Selri watched as Case poked the firelog with a iron rod. The cyborg had a whole metal arm, but still he traded that dexterity for a pokey stick as he tried, rather childishly, to get the log to light. Not that she would have much better luck with it, the half-firrerreo thought. Her skills were in electronics, for the most part. The entertainment systems, the security systems, those were more her style. But still, she thought as she watched the ape of a man fuddle with the fire, there was something primordial and entrancing about fire.
She leaned on the bar, pulling her focus back to see the whole area. It was a bit of aberrant in the bar, but there by special request. There, the firelight would drown out the neon and diodes with warmer light, the overstuffed chairs and wampa-fur rug a quite different aesthetic compared to the games tables and machines but a few feet away, let alone the hyper-modern bar.
Silri sighed, turning away just as Case grunted in his success, the sparks finally catching the log aflame. The Ancient clan had many people, after all, and each one of them proved to be very different. She watched as Vera sidled through the door, her garment bag slung over her shoulder. The Twi’lek lounge singer was scheduled for tonight, and that would usually mean that the place would be busy. Bogan Squadron pilots seemed to really like the singer, having made it a point to show up the last three times she had played. Case loudly dusted his hands off, stepping next to Selri and watched her as she moved across the bar to the back room. She could feel his held breath as he stood there, his head turning to follow her movement before the door swung shut behind her. Chuckling to herself, she tapped the bouncer on the arm.
“Go turn the open sign on, you lug.”
DarkHawk couldn’t help but overhear Silri’s laugh cutting through the low hum of conversation. Still deep in thought, the noise around him slowly tugged his focus back to reality. The lounge was alive tonight, muted music drifted from hidden speakers, clinking glasses punctuated the air, and the occasional burst of laughter rolled across the room.
The Bogan pilots were gathered nearby, clearly there for the night’s entertainment. A rare chance to breathe after endless combat patrols. Downtime like this was precious. They’d need to savor every moment; soon enough. Summit’s plans would have them all running at full throttle again, along with the rest of the Clan.
DarkHawk took a slow drag from his cigar, letting the smoke coil from his lips before he lobbed a long plume across the room. The sharp scent of charred oak and aged tobacco hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint tang of spice from the bar.
From the corner of his eye, he caught movement. The flight leader of Bogan I approached with a measured stride, boots tapping lightly against the polished durasteel floor. The commander came to a halt and dipped his head respectfully. “Consul, apologies for the interruption,” he said, his voice steady but earnest. “The flight just wanted to thank you for the downtime… and to give you and Lord Keibatsu these as a token of our appreciation.”
He extended a small, weathered leather case. DarkHawk accepted it, flipping open the lid and his eyes widened slightly as the aroma rushed out to greet him. Inside lay six perfectly rolled cigars, their deep mahogany wrappers practically glistening under the low light.
“Are these what I think they are, Commander?” DarkHawk asked, his tone carrying a note of surprise.
The commander’s lips curled into a subtle grin. “Indeed, sir. Dilnlexan cigars from the Oseon system.”
DarkHawk arched a brow, half perplexed. “How in the hell did you score these?” The commander smirked knowingly, lowering his voice as though sharing a trade secret. “You know how it is, sir… one of the guys knows a guy… who knows a guy who can get stuff.”
A quiet chuckle escaped DarkHawk as he snapped the case shut with care. He leaned back slightly, letting the smoke from his cigar mingle with the spicy, sweet aroma of the Dilnlexans.
“Understood, Commander,” he said at last, his voice carrying just enough authority to be heard by nearby pilots. “Tell the flight their drinks are on me tonight. I’ll make sure Lord Keibatsu gets to enjoy these shortly.”
A murmur of gratitude rippled through the nearby tables, and the soft tension in the room eased as the commander gave a crisp nod before retreating back to his flight. DarkHawk leaned back in his chair, the leather case resting on the table beside his drink, and took another slow draw from his cigar. Savoring the quiet hum of conversation washing over him once more.
Creon returned in a similar style as before; casual and simplistic garments perfect for blending into a crowd. However, this time he brought with him a datapad tablet and some cards. Through the entrance he scanned the cantina for familair faces.
No sign of Bentre Stahoes, which means he’s likely busy. Perhaps then patience will help me further find a place in this clan.
His senses drew his attention towards Darkhawk, but he did not linger in looking. The strange and bizarre feeling in the Force disturbed Creon, for he had never felt anything like it in all his travels.
It’s as if he’s not one man, but a collection of some multitude within. Is this the price Sith pay for power?
He debated approaching for conversation, but asserted doing so may disturb the peace the Sith perhaps sought in coming here. Even in social settings, solitude can bring solace.
Creon approached and took a seat at the bar. When the barkeep asked, he ordered a light beer.
“An ale man, eh? You should try the Trandoshan ale. I hear it’s pretty tasty.”
Creon glanced over to see DarkHawk swirling the amber liquid in his glass before tipping it back and finishing the last sip.
“I’d still highly recommend the whiskey, though,” DarkHawk added with a faint smirk. “So, Creon… what do you think of our little oasis here?”
Even with the undertone of kindness and warm welcome, Creon still felt fear slide down his spine. He detached from his senses and looked at Darkhawk plain with only his eyes. He seemed human, but not entirely. Perhaps, Creon thought, He is as much human as I.
“Just as you have described it. A place where many, otherwise elsewhere might be hunted, can gather in peace and find nourishment amidst the vast expanse surrounding it. I feel safe and respected even in the presence of giants.
You seem to have me at a disadvantage, good sir. Nonetheless I am cheered by our newly established acquaintanceship.”
Creon then held out a hand for a customary shake.
DarkHawk returned the gesture with a firm handshake.
“The Clan looks forward to seeing you in action,” he said. “You’ll have the opportunity to showcase your skillset soon enough. For now, enjoy the Seventh Tooth and your new brethren.”
His head hurt. He had spent too long in seclusion again, and he had lost track of time. He was running on overly sugared stimcaf and a cold rage.
That was appropriate, he figured, for a Sith. It hadn’t been the sort of rage he could channel into anything useful, however. Every step, every attempt at a breakthrough had been met with frustration and failure. Moreover, outside of his brief passing niceties with Tasha'Vel, he had heard nothing substantial from his wife.
He really needed a social life.
He knew he was unusually pale, and he knew his eyes appeared bloodshot. He felt like hells frozen over. The harder he leaned into his studies, the further his goals seemed to slip from his fingers. Isolation was driving him mad. He was already aware of how close his wife considered his mental state to the edge, and while he heard nothing from the other Disciples of Sadow he figured that they would concur.
Adjusting the weapons at his belt, he tried to draw himself up. Perhaps Tasha'Vel would be there. Perhaps he could gain the ear of his former Proconsul. Perhaps Creon would be interested in talking more theory of philosophy. Perhaps he could strike up a less serious but more entertaining conversation.
Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps.
In the worst case, he did have a good book, and the bar was well stocked. Slowly, he stepped, nay skulked into the Seventh Tooth. His eyes darted furtively about, taking stock of the gathering. The Warhost pilots were taking full advantage of their libations. He nodded appreciatively.A spike of unexpected jealousy arched through his head as he saw the current Overlord chatting up Creon.
Sometimes, he found himself regretting leaving power. It was difficult being on the outside, looking in. He glanced about, weighing out his options.
Slinking about like a scared pup? How noble for a Sith wannabe. Truly, a tale for the ages, the pauper who wanted to be a prince.
“Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.” He muttered the words aloud. He hadn’t meant to do that.
He had once thought that access to a Sith spirit would prove an asset, but it was starting to tax him in spirit and body. His thoughts were increasingly scattered. It seemed to amplify his darkest thoughts and enhance his strongest negative emotions. He tried to shake it off.
“You.” He shook his head. “You are not going to mess with me now. Not tonight.” He looked around, hoping to see another familiar face. As much as he wanted to talk to Creon, he was not about to disrespect Takagari so openly.
Such pettiness was bad for business.
Even for a Sith.
“Thank you for the courtesy. I’m privileged to have this opportunity, and will prove that I returned strong enough.”
Creon still didn’t catch his name, but knew they’d meet again. Even when he tried to ignore it, the pressure on Creon’s mind was that in bearing witness of the magnitude of this man’s power in the Dark Side.
A little reluctant, he asked the service droid politely for the recommended whiskey.
The Bobot wheeled around the central bar, the light projected from overhead reflecting off of its white carapace before it tipped its hat at Creon. With a tap, a napkin dispensed onto the bar and a rocks glass was produced from a shelf hidden below somewhere. The droid spun in place, a hand reaching behind it to a row of bottles filled with amber liquid, pulling the cork off with a resonant pop before pausing to look at him.
“Single or double, pardner?” The accent was rural as ever, the vocabulator seeming to be based on recordings rather than procedurally generated. It waited for the response before pouring, the deep golden liquid splashing dramatically up the side of the glass, but not enough to spill. It was programmed specifically for this purpose after all, and waste wouldn’t be tolerated in the establishment. Perhaps even the clan.
Wheeling back a half measure, the Bobot recorked the bottle, sliding it back into it’s home behind him as it kept its eye on the customer, waiting to see if there were any other requests, or if the man preferred his libations neat.
As Creon turned towards the bar, the surly Corellian Elder drew himself up. He glanced between Creon, Darkhawk and the bar, considering.
I bet you could make him beg for mercy. The thought was fleeting, but it sickened Bentre to his core. It was a waste- an awful waste- that would serve absolutely no purpose. Cruelty for the sake of cruelty did no behoove him.
He strode slowly towards where Creon stood by the bar waiting for his drink.
He needed a drink. Badly.
The Bobot waited a moment longer for Creon’s fingers to close around his glass before turning to the new customer. Tipping a pale nerfherder hat at the Corellian elder, it leaned forward, as if the elbow it placed on the bar would hold any weight compared to the oversized wheel below, just out of sight. Its other hand produced a durasteel weapon - a bartender’s soda-gun - from a holster on its hip and twirled it around a robotic finger. “What can I get fer ya?”
Creon coughed from the whiskey. It was more than what he was use to. He just hoped his metabolism would process the effects than the resistances built from his training make the endeavour redundant. When he felt Bentre return, his head rose up and looked to him with a smile.
“I’m glad you returned. I brought a datapad.”
“Double Sight Spirit and a….could I get a light beer as a chaser?” Bentre nodded to the Bobot, giving a playful salute. As the droid whirred into action, he turned to regard Creon warmly. “Excellent! I brought a little more gear myself, just in case.”
Creon turned to his datapad and opened it up. He accessed programs with passwords and an escapade of multiple secondary authentification measures. His eyes rolled with each one that came after the next, having to get codes from an messaging address only to be faced with more asking for his thumb print, face scan, and image pattern selections to verify him.
So secure even the user can’t access… Creon thought with a sigh of stress. He realized this new pessimistic attitude of his wasn’t always this way when accessing files, albiet he felt it reasonable given how asinine it was to jump through so many hoops.
Once he finished he opened up a few images and passed the screen to Bentre.
“After becoming a mandalorian, bounty hunting was the job when there wasn’t war. The Force guided me as I got better, and I eventually pursued bigger payouts. One of which involved recovering a vessel of imperial design, but with no officially recognized model nomenclature. It’s structure had some customary modifications, but more importantly it was roughly 17 or 18 kilometers in length.”
