Like some of his other Jedi peers, Kyman ras Shevit sat, his mind at ease under the seeming shimmer of meditation. Probing outwards, he felt the unease that drifted in the room, as uncertainty and fear plagued the minds of certain allies. Such feelings he had felt multiple times, first when he learned of the Order's passive attitude towards the ravages of the Mandalorians, and then ironically when he learned he was among those chosen to be a part of the IRSOG 37. He had wished for the Order to act, and now that it had, he was a peculiar mix of optimistic and concerned.

But this would need to be pushed aside, and that he did; a true Jedi would not allow his will to waver and Kyman purged himself of these thoughts. Through meditation, he looked inward, feeling the Force flow through his mind, down his neck, and through his limbs. As if driven by a beating heart, it circulated through him. When he was but a child, Kyman did not understand it, but now, it was his life, as normal as his breath, as the feeling of a sun's light upon his skin. It was an inseparable element of his very being.

Slowly his focus shifted, down his right arm, and then to his four fingers. Lain on the floor beside him, his lightsaber stirred and then took a lazy flight, up into the air and then in orbit around his now-outstretched hand. For Kyman especially, this too was yet another extension of himself, and the presence of his warrior's weapon was itself calming. His long studies of Makashi, or Form II, had instilled in him a sense of belonging with his blade. It was the point around which he pivoted, the counter-weight to his stance, the object of his focus. Some would call it an archaic form, useful in times of war between wielders of sabers, but now with the hailstorms of blaster fire, the elegance of battle seemed lost.

Kyman however saw the finesse behind this war, the contest between the Mandalorians and Republic, and knew that despite the brutality of it, the sharp edge of the Jedi minds would be the deciding factor. In the arid badlands of Kalee, the wise warlord knew that sheer manpower nor direct force would maintain a tribe. No, it was refinement, true warriors, that would not only conclude a battle, but an entire war. The Jedi were that refinement, and even some Mandalorians had grown to understand this. Even amongst the 37 was a Mandalorian, no doubt a defector who saw the writing on the wall. And Makashi was the pinnacle of refinement, a form that was beautiful in the martial sense. Perhaps it was merely the historic significance that intrigued young Kyman, but now even a Knight, he held a deep appreciation for it.

"30 minutes to drop. Prepare to board drop pods on the red light mark..."

The words stirred him from his deepening meditation, and as he opened his eyes, his lightsaber fell into his hand. The curved hilt complemented his two-thumbed grip and for a brief moment he appreciated simply holding onto it. Shortly, however, he would become well-acquainted with its feel once again, but that was later and now is now. He clipped it back unto his utility belt and gave his next thoughts to the planet below.