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[Naomi Kilnshire-Elswin]

|| Separate scenario for Darth Mavenger ||
 

Who was this man in fell armour? Whose wounds bled bright red blood into the rough decking? What had punctured his shoulder so that smoke still curled like a lit death stick? What had brought him to the decking of the Calribeis carried by such a monster? Perhaps he was one of the famous Jedi Knights who had fought so valiantly against one empire to the next! But no handle of a lightsaber could be seen at his belt. A Sith then. One of the cultists? And why was he here instead of dying on the fields of Falleen for the planet they had enslaved for so long. 

 

Her head was spinning with a mix of curiosity and a million questions. Whoever he was, he was obviously wounded in battle and needed help. She looked fervently up to where her dad was sleeping in the third bunk, then back at the man in bloody armour. Most everyone was asleep so it couldn’t hurt to go see if she could help right? She had taken that medi class last semester at the start of year nine. The only class she had given a shit about anyway. She nervously tucked a lock of red hair behind her ear then stood. 

 

On silent bare feet she walked to where the hulking man in armour lay and crouched down beside his head. She pulled the medi kit from her backpack and set it down beside him. Bought for the class, The crossed keys of her secondary school displayed in a crimson red below the Red Cross on the white metal box. She popped the seal then turned back to the hulking man in metal. He was huge, and the clasps that secured his helmet on were tough. With thin fingers she pried them open, one by one they popped loose until the heavy helmet could be slowly scootched off of his head. Stubble and a white face, bruised around the neck, black hair. Human like her. Though a decade and a little older. A handsome appearance, though he was no knight in shining armour that her holonovels always spoke about. 

 

She opened her kit and took out an instant cold compress and placed in on his very warm forehead. Next came a hypospray of bacta for his shoulder wound which she applied with some degree of skill. It was a strange wound, cauterized. From a lightsaber maybe? 

 

She leaned forward and took his pulse. Normal. She frowned and leaned forwards over him. 

 

“Are you awake?”

[Mavanger]

When Darth Mavanger woke, he felt a deep rage in his heart. More than the flashfire of wrath that he'd felt in battle, at slights, at poorly thought out decisions. This was an unfathomable sense of hurt, of grief, of denial.

 

Was it defeat? It wasn't alien to him. The greatest lessons were learned from the worst losses. It stung, but in the grand scheme of things it was for the better. The Sith were supposed to be in decline, and his public defeat on Falleen would hopefully sell that narrative. An empire in decline, even the most dangerous among them losing ground. No, this wasn't what angered him.

 

Maybe it was Darth Akheron's disregard for the Sith's plans, his endangerment of the Sith Worlds by not only bringing a defense force, but losing them too. It was blatant disregard for the current state of the galaxy, and the consequences would surely rear their head in the coming months. But he'd faced this before. Inmortos on Naboo, his own insolence on Kuat. No, this was the way of the Sith. To test the bounds, to try their hand even when the cards were against them.

 

He thought back to the fight, and with some digging, he found it. The thorn in his psyche. The wound in his mind. That a Jedi Master, the masters of sympathy and healing, couldn't understand what loss was. A declaration that because he had lost less than the wookie, that what he felt was a lie, was weak, was a result of weak temperament. His rage stemmed from the understanding that the one who could understand, who knew what it felt like to lose everything, denied his grief so viscerally.

 

His eyes snapped open as he heard a voice, and his mind returned to his body. His mask was gone, a source of cold against his neck. A young girl knelt over him, asking if he was okay.

 

Empathy? From a girl so young? Did she not know who he was?

He sat up, looking around. He was on a ship, filled with refugees. Why was he still alive? The Wookie hadn't killed him. Yet again, the weakness of the Jedi failed to stop him. Failed to end the cycle. How could the Wookie claim that he didn't know true grief, true loss, when his own losses couldn't even drive him to kill an enemy determined to slaughter his people? And yet, this young girl help empathy in her heart.

 

"Where am I?"

 

His voice was low, lest he wake the sleeping passengers. A Sith, even unarmed, could cause a panic in such close quarters.

[Naomi Kilnshire-Elswin]

His eyes snapped open, pale ocean-like eyes, deep set and haunted. But haunted by what? What hells had the man seen? What deep abyss had he stared into and lost himself in? 

