A few days have passed and the novelty of space travel has long worn off among your friends. All you have now is gossip, riddles, and word games to entertain yourselves, and even that is getting boring. Of course, Master Fulier highly recommends meditation to pass the time, but even that gets boring despite all the topics you can meditate on. It’s especially boring for your friends, most of which have even less patience than you.

After hours of complaining, Master Fulier has finally had enough and has organized a meeting to restore order and sanity to the group. You’re starting to feel pity for him for being the only adult onboard who actively has to deal with you all. The pilots stick to the cockpit and their quarters in order to avoid their cargo of troublesome children.

And so, you slip into the common room just behind Nyine. Everyone else is already here, many of whom are snacking on the spare food that Master Fulier has brought out for the occasion. Glancing around, you find that all of the furniture is occupied so you decide to take a seat on the floor.

The lights dim as Master Fulier clears his throat, hand on the control interface.

“Welcome, Younglings. I am sure you are all wondering why I have called you here today.”

You shake your head at this, already unamused by his antics. Ignoring everyone’s looks of apathy, he continues in his grand monologue.

“Well. Well, well, well. You are here to be participants in the first annual storytelling tournament! Each one of us will do their best to tell a story following a common theme. Whoever tells the best story wins!”

“Wins what?”

“Satisfaction.”

At the chorus of boos, Master Fulier only smiles.

“The satisfaction of not having to clean the ‘fresher for the next two weeks. How does that sound?”

Of course, now he has everyone’s attention. He dims the lights even lower, just to the point where shapes become indistinct for a baseline human. Or, that’s what Doran tells you later when you find him clutching his shin after bashing it into a low table. You, on the other hand, are still able to see perfectly fine with your unique eyes, and thus have no excuse when you bump into things anyways.

Stupid table.

“Alright, who wants to go first? Xena? Is that a hand I see?”

“No, sir.”

“Too bad. You’re up first! The theme for today will be scary stories. Go!”

≡][≡ ⬦⬦⬦ ≡][≡

Er, okay…

I heard this story several months ago from one of the visiting Knights. I was studying in the Archives when he saw the title of the book I was reading. It was about the history of the Temple Archive itself, detailing everything from the political disputes about what sort of texts it should hold to the decisions behind architectural designs. The Knight I met — I forget his name — told me that this was one of his own favorite stories when he was growing up in the Temple, and that it has been passed down for generations among Initiates. This is the story he told me.

Long ago, when the Temple was still under construction, before even Master Yoda was a Youngling, there was a young boy who wished to adventure among the stars. This boy was a fledgling Jedi, much like you, who had eyes only for the books that he loved. And the books that he loved the most were the ones of grand journeys to space.

The boy would often beg his Masters to allow him to accompany them on their travels, not for the sake of being a Jedi, but purely for the opportunity to travel to the heavens above. All he wanted was to see the sights his books described. See them and experience for himself the wonders of spaceflight. And of course, he was always denied.

One day, the boy, weary from a day of training, and crestfallen once again from another rejection, came upon a strange, uniformed man wandering through the Temple. Surprised at the sight of an intruder, the boy stood back for a moment, just watching as the man strode past him and down the hall.

As the man passed out of sight, the boy shook himself, wondering who it was who had the gall to trespass so deeply within the Jedis’ domain. Then, he realized with a gasp, that the man was wearing a naval uniform! A pilot? Maybe a captain? Maybe his way to space!

The boy rushed after the man, turning the corner just to catch a glimpse of the man entering the Archives. The boy raced down the hall as he made to catch up with him and burst through the doorway the man had just entered.

But there was nobody there.

The Archives were empty of life. Only rows of reading material could be seen. The boy wouldn’t give up though. Perhaps the man was simply just behind one of the shelves? And so, he ran up and down the aisles, hoping that the man would be right around the next corner. But then, he realized something. Something… unnatural.

He had been running down the same aisle for a while now. As he looked ahead, the shelves around him kept going on and on. Whipping around, he only saw the same thing. Except, no. It wasn’t the same. In the far distance, far back where he came from, the lights were darkening. One by one, the lights in the ceiling and the ambient shine of the texts on the shelves were dimming, plunging the aisle into gloom.

Something was approaching. Something ominous. Something that he certainly didn’t want to see.

