Post by Bria Shadowlight-Tarkin on Apr 23, 2014 22:05:25 GMT -8
Soaking up what she could for the moment that they had, before turning back to his doing. Before stepping out to the back of the ship to see what was all the ship was to be had. Coming to rest her hand on the door frame.
What you care for anything Lord Valstrol? Waiting for a respone, then going back to where she font what look like it had some food in it. Just what was there to be had, in this place. Did this one even eat anything. Holding that thought she sent herself looking taking out, enough stuff to make a couple of sandwiches. Taking a hearty bit out of it not to bad for the first meal to past her lips in forever. Taking out what look like an expevie looking wine pouring then stopping taking two glasses and the plate of sandwhiches. Coming back into the cock-pit. Putting first the plate down then pouring the wine into both glasses.
I hope it wasn't keeping this wine for a raining day, just look so luring calling out to be drank.
Post by Bria Shadowlight-Tarkin on Apr 25, 2014 18:28:43 GMT -8
Stopping herself before, setting down the bottle picking up sandwich munching on the some what edible food. Only stopping half way. It was time to know some of the question that had been going around her mind since the fog was clearing.
So, then before we get to Eriadu, who is running the planet, whats been happening since I was last part of the galaxy before I choose to freeze myself.
Taking advantage of more of the wine, it was to her liking have to say that it was up there with some of the wine of the old days. The food on the other hand could be better but as taught into her to have those serve her those many many moons ago. That was something Bria keep. Keeping her eyes upon the blared stars. More of a whisper then anything to herself.
My sweet darlings are out there some where, someday somehow ...
Post by Darth Malvus on Apr 25, 2014 19:05:38 GMT -8
The galaxy has shifted here and there, nations rise and fall as usual. Two dominant powers have risen though, the Galactic Empire and the Republic. The Imperial Remnant, a nation in the Deep Core ruled by Nicademus Delvardus was absorbed by them. Eriadu is one of the Empire's territories.
Valstrol begins to press a few keys as the hyperspace began to slow. They were approaching their destination within moments now and soon, Valstrol would be ripping open the Tarkin Vault and pissing upon the legacy of the ungrateful Cygnus.
I have met the ruler of Eriadu at a meeting on Bastion not long ago.
Kurayami had taken a few precautions when it came to the D-5. For one, he had done all of the maintenance himself this time, he had also installed higher flow fuel pumps as well as small coils at the outer edges of the engine shrouds that would incinerate any potentially problematic buildup before it became an issue. He was less worried about the planet remembering him and what he had done. That could be dealt with when and if the time came. He watched Makia as she turned around and leaned against the controls as she crossed her legs and tilted her head, the small smile was met with one in kind.
And why, Makia, does that require a thank you?
He continued to smile brightly as she giggled placing her hands on his shoulders. The serious mood was gone in no time, and though the smile never left his features or his eyes, his eyes narrowed slightly. Hers did the same as she met his gaze, her emerald green eyes playful, but containing a hint of danger in the light that glinted through. He knew better than to let his guard too far down in a situation where he didn't have the upper hand...and right now it would seem that they were on rather equal footing.
Well, at least we agree on one issue here...
The soft, cooing intonation in her voice was hard to miss, and when she brought her hand up slowly, resting her palm on his cheek, he brought one hand up to cover hers while the other grasped her around the waist.
You may present a decent challenge to me yes...but I know in the end that I can handle you, no matter what you throw at me Makia.
The change in her tone had not gone unnoticed by the Corellian, nor had the sense of challenge it was presenting him with. He was a Mandalorian by choice and he had always thrived in nigh-impossible situations. The fact that she was presenting one to him in the form of herself, and the fact that she was quite attractive,certainly didn't hurt his determination in this case at all. Though the voice hadn't sounded like hers. Before his train of thought could get any farther, she had pulled herself firmly into kissing him, at which point his hand that had been holding hers in place, found its way down to her waist and pulled her closer to himself as he kissed her back with equal fervor.
