He raised his eyebrows at the interpretation, pleasantly surprised. “Yes. Exactly,” he commended. “It is useful. The Force can be powerful enough for those who wield it simply, but for those who think creatively, it is nearly unmatched.”
He nodded at the additional information, folding his arms and looking out over the city. “Indeed. Force-sensitivity can be more prominent in some species than others, but I have never heard of a race where all the members possessed the Force with enough potency to pose a threat. There are, however, a few races that have no sensitivity at all. The hutts, for example.”
He shifted to look at her, his gaze lingering on the gold war paint that spread between her eyes. It was attractive, but it also made him curious. He reached up and nearly brushed his thumb across her cheekbone, but reconsidered at the last moment, leaving his fingers hesitating in the air just above her skin. “It’s an interesting touch,” he commented, dropping his hand. “May I inquire as to the significance?”
“Hutts?” she questioned, almost in a laugh. The only huts she knew about were the makeshift shelter kind. She guessed it was probably a species from where Obi-Wan hailed from.
She noticed when his gaze directed itself to the gold on her face. Silently and with acceptance she would’ve let his thumb slide over the pigments, as they were durable and affixed onto her face, but she also almost wanted to feel the skin against hers. A tingling feeling crawled over where Obi-Wan had almost brushed. She was almost about to tilt her head forward, onto his thumb, but disappointingly she watched his hand retreat to his side.
“Thank you,” she said, looking back to his face. “I’m not sure if you’ve met any Turians, but almost all of them adorn coloured face paint which mark their colony of origin. I have an affinity for Turians, and it’s because of them I found myself.” She looked down thoughtfully, a fond smile crossing her face. “That was the day I started to wear this mark. It’s a tribute,” she concluded, and returned her gaze to his crystalline blue eyes.
The expression on her face when he reached out to touch her was unreadable. It wasn’t exactly good manners to stroke the faces of near-strangers, and he expected her to react negatively. But her expression was stoic and even— inviting, somehow.
He nodded thoughtfully, his gaze straying across her features. It wasn’t an uncommon story, per se. He had encountered similar affinities for the tattooed zabrak. And A’Sharad Hett, one of the more promising apprentices in the Temple, wore the garb of the sand people even though he was human. All of it signified great respect— even reverence.
“As I understood it, relations between humans and turians have been tense for a long time,” he remarked. He shifted to lean on the balustrade, his gaze fixed intently on hers.