(Message deleted)
(Message deleted)
Malisane walked down the ramp of the lancer patrol craft and into the hangar, making his way quickly past the tech crews. He was satisfied with the progress of the day. The creature was safely stashed on Lor Zatean away from prying eyes and where it could cause no harm unless it made its way a hundred miles across the desert, if a war band of its kin somehow appeared hunting it they would not find anything else nearby to destroy, and on top of that the quarterly meeting of the Aeotheran Planning Committee had approved his tidal defence plan and the required budget. He had even managed to restore his vegetable garden near his cave. He was feeling an unusual sense of contention.
He stopped at Squeek’s, ordering a large tray of meat skewers with extra sauce, and then carried it into the cantina and entered, looking around the bar. It was oddly a simular scene. Aside from senior non Sadowans, the Consul was once more at the bar, and the former Consul was talking again with the new or newly returned neatly groomed member.
He sat at a table dumping the tray of meat skewers on it. Immediatley Nova the glamourous gammorean waitress/relief manager appeared, holding the usual glass of water with floating vegetation in it. Her gaze slowly took in the food tray and her dark eyes met his own. He pulled back his hood revealing his features. She spoke in an oddly accusatory tone. Malisane nodded. “Yes, I am aware of the ‘no outside food’ regulations I created them. Sometimes, though I loathe to say it, there are exceptions to the rules when the circumstances warrant it. This is one of them.” She watched him for a few seconds, and then speaking a swear word only she understood she turned and walked away. Malisane took a sip of his water then began to eat.
As he finished the shutdown procedures for Omega 7, Hades’ red Delta-class JV-7 Escort Shuttle, a glance over to Jeeves made him smirk. “What?” “Why am I even here?” asked the annoyed droid. “You are here because I placed an order with your manufacturer.” “Oh harr-harr. I am a pilot droid who does little to no piloting.” “I was piloting advanced starfighters before your programmers were likely born and I like to keep my skills sharp.” Hades said as he finished the checklist. He stood and stretched as Jeeves turned to the rear of the cockpit to look at Bob, Hades’ KX-series Security Droid. “Can you believe this?” asked Jeeves. Bob held up his hands. “Not my circus, not my monkeys.” Bob said as he moved out of the way for their master to move past. “You two play nice while I’m gone.” The older Sith said as he gathered up several datapads and proceeded to the ramp. He was wearing he usual gray Imperial uniform as he stepped out onto the hangar deck. Even with the sharp lines and stiff collar, this uniform was comfortable to him. A constant in his life and a stark contrast to the robes most of the other Clan members wear. He did not care in the slightest. His home was on the bridge of a warship, theirs was… well not. Hades shook his head of these thoughts as he made his way into the Cantina. DarkHawk had suggested he take some time to show up to these gatherings more often. Why, he had no idea. Hades nodded to DH, who was conversing with the new Jedi transferee. He caught the bartender’s eye, or photoreceptor in this case, and ordered his one usual. He grabbed it and moved to a small table in the corner with his datapads. He took a sip as he settled in. “Now, where was I?”
A starkly colorful figure practically tip-toed in sometime after Hades. He was tall, willowy – sometimes called skeletal or bean pole – and bright, with sweet lilac skin spotted in saffron scales, montrals, and a long, dextrous tail tipped with long hair. That hair, and the beautiful and intricate waterfall of braids that contained the long locks on his head, both shone under the various forms of firelight or bright modern bar lights, its metallic sheen making it seem spun of gold…and scarlet, and violet. He was evidently an unusual creature, though perhaps not so unusual here in the Sadowan realm, at least not for his nature as an experiment, branded and created long ago.
Moreso, maybe, for that he utterly radiated Light, and crept shyly but sweetly in with a basket of flowers on his only full arm, with a rather magnificent hat made also entirely of flowers and woven plants atop his head. A mott trotted along at his side, wearing a sash, and he himself wore a dress and was bare of foot.
“Ah, p-pardon, this one,” he bowed deeply, with the reverence of a lifetime spent in worshipful devotion, to the first droid at the bar and people he came across. “Forgive this one’s intrusions, Masters, Mistresses, but this one is hoping to find…Miss Miho?”
The thing of it was, he didn’t entirely know where to find his friend at any given time. It seemed that Kiast was a dangerous place to visit at present, as his other friends had warned him away. Miho tended to pop up in many places, but he was not exactly sure where that would be, and when he inquired about where to find the Keibatsus…that had lead him here, to this place, with many a dangerous look, as if his friend’s family name was, for some reason, a particular weight.
The Bobot wheeled around, photoreceptors sliding over the colorful one. There were all manner of unusual folks that frequented the place, doubly so those attached to the Ancient Empire, but this one seemed… out of place somehow. Bartender privacy protocol engaged, Malisane’s directives recalled to demand a specific response.
“Sorry pardner.” The Bobot leaned on the bar with a rag in its hand. “Ain’t never known anyone by that name.”
Case raised an eyebrow from nearby, the Cyborg’s eyes tracking the unfamiliar face for professional reasons. He tilted his head, the chromed bits of his head and ear arraying to listen in. Gears turned in his head, literal and metaphorical before a glimmer of what might be construed as understanding flashed across his eyes. Stepping forward next to the… well, Case didn’t really know what they were.
“Hey buddy, we ain’t gots none of dem here.” Case managed a gruff chuckle before continuing. “Not on Dentavii, anyways.” He flashed a smile that was half tooth and half steel. “Jus’ drinks an’ grub. Tunes an’ games. Ain’t that kinda… place.”
Malisane looked up from his emptying tray of skewers, his gaze falling on the Kessurian newcomer. Slowly he took in the equipment around the man’s belt. A medic. He nodded in approval. The Brotherhood had warriors aplenty, and alledged thinkers were over subscribed. But a skilled medic, or engineer, was an asset to any unit it was attached to. Perhaps they could be persuaded to switch allegiance? Making a quick gesture of his hand, he beckoned the gammorean relief manager over and indicated the Kessurian. “Nova, I know you are in charge here now, at least for the time being, but I would appreciate as a personal favour if you comp the gentleman’s drinks.” Nova followed his gaze, made a disapproving sound, and then without asking, swiped the adept’s tray away and walked off. Malisane looked down where his unfinished meal had been and sighed.
The slight man visibly deflated, shoulders and spine slumping, ears turning down, tail curling around his leg.
“Oh,” he said. It seemed the trip had been for naught, at least here. He was unsure where else to go, save for asking more people. “Alright, thank you ever so much, Master, Sir.” He bowed to the Bobot again, offering a flower for it before turning to the large cyborg who approached. Saffron eyes widened slightly, and he shrank a bit more into his next deep bow. “G-greetings, Master, Sir. U-um, if this one may further enquire, what kind of place does Sir mean it is not?”
Case had seen formality from new trainees and younger wizards from the Empire, but this was a whole new level. He arched an eyebrow again, the seam of where the chrome met the skin folding in an awkward and vaguely uncomfortable way. “Uhhhh…” Case demurred, trying to find the words in a dictionary missing a few pages. “Y'know, a place where the ladies sell…” he paused, and made a vaguely vulgar motion with a hand before pausing, looking at them with curiosity. “Waitaminute, you said you had one o’ dem already?”
The creature visibly had no idea what these females were meant to sell nor what the gesture meant.
“This one has…met ‘ladies’ who do commerce?” he tried tentatively, gesturing down to his dress. “I bought this from one!”
A spark of joy, edged with pride, shone through at that.
“But, ah…apologies, Sir, this one is just…I was hoping to find my friend here. Her name is Miho. Alk here,” he patted the mott by his knee, “somewhat chewed her hat the last we were all together at a bonfire, and so I made this one,” a touch to the hat made of grass and flowers he wore now, “to replace it. I was told that Keibatsus could be found in this system?”
Case shook his head in confusion at the idea of buying clothing from a madam before the name hit him like a shovel. “Your ho is a…” he leaned forward and soundlessly mouthed the name, a scrape of terror on his eyes.
Further confusion writ across Rue’s face. “Yoorho? No, Sir, Miho. Mihoshi.”
Creon’s eyes popped up at the mention of the Grand Master, but he let it go upon hearing his question; “Oh I dipped as soon as I ran into that structure you see from the second image. That’s what scared me.”
“I am admittedly not as familiar with designations or ship classes as some of them.” He motioned to Hades as he spoke, indicating a more familiar individual. “What is the significance of the vessel’s length?”
“It was just to give you an idea on the size. I’ve never seen a destroyer that big, nor have I read about one. Maybe a First Order Dreadnought, but nothing less.”
“Ah, that is a fair enough point. I am not sure what to make of this image, either.”
“Scans report the inner rings you see on the right is all a complex system of next level droid brains. Each ring serves as a component to the overarching structure, and they all absorb energy from the star they orbit around. It almost looks like an astrolabe in motion.
The outer rings are actual ring worlds, like the Glavis one. Complete with their own unique lifeforms and civilizations.
What got me the most was this can move the star. A part of its prerogative is to outsource other planets for maintenance materials.
As for the ship. I followed it’s signature through hyperspace. It was visiting this huge… droid… ring planet thing. There was communication that I unfortunately couldn’t slice to interpret.”
The adept, bereft of his meal, was half listening to both conversations going on nearby. The former Consul and the well groomed new member were discussing a starship of some sort. He had to admitt this was not a strong subject for him. He had looked through and read the notes on the Starship and Capital Ship Studies courses but had lost interest before attempting the examinations. When he had gone shopping to expand the former House Dakhan’s fleet he had stuck to the ancient Neti elder’s advice of “Imperial for the capital ships, Alliance for the fighters” and it had worked out well.
On the other hand his many years recently and in his younger days in the entertainment industry put him on firmer ground with what appeared to be the subject of the other discussion, even if he had missed the start. Deciding to be helpful, he stood up and approached the group and made a polite noise, mentally slipping into his old role. “Good evening sir,” he said to the newcomer, “I hope you are enjoying our venue. We have an extensive drinks selection. I am sure if we do not have the ingredients for a Mihoshi we have something similar or just as nice.”
“I– oh.” Rue sighed, deflating further and flustered in all the misunderstanding. It was with a weak, plaintive tone that he bowed deeply to this new arrival and asked, “Master, Sir, do you have cocoa?”
Malisane was about to shake his head and apologise when at his shoulder a large figure appeared carrying a small tray, on which was a steaming drink of chocolatey goodness and a small bowl of white fluffy things. Nova placed it on a nearby table and, gave a short curtsey and then the gammorean waitress walked away. Malisane caught the confused look from the Kessurian and gave a slight shrug. “No, we are not sure how she does that either. It it convienient so we do not ask. For one thing I am not sure cocoa is even on the menu here.”
“T-thank you, Mistress!” Rue called after Nova, curtseying back to her. He also curtsied again to the man. “And thank you, Master. I appreciate your kindness and hers greatly.”
The hybrid balanced his bag for a moment, then elected to sit down at the chair with the table, growling a command for Alk to sit. He took a long sip of the cocoa, face buried in it as if to hide in the comfort of the warmth a moment and regain his wits. When he set the cup down, a ring of whipped cream framed his mouth and nose, which he attempted to swipe and lick away.