Makia pulled her head back and looked up at Kurayami. Her eyes danced with strange power no one could really understand.
She mused, kissing him again.
You might take those words back.
Breathing out with a smile, Makia turned her head toward the window again. She was suddenly eager to get there. It felt good to be useful, or at least doing something again....Something other than drinking herself to death...or...near death.
Life is the most deadly disease. There is no cure.
Post by Kurayami Bloodborn on Jun 25, 2014 12:05:51 GMT -8
Kurayami looked down into her eyes a small smirk on his features. Though the look in her eyes was a bit unsettling, he let the feeling go.
I suppose that is a possibility...
The smile never left his lips as he kissed her back.
However it is a very remote one, Makia.
Kurayami looked out the viewport and pointed a bit towards the right. He was a bit confused as to her sudden change of attiitude towards being sent to Felucia. As he was thinking about this, the ship lurched from hyperspace into orbit above Felucia.
Post by Galaar Fett on Jul 29, 2014 22:55:05 GMT -8
Music echoed from within the cockpit of a Helot-class Medium Transport. Between the two pilot chairs, a holoprojector was broadcasting the most recent hit among the Jizz music genre. The music of the Galactic Empire and beyond, music that was famously performed by Figrin D'an and the Modal Nodes. The upbeat swinging tone of Jizz for any regular person, or in this case, bored pilot. A helmet was set upon the dashboard next to the holoprojector with a figure leaning back, his head shaking from left to right. An evident tattoo upon the side of his slightly shaved head was that of the traditional Mandalorian skull.
Next to the pilot sat an upright HK-50 model droid which had taken over the pilot controls while the Mandalorian sat back to relax for now, stretched back in his chair. A whistle was heard as an R8 series Astromech droid came up. Fenri sat upright, listening to his little droid, Eight. He sighs lightly, glancing over at his HK-50, Hunter.
Eight says nothing on the communications relay. No work for the past week, now I know what its like to be a Senator of the Galactic Republic. At least they have heated debates and other politicians to keep them company. Only music is a comfort to right now...but every Jizz song sounds exactly the same.
I personally do not understand how you like this music, Meatbag.
You only care for blood and guts, triggers and blaster fire. Your kind of music is hearing a victim scream and beg for mercy...I know what you are, Hunter. You don't need to remind me for the hundredth time.
Post by Aeleus Vizsla on Jul 29, 2014 23:21:08 GMT -8
Aeleus was sitting on the deck of the ship in full armor, listening to the hum of the hyperdrive. In his hand he held a small holovid recorder. It was not turned on, it was just sitting in the palm of his hand. He heard someone speaking in the cockpit and decided it was time to find out from Fenri where there destination was.
The Taung stood up, his armor scraping against the metal floor. He then tucked the holovid recorder away in his belt and walked up to the cockpit. He seemed stiff, both physically and emotionally, even in the company of a fellow Mandalorian. It was as if he was expecting something to go wrong. He was always on high alert, especially on ships. Especially after what had happened to him. Aeleus greeted the occupants in the cockpit with the cold stare of his buy'ce's black visor.
Post by Galaar Fett on Jul 30, 2014 8:45:12 GMT -8
Fenri looks up when their passenger comes into the cockpit. He reaches over, turning down the volume of the music being played. He sits more upright, turning in his pilot's chair to look at the Taung known as Aeleus.
Nothing yet. No work has been sent over the communication relays...and we will have to stop sometime to refuel and refill our supplies.
The Fett reaches over and keys the holoprojector to switch from music to a holomap. He keys it again, showing where they were currently in position to other planets.
We just passed Wayland and are moving for Mandalorian Space. Perhaps we can stop there.
Aliit ori'shya tal'din - "Family is more than blood."
