Collan saw the ramp, at once his vision split. Up that path he felt the pressures of war-he smelled blood, fear, and death. He saw friends and beings he cared for die, both needless and noble deaths. He saw the weight of death and loss crushing Ch'lana but as he watched, the old man's face changed to his. And then, it too aged, becoming more like the images of his uncle's but bearing Ch'lana's weariness. Yet, something in the eyes of this older, more worn and weary Collan shone brightly. It gave hope to Collan that his heart and spirit were equal to the burden.
Laud over that vision was the Northern Desert and Demaia. A sense of peace pervaded his soul. Here was a life of contemplation, study, and healing. And sacrifice of course, but of a different more ascetic course. It too was a path he sensed he was equal to and another worthy path for him to walk.
It was a long moment for Collan, seeing both possibilities. This time though, it was clear this was a vision from the Force. It could be Demaia but he doubted it.
He looked within himself. His life had been hardship, pain, and death (each felt like a knife to his heart though he hadn't know what it meant). The trauma of his slavery had left him with unique tools and perspective. He had been able to pass through that pain. Transformed him it had, but in a way that prepared him.
Collan looked once more to the north and then at the ramp. He nodded to himself at his choice. There would be a finality to it. Steeling his mind against the pain, he went to pick up his pack. Though Ch'lana had not requested his silence, Collan gave it as he walked towards the ramp. Mostly, it was because the pain was so great he didn't trust himself to open his mouth.
[collan joins the group]
