The Hangar

The Jedi bowed to his host as he was addressed.

"Greets Bix, I must admit that I am quite famished.... A nap might be in order too." The Cerean chuckled lightly as his stomach roared.

*The stain had been first discovered by Morgan herself, during one of her usual ventures out into the wilderness. She had laid down on the grass in the midst of a clearing, enjoying the sun and closing her eyes, but a terrible image had filled the blank space: The visage of her own mother, Felucia, her bronze face staring sadly back at her, the side of her countenance withered and dead, black tears falling from her eye.

Immediately she had sprang back into a sitting position, shocked, and then she had sensed it, the decay somewhere, elsewhere on the planet. She had them embarked across the wilderness on Rush's back, racing toward where her feelings led her. Then she had found it, the rot, the death, the ugliness. An ugliness that surpassed even that of the Rancor Graveyard, which incidentally had not been far from this new rot; however, she doubted there was any correlation. The death and dullness of the graveyard at least felt natural, while this... this didn't.

She knew there had been nothing she could have done, so she immediately returned to the base and reported it to her father, who had sent a research team to the area. So far, they were still researching it, but its effects were growing and more easily felt, and not just by herself. She'd visited the Felucian village as well to warn them of this rot, and they too concluded that it was unnatural; a younger shaman had even visited the source and his findings were inconclusive, and no methods of healing that he knew of were having any positive effect.

Morgan now had to trust the Jedi and the researchers, though she had been warned to avoid the area due to its dangerous chemicals. That hadn't stopped her from attempting to make her way to the scene while there was a team there, hopefully for some on-site experience and information. But as Rush galloped onward, she heard the whir of the speeder returning toward the base. Shame; they had barely made it far at all into the jungle. So she had him slow and turn back toward the base, to his confusion, and they made their way back, quickly as possible.

Normally she would have had the akk stop outside the hangar's entrance, but she urged him onward into the hangar, his splayed claws almost slipping on the hard ground before he regained his footing and dashed past ships and crewmen and visitors alike as she called out to the Falleen man.*
Master Gannor!
*Finally she urged Rush to a slow stop, and he skidded and clawed until he did in fact come to a stop a few feet away from the Falleen and the Ithorian researcher. Morgan held on expertly, then hopped off the akk to approach the man, giving a polite bow before looking back up at him, eager for any news.*
Did you find anything?!
*As usual, she had chosen to don her intricate Felucian gown, complete with a crude bow and quiver slung around her shoulder. She would have looked like a genuine jungle native if it weren't for her cleanliness and the small lightsaber hanging from her waist.*

*Morgan watched as the Master knelt down so he could be more on her eye level before revealing what they'd found: A dead manta, poisoned by the odd jungle rot. Her eyes widened a little with a hint of sadness and shock, but... she didn't understand how. Was whatever this was somehow capable of affecting animals as well? Suddenly she was glad she didn't make it to the site after all, for fear of some potential harm to Rush, who she cast a concerned glance toward; he was diligently sitting on his haunches, watching, waiting for some kind of direction.

She looked back to Master Gannor, about to ask for an explanation, but he began to give it before she could speak. She closed her half-open mouth and listened; apparently the Ithorian believed that infected spore plants were now releasing mutated spores that were apparently having a horrible effect on the native creatures of the planet. The Ithorian was going to run tests on the substance, but otherwise, apparently they were "still no closer to understanding."

... that was it? Her eyes flickered back and forth between his, as though searching for some kinda sign, before she hung her head and sighed. But not quite in defeat. This wasn't over yet. She looked back up, finding that his eyes were studying her intently, as though looking for something. For what? Some reaction? She wasn't sure. He remarked that the Force around the area felt "sickened" somehow, "disrupted" even, causing Morgan to frown. Disrupted, sickened... Come to think of it...*
I... have a hard time feeling it... It's like... it's there... but it feels... separated, somehow...
*Her brows, furrowed with concentration, loosened when she ceased attempting to reach out to the deadened portion of jungle. It was a small, ugly blemish when she had first discovered it, but now... it was worse. She shook her head and gave the Falleen a more-determined look.*
Sh-She'll be fine though! Mommy can pull through anything!
*While she had a bit of trouble producing these words, she had no doubts. Only apprehension for the short-term effects; she was absolutely certain they would find a cure for this, but she was also concerned for the potential casualties that would occur before it could be healed. Had already occurred...*

*Her words apparently made Master Gannor smile, and he gently set a hand on her head as he deemed she was right, that the Force worked in odd ways, beyond the comprehension of mere mortals. "Motes in the wind," as Master Gannor said, though she wasn't entirely sure what a "mote" was, and even looked briefly confused when he said it. But she understood the gist of it and nodded, smiling a little herself.