Post by Aeleus Vizsla on Jul 30, 2014 9:06:15 GMT -8
Aeleus puased when Fenri said they were near Mandalorian space. It had been a long time since he had stepped foot on Mandalorian soil. He could not decide whether it would be a good thing or a bad thing. He had been shamed by losing his cruiser, but he was unsure if there would be any surviving records after thousands of years. Aeleus simply shrugged.
"I suppose it is time I reunited with our vod. I has been long enough that I have been kept away."
Aeleus turned and went back to the spot he was sitting before. He pulled out the holovid recorder from his belt again and this time activated it. The picture of two Taung appeared in the air over it. One was a female, and the other a young boy. He sighed and tucked it away once more. It was time he moved on, but he would never forget.
"You're the pilot, Fenri. Do not crash us and I will buy the first round at the bar."
Post by Galaar Fett on Jul 30, 2014 9:16:24 GMT -8
Fenri listens quietly to the Taung for a moment before ordering Eight to re-plot their course and may best speed for Mandalore. The little droid whistles and beeps before rolling away to perform its duty. When Aeleus calls to him, Fenri points to Hunter.
You mean, Hunter, you killing machine, don't crash us. He is piloting right now.
Fenri laughs and grabs his helmet, setting it beside his chair as the Mandalorian begins monitoring the trajectory of the ship as Eight did its work adjusting their course.
Aliit ori'shya tal'din - "Family is more than blood."
Post by Aeleus Vizsla on Jul 30, 2014 9:27:58 GMT -8
Aeleus watched the astromech droid as it rolled past him and went off to do whatever it was ordered to. Spectacular machines. They made it too easy sometimes, but he could see why they were so abundant. He still felt that they gave Arasuum power. He had learned that many Mandalorians no longer held the same beliefs as his people did. It was a piece of their heritage they had moved on from. He would keep it.
"Well then if he lands us safely, I will pay for an oil change, or whatever it is he wants. You will pay for your own drinks."
Post by Urias Fenris on Jul 31, 2014 13:33:24 GMT -8
Urias received a beep on his communicator that he had two priority one urgent messages waiting for him in the council chamber. He walked out of the cockpit headed over to the communications center and viewed the messages. The first one described Padawan Torran Pantis' actions on Alderaan in recovering all the citizens who were held hostage by Malice, at the expense of his life - that is almost dying in the process. The second shoed the redemption of Kyja, and his Sith Master. Pleased, Urias was joyful in his heart that his Padawan made it back to the light. He then went into the main cargo hold. Rashan and L'awre were already there. They rose.
Please sit. Relax. Thank you for the honor. Rashan, do you have anything to share with us?
=Rashan= I do.
She produced a datapad and gave it to Master Urias.
=Rahsan= Read this, Master. It gives a summation of what I am to do. I think L'awre will be doing the same thing.
Urias received it and read it through. It was concise and thorough. He passed it on to L'awre who also read it.
I do not know if we have anything that far back in the archives, but we can take a look when we get back. Or we can just sit and meditate and allow the Force to give us the knowledge we seek.
Urias, Rashan and L'awre meditated in order to receive and understand the knowledge they needed on the ancient Jed'aii. After four hours, Urias received notification they were coming up on HK. He rose and made his way to the cockpit. He strapped himself in and prepared the Hawk for approach.
Council Member of the CUF
Parliamet president in Exile of Alderaan
Lia snorted, angling a look up at Krayton. “Then you’re screwed, buddy, ‘cause I’m not much of a pilot.” She rose, tossing him back the bit of vexxtal, and faced the man squarely. Space had swallowed them whole and the air grew sharp with chill, but after roughing it in cargo holds and blocked vents for five years, it didn't bother her much. “The last time I touched a control board was over Manaan, and let’s just say it was a loooong swim back. So.”