 

He sat up suddenly and broke her study of his eyes with a blink and a question. She gulped back a gasp as she saw what had lain beneath his crumpled form. Two wicked swords lay there, covered in a sheen of blood, their edges dark and greedy. She put out her hands on either side of his neck like the class had taught her and stared again into his deep eyes. No sign of concussion, both pupils reacted the same to the streaming light of hyperspace from the window behind her. She gestured that he should lie back down. And gave a reassuring smile.

 

“Easy now, no enemies are around us that I know about. You are aboard the refugee ship Calribeis. I don’t know our destination though, no one has told me anything.”

 

She gestured to her box of medi tools. And put on the commanding tone her teacher had taught.

 

“Can you take your pauldron off? That cut looks very deep. And maybe you can tell me what your name is!”

[Mavanger]

Refugees. Cowards. They fled their homes rather than take a stand. Even traitors had more honor than these people. His mind churned with various thoughts and emotions. Potential actions and reactions. The girl spoke again, asking to treat his shoulder. In truth, he barely felt it, the pain feeding his consciousness, but he knew the risks of infections and nerve damage. He reached up to his shoulder, peeling the pauldron away with little effort. He placed it gently on the ground, the metal heavy in his hands. He watched her work with sorrow.

 

"Do you know who I am, girl?"

 

She surely didn't. If she did she would have woken her peers, and they would have jettisoned him out the airlock. She would have drove a knife through his throat while she had a chance. It was strangely comforting- that the person before him didn't know who he was, or what he was capable of. The Sith knew him everywhere. Those that didn't know him by name or by reputation, knew by his presence. The Sovereign Knights were the same- they recognized his threat, and they had no intentions of sparing him.

 

"Why do you help me?"

[Naomi Kilnshire-Elswin]

She looked the man in the eyes, seeing if she could judge his character by them. Perhaps she could imagine those eyes behind a masque of a murderer, the eyes slightly wrinkled from the joy brought from mass slaughter. But there was nothing in those eyes save a deep sadness. A broken heart lay buried in that armoured chest and perhaps from that profound grief he could have been some great vanquisher. A man that led the armies of the Sith in their viscous demonic array. And though his armour and the swords were fell, they did not speak directly to his character. And as mom had always taught, give someone the chance to prove themselves. 

 

She peeled away the red and gold armourweave with her fingers until she had fully exposed the shoulder wound, then sprayed it with a mix of antiseptic, pain relief, and bacta. Then she packed the wound with a patch of the spongelike bactaine filament, before covering and sealing it with a taped bandage. She sat back on her haunches and wiped her bloody hands on her pale blue tunic. Her dad would be mad about that for sure. 

 

She looked back up at the mysterious man and raised her eyebrows. 

 

“By the armour, cloak, wounds, and swords I might count you as having just exited a holofilm set onto our ship.” She smiled at her own joke then shrugged, sitting down across from him as she rubbed at her hands with an antiseptic wipe. “But I think you are either a Jedi or a Sith but i'm not scared. You aren't a scary person.” 

 

She gestured to his bandaged wounds again before cracking another cold compress and passing it to him to place on his neck. “As for why, why not? Why wouldn't you want to help someone who has been hurt?”

[RitaEstrazda]

"Easy, they may be a little wild in appearance, however, they assisted me without question against those monsters" Lumare considered the situation, both the Jedi and the Felucian and did her best to ease the pair from getting heated. Yes strange and at points terrifying, but they held the light the same as her.
"Yes we should get off soon, we are warriors although I think you have this much better than us" a soft gesture to the Felucian, getting them to follow as they moved past the jedi and into saftey.

[Mavanger]

How did this young girl, barely into her life, have more empathy than Jedi Masters? He placed the cold against his bruised neck, relishing the pain, but also the relief. He wondered if it was ignorance that drove her lack of fear, a fundamental disconnect as to what a Sith Lord was, and what they did. Kirlocca had known- and yet he had spared the Warmaster. He hadn't even taken Darth Mavanger into custody. He knew that this was the weakness that was evidence of his great blasphemy- The denial of Darth Mavanger's grief, his sorrow, his loss.

And yet, he was so tired.

 

Tired of the pain. Of the loss, Of the war.

 

Of the fight.

 

But he wasn't done yet.

 

As he stood, he contemplated what came next. Retribution. The cycle would continue. Pain begot pain. Grief unto grief. His life would lead to more death. Maybe Kirlocca had defeated him, stolen his victory and replaced it with a lock of his own hair, as though they would meet again on day as friends. He didn't understand grief. Not like Mordecai did. His was deeper than loss. It was more than the death of the man he loved. More than the deaths of his friends and allies.

 

It was guilt.

