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Oct. 8th, 2017 10:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
idontneedluckIt'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.
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.