She crossed her arms, leaning on one hip, careful not to step on anything around her as she shifted her stance. Truth be told, Lia wasn't sure what held less risk of death for her: piloting this flying bomb or digging through an asteroid for rare crystals. Neither sounded appealing. Sure, she took risks every now and then, worked dangerous jobs, bet on dangerous people, but this? This wasn't dangerous, this was suicidal. There was no out, nothing to fall back on if things went sour. The runaway liked to keep one foot in, one foot out, just in case she needed to back out. But this was a two-feet-in kind of job, and in Lia’s small experience, two-feet-in never ended well, and that went for anything from jobs to relationships.
…Of course, she could always just leave Krayton on the asteroid and make a break for the nearest planet on her own if something went wrong. Cold move? Totally. But Lia’s game was survival at any cost, so…yeah. She could do that, if things went badly. She’d abandoned people before to keep her own skin. This guy should be easy enough to kick, if needed.
“I fly, you dig. Doesn't look like we have much of a choice, does it?” She jerked her chin towards the cockpit. “But if you want to keep your ride in one piece, you better show me how to work this thing, or we’ll both be a tiny smear on your floating dig site.”
The miner grinned as Lia halfheartedly agreed to the job. Not having a choice in the matter really worked wonders for the spirit. Good. Maybe he wouldn't swing after all. But first things first. Avoiding death down the road meant staying alive now. He motioned her into the narrower expanse of the control room, pushing back his chair so that she could see the control surfaces, but careful not to enter her personal space. No telling where she might stick a blade.
Look, it's pretty easy. Yoke down, ship noses down. Yoke back, ship noses up. Right pedal, thrust. Left pedal, reverse thrust. Yoke left-right -- yaw. Yoke spin -- roll. indicating a series of switches close to the left hand activates or deactivates banks of maneuvering jets, for fine or coarse pitch and yaw control. buttons near the right hand torpedos, blasters, lasers, backups. You might've noticed, the ship has a lot of weapons. We need 'em to stay alive. blasters are fire-linked. Lasers are point-and-shoot. Triggers are on the yoke. points. lasers. points. blasters. points. torpedos. Readouts here for life support, surface crew vitals, coolant, shields.
He leaned back, fiddled with the navacomp once or twice, and turned back to face her.
Look, it ain't rocket science. Trick in asteroid nav is to keep moving. Always moving. Fly the straight line, you're gonna eat it. And keep firing. I've modified this crate to cool the lasers at twice the rate of a standard cannon. Means our range is for shit, but trust me -- everything you do will be at close range, so it don't matter. blasters are trained to fire with the target HUD, so where you look, it shoots. You got two things going for you, far as I can tell. We're diving on one of the bigger 'roids, which affords you some safety. Flying the bigger 'roids can end up more like canyon and terrain hugging. and instead of flying in the storm of smaller ones, at least the biggun is going to move more predictably, so you only have to worry about what's coming at you from above. And two --
He thought for a moment, legitimately trying to come up with another 'plus.'
Two -- if you get hit, neither of us will be around to give you grief for it.
On that note, which the spacer seemed satisfied with as a second positive, he pressed a series of buttons on the flashing console, half of which she had never seen or encountered before in her life, the buttons and their intended use a complete mystery, and the stars enveloped them as the ship entered hyperspace.
Yoke, yaw, roll, maneuvering, life support, pedal thrust, pitch, coolants, a seemingly overwhelming number of buttons and controls and switches and shit, but she hated this kind of stuff…
Lia had half a mind to knife the guy right there and try a crash-landing back to Taris instead. Sounded like crashing was easier than flying, and she’d take starving rakghouls over chaotic spinning space rocks any day. She huffed a short sigh and shifted a little, body tense, glaring at the controls in classic ‘Impatient Lia Doesn't Get It, Therefore, Frustration, And By The Way, Kark You’ fashion. Somewhere in the back behind the curtain, something (probably explosive) clanged over and rolled a short distance. Oh, right. Bombs. Bombs everywhere. There goes the crash-landing plan.
