Chirrut Imwe

The days are growing colder again - nothing so cold as to rival Jedha, but enough to bring back its ghosts.

Chirrut's not a huge fan.

So tonight he is by the fireplace, roasting his bones like a cat. He is keeping himself busy with maintenance on his light bow, cleaning and oiling the weapon meticulously.

And as a bonus, the rats bring him snacks. Chirrut is a huge fan of a constantly arriving array of snacks.

Chirrut chose his greenhouse to wait for Baze, sitting in the sunshine pouring through the windows, a pot of tea and two cups standing by. Their room would have been secure, but he knows the flavor of that grief - Baze does not need any more reminders of what they've lost. Here where things are growing and glad is better, he thinks.

As good as it can be. It will have to be enough.

It had to be done - it seems that in this case, the rumors that hair continues to grow after death are very true.

Either Baze got tired of listening to Chirrut huff about the untidiness of his hair, or Chirrut got tired of listening to Baze tease about how he'd soon be able to wear a ponytail, but in the end the result is the same. Chirrut is sitting cross-legged on a chair in the middle of the bar, with a towel wrapped around his shoulders, while Baze wields a wickedly sharp pair of scissors to bring the increasingly unruly (and currently decidedly damp) mop of hair on Chirrut's head under control once more. Chirrut keeps his hands busy by repairing a split seam in one of his robes, carefully mending the damage done in one of their sparring matches.

"If you twitch like that again I'm not going to continue. I almost took your ear off!" Baze grouses, straightening Chirrut's head to his liking.

"The Force will protect me." Chirrut replies with a mock-serenity that does almost nothing to hide the laughter underneath.

Chirrut knows the feeling of being so angry, so out of control, that only outright violence will grind peace back into your bones. He's felt it more times than he cares to count, himself.

He's never gotten quite that sense from Baze. Close, but Baze's anger is more sustained - the controlled fire of a flamethrower rather than the out-of-control inferno of a burning house.

This is something else entirely.

Chirrut immediately abandons his tea and scoops up his staff as Baze approaches, his whole posture tense and wary.

"Baze?"

Ibani has finally fallen asleep - she still sleeps like one drugged, something Chirrut is thankful for tonight. He takes a quick shower, scrubbing the filth off his skin with a vengeance (and a citrusy-lavender soap). Shortly he wanders out scrubbing his hair with a towel, wrapped up warmly in the terry-cloth robe he loves so much.

Today was rough. He's not going to apologize for pampering himself a little.

It wasn't required to attend mastery challenges. With so many living in the temple, that sort of rule would cause unsustainable delays in daily life. The Elders came, of course, they always did to ensure the trials were both vigorous enough to hold the standard but not unnecessarily cruel.

As Chirrut kneels, waiting, on one of the larger sparring mats, he realizes that a good majority of the temple is coming to see this one. He ignores them all, staying where he is, knees pressed to the mat, his staff laid out neatly in front of him.

He has to bite the inside of his lip to stop a smile when he hears the rustle of bodies as she pushes her way through, the soft padding of her footsteps as she walks, alone, onto the mat.

The silence that falls is almost a palpable thing as she kneels, facing him.

"I, Eiko Mesoth, do challenge Guardian Imwe to a mastery duel." Her voice rings out, strong and unafraid, true to her signature in the Force. Chirrut can't help himself - he grins as he bounced to his feet.

"Accepted."

The fight starts slowly. They almost always do - a slow build showcasing the learner's skill, highlighting their proficiency. He can sense her tension, and tries to encourage her without risking the wrath of the Elders for being too easy on her. He couldn't do that - it would be a dishonor for them both, and do her no favors in the long run.

Step by step their dance becomes more complicated, the risks of missing a block more dire. The staves rattle and snap against each other, each crash a roar of sound. They whirl like falling flowers in the Jedhan wind, staves whistling with the wind of their speed. A particularly hard block sends them both circling out of each other's orbit - Chirrut can hear the murmur of the crowd, the hiss of those who have already gained mastery at the force of the blow. He spins his staff to stretch abused muscles, can hear her doing the same.

The respite only lasts a moment.

They charge - all showmanship abandoned, they fight as if standing at the world's end. She lands the first blow inside his guard - a spinning kick that drives the air out of his lungs and lances fire up his side. He dives away from her following blow, back on guard. The injuries pile up from there - shoulders, ribs, knees, hips - he taught her to fight to win, to survive, and he doesn't shame her by giving less than everything he has. Soon they are both spitting blood with heaving breaths and running on the ragged edge of exhaustion.

Crack

Fire rages across his chest once, then twice - her momentum carried her through the follow-up blow he can no longer block, and Eiko neatly breaks both collar bones for him.

He drops his staff.

Then drops to his knees.

He's pretty sure the roar he hears is the crowd, not just the blood in his ears.


(OOC note: liberal inspiration taken from here. Enjoy!)

Chirrut is in a temper.

Winter is coming for NiJedha, crouching at its door, and the desert wind blows shrill over the city. The pitch makes meditation an impossibility for Chirrut, making him tetchy, making him restless. He's been in the training hall all day, taking challenger after challenger. Those around him are growing wary of his fey mood, and the challenges are coming slower. This... is not helping matters.

Spring days are not fine on Jedha - if anything they're worse than winter's deadened chill.
Rain comes sporadically, but when it does come it drenches the world, the ground too desiccated to absorb the water poured onto it. Outside the temple, short-lived rivers flow as the rain pours down. Inside the temple, the atmosphere (in at least one hallway) is much more cheerful.

Chirrut's practically skipping as he leads the way down the halls, tugging impatiently on Baze's sleeve. Agilely he dodges classes of acolytes and manages to slow to a more respectful walk when they come in range of one of the Elders. He's back to skipping once they turn a corner.

"Come along Baze, we're going to be late - she has lessons this afternoon, we can't be all day." He chides, gleeful in his eagerness.

Chirrut sits on the stoop he tends to favor these days, his bowl in front of him. His position here keeps him out of the path of the main patrols, but here he can hear trouble before it comes (or find it before it can hurt more of those he considers under his protection). It's been a long few days - the colder snap of winter came sooner than usual, catching all of Jedha unprepared.

"May the Force of others be with you." He calls, keeping the words alive at least, hopefully giving some comfort to those walking by. "May the Force of others..."

He stops.

Stills.

The Force asks, and he obeys, as he always will. The coins go in his purse, that is tucked into his robes, and he scoops up his staff to venture forth. It doesn't take him long to find what has roused him from his place.

The children are terrified, and small, their young pleading voices countered by the harsh tones of troopers. Something about market thieves. Something about making an example.

Chirrut takes a breath, centers, and smashes his staff into the face of the nearest trooper before they can get around to carrying out their plan.

Chirrut passed out early this evening. The masters are relentless in his martial training, never allowing him to decide all is 'good enough'. That, on top of taking on training the younger acolytes despite his protests leads to quite a lot of bruising and a worn-out Chirrut at the end of the day.

Most would say this is a good thing.

The midnight bells had just chimed when Chirrut sits bolt-upright in his bed, screaming loud enough to wake the dead.