Fralideja

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*Mustafar. How long it has been since I last set foot on this scorched rock of a planet.*

*Nothing has changed. Fralideja is a metropolis overflowing with sentients, the tough-skinned insectile natives representing the vast majority. It was rare to see the face of a Duros, or a Togorian...or a human, like the one I now followed through the writhing, shifting crowds. A burly Mustafarian, obviously from the southern hemisphere of the planet, cuts in front of me, and for a brief instant I lose sight of my quarry. A moment later a hole appears in the wall of bodies and I catch sight of him again. My pace quickened as I shorten the distance between us back to seven or eight feet.*

*Shrouded in my customary black robes, cowl raised to protect my face from the harsh sun, I cut a rather obvious figure among the simply dressed miners and blue-collar workers that call this part of the city their home. But I am not worried about being noticed; the dark side works to turn away the prying eye, to blunt curiosity and turn it to indifference. To the man in front of me, though, I'm sure it would be as blighted beacon. Chaos knew I could smell the stink of Ashla on him from a block away.*

*That was good, though. I wanted him to notice me. We were, after all, old friends*

*I meandered along behind Tiro for quite some time, and gradually we moved from the bustling center of the city to its desolate outskirts. Eventually we were all but alone on some deserted side street with cracked pavement and lined by abandoned, dilapidated buildings. An indulgent smile slowly spread across my face; I wasn't sure how early Tiro had discovered I was following him, but he had realized it at some point and had led me away from the more populated district of the city. That was fine with me. There was no point in making a scene, after all.*

*Suddenly he halted and turned to confront me, and the smile vanished from my face. For a moment he studied me, inquisitive, and then recognition flared into his eyes. As he spoke, I began rolling my sleeves up to me elbows, revealing the rancor-hide gauntlets I wore, wrapped tightly in cloth from elbow to wrist and leaving only the pads covering the back of my hands exposed. In the center of each was set a deep red gem that glowed with a sinister air: quixoni crystals, to aid my focus.*

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*There was a hint of reproach in my tone, but my expression remained mild. Disinterested. I began to walk forward slowly, closing the distance between Tiro and I until only a few meters separated us. With both hands I pulled back my cowl, exposing my pallid features and jaded amber eyes to the harsh sunlight.*

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*But what kind of question is that, Tiro? I am Sith; you know this. The idea that destiny is an illusion is central to my beliefs. I don't think a reply is necessary...you already know my answer. I am here not at destiny's whim but at my own. Not because some confrontation between us is fated to be, but because I have deemed it necessary.*

*Make the first move? I can do that. Acknowledging Tiro's request with a slight nod, my face expressionless, I opened myself to the force. What had been a trickle became a flood as its energy rushed to consume me. The effect is...invigorating. Intoxicating. My amber eyes glint with the taint of the dark side as my lips part in a long, slow sigh. For a moment, I am motionless.*


*And then I explode into motion, my feet sliding apart, right foot forward, as my right fist snaps out in a devastating punch to the bridge of Tiro's nose. The gems fitted into the center of my gauntlets glow bloody red as I bend the force to my will, directing it to carry my strike forward across the ten feet or so that separate Tiro and I in an application of Projected Fighting. Definitely not the strongest technique in my repertoire, or at least not one I'm particularly skilled with, but it works wonders as an opener.*

*I started moving immediately, the momentum of my punch carrying into my first step and setting me forward at a brisk walk towards my opponent. My amber gaze fixed upon Tiro, my manner mild and my face still expressionless. I plucked my saber from my belt without breaking stride, right hand grasping the curved hilt firmly, thumb resting atop the activation stud.*


-Snap/Hiss!-


*The blade came to life in a snarling flash of crimson, and with a tight rotation of my wrist I brought it up vertically, emitter near my forehead, to administer the Makashi Salute to Tiro. That done I swept the blade down into a low guard, blade angled to the outside of my right leg, hilt near my right hip, and closed the gap between us.*

[cont'd from Open Orbit thread]

A C-Wing Ugly Fighter landed just outside Fralideja, turbolazer cannon firing shots at a cluster of  four Ubrikkian speeder tanks racing towards it's landing site, all guns blazing. The Ugly belonged to a pair of Bounty Hunters, a Ratattaki and a Natolaun, incidentally wanted for kidnapping by the Mustafarian authorities. The tanks were those of another band of bounty hunters, natives of Mustafar and aware of the considerable bounty on the heads of the owners of this clearly marked ship. The heavy lazer cannon of the lead tank scored the first hit, and the fighter's topmost wing was blown clean off! The Natolaun responded with panic - firing a Proton Torpedo at the offender, which soared off-target as the Ratattaki tried and failed to keep the fighter airborne without one of it's wings. The antipersonnel cannon of the next tank caught the cockpit of the Outlaw's ship, but before it could break through, the tank was vaporised by the ship's turbolazer, still firing frantically. The third tank accellerated towards the C-wing, but it's driver realised all to late that it was about to land - the fighter's crew watched incredulously as the tank smashed through their port-side wing. The final tank managed to swerve out of the way of the downed Ugly, whilst the first tank swung round to the back of the fighter to target the engines - which thankfully, did not explode, (due to the fact that they had been converted to run on scavenged materials such as wood) but were damaged beyond repair.