The rushing white-blue kaleidoscope of hyperspace engulfed them, and Lia did a double take at the control board, but she missed the sequence he’d punched in. Damn. Now THAT would have been helpful, which is probably why Krayton hadn’t divulged it. He might be nuts (who the hell else flies around with a minefield in the back seat?) but the man was smart.
“Okay. Right.” The guy had a point. If she karked up, well, the only witness would be rock and space. She grappled with the Piloting 101 directions in her mind, trying to memorize, trying to make sense of all those kriffing controls. There was a reason she got around the ‘verse by hitching rides, and it had nothing to do with havin’ no creds. Well, almost nothing. “Roll, up, down, coolant system…” The blonde turned her sour, exasperated mug on Krayton. “Do I get practice time before we die? Or is this a learn-as-I-go adventure? Because if it is, we're definitely gonna die.”
Once the swirling, hypnotic blue and white of hyperspace enveloped the cockpit of the VCX-820, Fel allowed himself a short reprieve to be lost in the motion of the stars and the thrumm of the vessel. There was little small-talk between he and Melia. There was a job to do, and so in their own ways, each mentally prepared for the task which was to follow. The craft was so small, only the cockpit and a single compartment aft, that whether they liked it or not, they were in each-other's space. Thankfully, Melia had been in enough tin cans, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with platoons of soldiers in her time, that they could co-exist without stepping on each-other's toes.
Melia looked to her shining road-case of death, opening with practiced ease, and methodically assembling her kit: rifles first, then pistols, finally taing the time to sharpen each knife. She spent the time cross-legged on the floor just aft of the cockpit bulkhead, trance-like, transfixed on the task at hand. So complete was her attention to detail that there was barely an acknowledgement when Fel emerged from the flight deck.
I'm going to hit the 'fresher, Mel.
She might have nodded. Maybe not. In any case, Fel took her lack of rebuttal as permission. Grabbing the small bag of clothes from the trunk of surplus he had purchased from the 'Shelf Life,' he entered the only other room separated by a door in the VCX. The head was tiny, just the essentials. He stripped out of the ill-fitting clothes given him by Demarus upon his release from the Max-Sec prison on Aargau, tossing them in the garbage to be immediately incinerated. He wouldn't be wearing them, ever again. Pants that were too short, simple leather sandals and a vest that made him look like somebody's retired uncle. He shuddered and ran fingers through his knotted, filthy hair. He could barely stand his own stench, and the wound on his arm needed cleansing.
He turned on the shower, piping hot, and stood under it, letting tension ease out of his aching muscles, and revelled in the hot water running over his head and down his face.
After what could ave been two minutes, or two hours, the spacer shut off the water, and stepped out of the shower. Fel hurt all over. His guts were a burning mess, his head throbbed, he could taste blood in the back of his mouth, and the stab wound through his arm hurt like -- well, like someone had just stabbed him.
He wiped the condensation off the mirror, and was again shocked by what he saw. His wet beard showed the depth of the caverns in his face, and the dark circles under his eyes gave him a slightly crazed look. He could count his ribs, and muscle tone was slowly being replaced by that emaciated look that inmates at hard-labor camps on worlds with under-terraformed atmo's had. Gaunt, wasted. There were dark patches on his chest like bruising, and when he breathed in, his ribs and sternum stood out like the creases on a crisply folded sheet. He opened the VCX's standard-issue field med-kit (housed under the 'fresher sink) and bandaged his arm, foregoing the bacta patch which would have meant almost certain death for him, and instead simply did his best with the gauze.
Looking away, he steadied himself on the sink with both hands, and a few seconds later, the look of uncertainty and fear was replaced by grim determination. He unzipped the small duffel, and shook the contents out on the floor. A deck-hand's olive drab coverall, two or three pairs of black fatigue pants, several Imp-spec undergarments, four leather belts, and two pairs of combat boots.