 

Deep down, he knew. He knew that he was the reason they had died. Those he cared about, those he fought beside. They had trusted him, they had followed him to war, and they had all died for it. The cycle began with him. and every revolution pulled him deeper into his despair. He knew this. He had always known this. He knew how to break it, but there was one last thing to do before he did. He would ensure his vengeance survived him. His fight was almost over, but hers? The Jedi Guardian would never spare another Sith, if he even survived. He could feel it, deep in her soul. She knew the Force, even if she wasn't aware of it yet.

 

"You have done me a kindness. But it's too little. Too late. I've fought too long to let my enemies survive now. And so, young one, I offer my sincerest apologies for what comes next." He lifted one of his blades, the Edge of Terror. It was chosen for a purpose. The tool of his strike, of his gambit. He wasted no time in moving, and with two strides he had plunged the blade into the heart of the first refugee.

 

The slaughter had begun.

[Naomi Kilnshire-Elswin]

Her candid smile seemed frozen on her face as the man stood. He towered over her like a golem. Clad in his fell armour and suddenly there was a tickle of fear on the back of her neck. His hand grasped the wicked sword like it had been forged for him, lifting the heavy metal weapon like it was nothing more than a piece of flimsiplast. She could feel her blood turn cold and a shot of ice seemed to run up her spine. She shivered in his shadow.

 

“Stop.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper. A plea that kicked aside any pretend adult was that she had been trying to show. Dread. She knew what he was going to do before he did it. The propaganda films always made it seem so stupid, so unbelievable. People couldn’t be so evil as to willingly murder innocents like this. It was unreal. 

 

His sword drew back behind the back of a sleeping man, and she wanted to cry out. To warn the ship, to raise a hell that could storm the man and pin him to the decking. But she was so detached, it didn’t feel real. And her voice didn’t want to come. Not even a squeak until the sword plunged forward. Pinning the man to his foam mattress. 

 

Blood. Gods there was so much blood. Then her voice came. Again in a whispered plea. Her feet moved as she ran towards him, she could feel only the coldness of the metal tiles beneath her bare feet. She tried to grab his arm to stop him from pulling the blade free. 

 

“What point are you trying to make? Stop, I'll do anything. Please. Whatever you want.”
 

[Mavanger]

"You don't understand. But you will. And when you do, when you understand the lesson I am teaching you, you will understand what must be done. What should have been done, countless times."

 

He pulled the blade free, blood spraying against the bottom of the bunk above the now deceased man. As he brought his blade up, the young girl grasped his arm. A fruitless endeavor. Even in his current state, trained warriors would have trouble slowing him down. With his free hand, he gently grasped her shoulder and pushed her away. She would never thank him for this. He knew that. He was altering the course of a life with every step. Every swing. Thus was the power of terror.

 

"Watch. Listen. Learn."

 

He raised his blade high, and brought it down on the next refugee's neck, slicing through steel and flesh alike as he severed the woman's head. The blade was almost silent, the resistance nearly non-existent. He looked down. On the ground level lay another, looking up at him with a bloodied face and frightened eyes. He reached down, dragging the cowering man by the hair across the ground before dropping him and bringing a massive armored boot upon his neck.

 

"You cannot stop this."

 

Another refugee tried to run towards a door. He reached out with the Force, yanking him closer, the force impaling the man's abdomen with Darth Mavanger's outstretched blade. A strong pull, and the sword was free, having nearly cut the man in half as it looked for freedom. Blood arced across the cabin, a wicked spray, driven by the force of his fury.

[Naomi Kilnshire-Elswin]

All hell broke loose with the second stroke of his wicked blade. Blood arced like a fountain into the air, and she could feel the warmth of it on her face as she stumbled back from the Sith’s push. He was so strong, not even paying attention as she tripped and fell next to his other discarded Sith war sword. She felt cold, numb, instead of the sticky warm wet of blood that was now covering her.

 

Why? She didn’t know the answer. It was evil, it was gross. What could she learn from this but to hate him? Why the kriff was he doing this? At any other point she would have flushed at the idea of even thinking that word out loud. But now she didn’t give a damn what dad might have said. Her eyes widened. Dad was right there! He was next, he was terrified and screaming beneath the shadow of the Sith Lord.

 

“Damn you!” She screamed. She didn’t want to learn this lesson. She wanted it to end. She would do anything.

