idontneedluck: (Default)
It's a long day. A long day with little to show for it, despite his best efforts. The traffic through the square has been steady, travelers passing through on their way to or from the spacedock, but...

No matter how he smiles or calls, no one seems to hear hima, no one wants their fortunes read today. His bowl, usually at least a little full, is empty.

He hopes Baze had better luck, their pantry is starting to develop echos. He sighs as he hears stalls nearby starting to shut down for the night, and slowly gets to his feet, tucking his kit away. The sand crunches under his feet as he trudges homewards, moving with the crowd.

He's nearly home, in the smaller square outside their apartment block, when the ground seems to shift under his feet. He stutter-steps, grounding his staff to keep his balance, but his stance refuses to steady. Earthquake, he thinks. Shock blast.

There's no screams, no sounds of falling masonry, no terror in the Force. There's no Force, his usual tenuous grip even weaker still and fading by the second. His knees bend without him telling them to do so. His fingers feel forever away, belonging to someone else, and he hears his staff hit the ground, the soft grinding of sand when it lands loud. Everything is too loud, and too soft.

Chirrut crumples in the middle of the square, a heap of blue and red robes.
idontneedluck: (Default)
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.
idontneedluck: (I don't need luck)
Chirrut started with one plant.

One sapir tea plant, more of a little side project than anything else, to test the waters of gardening - it's been so long since the temple and its protected gardens were a part of his life.

That was a couple months ago.

After finding that he was crowding their rooms with plants, Chirrut slowly moved his operation to a new room provided by Bar - one with light from windows he's been told are large, and a watering system built in so he doesn't have to fret about the job being done. His sapir plants sit neatly in a row along their bench as he fusses with them, setting them up just so.

He's found he missed this.

He didn't think it was something he had been missing, before.
idontneedluck: (Default)
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.

idontneedluck: (Default)
Chirrut doesn't often ask things of the Force, but as the fall edges its way into winter, he has been asking for one thing daily. He prays that this year, the winds don't come. Life with Ibani has settled down into a comfortable routine, and he doesn't want that broken up. He doesn't want her to see him hanging on to his temper with his teeth, doesn't want her to see the spectacle of him needing to be beaten down like a feral creature.

He's afraid of what would happen then.

The Force does not grant him his wish.

One morning he awakes with his skin already crawling, the thin high whistle of the oncoming winter wind already ripping at his peace. He works hard to ignore it - harder than he ever has in his life, even more than the year after the disastrous match with Baze and Eiko.

He makes it through breakfast before he starts to feel his temper fraying. He wants to beg Baze to take Ibani away, somewhere far away, but it's getting to be too cold to go out of the city on frivolous pursuits. It will only lead to a fight.

Chirrut knows despair then. He's not getting past this day without being bloodied.
idontneedluck: (Default)
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.
idontneedluck: (What is sight)
The sun rises warm over the grassy lawn behind the bar, making the shadows of the two men about their business already lengthen to the stature of giants. They stretch in unison, their motions measured and time-worn - Chirrut more fluid and extended, Baze a rock of strength despite the years of missed practice. Chirrut is cheerfully mocking Baze's technique as they dip and twist, a matched, mismatched pair.
idontneedluck: (I believe I can fly)
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.


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.


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!)

The Storm

Apr. 26th, 2017 12:08 am
idontneedluck: (What is sight)
The noise is so loud he feels as if he were inside it. Everything in the world is the buzzing thundering crack that rolls impossibly on and on without end until somehow, it does. It fades, but sulkily, a grumbling mutter spreading overhead, a warning that whatever beast is roaring outside isn't at all pleased.

Chirrut lays, rigid as a board, in the very center of his bed. He has been through a Jedhan summer thunderstorm before, but usually then there's some warning, the electricity in the air thicker, the connection more immediate. He would have gone to ground, hidden somewhere small and safe and secure where the noise would be muffled.

The windows of the temple allow in light for those who can see, but also allow the thunder to roll unabated. The bedroom walls are thick and trap the sound, condensing it into the room and amplifying.

It's terrifying.

He pants, tight shallow breaths that fill the air with sound between blasts of terrifying thunder, betraying his fear. He knows, somewhere, that the storm won't, can't hurt him here.

He still freezes like a felix kitten when the next roar of sound comes.
idontneedluck: (Default)
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.
idontneedluck: (Default)
Chirrut spends long hours investigating his new home, exploring all the nooks and crannies that he's allowed to wander through. Some of the Elders think it amusing, a curious game for a curious child.

