A woman walks toward me, hands outstretched. It feels like a dream. But there's something familiar about it I can't place. A recurring nightmare? Her face is all angles and points; a tiny nose above lips drawn into a frown over a chin that seems sketched out of two harsh lines that meet in a point. Her eyes are hooded, narrow and dark with anger now. A single, long hilt is held in both of her fists with a slender blade extending from both sides of the hilt. The blades are a pure yellow, like the light of a strong summer sun that works slowly to bleach long rows of grass. Her determination wavers; I can tell without doubt that fear leeches from her in waves.
I don't know how I know this. Or why. Only that it does. Fear grips her like the jaws of a krayt dragon tight over its diminutive prey.
But the blades of her lightsaber are steadfast and strong.
She attacks, twin lines of light moving out in front of her. They swipe through me and for a moment I am transported elsewhere, to the side, watching a robed figure deftly fend off her attack and then for a moment I am in front of this woman, pushing each slice of her blade aside with little effort and nothing but tiny, barely noticeable, movements of my arms. The ship - yes, I'm on a ship, I understand now - lurches and suddenly we both tumble to the ground.