 

She reached out her hand towards him, wishing that she could pluck his heart from his chest. She could almost see it in her minds eye. Pumping away in calm and uncaring rythm as it’s master slew the only thing she had left. She could see the blood pulsing from each beat. All she needed to do was to stop it. To squeeze it. To crush it under hand and snuff the life from the wicked man before he could kill her father.

 

So she squeezed. She wished, she desired him to die. For him to collapse and sputter away his last breath as he stared into her eyes. 

 

“Kriff you.” Her voice was calm. 

 

[Non-Playable-Characters]

For @RitaEstrazda and @Hagark
———

The knight looked back and forth between the creature and the woman. Her eyes skeptical as they scanned the two of them. Her voice was soft in its admonishment. “Be careful that in hunting monsters you do not stray into becoming one yourself.” 

 

Without a care she brought up the saber and intercepted a red blaster bolt which careened back to whatever shadow had shot it. No more blasts came, and the silence told the story. 

 

“Now let’s get to my shuttle. Where were you two headed?” 

 

[Mavanger]

The silence broke as a man screamed, and in a moment, the entire cabin erupted. The killing had begun in earnest now and he moved to kill the next man before him, but stopped short when he felt it. A vain effort to stop him, an attempt on his life, fueled by hatred. The girl tried to stop his heart. A step in the right direction, but she wasn't there. Not yet. He fought her off with relative ease, grasping the man's neck.

 

Darth Mavanger's attention moved back to the girl

 

"No. Not yet. Not until you understand the mistakes that have led to this slaughter."

 

Anger filled him, and with a powerful squeeze he could hear the sickening pop as his neck was snapped and his spinal cord broken.

He fell limply from Darth Mavanger's hand as another tried to run past him. A young boy, likely the same age as the girl. Another future severed as his blade caught an arm, sending the barely surviving boy to the ground. He would likely not survive his wound for long. Another refugee, this one met with a knee driven into her ribcage hard enough to shatter ribs like shrapnel, tearing through her body.

 

"This could have been prevented, if not for one's mercy."

[Naomi Kilnshire-Elswin]

@Mavanger
 

Whatever words she might have had died in her throat as she watched her father die. A man who had cared for her beyond reason. Sacrificing a good job and a career to take her in after her mom had been claimed by the spice. She could still see his eyes, they had looked for her, even in the terror, now lifeless and unseeing.

 

Her fault. Like everything. Her fault. She had to go help a Sith Lord feel better from his wounds. She had to try and be nice to him. How could she have known? Who had put him on this ship? But those were excuses, and there were no excuses. Only actions. And there was nothing that could be done to stop this man. 

 

She looked down and away from those lifeless eyes as the body dropped. There was only one action that might be worth it. And if this was all a bad dream then it would bring her screaming awake, covered in sweat in her old room on Salini prime. 

 

She couldn’t even feel her fear anymore. Just numbness and a pain in her heart. She reached down beside her and grabbed the hilt of the war sword. It was heavy. So heavy that it felt like she was trying to lift a permacrete slab. But it did move, and all she would need was the strength for a single blow. With all fiber of her being she pulled on the sword as she stood, dragging it behind her few steps as she strode towards the small blue glowing window. 

 

She smiled a bitter and resolved smile, then hurled the sword into the tranparasteel. Where hyperspace and depressurization would end the terror that was killing everything she loved behind her.

 

[Mavanger]

He heard the blade before he saw it, scraping across the ground as it was lifted by the girl. He turned in time to see it sailing towards the window of the freighter. The pommel impacted the window with enough force to crack the window, toppling to the ground, and a quiet hissing was the only warning he had. He slid forward, grabbing his helmet at the girl's feet and placing it over his head. The window shattered from the pressure just as he threw a force barrier up around the girl. She would know this lesson, even if it claimed his life.

 

Especially if it claimed his life.

 

The cabin violently decompressed, throwing the denizens against walls and sucking the air from their lungs. His own exposure to the vacuum drained him- It chilled his blood, it darkened his vision, even with the assistance of his mask. It took everything he had to plant his feet and hold his ground while maintaining the barrier. The few survivors clawed for air that wasn't there, their blood boiling in the near-zero pressure as the died terrible, visceral deaths. It was nearly a full minute before the old ship's security systems located the breach and a blast shield shut it off. 

 

When it was over, everyone was dead. He threw off his mask, falling to his knees as he coughed and sputtered, struggling for breath as the Dark Side returned to him, doing what it could to sustain him. He looked up- The barrier had held the vacuum at bay. Good. He smiled sadly as he looked up at the lone survivor.