“Forgive me, Sir, but if I may…this one was not in search of a drink nor farming equipment. I am looking my its friend, Mihoshi Keibatsu. But the Sir Droid and Sir, ah,” he nodded at the cyborg, “Master there said that they are not here…?”
His ears folded down sadly.
Malisane backed off slightly from the morose Kessurian. There had not really been anything in the Inquisitorious manual for handling this sort of situation. During his years as Clan Envoy and Rollmaster he had to deal with a number of new acolytes suddenly missing their homes, families, pets or similar from their past lives. However an abrupt and to the point motivational speech and a week tracking through the jungles of Aeotheran had usually resolved their issues, or at least weeded out the hopeless ones. He sensed in this situation that strategy would probably not be effective.
“I do not know your friend,” he replied, after mentally going through the many, many members of the Keibatsu family that had once made their home in Naga Sadow, “however if you wait we still have a few left here. They may know of your friend. In the time being we can probably get a drink for your pet,” he turned and nearly bumped into the gammorean who was holding a bowl, “ah, thank you Nova.” Careful not to alarm the mott and cause a scene he put the bowl down on the table and backed off..
As Bentre looked through the datapad, he asked for time and to upload the data for his research analysts to further configure the validity and cross-reference the anomaly mentioned. Creon obliged and was encouraged to mingle amongst the others whilst in waiting.
He turned to face the room he earlier held his back to when sitting at the bar. He first saw an older man clad in dark robes, with a figure nearly exact to Creon’s proportions. Then another taller, more slender, species Creon had trouble identifying. He wasn’t too well educated on the vast diverse kaleidoscope of shapes and sizes intelligent life made manifest; the list was simply too long.
Perhaps a Zeltron? Like Blade?
The only way to know for certain would be to either ask, or detect the pheromones Zeltrons could give off. His demeanor, however, revealed a nature in the Lighr Side of the Force apart from the rest. Knowing not only Darkhawk or Bentre to be enough for making connections, Creon approached the others with a smile and small wave; watching the body language in response before invading one’s personal space to socialize.
Malisane saw the neatly groomed newcomer arrive and felt a brief surge of relief. The situation was rapidly exausting his limited social skills and he was fighting down a surge of irritation. He was beginning to wish he had stayed at his cave on Lor Zatean with the creature. It did not talk much and seemed to be able to amuse itself hunting. He decided to continue to be sociable until an opportune moment presented itself to slip away to a different part of the bar or a different planet.
He gave a polite incline of his head to the epicantrix. “Greetings, I am Malisane Sadow. And this is..” He paused, suddenly realising he had not actually established the Kessurian’s name or origins.
Creon’s gaze met with Malisane’s as much as he would allow, as if looking for through them.
“You bear the surname of the clan. I am honored. I also respect your commitment to strength and good health, and aspire to strive for the same throughout my years just as you have. I am Creon.”
Malisane smiled politely, which his ravaged features and ripped mouth turned into a grotesque sneer. “I thank you, but I am merely a servant of the clan these days. I go where the summit send me and do their bidding, within reason. When they have no need of me I try and make myself useful. Welcome to Naga Sadow. It is always beneficial to increase our numbers with skilled members.” His blue eyes flickered down at the medic, still entertaining a vague hope of winning another recruit, but the kessurian was still staring morosely at his empty cup.
“This one is called Rue, of Clan Kendis,” the hybrid replied to the cue, rising from his seat and bowing deeply to Creon and then once more to Malisane. “It is my honor and blessing to meet you, Master Malisane Sadow, Master…?”
<@625060755812909056> <@424911230386438160>
Creon actively listened to Malisane, curious about his humility. His condition did not distract him, for Creon knew many who’s body became twisted from war. His mouth opened to speak before silencing himself so as to not speak over Rue’s introduction. The bow given was returned in kind, “I am Creon. Please forgive my ignorance for I have not learned of Clan Kendis, nor have I had the privledge to encounter the brilliant work of art nature has made in what you are.”
The hybrid had opened his mouth to explain the Kendis, and also insist neither the forgiveness nor bowing were necessary in turn, only for the last sentence to finish processing in his sharp mind. Promptly, Rue’s lavender cheeks flushed with deep blooms of red, not unlike the very roses nestled into his braided hair, making his saffron scales pop. He stuttered on his words, a mrp squeaking out of him while his tail whipped quickly back and forth, and tried to demure, gaze dropping to their boots – or bare feet, in his case.
“T-this one is– ah– not–” His lips pressed hard together, fangs sinking in, a small welling of blood that quickly sealed over as his speaking smeared the droplet over renewed flesh. “I-it would be a great honor if t-this one could be a craft of the Goddess Herself, who rules nature, indeed, b-but it is n-neither natural nor a…a work of..” He couldn’t repeat what Creon had said. “This o-one was created, S-Sir Master Creon. It is an experiment. F-formally. Ah, it is– I am– supposed to practice. Saying. Was. Because I am…a person…now. Ahem. And. Of Clan K-endis. Which is a Mandalorian Clan. Whom adopted me. Oh! And this is Alk!”
It was much easier to gesture grandly to the little mott in his scarf, who was finished with the water Nova had delivered him and was snuffling at both men.
“He is quite the ambassador and Envoy. Though we have not been to this system yet. We were looking for this one’s– my friend, Miho. She is a Keibatsu. But it seems not very known…Master Malisane suggests I speak to others…does Sir Creon know any?” <@424911230386438160>
Creon scratched his head, “I’ve heard the name from my time as an Odanite, maybe a councilor? But no, I’ve never met Miho personally.”
His demeanor shifted to one of pride, “Mandalorian?! I completed my Resol'nare with the Okami northmen of Kaerls. Though we hail from different clans, you have the trust of kinship and my proud respect. Your interpersonal character must be as bold as the vibrant hue of your complexion.”
He cleared his throat and changed his tone to make clear his next words, “Life begets life, be it through instinctive methods or more elaborate processes. Creation is an artist’s craft, to which now makes all the more fascinating to behold you. Not just by through environmental adaptive measures by systems of nature, but by the guiding hand of brilliance to assemble the next stage in development. You are the future. I am blessed to bear witness.”
Malisane was getting slightly lost by the conversation, especially the latest from the new member Creon. This was getting beyond realms of the Inquisitorious diplomatic guide and into the darkness of wild space. He took advantage of the two talking and slipped off to speak to Nova. “The atmosphere in here is getting too maulding. What time is the band on?” The gammorean spoke in her own language, and she gave a slight shrug. Malisane frowned. “What do you mean they are double booked? They are a barely recognisable Max Rebo tribute band, how busy can they be?” She spoke again and gave another shrug. “Damn them,” he replied harshly, “then start passing round the karaeoke song list.” He then returned to the discussion. He looked at the Kessurian, trying to think of something relevant to say. “So you were adopted by the Mandalorian clans? That is interesting. Do you not have to wear a helmet or something?”
Rue could barely offer a word or a squeak by the end of Creon’s speech. He flapped his only hand at the man, blinking tearful eyes and red-flushed, skin crawling with a shine of gold even as his tail cinched around his leg tight enough to restrict circulation.
“I’m– this– not worthy– oh,” he whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut and just bowing low, trying to regain some sort of composure under the onslaught of such sacrilege and untruths– such compliments.
Alk licked his face as soon as it was at eye level. It was a suitable enough distraction to let his hair get chewed for a moment before rising.
-# “Sir honors this one.”
It was the tiniest little meu of noise but it was a reply.
When Malisane returned, it seemed Rue had slipped back into a more docile, rote mindset, eyes and lashes generally lowered, head bowed, posture upright but ready to prostrate at any moment, his hand folded softly in front of him. He shook his head in response to the question.
“This one does not have to wear a helmet. This is not a part of the Kendis’ creed. This one also has no armor and elects not to possess any. It does not wish to fight or harm in any capacity. Only to heal and to help. It was taken in more for interpersonal connection to one of the members than for its skills. It is still learning the basics of the Mandalorian ways, history, and language, but it will study swiftly. It does not deserve your kinship nor respect but thanks you for it and offers it in kind. It has seen but not set foot on Kaerls while visiting friends among the Odan-Urr Clan. It would ask of your clan as well.”
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The adept considered this. There seemed no harm in giving an honest and positive account, “Our clan has it’s roots in the ancient Sith traditions, but has modernised much in recent decades with many of the old guard having moved on. We have established a stable rule over this system, with well built cities and infrastructure, good jobs for those who want them and education and healthcare provided for our citizens and their families, and security and a wide range of entertainment. We have had some unrest but we have dealt with it where needed. Otherwise our citizens respond well and are highly productive. There are hawks within our clan who would prefer to return to a more traditional and dictatorial rule but some of us have opposed it in favour of pragmatism. We like to learn from mistakes made by others, especially the Empire and the First Order. We even have several who follow the jedi code within the highest echelons of the Clan and we manage to work together for the greater good.” He paused. “Of course that is just my view.”
Creon’s tone became serious once given a moment of silence to speak after Malisane’s briefing, “It’s for those traditions and the depths for which can be derived is what fuels my ambition for service to the clan. The Odanites withheld from me learning beyond my current station, untrusting of who was once their prisoner, compliant to ‘reconditioning’, yet forever mistrustful due to a generation in charge still weary of war waged by Sith. I know the power of elders is not easily obtained or freely given, but I embrace what trials await to be further enlightened by the Dark.”
Malisane’s gaze turned to study Cleon. “Sometimes you need to find out where you fit and the talents you have that can benefit Sadow, those around you and ultimatley yourself. When I came to the clan I was a jaded former Imperial officer with little care for anything important. At first I sought only power and dubious pleasures and for a long time I learnt little of use. Then like many I underwent a baptism of fire, or in my case an explosion, a fire and a collapsing building. During my long recovery, I saw the errors of my ways and my weaknesses. I devoted myself to the clan and studied hard at the former Shadow Academy on Lyspair and put my acquired knowlege to serving Sadow. I have much to regret about my old ways but nothing I have done since. And the rewards are beyond anything I could have imagined.”
“Might I be so bold as to inquire on the Lion of Tarthos?”
Creon remembered the keen ferocity of Muz Ashen. His memories brought back witnessing first hand his ground assault; cloaked in a array of lightsabers.
Rue was quiet, listening and withdrawn as a polite obj– guest should be. He had little knowledge of any of the Clans, and could only compare his own experiences.
Malisane shrugged. “I have not seen the Proconsul for several months,” he replied, “I imagine he is well.”
Again polite, Rue inquired, “Your Proconsul is of the name the Lion of Tarthos? Is he a leonid species?”
The adept considered this question for a few seconds. He decided to be diplomatic. “I know him socially but not to any great personal extent. You would have to ask him yourself.”
“Legends say he fought a mighty mythical beast to earn that name,” Creon added.
“Oh, this one sees, it is not literal.” Rue nodded, and then looked between the two and the table. “Ah…would either of the Masters prefer to sit? Or they are of course welcome to return to their friends and activities…”
His saffron gaze darted towards the various others present.
