Preacher
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Post by Preacher on Oct 14, 2017 16:08:53 GMT -8
Primary Authors: Preacher, Neassa Or'Dinii Those allowed to post here: Preacher, Neassa Or'Dinii Critical Responses: I have no problem with that. In Universe Rules Applicable? Yes. Timeframe: Future event.
Scenario: There they were, in the belly of Neassa's ship. Were they enjoying a meal? Discussing the future? Planning a visit to their next port of call? Going over a bounty or a contract? Or something else? You decide. In any case, it was as it often was. Two people comfortable in each-other's presence, doing what people do when there are specific jobs and roles they fill to be useful to each other. You plan. You decide. You prepare and execute. There are calculated risks, sure. There is the possibility of failure -- but dim, its presence really only spurring the pair on to achieve and overcome. And then, despite best laid plans and decisions, sometimes a hyperspace communication crosses your path, and changes everything. Sometimes, even when it almost certainly means burning bridges or losing a contract, you turn tail and burn hard in the opposite direction. Because it's the decent thing to do. Or something like that.
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Post by Deleted on Nov 20, 2017 23:21:13 GMT -8
Never for credits, that was one of the conditions the Mandalorian and the Preacher agreed upon. Never accepting anything that those they helped could not do without, no matter how insistent the beneficiaries of the guidance of The Book that illuminates the Preacher's path (and which, it seems more and more to the Mandalorian who fights beside him, speaks to her in a way she finds increasingly compelling) might be, was another condition; and so they have been payed in other ways - a meal, a blessing, a night's rest somewhere other than aboard the old and battered GPE-7300 that ferries them to and fro among the stars as The Book guides the Preacher and the Mandalorian follows, a necklace given to the Preacher with a symbol strange to the Mandalorian fastened upon it. And knitting needles.
Though she tried to decline the knitting needles when they were offered to her, protesting that she knew not how to knit, Neassa had been unable to refuse them, so insistent was the old Chevin woman who had asked for their help in saving her grandson from the gangsters that demanded he follow in his father's foot-steps, which is why, moments before a hyperspace communication arrives that will require they abandon their tentative plans to rendezvous with the Midnight Shadow arrives, she is concentrating more intently than she would like on, by attempting to knit a scarf, mastering the garter stitch the Chevin taught her.
Setting the knitting needles aside with a muttered Haar'chak! followed by a grumbled complaint that she should have cleaned her weapons and beskar'gam again instead, Neassa gives her clumsy attempt at a scarf an accusatory glance while crossing her arms over her chest with an unguarded sulky expression she would normally not permit when not alone; her comfort in The Preacher's company having become such that she often forgets to police her demeanor in the way she typically does among aruetiise.
Laughing softly at herself when she realizes she is all but pouting, Neassa rests her head back against the hull of her ship and looks over to where The Preacher, who she thinks of now only as SIlas, is hunched over The Book, flipping the pages in his slow and deliberate fashion. Though she has never read The Book, suspecting that it is meant only for Silas and those like him (if there are any others, she has thought before and wonders now as she watches him) to do so, and has only heard those passages that Silas has spoken aloud from time to time, Neassa wishes absently that she could search its pages for an answer to a question that haunts her when, as now, she is still long enough to be haunted by things being in motion and action enable her to forget, if only for a while.
The cheery chirrup of a datapad announcing an incoming message is, to Neassa who welcomes any opportunity to escape from the silken lure of introspection that silence can invite, a welcome break in the stillness - comfortable enough, as such quiet moments often are among those fortunate enough to find themselves in the company of those precious few who make one feel as though no walls or roles are required - and she sits up straighter, nodding her chin towards the datapad on the table beside The Book, bidding Silas, "Check what it is," blissfully unaware of all that will follow from so simple a request.
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Preacher
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Post by Preacher on Nov 25, 2017 19:53:55 GMT -8
Silas' reaction to the data pad is nil -- yet another sound from the ship which he has little understanding of, though Neassa has been showing him a few things to make him a more functional denizen of the 'verse. Still, the various hums and buzzes and hisses of the ship mean nothing to him, likewise the whirring of computer systems, the clanging of warning klaxons, and the flashing of lights. As ever, Silas takes his cue from the Warrior, Neassa, in these situations. Had she not indicated what to do, he would merely have done nothing.