 

"Now, yo-" His body was wracked with pain as he coughed violently, blood spattering across the durasteel flooring, mixing with that of his victims'. "-you know. They might have survived if you hadn't-" Another round of coughing, this one much worse. He wouldn't be long. Maybe this time it would stick. Maybe she could end it, and avenge him, even if she knew not what she did. "If you hadn't taken action."

 

He pulled on the Edge of Sorrow, the twin blade of the blood soaked Edge of Terror, and it slid slowly across the floor, his power waning here and now. He threw it at her feet.

 

"Do it. Avenge them."

[Naomi Kilnshire-Elswin]

Her eyes saw the scale of destruction and she did not let herself look away though her heart broke. It was true, tangentially, that these people would have all died anyway. That justification bubbled up as quickly as her mind could make it up. But too came the swift reproachful words of her father. ‘But there are no excuses for the works of our own hands.’ She could feel the death in the pit of her stomach, and she was responsible for every single one of them. For every poor soul that clawed and begged with bugged out eyes. Each fell silent, pink and frosted giblets of blood drifting for the moment before the ship slammed the hatch shut over the broken windscreen. The Sith of course had survived. And it had been a waste.

 

But the Sith had also left her alive. To torture her perhaps? To teach her the way of pain? To inflict his broken ideology on her like a wip on her back. He spoke and his words were bitter, breaking her from her own thoughts.  

 

It was so cold. Frost was teasing at the edges of her hair, coating everything that had once been covered in sweat in a soft layer of reflecting light. Blood too had an ice-like sheen. Coating the floor of the room with a slippery wash of human matter. She leaned down and ran her hand across the pommel of the sword, her eyes looking from the blood soaked ground to the Sith Lord coughing his lungs out. Dying.

 

“To avenge them is to take my own life.” Perhaps it was stubbornness, perhaps it was defeat, likely it was the profound sorrow that her father would be disappointed in her. 

 

Her voice was a whisper and she left the sword where it lay and walked to where he knelt. She put her hand on his shoulder and knelt in front of him. Their faces close enough to whisper. 

 

“Or to throw it all away as you have.” She gestured to the corpses that lay scattered. Including her father who lay only feet away. “I have already done so much evil. I cannot do more. And I will not let you die alone.”

[Mavanger]

Revelation.

 

The refusal of the call. The denial of vengeance, and the words that deep down, he'd wanted to hear. From Cassandra. From Kirlocca. From this girl. That he had done this to himself, and despite it, that he could be better. That his path was not the only one. That the cycle could be broken. That his chains could be lifted.

 

"A lonely death is what I have given myself, child."

 

He pressed the blade into her hands softly, making sure she held it tightly. His voice was low, and hoarse. The words of a dying man, spoken with the knwledge that they would likely be the last he ever spoke.

 

"The blade's is name in ancient Sith, Imeall Dólás. The Edge of Sorrow. The manifestation of loss and grief. And now, a reminder of what such things can do. Keep it. Remember the lesson you have learned here."

 

He stood, groaning as pain shot through his body. An old friend, here to comfort him in his final minutes. He knew what came next if he didn't stop it. It happened on Naboo. It robbed him of his warrior's death. It perpetuated the cycle. He saw his reincarnation as what it truly was now- A twisted tool of the Dark Side. But knowledge wasn't freedom, and he knew if he came back this time, even more of who he was would be lost.

 

He grabbed her wrist, dragging her to the door leading to the next compartment with what dregs of strength he could muster. He hit the release, and it hissed open. Those on the other side were still blissfully asleep- the cabins were soundproofed, a necessity for large scale transport like this. He pushed her through the entry, holding her there for a moment.

 

"This is the way it must be. To break the cycle. To break my chains, and be truly free. That is the way of the Sith, in life... as in death."

 

He sealed the door with her on the opposite side, driving the accursed Edge of Terror into the controls, shorting them out. He left it there, abandoned, as he unclasped his cloak. It fell like a wave, tattered cloth drifting to the ground. He removed his remaining pauldron next, letting it tumble to the deck of the starship. With each piece, he was closer. Closer to freedom. To salvation. His bracers  came next, and then his gloves. Finally, he undid the clasp of his chestpiece, letting it fall to the ground, with all the weight of his anger. His fury. His rage. His loss, his grief, his guilt. All that remained was the bloodied suit underneath.

 

Mustering everything he had left, he launched a wave of destructive energy at the wall of the cabin, tearing a massive hole in the side of the ship. In a heartbeat, he was sucked into the void. In his final moments, Mordecai smiled. The wheel was broken.