Creon looked back over to Bentre, “I don’t think I’ll get much more out of him, and I am here to make connections. I want to make Naga Sadow my home, as I left everything from my old life behind to do so.”
Bentre long considered the datapad before sighing and placing it down. Another problem for another day.
Several of his fellows and Creon seemed to be talking with a- he really wasn’t sure what to peg the newcomer as.
He took a breath and gave a friendly wave- or at least as friendly as he could manage given his uncertainty towards an unknown quantity.
He smiled, but he didn’t speak up, not just yet. He was used to playing the diplomat where it was needed. Here, he was not as shadow who would slink about unseen. Here he was but a retired, mostly-kindly veteran of conflicts long past. Here he wanted to play the welcome wagon rather than to attempt to strong arm or intimidate. He smiled, holding his hands clasped politely in front of himself.
He took measure of the newcomer, his mind working even as he smiled perhaps a little too wide. He stopped, and dialed back his effected good mood. As he reached out into the Force, he sensed almost like a torch, exuding a warmth that served to outshine his fellows.
Interesting.
He couldn’t place the species, but then again his knowledge of near-human genetic specimens was still very limited. He considered the horns, the tail, the eyes, but none of the features struck a cord with him. He hadn’t worked on a subject like this one.
He would have to consult his archives later. He might search the Brotherhood databases later. His resources were not as exhaustive, but they would serve him well enough.
For now, friendly and welcoming. Play the diplomat. Keep your cool and just talk.
Afraid you will slip your leash? The cool, yet familiar voice, recently silent growled in his ears. He closed his eyes a moment, seeking to silence the old ghost.
He opened his eyes again and looked expectantly towards Rue and Creon.
Like a sixth sense in feeling someone is watching you, Creon’s attention caused him to glance back at Bentre. Their eyes met, but instead of a stare Creon offered a smile and excused himself from Rue and Malisane. He thought to instead wave Bentre over, but didn’t think himself in any position to have Bentre do anything, even something as semantic as calling him over. Instead Creon approached him, “Thanks for taking a look. It’s something I’m still actively perusing; but thought to see what someone brilliant enough would make of it.”
He looked back over to Rue, then side glanced to Bentre, “Endless forms most beautiful spring up each day in this vast galaxy. Had there been mammory glands, I’d try to optimize the bloodline. The other one looks as if he’s seen much suffering. Would you care to join us? Your shared wisdom would be invaluable.”
“I will do some more theorizing and researching. I just hoped to offer you more than mere speculation.” The Son of Sadow gave a courteous nod. “So I apologize if I have not met your….expectations.”
Mildly lost watching Creon go and unsure what exactly he was extracting from the Human across the way but hoping that is was painless of an excision – and wondering if, perhaps, the other man should be protected? Was it harmful? – the hybrid turned a demure blink to Malisane.
“Did we offend?”
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Creon blinked slowly at Bentre’s emphasis on ‘expectations’. He almost wanted to roll his eyes but reminded himself it’s important to leave the night with good first impressions.
“Let’s not worry about it for now. I forget this is a time to relax. Unless you need something of me, I’d ask for your pardon to join back with the group I just met. Again, I’d be honored and I’m sure they’d be interested to have you join us.”
Creon snatched his datapad and gave a respectful bow of the head before heading back to Rue and Malisane.
Tasha'vel was a bit late coming in sort of a first for her. She had decided since it was supposed to be more social that she would just wear one of her usual diplomatic Matriarch evening gowns. This time a purple low cut “V” in front with the lower part a little more flowing. She let her twin tattooed lekku’s cascade behind her back as she arrived. Her emerald eyes scanning the room. She saw Creon, Bentre,Malisane and someone very colorful that she had'nt met before. Well, this is fascinating. She thought as she wasn’t sure of where to even sit yet.
Bentre blinked, looking from Creon to where the newcomer and his brother in Sadow were nearby. He wondered for a moment why Creon would feign asking permission if he was going to take his leave anyway. A small ember of anger burned in his chest, but there was no time for anger just now. Instead, he strode over, holding his hands in front of himself in a polite, almost demure stance.
“Hello, everyone.” He gave a nod to the assembled as he stood awkwardly. “I hope that you all have had a….nice…..evening.”
Okay, so maybe he had to admit to himself he was a little rusty at diplomacy.
What do they expect when I cooped myself up in my research lab for days on end?
Still, he tried to smile.
The Marauder observed Bentre striding over to the group and had to hold in a snickering laugh at his attempt at diplomacy. Well he looks very uncomfortable, but he has been out for quite some time still mildly amusing just to watch this all play out. She smirked a bit as she decided to just sit at an empty table a bit aways from the group and ordered her usual tattooine sunrise.
Rue lifted his skirts as he swept into a deep, bowing curtsey.
“Blessed Night, Master, Sir,” greeted the hybrid, much as he had to everyone else this evening. “Indeed the eve has been pleasant even if this one’s search is for naught. All here are quite welcoming. Thank you.”
The human Corellian’s face twisted up in confusion. “You came to this asteroid base in search of something?” He looked at Creon and Malisane for a moment. “We do not often have visitors from outside of the Orian System.” He shrugged. “However, I am glad my fellow Sadowans have made you feel welcome.”
A small jolt of concern arced through his back, but he tried to push it down. Instead, he motioned to the bar. “Have the libations provided been to your liking?”
He really wanted to know what this newcomer had been looking for, but Bentre was not about to broach the subject uninvited. This one did not seem to wish the Sadowans ill. As much as system security concerned him, he was sure if there was an issue one of the other two would have said something.
Creon watched and actively listened to the conversation, revealing with eye contact that he was engaged without needing to take the social spotlight. He did, however, take a relaxed posture to poise as an aytpical space cowboy leaned against a nearby surface with one boot propped up for balance. For those with sight through the Force, his aura reflected a calm yet serene flame with whisps caught in the tide of waves projected moving through them all. It was merely the signature of his presence; the invisible illumination of his spirit.
Adrift his mind was carried by the waves of the Cosmic Force. A reminder to him that though he felt himself an individual residing in a meat sack, that in truth he was equally embedded with the environment. That neither he nor the space for which he experienced were separate at its foundation. His particular attunement to the Force, the signature of his aura, was best conceptualized in his mind like grid coordinates to a map. Whereas even though Bentre stood next to him, his place in the Force was somewhere far from Creon’s. This only further spurred his curiosity on what can be explored in guidance by those who have made, what is clouded for him, their home.
“Yes, Master, Sir, very much so,” Rue nodded to his emptied mug of drinking chocolate, though he took the cue that perhaps they were all to move, physically, to the bar. He hovered slightly as he rose from his prostration, head tilted. He repeated the explanation he had given in parts to the others: “And yes, Master, this one– I was hoping to find my friend, Miho. Mihoshi Keibatsu. I made her a hat, you see, as an apology for Alk here lightly masticating the one she wore last we were together at a bonfire on Kasiya. But everyone so far has said they do not know her, or of the Keibatsu…so it is perhaps that my information was incorrect when this one inquired after the general whereabouts of the family.” He gave the softest sigh, lower lip pouting out, poked to plush dots of blush rose where his fangs pressed in but did not break. “She does not reply consistently to her messages and chiefly seems to arrive wherever she happens to whenever she does, so long as Pips or Mistress Yuki and or Masters Niel and Karasin are with her. It can make finding her intentionally…difficult.”
Malisane thought for a few moments. He was still trying to be helpful, even though thoughts of a return to his ship, quick journey back to Aeotheran, barbeque on the beach, an improving book and an early night was entering his thoughts. “We may be able to help. Unless your friend has been missing at least seventy-two hours the security forces of our worlds probably cannot help, but the Clan keeps a noghri bounty hunter on retention. Despite a certain cynical attitude his skills appear to be more than adequate. He may be able to track and find your friend, alive or dead. Either way it would lead to a happy reunion, or at least closure.”
It was unusual, to say the least. Even those bearing the envoy’s brooch rarely ventured this deep into Sadow’s Ancient Empire, let alone by accident. The clan had all but circled their wagons since their return to Orian space, consolidating their control over their old territories instead of finding new systems to inhabit. The Bobot wheeled around the bar, narrowly missing the other two in a finely synchronized manner, keeping its receptors on those it had been designated to serve. Spinning a fresh napkin on the bar, it poured another drink as it noticed one was going dry.
Another moment passed, the music coming through the sound system from a vending selector on the far wall having been expertly curated not only in titles of tunes, but also calibrated to keep private conversations…well, private. The Bobot didn’t bother leaning in or adjusting its sensitivity, content to watch for the universal hand signals, the tapping of glasses on the bar or the rising finger with eye contact.
The myriad of screens above the round bar shifted again, the interval shifting automatically between the huttball semifinal, a galactic equities ticker, some sort of action holofilm with a shirtless man firing an oversized weapon, and the security feed showing the hangar and its contents. It was natural for some among them to harbor an anxiety or paranoia, to have that deep driving desire to know who might show up before they did.
Some would have felt it before the screen updated. Felt him. He never bothered to conceal his presence in the Force. A shuttle slid into view, floating gently into the hangar and settling down. The alien ship from whence it came visible through the screen, unusually organic looking and unmistakable as the Fallen Spear.
Huh,so he did decide to show up. Oh this just got way more entertaining. Tasha'vel chuckled a bit as she felt that all too familiar overwhelming presence arriving. She had her drink now in hand and kept quietly observing everything. She liked to take in details, study the environment just in case action was needed, though with Muz Ashen now arrived action wouldn’t be necessary. She would be content to just enjoy the show, just like Marcus,her master would have done. Always wait for the right opportunity and observe for then you can make the perfect calculated strike. This was a good evening for fun.
The adept saw the Proconsul’s overlarge personal ship appear on the screens and felt a surge of concern rise again. Usually he had a fairly calm working relationship with the Sith Lord. As far as he remembered the senior Keibatsu had already been a high ranking equite and member of the summit when Malisane had joined Naga Sadow as an apprentice, and the new member had been on missions led by him in his youth. And since Malisane’s return to find the Sith Lord back once more, he had got on with him as well as anyone.
However this was less than twenty four hours after one of his and the Alchemists creations had been at large in this very cantina, and the little sodd had apparently killed a Warhost NCO for some reason of its own. After fending off the bounty hunter Malisane had droids dispose of the body and clean the area like it had never been cleaned before. As far as the average Sadowan or anyone else was concerned it was like it had never happened. The Proconsul was not the average Sadowan.
Once from within the black and deep of the river oblivion came the fixed wing of solitary flight. The abyss folded around what was unfixed yet immovable, trailing behind with an infernal streak akin to a comet’s burn. Creon, whilst adrift in the Cosmic Force, heard heaven’s anthem of woe and fears yet concieved. Feeling the mold of an excrable presence that grew tenfold more deadly with each passing moment, Creon felt a snap to the senses which nearly threw him off his feet. Those nearby had their voices mute, and soon everything else then bleeded away. In this state Creon had forgotten all joy and grief; pleasure and pain. Not even his manifest of rage could scarce hold the uproar which bent the void in the likeness of a crown.
Such sovereignty and majesty. Not even mortality can command.