He tried the coveralls, which were several sizes too long, and tossed them aside. Tried the first pair of fatigue pants, which were in his size, and they hung off him like clown pants. Incinerator. Tried the 'X-Small' pair, which were better. Tried on the combat boots, and found one way too big (incinerator) and one maybe a little snug. These he tied up. He pulled a tank-top under-shirt over his head and tucked it in, and then, using the scissors from the VCX's portable med-kit, cut the coverall into an over-shirt, rolling the sleeves halfway up his forearms. Finally, again using the scissors, he added several new holes to one of the belts until it could be made snug enough for his thin frame, and passed it though the belt-loops of the fatigue pants. The second belt he cut to fit round his thigh, and stuffed that into a pocket for later. Everything else went into the incinerator. He tied his hair into a loose, messy ponytail and emerged from the 'fresher.
Not bad. Next he pulled the trunk with its remaining contents into the cockpit, and began rummaging through. He pulled out a satchel with several holsters and web-gear, and picked a thigh holster to his liking and two small pouches that would be suitable to hold extra power charges, and slid these onto his belt, adding the cut-down belt for the thigh holster, and affixed that around his leg to keep the holster in place. The rest of the web-gear and strapping went into the incinerator.
Fel pulled a small crate from the trunk of cast-off surplus, and opened it. Inside were several parts and pieces from broken or damaged blasters. He passed over three or four barrels and receivers, pulled out two gas cartridges and inspected them, before finally setting eyes on what he was after. The piece that first persuaded him to buy the trunk in the first place. Reaching into the crate of broken pieces, he pulled out a worn DL-22, and smiled, blowing the dust off...
Post by Galdaart Fel on Oct 20, 2014 9:22:47 GMT -8
Five hours later...
Fel sat in the Pilot's seat, wearing his new contraption. He'd never much been a fan of armor in the past, but the scarred and dented surplus Storm-troop helmet, shoulder / arm and breast-plate afforded Fel several bonuses in this current state of affairs: it gave him an immediate O2 supply (which the pilot had rigged to be oxygen-rich to aid his labored breathing) when he needed it, the breast-plate disguised the fact that he was wasting away, and actually relieved the pressure on his spine correcting the slightly stooped posture he had developed in the last months as his disease worsened. The helmet also afforded him anonymity -- as he was certain he and his crew never wanted to be tied personally to the errands Sinistra was going to subject him to.
Anonymity was key to this new persona, but the other benefits of the Stormtroop breastplate and helmet were obvious and tangible: powered gloves, manual suit seal and environment controls, polarized filters, built-in comlink, and the standard NBC filters which were standard issue to the helmet of the Imperial regiment which had cast fear into the citizens of hundreds of worlds over the years. The helmet also utilized the standard vocoder which would aid in disguising Galdaart's voice. He'd sound just like any other Stormtrooper.
Fel had performed several repairs to this particular suit of armor to suit his needs. Notably, he had moved the suit's power cells to a location under the right side of the breastplate. The cells were flat and unobtrusive anyways, and it had been a fairly easy job. Fel had dispensed with the lower leg armor and boots, as these were beyond repair (and the boots were too small) and instead of the Stormtroop's utility belt, Fel opted instead for his own gunbelt. Significant work had been necessary to make the helmet's visual aids function once more. The holographic vision processors had to be replaced, and the MFTAS had been rendered inoperable, which took a good deal of slicing to correct. Ultimately, Fel was pleased with the results of his labors. The hastily red 'X' that adorned the visor, and the chest-piece of the breastplate officially meant the units were no longer fit for front line service, or were being phased out or replaced were extraneous to Navy requirements: surplus. The armor was worn and dented, scorched and looked ready for the scrap-heap. In short, it kind of looked like Fel himself.
But looks were deceiving.
It also looked pretty badass, like something a scavenger or bounty hunter might wear. That got him thinking about a name for himself... if he was disguising his face and who he really was, he should have a name befitting this disguise. He sat in the pilot's seat, helmet perched on the console before him, and watched hyperspace pass him by.