His actions are ritual in response to any stimulus while he is engrossed in The Book. First the blue fabric ribbon goes in place, then the jacket is lovingly closed. The leather sheath slides over the book, and then finally, the old, burlap cloth folds over that. Normally, The Book would go back into his small pack -- even though he has (at least temporary) quarters here aboard Neassa's ship he could make himself at home in -- but for now, it rests in front of him at the table, while the man turns his attention to the datapad. His actions are likewise methodical, tentative with the electronic device. What would take a nominally-skilled slicer mere moments takes Silas fully thirty seconds as he hunts and pecks.
It's a message... he speaks, voice noncommittal. Not for us, specifically. Looks like one of your algorithms plucked it out of the sky. He reads in silence, and after a moment, she can see his features harden, brows furrow, eyes like cut glass, mouth drawn into a hard line. It's from a woman named Myrid. She's from a settlement in the Western rim called Absolom-7. Seems their community, a little over sixty souls, has run afoul of a group of brigands intent on driving them from their claims. Common enough fare, except for the last bit, which I can't figure out. It says they've... killed their children. He turns the data pad toward Neassa so that she can read for herself. His eyes look deep into hers, as she tucks an errant strand of long black hair behind her ear, and begins to read the message. How far is it?
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Post by Deleted on Nov 26, 2017 21:15:35 GMT -8
Arching an eyebrow in curiosity when Silas' expression hints at what the message he indicates was sent out in blind hope of being received by someone able and willing to do something about it involves, Neassa leans forward to pull the datapad closer. Her dark, waist length hair falls over to curtain her face as she reads the message, though the stiffening of her posture and the unconscious curling of her hands into fists as she reaches the end of the message renders what her hair conceals abundantly clear.
Her tone cold and resolved, Neassa answers Silas' question with a rhetorical one of her own, "Does it matter?"
That her question requires no answer from Silas is evident when, no sooner has it been asked than she stands and begins striding forward towards the cockpit, calling out to the old, battered FEG-series pilot droid that has been with her since she was a child running from a home she felt, at the time, took her in when her parents died out of responsibility rather than love, "Shuk'la, set course for Absolom-7."
It never enters her mind to ask Silas if he wants to go and be the hope that the woman named Myrid sought when sending her message out into the stars, her time with him having given her enough insight into the principles that guide him to take it for granted that The Book would demand it of him even if his own personal code did not. As for her, Neassa has come, ever since Yavin, and without ever examining the reasons too closely, to embrace with open arms any chance that comes along to use the deadly talents honed within her for nearly as long as she has lived towards ends that feel clean to her. Neassa suspects, deep down in corners of her mind seldom visited, that some stains can never be washed clean, that the scales may never tip in favor of her redemption; her compulsion to quest after it all the same as ingrained within the fabric of her being as deep and true as is the equally latent thirst for battle she has carried within her for so long, a thirst that has yet to be slaked despite all that attempting to quench it has brought upon her.
Not long after Neassa reaches the cockpit and sits in the co-pilot's seat to help Shu'kla prep the Chariklo for the jump to hyperspace, the GPE-7300 increases speed, adjusts its heading, and then disappears from realspace as it begins its fateful trip to Absolom-7.
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Preacher
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Post by Preacher on Nov 29, 2017 16:24:43 GMT -8
Silas does not question. Nor does he concern himself with what they ought, or ought not to do. Rejoining Draykon would come. It would happen as surely as his next breath. For now, and as ever, there was only the path laid before him. He was content to walk it, as he always had. Folding The Book into its burlap sheath snugly, and fastening the bone thong in place that served as a button for the cover, he slid the tome away in his small shoulder bag, and came to sit behind Neassa, to watch the stars dance.
He knows not how long the trip will take, nor what awaits them on this world he has never seen, but they took the lives of children. No good could ever come of it.
"Surely -- If I sharpen My flashing sword, And My hand takes hold on justice, I will render vengeance on My adversaries. I will make My arrows drunk with blood, And My sword will devour flesh..." he cuts the passage short, noting how closed and obtuse it seems to speak in parable. Never for the credits, Neassa. looking out the window ...it's pretty.