And then but in an instant he was back in the cantina, with a heart shrieking which flushed his flesh, cooled only by the anxious sweat creasing down his brow.
It was with the inevitable yet sudden give of snow upon a mountain, the gasp of breath before the fall, the strike of a match flaring and then gone–
–the stranger in this strange land, so guarded, secreted away and precious and poison to outsiders, fell to his knees. He made no sound, the action as natural to his tempered and molded bones as breathing, his spine, hunched and horrid when he stood, slipping perfectly into place, prostrate before an unseen altar. That horned head bowed, nose and lips kissing the smooth floor beneath, pressed as close to the stone of the asteroid below as possible, toes and knees and the ball of his ruined arm joint and each knob of finger bones. His skirts and hair spilled about him, satchel of flowers and notebooks and one small, velvet porg figure no larger than a thimble, all forgotten refuse on the ground. Forgotten along with his questions, introductions, with his self.
Because God had come. It was not his God– they were not the same. This one held an infinite depth of darkness blooming with the roots and black soil of life; a cycle of birth and decay, the oldest oak, the distant roar, to the first new bud broken through ash, a babe’s cry.
And something…almost familiar.
The smallest, smallest bit familiar.
As though dreaming, once, some time ago, of his friend.
The hybrid waited, bowed, for this was correct, to serve God.
-# Was it not?
Bentre arched an eyebrow as he felt the familiar sensation envelop his senses.
What brought him here just now?
Bentre looked at their visitor. No, that couldn’t be it. He looked at Creon. No, he hadn’t done anything to rile any of the Keibatsu out here. At least, not that the former Consul was aware.
Had he done something?
Well, I mean he had done lots of things. Some messy, some clandestine, and some merely trivial. As far as he knew there was not anything that could be pinned on him of late. There was a relative peace in the Orian System of late, and if Bentre was to be frank such peace was good for business.
He took a side-long glance, trying to figure if anything else had irked the former Grand Master. His eyes alighted on Tasha'Vel for a moment.
She was enough like her Master she might have done something. Even so, it seemed unlikely even Kiriyu’s apprentice would be foolish enough to do anything to hurt the Clan so that was not likely it.
He was mildly flummoxed.
Oh well. Bentre leaned against the bar, his arms folded in front of himself. Might be interesting to see how little he has to say.
He regarded the prefabricated imperial hangar with eyes as black as the space beyond the airlock. It was identical to the ones aboard the Shâsot’nwûl Station above Inos, but the mood was as different as the purpose. The Dentavii facility was primarily a haven for clan members and their retainers,whereas the Diplomatic station was intended to interface with the rest of the Brotherhood and her allies. Shâsot’nwûl. Muz’s eyebrow arched as he recalled the ur-Kittat. The Struggle for Peace. Darkhawk thought it apt, but Muz had privately wondered what name it would actually be called by those who found the harsh and almost dead language unpalatable.
Bootfalls led him from the stark grey imperial architecture into the hollowed out asteroid of Dentavii Prime, through streets paved in the core of what used to be a planet, doused by stardust and neon haze, bathed in the steam of hot noodles and the scent of roasted bits of protein. His pace never faltered, never broke stride as he moved through the promenade toward the long corridor that would take him into the Seventh Tooth.
He let his awareness reach out from his heart, coiling around the Force as he let the senses drink deeply of the haven ahead, taking mental inventory of those within. Some were known, some were not, but it didn’t matter. Not these days. His steps continued to fall, one after the other, bootheels echoing down the corridor as he continued to feel.
There.
The Consul had taken up his usual space, a cloud of tobac smoke wafting around him as he sat in a more casual throne of durasteel and bantha leather, a swirl of golden amber in a short glass. He had news to share, intelligence to offer, and plans to make with the man, and while he certainly could have done that from leagues away, it was important to the clan to see it, to the Ancient Empire for them to be a part of it.
As the final doors slid closed behind him, he paused, taking in the senses, letting them return to him, to sing their wisdom to him, the tales of all, the lyrics to the music of the spheres. Black eyes glided across the room before he regained his rhythm, moving toward the Consul.
One of the Bobots recognized him and didn’t wait, pouring from a bottle off of one of the highest shelves into a crystal glass, then wheeling out from behind the bar to deliver it, setting it on the table next to the consul, where it lay in wait for his arrival.
”Consul.” His voice was heavy, deep and as smoky as the cloud around the man. A burst of visions seethed from the Lord of the Krath,feeding directly behind the man’s eyes. Pictures were worth a thousand words. Memories were worth far more. Black eyes watched as realization washed over the Consul’s pattern, then reflected in his facial expression. Curiosity bloomed into ambition, then twisted into hope. Beyond the mysteries of time and distance, he had found something they never knew lost. The golden tones of his drink lifted to his lips, reminding him of the color of the artifact. The artifact that the talented smuggler had somehow located for him. For them. It was their past. It was their future. Darkhawk repressed a grin. They would not be denied.
Muz smiled.
God had entered the chambers.
It did not mean to look. It did not. But. It had grown lax in the last year. Its curiosity had been not only permitted but encouraged. There was so much of the Outside to take in, so much, constantly, that it was overwhelming… Sights and sounds and sensations. And of course it could hear God’s heartbeat and footsteps long before He entered, as was his intentionally superior Kessurian biology’s purpose – part of it, a piece of him that was almost regretful whispered, dangerously near to petulance, to mutinous – but to catch movement and hear the voice and–
Even with his nose to the floor, his eyes could skitter, one heartbeat, sideways, and see boots. And then they happened to be looking up, the motor neurons surrounding his ocular nerve defying over a century of obedience. And then there was God, shaped like a male Near-Human, with long dark hair and eyes, and that tiniest thread of familiarity lingered in God’s smile.
God is all knowing, came the unbidden supposition, and therefore would He not know of Miho even if the others didn’t?
Lilac fingers clenched so tightly against metal that they bleached to snowdrop. His tail was a vice around its leg, and his foot was numbing with an old pain from the loss of circulation.
Miho.
This was for Miho.
He had already defied God for someone he loved once, had he not? Committed sin upon sin upon sin, now, in every continued second of his disobedience. What was one more?
Trembling from the crest of each montral to the tip of his tail and toes, it– Rue lifted from the floors and into a seated bow. His jaw opened and closed several times as he tried to force words out, to ask any of those still nearby to him:
“Is…He… very knowledgeable?”
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Nodding at the Consul, he watched the man begin to plot out a plan. They would tell the members of the clan proper, retreat to the ready room secreted back behind the private rooms, and discuss next steps as the data beamed through the hidden and encrypted ways. They would have this, and there was no other outcome than success. It was just a matter of time. Muz nodded again, taking a sip from his own glass.
Miho.
The name wafted on thoughtform and ether, so that he couldn’t help but taste it. Muz’s head turned slowly, scarred eyes seeking the source. There. The crossbreed, like a mixture of feral features picked from a list for some bespoke servant. This was not Macron’s work, no. The Alchemist reveled in the grotesque, and this violet example bore none of his signature. The stranger had his sister’s name. Muz’s head tilted a minor degree. He hadn’t shared that she was alive with the clan yet. She hadn’t even been home to Kyataru yet. And they had her name.
Thought stilled, then, so it seemed, did everything else. It was a thought later, and he was there, the air rushing to fill the space he had left, displaced by where he decided to be.
”Rise.”
The word echoed through ears and mind alike, bidding them stand with a gesture of an open hand moving upward. There was formality, there was manners, respect, and all the frivolities of the courts, but he would not be groveled at.
Like a feline arching its back, Creon’s instincts were brought to surface. The rage of the Force ignited and flared his body into it’s heightened state. Adrenaline was carried along the bloodstream with every pulse, and his eyes dilated to smolder the speckled glow of Sith golden-orange that would bleed through the green of his iris. Veins stretched to the surface across each of his limbs, and pulled up his throat to his temple.
The impact of Creon’s ignited presence was almost ignored. Like a kindle under storming winds he struggled to even use his powers at all.
“Am I being suppressed?!” he thought.
Yes, he felt it from within. His ties to the Force were almost entirely severed. Yet there was no action to trigger, rather simply a radius of influence passively ongoing. Creon closed his eyes and gritted his teeth into a smile; without having been recognized he was already learning more about the Force.
“Hail to the true Dark Lord of the Sith”, his mind voiced.
Creon was learning. He watched from afar, studying every movement and choice the Dark Lord made. His eyes were wide, almost feral, observing. His ears were open, ready to receive wisdom.
Sensing the nature of the scene change, Malisane felt a sudden urge for space. He had come to establish the facilies on this place on the orders of the summit, but he had no love for it. He enjoyed the outside and fresh air. Mount Dakhan and it’s predessessor Marakith had open balconies and walkways with stunning views of the world around, even the older cathedral and Sadow Palace allowed access to the outside within a few minutes. But this place was all metal and sealed entrances protected by atmospheric shielding. Combined with the need to be sociable, it was stifling.
Giving his apologies he strode outside into the open promenade, grabbing a glass of water from Nova on the way. The celing was at least higher here and it was not too busy. Moving away from the smells and sounds of the food stalls he found a seat on a metal bench and sat, closing his eyes and focusing on his mediatation techniques.
It was as though the Lion’s gesture had included strings linking each of his fingers to sinew and bone and the delicate, pale blue material of whatever garment the hybrid wore. Indeed he rose, instant, a thing of one hundred and thirty years of practice; the grace of the motion was stilted by poor blood flow and knotted muscles and nerves, but it was true nonetheless. Standing then, the wisteria waif was perhaps just a head taller than God Himself, if only that command had included standing straight. Rather his head remained bowed, saffron eyes lowered under tear-wet lashes, and it would be so much easier– to submit. The trembling would cease as his breath left on an exhale of a sudden, servile perfect calm. To not question or think. To only exist for its purpose, accepting punishment when in need of correction, grateful for it.
But doing that would not get Miho her hat.
So he shook, and tears tracked silently, and his whisper was wet and weighted with the resignation of pain sure to come, “Yes, Master.”
The two words were gutteral, dripping things, ur-Kiäat perfectly accented as any Sith of old.
Bentre watched the events unfolding around him. Muz was a force of nature unto himself. His presence was unspoken and undeniable, but the Corellian Son of Sadow was not about to bow the knee without good cause. One word had passed between the Consul and the Proconsul, but there were layers of meaning in even so simple a word. The looks exchanged between the senior Summit members made Bentre certain there was more both said and humorously unsaid. Something was happening there, and perhaps there was an opportunity there for him. He would have to hold his peace for now.
It was interesting, seeing how the others responded to Muz. The comraderie between his fellow Sons of Sadow were nothing out of the ordinary. The reactions from Creon brought a hint of a smile to the lips. The reaction from Rue was however, unexpected. The presence of the former Grand Master was a bit much for those unused to it, but he hadn’t expected to see their visitor drop to his face unbidden.
Then a motion from the Lion, and both rose quickly in their own way. Then there were tears, and Bentre felt a prick in his heart. One feared the storm, but weeping brought no deliverance, and Muz was not one for wanton destruction. He caught the words of Ancient Sith, and he involuntarily tilted his head.
He was not about to speak out of turn just yet. Instead, Bentre raised a finger to the Bobot and muttered “the usual.” He then turned back and leaned against the bar.