 

It was over.

[Hagark]

Hagark’s eyes flickered to the person’s weapon again. This being handled it like one of those Jedi back home. Those weapons, that were both magic and machine, were wielded by a select few as far as he knew. He wondered if this person knew what he was, or just saw him as something else. 

 

As Hagark followed, he licked his mouth underneath his mask. Such beings who wielded such weapons would make worthy meals. But like rancors, they would be much too deadly to fight at the moment. The loot may have been tempting, but the Jedi was not a wise target yet. 

 

“Noble quest…” Hagark stated, patting his chest as he followed, . “take far.  Great hunt across savage wilds of the stars. Like spores, I go where breeze goes. ” 

 

Hagark looked at the Togruta. “Breeze with you at moment. Where do you go? Where does Quest lead you?” 

[Kerriwarr]

Kerriwarr pondered the question, walking through the clusters of debris toward the vessels and following as Master Sarna shifted their trajectory, making for the transport bound to whatever destination awaited them. Truth be told, there was no simple answer to her question. The council of chieftains had made strides towards avoiding war, but the reasons were numerous. He hadn't known their tendency toward peace was outside of the norm, let alone an outlier of some sort. He responded, his gruff vocalizations reverberating off of the stone and rubble around them.

"There have been times whereupon we have called for war, and certainly the recent times have not been without their instances of aggression and toil, but as far as I've known, our better sensibilities have always prevailed." he said, reflecting upon the many meetings he had been honored to observe, "The council of chieftains, and our king, have long held Kashyyyk's peace as a high priority. Our trade is a large part of what sustains us. To enter into conflict, bereft of necessary preparations, regardless of how ravaged we become, stifles the potential of that trade. We prioritize our need, and keep our peace. We do not fight back, we endure and survive. As the Wroshyr do."

 

He paused a long moment, contemplating the quality of his response and deliberating over its representation of his people. Assured it was fair, he pressed on. He had his own curiosities, and sought to see them satisfied in due turn. As they boarded the ship, the transport teeming with sick and wounded combatants of the Sovereign, they found their way to a set of empty crates, seating themselves as the ship continued to make ready for departure.

"Master, I must admit, my induction has been rather swift. Master Silan's introduction to the Order was not exactly... formal, if I must admit. While I find no fault in her for this, and circumstances have certainly placed their demands upon all of us, I feel as though a more rigorous orientation might be of an order? If I may - and I mean not to overwhelm, considering the situation - I should like some correspondence on our destination, what my role is to be going forward as your protégé, and what your motivations are for taking me, both generally, and more specifically unto this path." he said, his elocuted speech more pronounced as matters turned to business.

[RitaEstrazda]

On 4/26/2023 at 10:03 AM, Hagark said:

Hagark’s eyes flickered to the person’s weapon again. This being handled it like one of those Jedi back home. Those weapons, that were both magic and machine, were wielded by a select few as far as he knew. He wondered if this person knew what he was, or just saw him as something else. 

 

As Hagark followed, he licked his mouth underneath his mask. Such beings who wielded such weapons would make worthy meals. But like rancors, they would be much too deadly to fight at the moment. The loot may have been tempting, but the Jedi was not a wise target yet. 

 

“Noble quest…” Hagark stated, patting his chest as he followed, . “take far.  Great hunt across savage wilds of the stars. Like spores, I go where breeze goes. ” 

 

Hagark looked at the Togruta. “Breeze with you at moment. Where do you go? Where does Quest lead you?” 

She faltered for a moment, the Hybrid considering the question and what she desired. A chuckle and a smile.
"I guess for now I follow the stars where they may take"

[Non-Playable-Characters]

@RitaEstrazda @Hagark

 

The Knight raised her eyebrows at both of their responses as she led them towards their drop shuttle. The battle was mostly over, though through the force she could still feel the distant pangs of death ticking at the back of her neck. She outstretched her senses but could feel little close danger save the intrinsic danger of those two that walked behind her. One was a creature of some degree of sentience, likely recently evolved on the galactic time scale, a being that previous galactic governments would have scoffed at giving any kind of rights to. 

 

The other was the Toruguta woman whome she did not know. Strange company to be found on a starship but such was the way of such things. The Knight gestured to the Dropship which would take them to the star destroyer.

 

“If you have no objective in your travel then perhaps you can accompany us to Ylsia where the main redistribution and refugee camps are. Would that interest you two?”