nous sommes animateurs,
nous sommes fursuiteurs,
nous sommes sculpteurs,
nous sommes photographes,
nous sommes poètes,
nous sommes écrivains,
nous sommes musiciens,
nous sommes celles et ceux qui pouvons jouir de la liberté d'expression obtenue au prix du sang de nos ancêtres,
nous sommes artistes,
nous sommes charlie.
We are designers,
we are animators,
we are fursuiteurs,
we are sculptors,
we are photographers,
we are poets,
we are writers,
we are musicians,
we are those who can enjoy the freedom of expression obtained with the blood of our ancestors,
We are artists,
we are charlie.
Shaak Ti, Jedi Master and one of the last of the Jedi Council, stood just beyond the gaping
maw that was the mouth of the galaxy's only known Mega Sarlacc. She wore the clothes
made by the Felucian's, consisting of the old growth they had scrounged up. It was still
intact for the most part, save for the hole in her chest. The wound still burned, even after
exposure to the cool air.
And standing opposite her, was the man who had plunged the blade into her. He was shorter
then her, with cut close brown hair and wearing only a pair of black pants with an assortment
of survival items on it's belt, including a comnlink and a hook for his lightsaber. His
bare chest exposed the many scars spread about both his front and back, some looking from
battle, while others bore the marks of torture.
He approached, keeping his lightsaber in hand, unlit. Shaak Ti knew this was her final
moment, and she ho