This all was getting interesting.
Sarthis watched the quiet elder suspiciously from the shadows across the promenade. He still remembered the events of the previous evening, and had been snooping around the station for most of the day, noting with further concern the quiet cleanup job of what was clearly a murder site. The lack of criminal investigation of any sort of apparent forensic procedure rang alarm bells in the consiencious noghri’s head. The jedi was up to no good, and was keeping the matter quiet. It made little sense, for all his cold attitude and brutalness, the jedi was usually a stickler for rules. Sarthis considered it all in his mind. The jedi had told him it was the business of Naga Sadow, and not his own. Logically this was true, he was not being paid to investigate, yet, but still his curiousity burned. He would give it more thought.
He walked quietly past the jedi and the food stalls and entered the cantina. He had eaten an unsatisfying vaccum packed meal late morning on his ship. He was in the mood for some real food, or what passed for it here. He glanced round the bar, noticing the two Clan leaders and two people he did not recognise talking in the middle of the room. He quietly found a table in a corner and ordered a hot meal and a glass of wine.
Tasha'Vel watched them, inwardly disgusted at the prostrated bodies bowing. To her just as Muz didn’t care for it,no one was as lowly as anyone else. Her eyes darted about as she spied bentre leaning against the bar watching. Despite the madness, he still was kind of cute. She grinned mischievously. He looks lonely perhaps he wouldn’t mind a little company from his wife. Quietly, she moved up to the Correllian leaning by the bar and smiled sweetly as she sat on a nearby stool next to him. “Another Sunrise please.” She motioned to the bobot and leaned herself a bit closer to Bentre. If things were gonna be interesting, why not be next to her former rival.
A few moments earlier..
DarkHawk swirled the amber liquid in his glass, savoring the slow burn of his cigar when it hit him. The atmosphere inside the Seventh Tooth shifted, silent, taut, as if the air itself held its breath. Eyes turned, wide with awe, fear, and reverence. He knew that feeling all too well. The Lion had arrived.
After all the campaigns, all the counsel and hard-earned wisdom, Lord Keibatsu’s presence was still commanding, never dulled by familiarity. This time, though, DarkHawk sensed a streak of devilish amusement beneath the Elder’s poise. Rising, he offered a respectful bow.
“Consul.”
The word carried weight, heavier when spoken by a Grand Master. DarkHawk felt that old unease stir, though he masked it well. Lord Keibatsu normally scoffed at his Shaevalian customs & courtesies, but not today. Today, formality hung thick between them.
DarkHawk knew the Lion carried something more. Their recent dealings had been wrapped in layers of secrecy, threads of whispers and dangerous truths pulled from places most men would never dare to go. Over years, DarkHawk had cultivated a web of informants, debtors, and enemies, each dangerous in their own right. But Lord Keibatsu’s reach extended further still, plunging into depths where only the truly fearless lingered. In those shadows, The Lion walked unflinching.
A single glance was all it took. The Elder’s gaze crashed into DarkHawk’s mind, flooding it with visions. Shards of something long sought, glimpses of the unthinkable made real. DarkHawk’s hand tightened on his glass as he forced down any outward sign of shock. After all their searching, all their schemes, this was no mere whisper. It was truth.
He met the Keibatsu’s eyes and gave the faintest nod.
“Unbelievable. That dirty nerfherder actually pulled it off,” DarkHawk thought.
“Believe…” The Lion’s voice resonated in his skull.
DarkHawk raised his glass, the edge of a grin breaking through.
“Then we need a team.”
The noghri gave a polite word of thanks as the meal was put in front of him. He had ordered the meal of the day, which appeared to be some sort of stew that was giving off an aroma of mysterious spices. He took a sip of his wine, which was acceptable, and then took a taste of the stew, it was not bad surprisingly, the spices had been blended well which suggested the meal had been properly cooked rather than chucked together. He occasionally looked over at other side of the bar where the sadowan leaders appeared to be talking more animatedly. Then a large shape appeared in front of him. He frowned as she spoke to him, placing a laminated sheet of paper in front of him. He looked at it. It did not appear to be a bill for the food, and he was confused by the list of random phrases and names next to them. He looked up at her. “What is this?” Nova the gammorean spoke one word. He frowned, “And what is that?” She explained, and he tried to understand the concept. “You wish the customers to sing themselves? Do you not pay professionals to come and do that?” Nova spoke at length and he listened in a strange fascination. “I have never heard of the concept, or this Kyataru you say it originated from, but I am not interested, thank you.” As she turned away he continued to eat his food.
He spoke ur-Kittât. Muz tilted his head in curiosity, ink-black pools regarding the hybrid before him. He kept himself from instinct, reigning in the desire to see him with a God’s eyes, beneath the flesh and through his pattern. It wasn’t needed yet. Tears, posture, stilted breaths. The man was terrified.
And yet, he didn’t know this one. He didn’t look like anyone he had handled before,really. The colorfulness of the creature would have stood out in memory. Thus the fear wasn’t likely personal. He paused, wondering what new tales were being passed as curricula at the Academy these days.
It had only been a moment, but it seemed too long. There were others who he wanted to speak with, other new faces to attend to, but family matters were family matters. And to that, he gave his attention. Terrified as this hybrid was, answers would be wrought with that flavor, and spoiled beside. He made a conscious effort to shift his weight and loosen the muscles at his jaw, his shoulders.
”Relax.” His voice rattled from eardrums inward before continuing without sound. …Tell me who you are, and how you know her. Images flowed from his mind, the raven-haired assassin he had thought dead for so long until reasonably recent.
The Bobot slid another double pour of Double-Sight in front of Bentre, a fresh Tatooine Sunrise in front of Tasha’vel, then wheeled around the side to pour a glass of wine for the Noghri. Idle animations had it spinning its soda gun and tipping its hat as the other hand made itself useful. Sure, it would use those maneuvers as necessary flair, but it seemed that all too many of the patrons at the moment needed fewer mixers and the droid felt like it had to put on a show somehow.
The sound system gently adjusted, Selri adjusting the levels so that the open microphone on stage would carry through that hall, but not further. There had been an …incident with a rodian yodeller that one time, and it had taken a week to clean up the mess. No, it would be far better to leave the main part of the bar mostly sealed for the vending music system. But even so, she liked the idea of the open mike singing event, whatever they had called it. It served two purposes: it would warm up the crowd for Vera’s set, and get the crowd sufficiently loosened up for more drinks.
Selri nodded as she stuck her head out of the booth, spying Nova as she brought the songlist around to patrons, gesturing at the two tables full of pilots on their leave. Certainly, they would give it a try, even if the wizards were reluctant.
LoveLossReliefConfusion.
Lovelossreliefconfusion
Loveloss relie fcon fus ion
Love lo iefc
Love loss lost you
Love you.
Love.
Recognition, realization, bloomed as a heliotrope bending towards the daylight, opening eyes once closed. Saffron met starless black, and the bar, the station, were gone.
They waited between Worlds, a breath held, a heartbeat, two, merging into one. Muz – for that was His name, not God, He was not a god due groveling, he was–
He was family.
And he had lost.
But she was not like his– like Rue’s litluns. She had come back. She had lived. And he’d– Muz had missed so much, knew so little, still.
Saffron eyes held on to starless black. And softened. And smiled, tremulous. An exhale. A gentle breeze through grass and forest glade. In their minds’ eyes, a thin lavender hand extended and dared touch one gloved fellow at Muz’s side.
Rue’s mental voice was leagues stronger than his real whispers, and yet still just as soft. It was full of loss, and love, and in that loss, love enduring.
Allow me to show you her, it offered more than answered. And the memories came, flickers amidst images and sensations.
“I know a thing or two about being away from home.”
She smiles at the creature – Alk – and coos to him in the softest voice Muz has ever heard from her.
“Lettuce find you something to eat…”
Puns. Laughter. Her lips curl and quirk. Her pale face lights with it, the glint of mischief and humor.
“…apologize for any rudeness in greeting Alk first. I’m Mihoshi Keibatsu, but please just call me Miho…”
“This one– I am Rue. Rue Kendis…”
Another man joins them. The memories shift, directed with a reasonable skill – unused for a long time, apologies, comes the echo of a whisper of a dream – slipping and sliding water smooth over river stones, turning in the flow to try and refocus on their subject: Miho, seated in a booth. Miho orders pancakes and steak. Miho orders him hot chocolate and insists it not be forgotten. Miho says they could be friends and it would be an honor. Miho agrees they are friends. Miho smiles. Miho eats messily. Miho’s eyes are watchful and knowing on him. Miho has him try her pancakes. Miho has him try several bites of her pancakes, continuously piling new pieces onto his plate of veggie nuggets.
“I only recently got reunited with my own family. Before that it was just…dark…” Her tone is empty and factual, reporting events of horrors. He knows it well. Her eyes change when she grins. “…But, now I have made…friends…now I have three more…n Rue and Alk.”
She feeds him more pancakes when he cries. He plaits her hair once their fingers are no longer sticky of syrup. She smiles.
She smiles.
The stream shifts, the wind turns. Not so specific a memory as a first meeting. An inflorescence. The buds of many on many:
Long way from home.
Soft tones.
- Knew the cold and burn of the flesh encased in Carbonite, the crawling, itching fire on skin while that chill sunk into the bones, the marrow.
The Masters and Mistresses had performed such experiments upon its body several times over the decades to test different variables and hypotheses, ranging from freezing individual phalanges to the entire body below the head, which it would report the sensations of, once it was matured enough to speak and explain properly, as well as full-body encasement, for varying intervals of time and under various conditions.
Miho did not need to explain her experience to him. When she held his hand in hers, purposeful, whenever they sat beside one another, he understood. He understood. To wish for warmth. To discover – or rediscover – what it was like for his toes to feel warm, entirely warm, without that lingering ache of cold deep down in the smallest joints, even when bundled in many blankets, indoors, in a reasonably warm ambient temperature. Even with socks.
A fissure went through the connection at that, a visceral recoil of disgust and dislike, whining, a thing that curled the toes and bunched the muscles in one’s legs, ready to kick away, like fleeing from tickling fingers or a particularly terrible texture.
Rue did not care for socks.
It refocused again.
How she sometimes forgets to eat, like he does. He can hear her stomach. The Twins and Miss Yuki nag her at times, explaining that ration bars are not meals and about meal frequency, but only such that typical Near-Human ears would not hear. Rue debates telling her how Hunyi and Elly have spent the last year encouraging him to eat, how he is at two meals – two! Whole meals! The gluttony – each day and a ‘snackums’ as Miho would phrase it each day now. How he understands that too. The hollowness of the stomach. The smallness. The not feeling hunger, because to feel hunger is to feel pain, is to breathe, is to exist.
“You are precious to me as well, Rue. I’m glad Alk introduced us.”
Oku flowers in her hair. Corellia whiskey, slowly sipped. A shot of it in cocoa, very much disliked. The slip of her soft dark hair through his fingers, the lean of her small, strong body against his, easing.
She would say: new friends are just old friends you hadn’t met yet.
She would pay attention to any animal they came across and speak softly to them, but her face was a pale mask to most people.
