown eyes sparkled with amusement. “I was beginning to think you’d lost your nerve in that cosmic junkyard out there.”

Jovian popped off his helmet, letting his lekku breathe. “Blame your cloak and the star’s scramble. Didn’t want to crash into your hull.”

A short laugh rumbled from Malken, who motioned for Jovian to follow him deeper inside. As the airlock sealed, the advanced cloaking technology resumed full stealth mode, leaving The Comet’s Edge invisible to prying eyes.

They navigated cramped corridors bathed in faint, amber lights. The ship’s interior felt both lived-in and meticulously upgraded—secret compartments hidden behind battered plating, cables snaking overhead, and half-buried signal dampeners. Finally, they reached a small berth near the center of the freighter, where Malken’s vintage sensor arrays offered a clearer feed than any modern rig hopelessly scrambled by Korow’s Flame.

Malken shrugged off his jacket, revealing the powerful arms beneath. “Just had these rewired so we can keep an eye on anyone approaching,” he explained, patting a nearby console. “But so far, no visitors. Looks like we’re safe.”

Jovian smiled—a rare, unguarded expression. “Safe enough,” he agreed quietly. Only the droning hum of engine thrusters and a faint beep from a status monitor shared the moment with them.

That sense of privacy was all the encouragement Malken needed. He took two strides forward, cupped Jovian’s chin, and brushed his thumb across a thin line of tension at the corner of Jovian’s mouth. “I missed you, Templar Grey,” he said in a low voice.

Jovian’s stomach fluttered at Malken’s gentle reassurance. “Likewise,” he managed. Then he set his helmet on a workbench, letting out a shaky breath as he slipped the Templar pauldron from his shoulder.

At once, Malken stepped closer, bridging any remaining gap. His bright, easy smile softened into something more intimate. Jovian inhaled the faint scent of the smuggler’s cologne, tinged with the metallic tang of the freighter’s recycled air. He reached up, fingertips tracing the lines of Malken’s strong jaw, marveling at how each stroke seemed to melt his own apprehension.

When they finally kissed, it felt like releasing a dam of unspoken tension—an act of relief and longing. Jovian looped his arms around Malken’s neck, the difference in their heights more pronounced as he pressed against the smuggler’s broad chest. Malken’s hold tightened, powerful arms guiding Jovian closer, until they were all but fused in the narrow berth.

Breaths mingled in the dim haze. The gentle brush of lips escalated into a deeper exchange, muffled gasps and half-formed sighs peppering the air. Time dissolved into the thrum of the engines, the hum of cloaking systems, and the star’s electromagnetic interference that kept them hidden.

They stayed mindful not to lose themselves fully—gear and clothes shifted only enough to indulge fleeting contact, a hush of heat between them. Each gentle pass of Malken’s hand across Jovian’s back reminded him why he risked so much for these rendezvous. In these moments, status and secrecy slipped away, replaced by a raw, mutual desire.

When they finally paused, foreheads touching, their chests rose and fell in time. Malken loosened his grip, sliding a hand down Jovian’s arm, a silent question in his gaze: Are you all right?

Jovian’s answer came in a soft laugh, leaning back just enough to see Malken’s expression clearly. “I am now,” he murmured. “Though I can’t stay long. The Jensaarai need me back.”

Malken nodded, his warm brown eyes flicking with empathy. “I get it. I’m pushing my luck hiding behind this star as is. Only reason it works is that half my drive systems are old enough to outsmart the scramble.”

He gestured to a view-holo that displayed the swirling cosmic chaos outside—asteroids drifting through solar flares, new sensor data glitching to black. “No one in their right mind should approach this mess. Except for you, apparently.”

Jovian tugged his lip in a half-smile, recalling the labyrinthine flight path that had led him here. “Some things are worth the trouble.”

A flicker of wry amusement curved Malken’s mouth. He snagged a small towel from a supply crate and offered it to Jovian, a faint flush still coloring both their skin. “We’d better tidy up. I can drop you near that series of asteroids on your way out if you like.”

Soon after, they found themselves in the ship’s small corridor once more, adjusting gear, reacquainting themselves with the sober reality outside their stolen haven. The corridor’s overhead lights seemed brighter now, the hush of their intimacy replaced by the practical necessity of leaving no trace.

