From Oshima Station.
From colony of Taskeed.
A woman spread her wings.
And then she flew to Tatooine.
A woman.
A Deucalian.
Born under thunder.
Born bleeding in lightning.
And hers is the storm.
The storm of the raider.
Of the reaver, the reaper.
O great gale...my ravager.
The conquerors, they were hers.
She sees most in the windows.
The one beside her in the ship.
A transport for more than her.
She can make out faces in the stars as the vessel descends upon a world.
Of her father, her mother, her brothers and sisters, Deucalians of her clan.
They're far away, glittering on a black ocean, lighthouses, such lost pearls.
Will she claim them? Can this woman? Barely calling herself a Deucalian?
You don’t care for them. Says that voice inside her head. Gazes to her left.
The window on the transport. At her right, an old man snores. She ignores.
Sigurn Faldur sighs into the viewport, remembers her, remembers Mother.
She was taken away, a girl was enslaved; to her family she’s already dead.
They don’t know her, she doesn’t know them, neither of one another’s existence.
Sigurn Faldur, she is just a woman with a simple ship and an even simpler blaster.
She is nothing, she is no one, and her life is a thief in the night as stars greet clouds.
That ship descends into the atmosphere of the planet whose dunes know no bounds.
Deserts, stretching endless, with cracked wind wrapping around that darkness.
Turbulence, whatever it is, it is thunder and lightning within that woman’s head.
Like the wrath of Deucalia, the motherland, a storm is as violent as a Deucalian.
O desert of my death, there where dust is but the rust of ash, do beckon the raven.
And the ship swoops in, breaking past the dreadnought clouds all around.
The transport pushes forward from the welkin, curving, amid black blue sky.
Sigurn Faldur, the girl who became a woman, she opens her two weary eyes.
Tired of the fight, of surviving. Will there be answers then down in that town?
And the ship finds its landing, pillowing air in flumes, spitting like broken dunes.
Sand billows in gusts, particles in a mist dancing like wild embers, like night flies.
Fireflies, naked fire waking in a glow, Sigurn struggles to see the stars now so far.
She wonders if she should have even come here, come landing struts and gears.
The transport has an open floor for its occupants to disembark, thank you for boarding.
Sigurn Faldur, a woman is trapped. Rather, blocked in by that man who is still snoring.
“Time to go, young man.” The woman pats. The old man wakes. “Thank you, ma’am.”
A Deucalian, one would not call this woman. She is of plain everyday shirt and pants.
On Tatooine, the vessel landed, in a spaceport of a busy city.
A woman climbs out, thumb dipped under strap at shoulder.
A single bag is her backpack, with her ship out of commission.
She traveled light, blaster at her thigh, coming here on a mission.
Mos Eisley… Well...what do you have for me? Cantina. Door. Explore.
It is no longer thunder and lightning that Sigurn Faldur hears.
It is not the storm that the Deucalian reaver will ever fear.
Neither wind, neither rain, a warrior who endured in pain.
Deucalian, woman, space is an ocean. No…it is...a forest…
From colony of Taskeed.
A woman spread her wings.
And then she flew to Tatooine.
A woman.
A Deucalian.
Born under thunder.
Born bleeding in lightning.
And hers is the storm.
The storm of the raider.
Of the reaver, the reaper.
O great gale...my ravager.
The conquerors, they were hers.
She sees most in the windows.
The one beside her in the ship.
A transport for more than her.
She can make out faces in the stars as the vessel descends upon a world.
Of her father, her mother, her brothers and sisters, Deucalians of her clan.
They're far away, glittering on a black ocean, lighthouses, such lost pearls.
Will she claim them? Can this woman? Barely calling herself a Deucalian?
You don’t care for them. Says that voice inside her head. Gazes to her left.
The window on the transport. At her right, an old man snores. She ignores.
Sigurn Faldur sighs into the viewport, remembers her, remembers Mother.
She was taken away, a girl was enslaved; to her family she’s already dead.
They don’t know her, she doesn’t know them, neither of one another’s existence.
Sigurn Faldur, she is just a woman with a simple ship and an even simpler blaster.
She is nothing, she is no one, and her life is a thief in the night as stars greet clouds.
That ship descends into the atmosphere of the planet whose dunes know no bounds.
Deserts, stretching endless, with cracked wind wrapping around that darkness.
Turbulence, whatever it is, it is thunder and lightning within that woman’s head.
Like the wrath of Deucalia, the motherland, a storm is as violent as a Deucalian.
O desert of my death, there where dust is but the rust of ash, do beckon the raven.
And the ship swoops in, breaking past the dreadnought clouds all around.
The transport pushes forward from the welkin, curving, amid black blue sky.
Sigurn Faldur, the girl who became a woman, she opens her two weary eyes.
Tired of the fight, of surviving. Will there be answers then down in that town?
And the ship finds its landing, pillowing air in flumes, spitting like broken dunes.
Sand billows in gusts, particles in a mist dancing like wild embers, like night flies.
Fireflies, naked fire waking in a glow, Sigurn struggles to see the stars now so far.
She wonders if she should have even come here, come landing struts and gears.
The transport has an open floor for its occupants to disembark, thank you for boarding.
Sigurn Faldur, a woman is trapped. Rather, blocked in by that man who is still snoring.
“Time to go, young man.” The woman pats. The old man wakes. “Thank you, ma’am.”
A Deucalian, one would not call this woman. She is of plain everyday shirt and pants.
On Tatooine, the vessel landed, in a spaceport of a busy city.
A woman climbs out, thumb dipped under strap at shoulder.
A single bag is her backpack, with her ship out of commission.
She traveled light, blaster at her thigh, coming here on a mission.
Mos Eisley… Well...what do you have for me? Cantina. Door. Explore.
It is no longer thunder and lightning that Sigurn Faldur hears.
It is not the storm that the Deucalian reaver will ever fear.
Neither wind, neither rain, a warrior who endured in pain.
Deucalian, woman, space is an ocean. No…it is...a forest…
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