And so he turned and ran. The boy ran and ran, glancing behind him occasionally, only to see that the pace of the wall of darkness behind him would never fall behind. All he could do was keep running.

As he moved, his heart pounded within his chest, his breath catching in his throat as he choked out sobs. Around him, the world became whiter and whiter as mist began to pour through the cracks between shelves.

He kept running, feet kicking up swirls of the mist behind him, but he was tiring. His breath grew more and more ragged with every step. His legs blazed in pain. He was losing hope.

Looking back once again, he saw that the darkness was almost upon him, a mere ten meters away. But turning was a mistake for it was at this moment that he tripped! Sprawling onto the floor, he moaned in pain and despair, staring back as the darkness kept approaching.

But there was something there, lying on the floor. The thing that he tripped over!

A book.

A story of space. A story of adventure. A story of hope.

And as he closed his eyes, the darkness finally overcame him.

The last thing he heard was the roar of starship engines. And then, he was no more.

So if you are ever wandering the halls of the Archives and you see a book of starships lying on the floor, be wary. Carefully step over it and don’t look back, for it is said that you may see the silhouette of a boy, beckoning you over.

≡][≡ ⬦⬦⬦ ≡][≡

You sit back, silence filling the room. You’re not really sure how well that was received, but you are happy that your turn is out of the way. Perhaps you’d see more impact if you’d told this story within the Archives. Oh well.

Master Fulier stands back up, clapping his hands together and startling the other Younglings out of their thoughts.

“That was very well done, Xena! How about we go clockwise? So that means… Nyine! You’re up next.”

Nyine is silent for a minute, then straightens up and begins.

≡][≡ ⬦⬦⬦ ≡][≡

What would you say if I told you that on every civilized planet, beneath the trappings of civilization, under every city of the Republic, is a sleeping menace? This is a story from a Knight who once ventured far down below Coruscant, even past the undercity, where a rebreather is necessary to not suffocate in the smog of industry and a weapon should always be kept in hand.

In this Galaxy, the greatest threat to life is not war. It is not the machinations of the Sith, nor is it the ponderous inevitability of heat death. It is not natural disasters, it is not the mistakes of sentients.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

No. None of these matter. For, the greatest threat in the galaxy is vermin.

Fetid, wretched creatures. Be-tailed and beady-eyed. Each an endless source of plague and ruin. They skitter and scramble beneath our feet, plotting for the downfall of all civilization. Oh, yes. They are sentient. They are life. But they do not care for any life other than their own. Not “their” as in plural either. No, each creature cares only for its individual self. Each one will smash, break, steal, and take!.. just as much from each other as from the sentients above. Though uncountable in number, they cannot take over the galaxy for this very reason. Their own treasonous nature is their very undoing. Every step of progress an individual makes is instantly torn down beneath them by a treacherous peer.

They fight amongst themselves, causing untold chaos beneath the cities of the Republic, but no one knows the true extent of their power. They are a sleeping menace for now, as no one has been foolish enough to give them cause to band together, waking a tide of inevitable death.

But, as I have said, they do not truly sleep. One day, they will rise, and we will all suffer. In the meantime, these creatures stir and scheme, seeking food and power.

And the greatest source of both are Jedi Initiates.

Force-sensitive children are their favorite treat, for the creatures believe that the consumption of Force-sensitive flesh will imbue them with the powers of the Force. And, for many of them, a Youngling is just the right size to be slain and eaten by a small horde of them! And, not only are they fearsome predators, but they are sneaky ones too, who skulk in the shadows, waiting and always watching.

So be wary as you walk, especially so in the undercity. You never know if around the next corner lies a band of verminous creatures, eager to eat you alive!

≡][≡ ⬦⬦⬦ ≡][≡

“Well done, Nyine! I don’t believe I’ve heard that one before.”

You look out at your friends, a few flinching back from your glowing eyes. You give a brief glare at Nyine who stiffens up before apologetically attempting to explain to your friends that, no, you are not one the creatures she spoke of. You’re not going to eat anybody! At least, they’d better hope you don’t.

“Master, are you participating?” you ask. He’s up next if that is the case.

“I suppose I am. Well then. I’ll give you all a good one!”

≡][≡ ⬦⬦⬦ ≡][≡

There are strange things done near the small blue sun

By the men who mine for Kyber;

The Ilum trails have their secret tales

That would make you seem a liar;

The frigid heights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see

Was that peculiar night in the Cave of Blight

I cremated Tarn A’Lee.

