Obi-Wan had done as he ought, he'd done what he could and then retired from the field. Too many hands for that pot, and not a one of them with as little sense. Still he was weary from his injury and his healing, and after a strange dream-addled sleep, what was needed most was perspective. The church was crowded, the city was an uncertain mess, and there was little enough peace to be had in the barracks— the Jedi had retired to the oft-praised sensoriums to look for a place of quiet. And he'd found in his choice of setting nothing less than what was unmistakably a Jedi Temple.

Oh, it wasn't the Temple, but the architectural style, the general layout were similar, all rounded, organics shapes an living stone. It resonated with him and so he found a cushion and a comfortable, bright lace where little but warm moist breezes and quiet birdsong reached him and began the quiet, measured breaths that were a prelude to the less combat-oriented meditation styles. Comforting quite, peacegiving pulse of the living Force in his very veins...if introspection were not so disquieting, they would have given greater balance. Obi-Wan sighed and began again. Anakin and Luke would know where to find him, when they were ready— and at least one of them deserved the lecture he'd be getting, and knew it.

Arha drew a breath in, focusing on the curved discs before her as she moved through a graceful set of katas to warm up.  She stretched, letting the sunlight that streaming into the red tiled practice hall warm her back, it glinted of the metal and set her hair afire as she spun through another set.  It was a dance, one she had always enjoyed growing up, when the blades were actually sharp--unlike these, which possessed dull edges, thanks to Stacy's carefulness.  Arha closed her eyes as her fingers closed around the discs.

She had been waiting for this and a small, hungry smile flicked out across her lips and she threw the bladed discs out.  They caught, hovering in the air and she hear the snap! ting! as the blades released.  She cricked her neck and let out a laugh as the blades began to spin.  No.  Wait.

"Pause!"  She called.  The blades froze.  "Blindfold," she said, pictuiring it in her mind.  It seemed only right to use all of her senses and to hone those she could.  There were eight blades.  Arha tied the strip of cloth tight and felt the weight of it hit the air and brush her shoulders. 

"Resume."

Move.

( Eight blades and the unexpected. )

Wags had decided to stay out of the fight entirely, need to follow the laws and follow the popular vote trumping wanting the Yeerk dead. He was presently sitting somewhere on the ship, guitar in hand, and singing his Garou heart out.

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