Quilb felt the prickle of a pair of staring eyes and turned around. A formless heap of heavy, off-black robes with the tattooed, gold-skinned face of a Mirialan girl peered up from the height of his elbows with undisguised interest.
"Padawan, may I help you?"
She bowed in acknowledgement. "Master Quilb? I found this one abandoned out by Kaleth while I was running errands there. I asked around, and the senior students said you'd know what to do." She retracted one voluminous sleeve. Quilb recognized the fetid, faintly-metallic reek of a Fleshraider before he registered the source. The Padawan had an infant of the species, swaddled in a ream of dirty sackcloth and cradled in one arm. "I fed and watered it on the way back from my dig site…Don't have much experience with Fleshraiders who aren't trying to crack me open for bone marrow, but I think it might be sick. Color's bad, and its chomping reflex seems a little weak. Anything we can do for it?"
Quilb reached for the squirming parcel. The hair on the back of his neck rose, and his ears briefly flattened against the sides of his head. He felt a rush of aversion as she passed the infant fleshraider to him, and involuntarily pictured a slideshow of the padawans with grievous wounds inflicted by adults of the species, some dead, that had passed through the doors of the Temple. He noted those feelings and images without judgment, as a scientist might observe an animal's behavior from behind a view screen, and allowed them to pass him by. Jedi training was made for moments like this.
"A fleshraider baby! See how the Force tests my dedication to assisting the helpless of this world." He was acutely aware of the Mirialan, bright cyan eyes still fixed on him like a pair of laser sights. "You did the right thing, Padawan. Leave him with me; I'll convene the Council to decide how best to proceed." He settled the fleshraider infant in one arm against his side and gave a nod of dismissal. She didn't move.
"Uh, Padawan, is there anything else?"
"I'm sorry if this is rude, Master, but what are you, exactly? Species-wise, I mean."
Qulib chuckled. He'd fielded that question quite a few times in his tenure on Tython, but most padawans asked in a less-direct fashion. "I'm Cathar, originating from a world of the same name."
Her gaze turned inward briefly. "Cathar," she repeated to herself in a reasonable approximation of his accent, committing the unfamiliar word to memory. "Before I left Mirial, I had a vision. There was a soldier…hard to discern anything under all of that armor, but he definitely had eyes like yours."
"Many Cathar become warriors, either with aptitude for the Force or with other gifts." There was a long, depressing history of other species exploiting the Cathar aptitude for violence, but Quilb thought it best to omit that fact for the time being. "Perhaps you will meet this trooper some day."
"I hope so. At least before the hypoxemia permanently damages his brain." Evidently satisfied, she turned to leave. A few paces away, she remembered her manners, backed up, turned around, and bowed by way of thanks before disappearing into the crowd.
