Two syllables converge in the void. Gee. Da. Gida. That’s what they called her. The others. They had told her stories – at least that’s what she thought of them. They were only stories now, like tales of a distant dream. She couldn’t remember much of her own origins, or who she really was. Only who she had become.
The earliest memory that she could discern was that of two strong blue arms that would gently lift her up and place her high upon his shoulders, where she could see so far it made her dizzy. The soft warm voice of another who would sing her to sleep. Her parents.
They had told her what happend, the others. Her fellow slaves, shadows of their former selves who toiled in the dust and heat of the Huttese spice mines. Her family had been ambushed by Zygerrians, who ripped them away from their daily lives and tos