Hera's love of music is no secret, but she rarely played music from home on the Ghost. It was too visceral, too close, not something she was sure she could share, or something she'd be able to stop if she did. If her father hadn't been here, she would have refused. But she knows without having to ask, without having to look - he'll be the one to stay undistracted.
And the spell works fast. She can smell campfires, fresh fungus bread, feel the cold stone halls of her family's compound and the light from Ryloth's moons. Numa smoothly takes the call, Gobi and Hera the response. It's the kind of old folk tune that's been picked at and stitched together over time, the Twi'leki lyrics rotating among stories of taming a wild blurrg, a woman injuring her leg as she hunts a mazer, men gossiping as they cut caves into earth, and the returning chorus always for another story, and another.
The three don't dance, exactly. They stand close together, watching each other, seeming to egg each other on. Their feet move to stamp to the beat of the song - Hera doesn't even notice when she starts.
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And the spell works fast. She can smell campfires, fresh fungus bread, feel the cold stone halls of her family's compound and the light from Ryloth's moons. Numa smoothly takes the call, Gobi and Hera the response. It's the kind of old folk tune that's been picked at and stitched together over time, the Twi'leki lyrics rotating among stories of taming a wild blurrg, a woman injuring her leg as she hunts a mazer, men gossiping as they cut caves into earth, and the returning chorus always for another story, and another.
The three don't dance, exactly. They stand close together, watching each other, seeming to egg each other on. Their feet move to stamp to the beat of the song - Hera doesn't even notice when she starts.