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Post by Deleted on Dec 6, 2017 0:50:30 GMT -8
With eyes conditioned to seek threats and tactical advantages rather then beauty, Neassa looks out at the stars that Silas refers to as pretty with a mildly perplexed expression as she tries to see them through his eyes rather than her own, echoing his, "Pretty? in an uncertain tone suggesting that, try as she might, she sees only the cold indifference of the stars, some dead though their light lingers on. It is not the first time that, without trying to do so, Silas has challenged Neassa's perspective on things that once seemed simple or inconsequential to her, or that she has admired the capacity for wonder he has retained while hers often feels as though it has been lost, or perhaps merely set aside as one sets aside those things that have lost their value for one reason or another. Unaware of the notes of regret and mourning in her voice, suggesting that while she has set aside her capacity to find wonderment in the stars, the longing to regain it lingers on somewhere within the pragmatic stoicism she has erected within as a shelter from all she has seen and done in a lifetime spent predominantly going from one conflict to the next because it was what she was borne and bred to do, Neassa repeats, Pretty, softly as though to reaffirm that the possibility to see the stars as such exists. Dismissing the unfamiliar disquiet invited by her train of thought, her thoughts returning to the more familiar terrain the course they have decided to set and the truncated passage Silas had recited prior to his comment engender, Neassa nods and says absently, Pretty, sure."
The stars give way to the swirling blue hued province of hyperspace, every bit as cold and devoid of wonder for Neassa as the stars it replaces, when Shuk'la takes the GPE-7300 from realspace after their course has been set, and Neassa lifts a hand to the back of her neck as she rolls her head from side to side, her thoughts once more traveling along in the grooves worn in her mind by a life ruled by practicality and discipline. "We should eat and sleep, Neassa says as she rises from her seat, experience having taught her that both of those things may be hard to come by when they reach their destination. Patting the unfeeling shoulder of the FEG-series pilot droid that has been with her since she was a child, revealing that she is not quite as devoid of sentiment as she feels or seems, Neassa tells it, Wake me when we're about to revert back into realspace Shuk'la. Looking over her shoulder as she heads aft to eat, an act which she views at times such as this little differently than she does maintaining her weapons and beskar'gam, Neassa asks Silas without any hint of teasing as she glances from him towards the viewport and the ever-shifting smoke-like curling dance of the hyperspace tunnel they are traveling through, Coming? Or do you want to watch that for a while longer?"
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Preacher
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Post by Preacher on Feb 5, 2018 13:41:03 GMT -8
You go on... I'll be along shortly. He smiled at her, in that way one does when there's a comfort to the words -- though she likely knows his 'shortly' means forty five minutes or more. He could easily get lost in the stars, and the flight deck was as good a place as any to be lost. The softly flashing lights and the soft hum of the electronics, and because of the tight space and the concentration of machinery and computers, it was often the warmest part of this ship -- excepting the engine spaces... but those were immediately disqualified as spaces to be thoughtful, due to noise and cleanliness factors. Even the presence of the pilot robot was in a way comforting. It didn't require conversation or reassurance, and so while there was a presence in the room, and Silas rarely felt 'alone' because of it, there was no pressure to talk in any way.
True to form, about an hour later, Silas emerged from the cockpit, and moved aft toward the galley, and, not finding Neassa there, again moved aft toward the cabins. He passed by his own cabin to approach hers, and opened the door to find her curled up in her bunk, and watched her for a moment, a silent, tender smile creasing his features, before crossing the floor and lying on the floor beside her bed. He lay on his back and crossed his legs at the ankles, folded his arms behind his head, fingers laced together, and was asleep in moments.
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Post by Deleted on Apr 29, 2018 22:28:09 GMT -8
Having stepped on Silas the first time he had chosen to sleep beside her bed unannounced, Neassa turns onto her side when the familiar sounds of her ship reveal that they have reverted back into realspace, and peers over the edge of the bed when she wakes to see if he has elected to do so on this occasion. Smiling when she sees that Silas is indeed beside the bed, Neassa does not wake him at first, watching him for a moment with a small smile on her face that subsides when her thoughts remind her of the business that has brought them here.
"We're here, Neassa says, knowing from experience that, much like her, Silas can make the transition from sleep to wakefullness quickly and more fully than most beings not accustomed to living always poised to encounter danger of one kind or another. Reaching behind her head to tighten the bun she secures her wavy, waist length brown hair in when wearing her buy'ce, Neassa waits until Silas is on his feet before standing and reaching for her helmet, tucking it under an arm as she begins making her way to the cockpit as she asks, Did you take the chance to eat before resting? If not you might want to grab something now, and then, frowning as she realizes that she sounds like she is mothering him, clears her throat and shrugs as she adds, Never know when you'll get the next chance."
Standing behind Skuk'la, Neassa pats the droid on the shoulder as it begins piloting the ship down for Absolom's surface, musing aloud as much to herself as to Silas or the droid, "Funny how it looks so peaceful from up here."
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