Chirrut finds the loose stone in the wall of a storage closet in the training hall. Behind a row of practice dummies, there's one stone that will shift if he works at it patiently enough.

He learned through trial and error that the adults don't notice things down low, consider them unimportant. This doesn't make sense to him, but he abuses this fact. He finds a stone that's not quite right - it is smooth where the wall here is rough, but it's the right size, and thin - he can create a space.

First he puts some dried plums there. Just the extras he had after dinner one night, that he didn't want to eat right away.

Then a tin of pickled... something, he isn't sure other than one of the other cans nearby had been opened already, and he could smell the brine of it. Pickled things keep for a long time, so it goes into the space.

Then a wrapped hard candy, one that he earned for a good practice.

Slowly more and more items make their way to Chirrut's stash, until he has enough that the thought of it settles his shoulders when he gets twitchy. If they get mad, if the food he's becoming dangerously used to stops coming... he'll be okay.
idontneedluck: (I don't need luck)
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.
idontneedluck: (Default)
The last few months have been stressful, to say the least, as he worked off his probation. Nothing he was made to do was out of malicious intent, of course, but hours upon hours of service work coupled with even more hours of solitary reflection meant it was a properly chastened Chirrut who returned to the fold.

It was also a Chirrut who'd been exposed to a majority of the pilgrims to the temple.

It was fairly inevitable that something lingered.

When Chirrut woke up this morning, the world was muffled, his chest heavy, his joints creaky and unhelpful. He ignored it.

That is to say, he forced himself up, went through the routines of getting ready for the day, but when it came time to actually set forth, he... stayed back. Casually. He didn't want a fuss, there was enough fuss over the last few months, this was just a cold. Once everyone was gone, he nabbed as many blankets as he could get his hands on, piling them onto his bed into a tangle of a nest to hide in... and then did exactly that. If this stupid thing was going to make his world muffled and off-balance, then he was just going to ride it out somewhere that didn't matter as much.
idontneedluck: (I believe I can fly)
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.


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.
idontneedluck: (Default)
Chirrut spent this morning scrubbing the flagstones.

This is not unusual.

Chirrut has spent every morning since the harvest festival scrubbing the flagstones, once Master Sheotar got wind of his 'gifting' the hated visor to a visiting child. Since then, she hasn't cared if someone else has just cleaned the courtyard, or if it is freezing outside... it needs cleaning. And Chirrut is the one to do it. Until she gets tired of it, which isn't looking to be any time soon.

Stashing away the rags and bucket for another day, Chirrut goes in search of Baze. He has plans, amazing plans, and they require Baze.

Order 66

Apr. 8th, 2017 11:45 pm
idontneedluck: (Yea though I walk through the valley)
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.
idontneedluck: (I don't need luck)
Light running footsteps echo in the solemn stone hallways of the temple, though the inhabitents seem well used to such things. A whip of a man, lean and light and full of a boundless energy that is the bane of the martial arts masters is on the hunt.

When he catches up with his quarry, he is in a fantastically good mood, making his gestures expansive and his smiles luminescent.

"Baze! Baze, come, we are going out." It doesn't even seem to cross his mind that Baze might balk at this directive.
idontneedluck: (Default)
The night is beautiful in the courtyard of the Temple of the Kyber. Summer on Jedha isn't exactly a tropical paradise, but the air is crisp instead of bone-chilling, which is an improvement. Braziers burn in the courtyard, the scent of burning herbs perfuming the air.

Chirrut Imwe sits meditating on one of the benches usually meant for temple visitors during daylight hours. It seemed much more pleasant to do so out here after his evening chores, than to stay inside where he'll be cooped all winter anyway.


Apr. 2nd, 2017 12:38 pm
idontneedluck: (Default)
Some would imagine a desert world cannot have seasons.

Some would be wrong.

They had come with the first night of plunging winter cold. They came with monsters with metal feet throwing fire, with orders muffled by static, with enough of an army that the Guardians hadn't so much been bested as over-run.

The new Governor was not interested in prisoners, especially not in a blind monk who developed a raspy cough after a fight to exhaustion and a few nights in a freezing cell.

Chirrut huddles in an alcove of the market, out of the thin wind that rises out of the desert. No one comes near him, out of fear of their new oppressors, but no one takes advantage of him either... he doesn't know if it is out of respect for what he was, or fear of a more immediate retribution.

He doesn't care much. The Force isn't speaking to him, he has no idea where the others are, and he feels a Hutt sat on him.
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