She laughs in firelight, her skin warm. They know warm. They lean near the fire and it is warm and it smells of hay and animals. The sharp wind of a ship overhead dislodges her hat, which along with her staff and coat she has liked very much and taken to always wearing. It hits the ground and Alk picks it up for her, ever the gentlemott. But it is chewed, Rue, Muz notices. He thinks he must fix this. She does not seem to worry. There are some-mores, and a great deal of meat Miho eats but he does not, cannot stand the smell of burning flesh, of his litluns burning to ash, is not breathing, Miho leans against him and dozes lightly when he starts to sing more lullabies this time just for her and when they part later he loses track of her and the hat–
- –sudden brightness, blinding after the nighttime farm. Brilliant sunny beaches and crystal blue oceans. Palm fronds, bent expertly and gently with his tail, woven together. He picks flowers he is confident she will like–
–Muz learns what flowers she might like.
He learns–
–Lovelosslovelossloveloss.
Who are you?
It is nearly lost in the messy tripping of pool to pool. But every step is underlined with pain, with grief, with small tiny hands and cold bodies and screaming little wails of pain and wide eyed joy and God’s red eyes and knees and forehead to the floor and it is nothing but it was good please stop NO–
The memory cuts aside. Children’s faces. Many species. Thousands of them. Then one face, lingering, a Ryn woman? Another, a man, and a whisper, Master. Tiny, gold flowers that grow in sprigs of fours.
It rips back to the present, to the floor beneath boots and feet, to a mott licking at toes. To the Bobat and the Sadowans and off-key singing. To saffron meeting starless black, holding a few seconds longer before dropping, shy and still scared, away.
“…this– I could make you a matching hat,” the hybrid offered tentatively, shoulders curling in anticipation of a possible strike, “if you wanted?”
<@284848346672136192>
Rue was sunshine on your face on a cool spring day. Gentle hope built on a foundation of tragedy, of pain and misery. Muz considered them for a moment, dark pools unflinching as he debated sharing what he had carried with him for so long. The wrenching from his own family as a child, the stern hand of his master, the blooming fury upon discovering the torched remains of his father’s house… his fall presaging a winter so long that even spring seemed a cruel prank. Images roiled beneath his mind, memories that part of him wanted to share, to show the commonality between them.
The look on his mother’s face as the transport took off, the weight of the man’s hand on his tiny shoulder almost as much as the one in his heart. His words telling him to remember instead building an ache in his heart that would never stop.
The fire behind his eyes as he struck the creature down, the cries of those it had been hurting changing tone as he fell forward on top of it. His eyes, the only thing he could remember his mother by, scarred black by the creature’s death. The admonishment of his master, disapproving of his methods, sending him away.
Returning home, only to bury what bones he could find in ashes that still burned his fingers. He thought he was burying what was left of himself in that ruin, the parts of him that he was convinced caused their deaths.
Blood on the blade he had earned for saving so many lives, the irony not lost on him. Wondering if that was all he would ever be, if he hadn’t buried enough of himself to become something other than a weapon. His only tool was a blade, and every problem seemed solvable by cutting.
His heart walking away from him, trying to hide her fear of what he was capable of as much as she tried to hide the extra heartbeat within. He knew, and he couldn’t disagree, even if everything inside of him screamed to stop her.
The terrible joy of discovering that his best friend was his brother. His fear to even retake his family’s name, feeling - no, knowing - that he was the curse that befell everything around him.
The feral glee in Miho’s violet eyes as she slipped his grasp, the bombardment already begun. K’hamer’an corpses erupting with each blast as Manji kept him from following her, begging that he not be lost as well. It was more than he deserved. But he would try.
Walking the ruins of the Ragnos Cathedral yet again, stacking broken bricks because he had to do something right then. Had to build something that lasted, to convince himself that his legacy was more than just of destruction. And yet, here he was again, amid rubble and ruin.
His wave of fire that rushed across a world and into his soul. He could taste their memories, hear their voices, smell their dreams. He had been entrusted with all of them, alongside a throne he had cursed long ago. And he spent them, spent them to try and understand how to heal a man who now hated him for it.
The pleading in Cotelin’s eyes as he watched him react with blades as if by rote. The understanding in his heart an instant before everything played out the only way that it could. If they needed a monster to unify, it was a role he had been made for.
The lack of reaction that Pravis had after Muz had spent years of hunting the remnants of the One Sith told the story all the same. He didn’t care, he had left the enemy because he knew Muz would do what he always did.
His return to Orian only to find Sadow gone, driven away from their homes as so many other clans. The dread that lived in his stomach told him that it was because he wasn’t there, that what he had helped build would never stand. He was doomed to try anyway, bringing as many with him back to Sepros as would come, trying to dilute his curse with the efforts of others.
Victories came and went, the losses accumulated.
It was proven time and time again. Every choice he had made seemed to be the wrong one, each path leading him further toward an end even he couldn’t divine. The more he tried to deny it, the worse it would be when it was proven wrong. He was a monster.
But he didn’t have to be right now.
This poor creature didn’t deserve more pain. He wouldn’t share. He raised a hand slowly, watching the creature track his movements like a beaten hound. He let it rest on the man’s stooped shoulder gently. No thank you. You’ve done more than enough.
He let a corner of his mouth curl up in a half smile, then looked back at the Consul, then back at Rue. He gave a short nod, then walked away, returning to his work.
God’s touch – no, Master Muz’s…Mister Muz’s, came the compromise decided upon – was gentle. A kind and allied pat. Rue had never felt like someone’s ally, some sort of acknowledged…not equal, never, but…perhaps something within those bounds. The hybrid smiled back to the Master Mister’s own little grin, the last stray thought floating between them that he and his little sister smiled the same, with crinkles by their eyes, and bowed only at the waist in reply to the nod.
He would have to tell Miho, whenever he found her, that he had met her brother.
But for now there was that very predicament persisting, and Alk was trying to follow Muz to chew on his hair, and that would have been rude.
“Alk,” Rue sighed with growling Shirryywook syllables. “No, no, trouble-taster, come here.”
He took some frozen roots out of his bag and tossed the mott one, which would perhaps occupy him for…oh, two minutes. Then he glanced back around, having lost all sense of the other people around him in the exchange. The Human had migrated to the bar by a Twi'lek female, as had the other. Malisane had withdrawn to speak to Miss Nova.
At a bit of a loss, he moved to sit at the bar as well, observing how the Bobats spun.
Tasha'vel kept drinking her tatooine sunset as she actually started to relax a bit. “It’s been a day and I need a break.” She wondered still about what she was going to do with her daughter, Lynnavel, who was now eight. Perhaps she would take her from Slagar and place her in another clan to keep safe. She had kept in touch and visited her daughter several times, so perhaps she would benefit getting to know some of the other younglings in the other clans.
Sarthis had been talking to the gammorean barmaid. After a few minutes he approached Rue. “Excuse me sir. I understand you have an acquaintance missing. I offer a finding and retrieval service for reasonable prices. If you have a name, a last known location, a recent picture, and if possible an item of clothing I may be able to help.”
“Oh!” Rue bowed on his stool, actually sitting on it for once due to the nature of his skirt rather than perching. “Yes, Master, Sir, but not– not missing, I do not think. This one simply cannot seem to find her.”
Alk, curious, approached the new person and snuffled at his hands.
“Pardon, I do not know if he has met a Noghiri before, and he is very curious.”
Gaze long enough into the abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you
Areticus had reached too far, caught in the moment and lost count of his pacing. His presence slipped through the cracks, felt within Creon but not of him. Peering through Creon’s eyes caused the iris to change, and the more he stared from afar at Muz, the more those smoldering sith-orange took hold to get a better look. Muz’ black eyes were a doorway, one Areticus used through Creon to reach out with a nerual oscillating wave. Like a thin string the hidden Krath stretched through the mind of the Obelisk towards Muz.
Creon instinctively reared back the attempt, with a reminder to Bentre’s level of awareness, let alone the others. Areticus adhered to the warning, but even as he retreated it was too late.
Areticus remained on the vessel Creon arrived on which sat in the hangar bay. He has a private room devoid of any furnishings or objects. Instead he was alone, meditating at the center of a carefully carved circle. This diviner’s ritual tethered his mind to Creons’, allowing him to scry through another’s eye. He was connected, but not in control, yet still able to use the Obelisk as a conduit for the Force. When Areticus had reeled back, his awareness became suddenly disconnected from Creon. The room he was in was now darker, and colder than before.
He looked back over the circle and saw some of the chalk that had been used. The protective and concealing seals that kept had been dampened until they eventuslly gave out from the limited energy used to fuel them oppressed by another presence.
“Obelisk” Areticus spoke telepathically to Creon.
“Krath” Creon replied.
“Your destiny is tied to Bentre. He will guide you best. Muz will only get you killed.”
“Understood”, Creon replied before looking at Bentre. His nerves became calm and he dismissed the Force’s influence over enhancing his prowess through rage.
Sarthis looked down at the creature with his one eye, and then vack at Rue. “The animal is of no concern,” he replied, “curiosity is a natural instinct.” Slowly he reached down and patted Alk’s head, careful not to cause alarm.
The Mott happily rubbed his cheek on Sathris’ hand, licking in welcome and then bouncing about, doing some aborted stompies. He was clearly feeling a bit energetic.
“His name is Alk,” Rue informed, smiling. “He is a Mott. And this one is Rue. I apologize if you came looking for employment because of me, Master, Sir. I fear I have no work to offer you, but could perhaps pay recompense for your travel?”
The nogrhi looked from where they were standing to the table where he had eaten his stew a few minutes earlier. “That will not be necessary sir, it was not far. As it happens the…”, he paused, “..individuals who run this system pay me a small weekly retainer and more for specific assignments. I just keep my ears open for other work to keep myself busy.”
Bentre watched unfolding around him. He was not quite the social creature he had once been. Long hours of study and seclusion had probably turned him a bit odd compared to when he sat at the Clan’s head. Reaching over, he sipped his whiskey. When he turned he caught sight of his wife. She had been uncharacteristically quiet of late.
Had he pissed her off any more than in the past? Was she giving the cold shoulder? Had she moved on from the two of them? His brow furrowed.
“H-how,” his throat felt unusually dry. He tried to clear it. “How have you been, Tash’?”
<@1385116824814878940>
Tashavel turned from watching the others to Bentre’s dark brown eyes and furrowed brow. Her emerald green eyes seemed to bore into him. This was the man that spent so many months, nine hells probably a year off in his own lab and world. Like she didn’t exist,she had had numerous nights where she felt alone. She was upset mostly for Lynna'vel now eight hardly seeing her father. Maybe..no I still believe he can be redeemed. Bentre deep down, I know there is a wonderful Coruscant man in you.. She then softened and smiled. To hear his voice actually was still nice. “Rough Bentre, it’s been really rough.”
“I can imagine.” He looked out into the middle distance, sipping his whiskey to fill the silence that dragged on. “So how is Lyna’ doing?”
Sarthis let his gaze go to the Sadowan married couple and decided whatever they were up to was no concern of his. He looked back at the kessurian. He was happy to talk to a non sadowan. “So are you just looking for your friend in this system or are you interested in the life here?” <@244244163002892288>
The Kessurian hybrid, of course, could hear every word with his superior hearing, and even caught some of the initial thoughts of the Twi'lek woman about moving a child somewhere else, somewhere safe, due to his mind still being wide open from speaking to Master Mister Muz.