Now Tarn had been born on Tatooine, where the desert sands always blow.

Why he left the Rim on barely a whim, no one ever knows.

He was always cold, but the caverns of old seemed to hold him like a spell;

Though he'd often say in his rueful way that "he'd sooner live in Hell."

On a bitter day we were marching our way across the Asar trail.

Oh so cold! through the parka's fold we were attacked by endless hail.

If our eyes did close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;

It was no fun, but the only one to whimper was ol’ Tarn A’Lee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes ‘neath open air,

And with all things said, the moon o'erhead was spinning neither here nor there,

He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll bite it this trip, I see;

And if I do, please stay true to the wish of poor ol’ Tarn A’Lee."

Well, he looked so blue that I couldn’t refuse, then he said in a drawn out groan:

“It’s this awful chill, making me ill, for I’m feeling it freezing my bones.

But, it’s not Death I loathe, it’s the lonely cold — an icy crypt for me;

So to you I plead, no matter the speed, please cremate the corpse of poor Tarn A’Lee.

My friend’s behest was now my quest, so I swore I would succeed;

And we continued on at the break of dawn; but Goddess! so blue was he.

He lay on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home on Tatooine;

And before long, even that was gone, leaving the husk that was once Tarn A’Lee.

There was no moon above that land of doom, as I hurried, torch arisen,

With a corpse behind and oath in mind, because of a promise given;

As it lay on the sleigh, it seemed to say: “You may be weary and begin to tire,

But you promised me, the corpse of Tarn A’Lee, to deliver me to the pyre.”

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and Ilum has its own stern code.

In the days to come, though my lips were numb, in my heart how I cursed that load.

As the blue sun set, by the corpse I wept, while my fingers turned white as ice,

My toes benumbed as I nearly succumbed to Ilum’s long, long price.

Every moonless night I shivered in fright, while that body seemed to grin,

And in the morning sun, I set out at a run, swearing I would not give in;

The storms were bad, and I went half mad, as I marched mile by mile;

And I’d turn to see ol’ Tarn A’Lee, encouraging me with a smile.

Till I arrived to the sight of the Cave of Blight and a derelict in there lay,

It was missing its prow, but I saw it was a scow, and it was called the “Circe Ray.”

I stared in disbelief, though it was brief, and managed to sum one plus one;

Then "Here," said I, with a joyful cry, "is my crematorium!"

Some fuel I found and was engine room bound, and into the reactor it went.

So too went my torch—my hand it did scorch, but by then I was nearly spent.

The inferno roared within the reactor core—such a blaze you seldom see;

After a moment more I opened the door, and in I pushed Tarn A’Lee.

Then I took a walk, for I thought I’d balk to hear him sizzling so;

And the gales did howl, while I muttered with a scowl, “This I’d like to know—

It is e’er so cold, but my hot sweat rolls, and I have no clue why;”

And as the flames did soar, the inky smoke poured upwards to stain the sky.

I did not know how long in the snow I waited for him to burn;

But the sun went down and the stars came ‘round before I dared return;

So craven was I, that the day’d passed by, before I decided I’d look inside.

He must be ash, and it was time I crashed, so the door I opened wide.

And there sat Tarn, all cozy and calm, humming along with that fiery roar;

And he gave me a smile, all mad and wild, then ran over and shut the door.

“It’s great in here,” I heard him cheer, “as I must gladly inform.

Since I’ve roamed, so far from home, I haven’t e’er felt so warm.”

There are strange things done near the small blue sun

By the men who mine for Kyber;

The Ilum trails have their secret tales

That would make you seem a liar;

The frigid heights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see

Was that peculiar night in the Cave of Blight

I cremated Tarn A’Lee.

≡][≡ ⬦⬦⬦ ≡][≡

A round of soft clapping is Master Fulier’s reward. You did thoroughly enjoy that story despite it not being the most… chilling. You’re not a poet though, so you suppose you can’t enjoy it to its fullest extent.

The rest of your clanmates do their best, but in the end, it is Master Fulier who wins. Clearly this was rigged from the start. He’s the one who hosted this after all!

Oh well, it won’t be your turn to clean the ‘fresher until the flight back home. And by then, you’ll be too excited to build your lightsaber to really pay attention to mundanities like chores.