“Thank you,” Jovian said quietly, checking that his Templar pauldron was reattached and helmet sealed. “For the cloak, the older modules… everything. I—just appreciate it.”

Malken clasped Jovian’s shoulder—an act that spoke volumes of camaraderie and lingering affection. “We do what we must,” he replied. “I’ll rotate behind those next asteroids, so your launch vector to hyperspace stays masked. No one’ll be the wiser.”

He paused, then let himself dip into one last, lingering kiss that tasted faintly of parted regrets. Pulling away, he offered a confident wink. “Until next time, Templar Grey.”

Jovian’s heart pounded. “Until next time,” he echoed, stepping back into the improvised airlock.

Moments later, the docking clamp released with a soft clunk, and Jovian’s scouting vessel drifted from The Comet’s Edge. Outside, the star’s fierce energy flares flickered like a cosmic curtain. Malken’s freighter shimmered in partial cloak, steadily repositioning behind a larger asteroid, older drives humming in quiet synergy with the star’s interference.

Firing his sublights, Jovian steered away, setting a discreet exit route. Although the meeting was over, the memory of Malken’s strength and the heat of their stolen closeness stayed imprinted on his mind—a beacon of warmth in a galaxy that too often demanded unwavering stoicism.

He kicked his own vintage sensor module to maximum range, confident no prying eyes had followed him into Korow’s blazing shadow. Soon, he’d be back among the Jensaarai, carrying out the solemn duties of a newly knighted Templar. But for now, the star’s veil and Malken’s cunning provided a fleeting sanctuary where he was free to feel—yearn—without judgment.

And in those hidden moments, he discovered a fleeting solace that refused to vanish, even as he slipped back into the galaxy’s unrelenting light.

A Reunion Shrouded in Starlight -- Malken pt.2

Jovian Grey guided his scout craft through an isolated region of swirling cosmic dust, where opalescent fragments drifted like embers in a silent cosmos. He felt a magnetic pull at his core, an unspoken directive leading him to the old YT-freighter resting in this astral hush. Each star-laced swirl mirrored the unbridled longing that thrummed in his chest.

He docked with a soft clang. The airlock hissed open onto a corridor lit in low gold, every step drawing him further from the galaxy’s demands and deeper into a secret domain. At the far end stood Malken Qoss—tall, broad-shouldered, his posture exuding a quiet self-assurance that calmed Jovian’s pounding heart. No words were spoken; their gazes locked in a silent vow. Together, they disappeared into the freighter’s cramped cabin, sealing the door behind them.

In the hush of that small space, only a single overhead lamp cast elongated shadows across the walls. Jovian set aside his Templar helmet and let Malken help him remove piece after piece of armor. Each metal clasp surrendered as if it were part of a meticulously performed rite. The metallic chime of every plate hitting the floor rang like a muted bell, reverberating with each breath they shared.

Malken slipped out of his jacket next, revealing defined arms and a chest that spoke of countless hours hauling contraband or evading patrols. Freed of official trappings, the two pressed close, exchanging a trembling sigh. It was a communion of skin, a hush too reverent for speech. Outside, the star-laced nebula glimmered, and for an instant, the cosmic swirl beyond the porthole felt like an immense congregation paying homage to their union.

Their hands roamed in slow, deliberate arcs, learning each other all over again. Any attempt to measure time evaporated in the face of raw closeness—kisses that expanded from hesitant to fervent, a gentle friction of bodies translating desire into something akin to worship. Jovian’s lekku twitched under Malken’s careful touch, sending waves of warmth through his every nerve.

An electric hush prevailed. They moved with almost ritualistic purpose, breathing as one entity, hearts pounding in unison. The world outside could have ended, and they would not have known. Their shared fervor ascended to a near-religious pitch—an ecstasy gleaned from unveiling the darkest, most secret parts of themselves to each other, finding solace and exaltation there.

Hours glided past unheeded. No console beeped. No urgent crisis intruded. The dim cabin light flickered occasionally, hinting at the time they had spent entwined. Each flicker reminded them how precious every second was. Yet they refused to be rushed; they lingered, hands mapping each other’s skin as though committing each curve and plane to memory.

Their mutual devotion crescendoed in the hush, forging a bond that transcended typical romance. It felt ancient, primal—a vow of blood and breath, more potent than any vow of silence or mystic oath Jovian had sworn. Malken’s arms encircled him, pulling him close on the narrow bunk, a final confirmation that this closeness was as vital as air.