Now he pulled it back, debating engagimg, while answering the Noghri.
“It was the former, Sir, that this one sought. I had asked about the Keibatsu, and was directed to find the Clan of Sadow in this system. It seems, though…” Ash was wet on his tongue. The ash of Muz’s home. The ash of Rue’s children. “…it seems I was mistaken. Or at least, that Miho doesn’t seem to be here. She and other friends of mine who live in the Kiast system, however, urged me to stay away. I only want to see my friends, but…it seems it is a dream, for now.”
Sarthis nodded. “I am aware that the co-leader of the leaders of this system have the name, though I know little of them. I made my home here after some, unpleasantness, in my former home of the mobile city state of Refuge.”
Rue’s head tilted with a small chirp. “This one does not know this place. Or many places, but…what is it like?”
The nogrhi frowned. “If you mean Refuge, then it is a massive station formed of the hulls of many, many ships. It is typically ruled by seven crimelords with their own sector that traverses the Daragon Way . One of them hired me to do a job, the specifics of which he lied about. We had a dispute. His successors agreed not to bother me so long as I do not return.”
The hybrid frowned faintly, and his tail flicked forward, not touching the Nogrhi but sweeping near, as if in a comforting gesture that could be accepted. “I am sorry that you had to leave the place that was home to you. I hope that you find home somewhere now.”
The nogrhi shrugged. “I have made this system my home. I work from here and am content. It serves my purposes.”
“What is it like?” He smiled then, reaching to pet Alk to help quell the Mott’s antsiness.
Sarthis considered this. “It’s is a vibrant system. This is a small part of it. Tarthis is cold, but has many sights of interest. Aeotheran has is predominantly jungle but has many busy cities, and many seaside resorts. I enjoy the diversity.”
Rue gave another chirp, this one curious and delighted. “This indeed sounds interesting. Selen is chiefly ocean and has many jungles and beaches on its islands which are quite diverse in flora this one is cataloguing. I would be pleased to see both Aeotheran and perhaps Tarthis… This one prefers to be warm, but there are many fascinating flora in colder climes as well.”
“She is all right, bigger and quite a strong, sweet girl.” She smiled a bit. “She does miss her father and wants to see him.”
As everyone had seemed occupied with each other, Creon took his leave from the cantina. His digestive tract sent him to the latrine, but thereafter he returned to his vessel in the hangar. Awaiting him was Areticus.
“They can read thoughts. Did you intend to be open?,” Creon told him.
“Do you think then Bentre will ignore you for it?” Areticus replied.
Creon sighed and took a seat, “I can’t make anything of this. I do find it pitiful they consume poison. Even under the euphoria all I feel is weakness. Weakness I’d rather exercise off than go back and try to be someone’s lapdog just to better swing a glowstick.”
Areticus laughed for a moment before saying, “It will be more than that. They are the least restrained because it helps them hone their prowess.”
Creon sat back up and stretched each of his limbs and twisted his back, “Guess I’d better get back out there. Let’s stay unlinked for now. You saw all you needed, right?”
“Nope. I’ll be attempting to astral project amongst them to test their awareness.”
“Be careful,” Creon said before waving him off and leaving the ship.
Using the Force to project his likeness into a simulacrum required pouring Areticus’ own wellspring of essence in the Living Force into the Cosmic. It was moreso the preferred state than occupying his body.
His Force spirit was unperceptible by the naked eye, and his presence feint. He was amorphous in form through his detachment to vanity. The universe was before him, encompassed by the stretch of his mind’s capable extensions. The spirit drew in the Force from the direction of specified individuals with a thin precision like an undiscovered parasite. Energy tethered to the pull, and came with it fragmented memories of the target in an irregular input pace. The sparse frequency of consumption was to remain subtle until the capital quota was met.
Trillions of souls then faced Areticus’. All of them were subject in network of one. A fusion which cast a net of connections innumerable; like a hive mind for a whole world. Hyperspace was his escape before it could consume him. Yet just as instant was his return at different dimensions overlapping the space for which the vessel occupied. Repeating the process only when detected.
Tasha'vel stopped a moment. An eyebrow raised, and then another. Something cried out in the dark, attempting to reach them, railing against forces that they barely understood, let alone mastered. The signature was unique, the pattern unusual. Perhaps this was their first foray into a new set of powers, perhaps it was a struggling act of self-delusion. Either way, it didn’t matter. It shouldn’t be happening here. They reached out, connecting mind to mind, the message clear. Unmistakable. Authoritative.
Learn to walk before you run. Tashavel wrapped her mind around the Force, seeking the points that connected Creon to the …whoever it was, they were far away. Had he been made into a dyad by some Lord or other? No, that didn’t track. But the point between them was salient, hard-nosed, easy to miss for those unfamiliar. But Tasha'vel Versea was not unfamiliar. She wrapped her mind around that point, around the equite.
And closed her fist.
Isolated as he was from the Force from any except her, she smiled. Sending him the single message. Return and **Train**.
Sarthis nodded, oblivious to whatever the force users were up to. “We have a range of climates across the system. If you prefer warm i would suggest the southern jungles of Aeotheran or the formerly volcanic desert island of Lor Zatean. Both also have a range of plant and wildlife and vacation resorts nearby.”
Rue grilled and chirped at the idea of Lor Zatean, intrigued about what the volcanic soil could’ve produced.
“That sounds lovel–”
The words choked in his throat on the last syllable, his posture going ramrod straight, fist clenching in his lap and legs tucking tight, head bowing. The shiver of being watched that curdled and zipped up his spine, as old and familiar as pain, and breathing, and loss, was a sure thing. But a quick glance about revealed no glowing red eyes above or in the corners; God’s eyes, the Master’s, watching and recording, always. He trembled finely as he looked about, his senses a shuddering tree in strong wind, every leaf rippling.
There, that? A ghost? No. A waver.
And then it merely stopped, swallowed like a void.
Rue dared not breathe, had ceased breathing– oftentimes, the Masters and Mistresses had found him breathing too disrespectful for its noise. Jan had–
Fangs bit into his cheeks, his lip, nails dug into his thigh. The thin tulle skirts of his pale dress blossomed with metallic red, smudging against his iliac crest.
“Sir, Master, Mistress–” he did not know who to alert, among these people, and so merely spoke just loud enough to be heard by all of them, the Twi'lek and Bentre too, “someone is…watching.”
<@1385116824814878940> <@297496904282144769> <@625060755812909056>
Bentre cocked an eyebrow. He looked mildly confused. The Lion of Tarthos’ presence made it a little hard to parse the Force sometimes.
Or maybe Tasha was just better at that sort of thing.
“Wait, so I need to hurt someone? Do you all need me to kill something?” His eyes flashed with a mix of hunger and anger.
He thought he had chased all the ghosts Dentavii still harbored.
Tasha'vel put a hand up. “No I don’t think so Bentre, I think my point was made very clear and I trust that there will be no more interruptions of that sort.” She smirked a bit.
The Sith Elder sighed. “Okay. I guess I will just tend to my poison then for now.” He sipped his whiskey.
She grinned remembering their younger rival times together. “If you want to let loose Bentre you can always spar with me later.” She winked to him. “Always good to practice once in awhile.”
The Twi'lek suddenly approaching had Rue flinching minutely, though her friendly manner and quick dismissal of murder or hurting another were positive. Saffron eyes looked askance at Bentre, and he tried to force his thoracic vertebrae to relax again as this Tasha'Vel made clear relaxing was the order.
Rue slipped off his seat enough to bow and curtsey low to the woman, eyes still on the ground.
“This one apologizes, then, Mistress Tasha'Vel. It has exercised its own powers in speaking to Master Mister Muz. Also it had intended to possibly display fancies if singing was required or perform healing if needed. It did not know powers were forbidden here.” He paused. “Although if Mistress and Master are to do of the sparring which is violence, and not that of a euphemism for copulation, this one would also offer healing to them.”
Bentre chuckled. “Do not bother your head. It is not that shows of power are forbidden.” He looked sidelong at Muz. “The intent of one’s displays of power are as important as one’s actions. For example, loosing lightning from my fingers against one of our numbers would bring the wrath of Tasha'Vel, Muz Ashen and more besides.” He smiled. “We just must be, well, responsible.”
“Indeed, he’s correct. Intent and actions speak very loudly.” She laughed. “Well if I wind up sparring with Bentre later, I might have to ask for healing services.” She then touched the scar on her lekku before glancing to Bentre. “Besides it would be good to practice a bit.”
“This one understands,” Rue murmured, accepting the correction and rising somewhat, though doing so was uncomfortable. Still, he resolved, he had to try. “Um. Pardon. I am sorry for disturbing your relaxing and the drinkings. But this one can indeed remain to attend any services Masters or Mistress wish.”
Creon stopped. He felt the energy about as stagnant as his numbed nerves as the alcohol tore into the neurons along the course of his bloodline pathways. His stomach roared in protest, threatening to launch it all back up the asophagus. He’d have to work it off or suffer dehydration degradation at the bone’s core of where new blood is made.
He returned to his ship, and put on exercise videos drilled with calisthenics. Twice during them he vomited in the toilet. It was weakness leaving the body. Instead he sought lean mass, as came with it more nerves, a new knot in the brain, and more midi-chlorians. Half the built bodies in that canteen was proof enough they trained and understood.
He watched over Areticus’ sleeping body like a watchdog. The Krath was in a vulnerable state of exposure, shedding layers that constrain freedoms.
Then came a pulse in the Force, which pulled Creon’s attention towards the canteen; albiet staring simply into space. His mind was on Bentre, in a state ready for combat. Creon stood from the couch and paced back and forth, seething in growing anger. He wanted a fight; but to learn. Until that challenge came put every pushup put him closer to getting stronger. So Creon did more pushups.
Areticus’ phantom faded without return, retreating to places clouded by the Dark Side.
“Thank you I appreciate it.” Her voice softer, far less menacing. She preffered to intimidate when needed, always remaining relaxed even in the face of greater powers. By remaining calm and observing,there was a greater chance for her to find weaknesses. Most times, this practice helped her stay alive and make her an asset for Naga Sadow. She raised her hand towards the bar and tables gesturing to Rue.
“For now please enjoy yourself here. I am going to stay a bit and talk. Perhaps I shall talk with you a bit later, I need to discuss a few things with Bentre here first, however it is a welcome sight to see others besides just Sadowans. Thank you for coming.”
Bentre smiled kindly at Rue. “Perhaps we will have to chat later. I have spent a lot of time cooped up recently, so it would be nice to stretch my wings a bit and to hear some about what has been going on out in the larger galaxy.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “As long as you don’t mind of course.” He gave a respectful nod before turning more solemnly to his wife.
“Sure I am not opposed might as well hear about some things going on in the greater universe ."She grinned.
“This one will do its utmost to provide,” Rue promised, though he was barely learning of the Galaxy in its vastness himself. He bowed and retreated from the couple, resuming a seat by the Noghri and sipping at the water provided to him upon quiet request.