The pilot and copilot of the fighter leapt for cover and were promptly captured by the Mustafarians, who neglected to search the ship further - thinking it liable to explode at any moment. If they had, they would have noticed an Imperial Stormtrooper, drunk on the Ratattaki's complimentary beverage - his years living in the wilderness of Endor had done little to improve his resistance to alcohol. He crawled out of the wrecked starfighter the next morning and spent most of the day trying to recall why he was there. He could not recall much detail other than the fact that he was stranded, again, and this planet looked even more inhospitable than the last! He supposed that would be a good thing, as he would no longer have to avoid towering beasts and savage little bear-things...

The Stormtrooper, unaware that he was so close to Mustafar's only major settlement just over an ash-covered hill, wandered off into the open terrain...

[cont'd in Open Terrain thread]

Midnight Shadow - Cargo Hold


Though Neassa knows it has only been four days since they set down on Mustafar, it feels to her as though months have passed. Draykon has yet to explain to any of the crew why he wished to come to the young, volatile world, and despite his efforts to play the brash, cocky, carefree captain, Neassa wonders if losing his friend has broken something within the man. Plu always taught her that Life breaks everyone, and that some are strong in the broken places afterwards, and Neassa hopes, for his sake as well as that of his crew, that Draykon will prove to be among those that are made stronger. Neassa also hopes that it will not be too much longer before it is clear whether or not Draykon has simply been broken; the crew, thrown together as it was by circumstance, is not likely to grow any closer if their current state of being adrift, listless and directionless lingers on much longer.

Having spent her time, by and large, working to ensure that her injuries leave no lasting effects on her, Neassa has occupied herself by pushing herself to do what exercises she can in the confines of the cargo hold; going through the various bodyweight workouts that Plu taught her in her youth, exercises that require no equipment and can be performed anywhere and at anytime, increasing her tempo and decrease her rest time between sets each day to push herself more and more.

Gritting her teeth and making herself complete one last handstand push up, Neassa finishes her exercise routine for the day, sitting down with her back against the wall and wiping the sweat from her eyes for a moment before heading to the 'fresher. Her FEG-series pilot droid, Shukla, had arrived with her ship, an old but well maintained GPE-7300, two days ago, affording Neassa the chance to exchange her damaged flight suit for a newer one, and to use the tools and supplies aboard her ship to repair her red and black beskar'gam, which has further helped ensure that, idle though the crew as whole may be for the moment, she has kept herself occupied.

Making her way into the Wayfarer's common area after a review of the galley has revealed that they are running low on consumable, Neassa walks over to where Silas is reading from the large, bound book that has come to seem as much a part of him as his unique lightsaber, and waits silently until he finishes one page and begins to turn to the next to ask, We're about out of food. I thought I'd head into the capital to make sure we don't starve, want to come along?

Though she has come to enjoy Silas' company, Neassa has yet to discern whether or not he has much in the way of a sense of humor, and so does not know whether or not his comment about shopping being a good use of their skills is intended to be humorous or not, and therefore keeps her amused chuckle an internal one as she simply nods in reply.

Neither will I, Neassa agrees as they step out into the oppressive heat waiting for them outside of the ship, feeling staggered and exhausted by the climate despite her efforts to mentally prepare for it. Well, Neassa muses as they begin the journey from the ship to the young, volcanic world's capital city, home is home no matter where one is from, and the natives would probably find our homeworlds every bit as strange as we find theirs. Turning to watch as a pair of Northern Mustafarians, mounted on Lava Fleas, stop to watch a trio of swoop bikes tear away from the capital city and follow a lava river as it winds away into the distance, Neassa adds, Most visitors are either here for the lure of credits mining offers, or to get rid of unwanted evidence of one kind or another.

As they enter the building inside the city that serves as a bordello, gambling den, tavern, and general store, a stocky Southern Mustafarian, looking half dead and oddly naked without his armor or breath mask, seated inside the door reaches out with an insectile hand to clasp Silas' pant leg, jabbering in a reedy voice, "Too late, too late again, boy. He was here, but now he's gone, gone away. Far away, ahead of you still. Left something for you, he did. Hidden like. So he said."

Her buy'ce denies Neassa the easy, wordless expressions that can make communication simple, but the inquisitive cant of her head is unmistakable as she pauses to see how The Preacher will react to the creature's senseless babble. The Mustafarian, on closer examination, is suffering from some affliction that has burned through him, leaving him thin and gaunt, his exoskeleton appearing rotted in places to expose the leathery, sickly looking skin beneath. A stench of decay seems to surround the Mustafarian, and Neassa dismisses his chattering as the ramblings of a creature near to death's door, looking away from it to an elderly looking human couple tending the bar that serves as both the saloon and general store when she hears a pained hiss.

The elderly woman behind the bar, dark skinned, is wiping blood from the lighter skinned male's head, revealing briefly a wound that has tiny shards of glass still embedded in the skin surrounding it, and Neassa can see the remains of a shattered mug, in a pool of ale, on the bar in front of the couple.

Leaving Silas for a moment, Neassa approaches the couple, asking, Angry patron?

Shaking his head as he reaches up to clutch the towel the old woman has been dabbing at his wound with, the frail looking, white bearded human waves the woman away as he says in a trembling, indignant tone, "Angry thugs, lassie. Such brave lads too, only took three of them to come here and demand we pay 'em for their thrice damned so-called protection."

"Hush now, the elderly woman says, ignoring her spouse's shooing and continuing to fuss after him, gently plucking glass from his head as she chides him, Don't you go upsetting the customers with our troubles when I'm sure they have enough of their own."

Brow furrowed beneath her buy'ce, Neassa looks over her shoulder to see whether Silas has extricated himself from the rambling Mustafarian while debating whether or not to press the elderly couple for details about their attackers, who, she has a suspicion, were probably the swoop riders she and Silas had seen when approaching the capital.