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MrNomAnor wrote:

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I... really want you to continue this. I won't comment much now except to say I didn't see Daala or Gara as caricatures. I believed in their
characterisation. The only reason I won't comment more is because it was short, and by that I mean there wasn't enough for me to comment on as fully as
I would if I had more of the story.

Here's a rough draft of Ch 1. Yes, it's short but I've only started:

CHAPTER ONE

There comes a point on your life where nothing matters. Life is an illusion and love is nothing more than emotional hiccup. I used to believe; now I don't know. The Force has been called a prism, dark, light, grey…To me, it tastes like hot chocolate: safe but addicting. Just like Anakin is and was.

The Chief of State wants to cure me. Sometimes I want to let her. I want to ask for the "carbonite therapy" as she calls it. Then time would truly stop as it did on Myrkr so many years ago…

Lieutenant Swift smacked her lips. "You mediating or something?" she said in that strange Kuati-Hapan accent. Swift stood a few feet away from my steamy cell. A glaring Daala stood at her side. I shook my head. "I've heard you Jedi can read minds. Mind telling me what that prisoner over there is thinking?" She gestured a scarred Noghri spitting at his latrine.

I said, not bothering to use the Force. "He wants to get out of here. We all do."

Swift loudly scribbled on your notebook. "Daala didn't tell me that you were smart."

Daala paced. "Ms. Veila, how are you?" she said in a motherly voice that almost sounded believable.

I gripped the red-hot bars, ignoring my hands as they protested against the heat. "Go fierfek yourself."

"Funny, I thought that was you do best," she said, twirling a silver pen in her manicured hands as if it were a dagger. "Tell me about Palleon."

"Space yourself and ask Jacen Solo," I rasped. "I guarantee that he will talk." I smiled. Little pieces of skin peeled off the bars as I slowly removed my fingers. My smile deepened as I felt the pain.

Daala narrowed her green eyes. "The dead do not speak."

I said, "Not to you, Daala, you are far too close minded." Daala's eyebrows rose and her mouth turned into a firm line.

"Tahiri, you have a guest," Daala said. She clicked the pen and gestured to the door.

Two navy uniformed women held the shoulders of a man that was about two meters high. He had a sallow face; his skin the color of ash. He hung his head, revealing a tight black knot that made his veins pop.

The Jedi Who Was Shaped, we meet again, he said, his voice eerily familiar and smooth.

My mind raced. I inhaled as I put the pieces together.

Nom Anor. Here. Here in my cell.

The Vuzzhan Vong lifted his head, revealing an unscarred, fresh clean face. No kriffing bol, only two black eyes that begged for understanding. His beautiful eye sacs pulsed as if pleasured.

I took a step back, recalling this Vuzzhan Vong had sniffed me with the Force.

"Y'all have fun!" Swift said as she opened the cell door. Daala chuckled.

Daala's comm. beeped. "Chief of State Daala, Nom Anor demands an audience. He's, um, broken into your quarters."