I am standing on Ryloth, the homeland of my family and my family’s clan.
To say that I had expectations of what this moment would feel like would be to retell my entire young life. I’ve read what I could about Ryloth, the Twi’lek people, and the clans whose history is my own. I’ve been told not to come here, and perhaps now I see why.
The Ryloth I’ve seen in the last two days is a barren Ryloth. In the places that my new friend, Hygaar, and I have traveled, there has been very little love of learning, of art, of music, or skillcraft. These people—my people—live solely to survive. The food I ate daily, carefully cooked by my educated father, is likely finer cuisine an these Twi’leks have ever tasted. My bunk on the Mercurial Warrant is luxurious to a degree I quite frankly feel ashamed of when I see the pallet on which I will be sleeping tonight.
I don’t know which of the people that I walked past in the city of Nabat might have been members of Clan Fenn. I’ll probably never learn if any of the Twi’leks killed by the vile Gand (or his vile criminal employers) who shot me might have been of Clan Secura, or held answers to the mystery of “Aayla.” My mind can’t remain on these things; if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my mighty companion, it’s that I need to keep my mind on what is in front of me.
What’s in front of me is an ugly Ryloth, but I recognize the stalwart heart of my mother in the people that have cared for my damaged left side. These Twi’lleks need the help I had every second of my young life, the help I got from Hygaar when I was locked in that cage on Tatooine. This desolation is a cage of its own, and it’s time to find the keys.