Eventually, they surfaced from that spellbound state, noticing the lamp’s subdued flicker and the shift in the cabin’s temperature. Both men realized they had remained far longer than safety or duty might allow, yet neither stirred immediately. They lingered face to face, exchanging quiet, lingering kisses that tasted of gratitude and reluctant farewell.

“I should… return soon,” Jovian finally whispered, voice rough from passion and disuse.

Malken dipped his head, pressing one last slow kiss to Jovian’s temple. “I know,” he murmured, regret lacing his tone. “I don’t want this to end.”

In the hazy aftermath of intimacy, they rose together, dressing in the same unhurried way they had shed clothes before. Jovian reattached his Templar plating with Malken’s help, each armor piece returning him to his other identity—a Jensaarai guardian. Yet something of this sacred union glowed behind his eyes, never to be forgotten.

When they stepped into the corridor, the freighter’s lights felt unbearably bright. The hum of the engines reclaimed a practical edge, reminding them that reality awaited. Malken escorted Jovian to the airlock with slow, measured steps, as though each footfall might buy them one more moment of unbroken devotion.

At the threshold, they paused, foreheads pressing together in the stillness. Neither spoke, but they conveyed a thousand silent promises in that contact. Eventually, Jovian withdrew, the ache of leaving made bearable only by the memory of how powerfully they had joined.

Back in his scout vessel, Jovian guided the craft away, the nebula’s swirling lights reflecting in his visor. Despite the galaxy’s calling, an ember of that near-religious ecstasy still burned in his core. In Malken’s arms, he had tasted a private liturgy, a hymn of raw love and devotion that no outside threat could extinguish. It was, in its own way, a testament to the intensity they shared—pagan in its fervor, and poetry in its expression.

Physical Description

Jovian is a striking and unforgettable figure, a male Twi’lek with a unique and unsettling appearance shaped by both his alien heritage and his traumatic experiences. His skin, a vivid crimson, stands out among his kind, a hue that only deepens the alien mystique surrounding him. His long, elegant lekku — the head-tails of his species — drape over his shoulders, now adorned with intricate, dark tattoos. These tattoos wind across his skin in complex patterns, each telling a part of his painful story, their sharp lines and curves contrasting with the occasional jagged scar that runs through them, testaments to the violence he endured.

His physique is lean but well-defined, a reflection of both his malnourishment during years of captivity and the latent strength he cultivated in secret. His limbs are graceful, yet his movements hold a weight of caution and intensity, as though every action is meticulously calculated. His hands, delicate yet scarred, seem at odds with the violence they’ve inflicted, each finger decorated with intricate jewel-like tattoos that harken back to the time when he was seen only as an ornament.

Jovian’s face is a masterpiece of beauty marred by suffering. His features are sharp and angular, giving him a regal appearance, but his eyes tell another story entirely. They are a piercing shade of deep red, often glowing faintly as if some dark power burns within him. His gaze is haunted, shadowed by the horrors he’s witnessed, yet there’s a fire of determination and a deep-seated anger simmering just beneath the surface. His lips, full and expressive, are often set in a grim line, betraying the weight of the memories he carries.

The scars on his body aren’t just physical; they are emotional, etched into his posture and the way he holds himself—always on guard, always prepared for the next betrayal or attack.

Jovian now dons a suit of dark, ceremonial armor made from a sleek, obsidian-like metal, reflecting both his transformation and newfound power. The armour is lightweight yet impossibly strong, designed to allow him freedom of movement while offering protection. Its surface is polished to a near-mirror finish, but subtle engravings run along the edges.

Around his waist, a dark, flowing cloak is fastened, lined with a rich, midnight-blue fabric that billows behind him as he walks. The cloak’s hem is tattered, bearing the marks of countless battles, but it adds to his ominous presence. At the centre of his chest, a strange, glowing insignia pulses faintly with power, a mark from the force that now flows through him.

The entire ensemble exudes both authority and mystery, making Jovian appear as though he is no longer a mere servant or ornament but a force to be reckoned with—a living embodiment of his dark past and the power he has seized.

Every aspect of Jovian’s appearance speaks to a life of torment, rebellion, and survival. He is both beautiful and terrifying, a living paradox of elegance and brutality.