The Falleen then invited her to join them in analyzing the samples the Ithorian had taken. Morgan was quite eager to learn as much as she could, so of course she wasn't going to turn down this offer. Nodding, she started to step forward, but stopped when she realized Rush was still there, waiting for instruction. So she ran toward him, hugging his neck.*
Oops! Back to the jungle, Rush! ... but don't go anywhere near that rot!
*As usual, her voice was accompanied by commands through their Force bond. Rush affectionately licked her face with his rough tongue, and she giggled before releasing him. He stood up on all four paws and turned, departing the hangar and heading back to the jungle. Morgan then turned so that she could follow the older Jedi towards the research facility...*

Coming to a gentle landing in the hangar of the Felucian Jedi Base, the dull grey YKL-37R freighter's engines slowly quieted down and cooled off, weary and starved after a long voyage.  There was nothing especially remarkable about it; no outlandish paint jobs, few obvious external modifications, and some nooks and crannies showed a fair bit of rust.  But as was the case with many ships like this one, it was what was on the inside that counted.  And on the inside, there was a crew of six men of various species, a few tons of cargo that carried a few prison terms in Republic space, and one passenger.

The passenger made his way down the boarding ramp before it had even fully opened, hell bent on meeting Master Calmcacil.  As he strode, coming to a stop just past the threshold of the ship's shadow, he made up his game plan.  Rutil Iorek had never been one for politicking, and what he was about to do would ordinarily require a master diplomat.  He had never been one for patience, either, but the best case scenario had him planetside for at least a night and the worst case scenario had him stranded outright; no matter the outcome, the Zabrak was staying on Felucia longer than he would have liked.  He folded his arms together within the loose sleeves of his saffron cloak, presenting a formal, almost regal appearance despite his scarred face and foul look.  An emissary from the base would meet him soon.

They had better, anyway.

"Sir," the ship's mechanic - a portly Togruta man - called out as he descended the ramp, checking on the landing struts, "I know you said we weren't gonna be here long or nothin', but we gots families to feed and ships to maintain and..."

He kept going on, but Rutil tuned him out in an instant.  Typical.  Men like him thought only of money, and couldn't have given less of a damn about the state of the galaxy if they were forced to watch it firsthand.  It was shameful.  Disgusting, even.

Pathetic.

"You will get your money when my business is done."

"We will get our money when your business is done," the Togruta repeated, his words slurred and his eyes suddenly glossed over as Rutil took command of his mind.

"You will remain on the ship until someone comes to fetch you."

"We will remain on the ship until someone comes to fetch us."

"Now go."

Even for a Jedi almost famous for his harshness and impatience, Rutil's words carried a dangerous edge.  Had he the desire to turn around and face the mechanic, one could have easily bet that Rutil would not have needed the Force to get the mechanic back into the hold of the Nova Courier freighter.  But he had spent two days with these men, and the mere thought of looking at them was starting to be sickening to the Zabrak warrior.  The sooner Calmcacil's errand boy reached him, the better.

Rutil bowed his head in greeting.  Aerandir Calmcacil; far younger than the old Zabrak had expected, given the tales he had heard, but he would keep his personal opinions on the younger man's title to himself.  The grizzled Jedi himself didn't use the title, despite having more than earned it by the estimations of many of his peers.  But Rutil had the utmost respect for the traditions of the Order, and until he was officially recognized as a Master, he adamantly refused to use the title in reference to himself.

Then again, if it greased the wheels...

"Thanks, Master Calmcacil," Rutil began, his voice every bit as gravelly as his face would lead one to expect, "but I'm fine.  So are they.  A day or two for them to rest and they should be good.  Enough consumables on board to sustain 'em."

Rutil pulled the hood down from his cloak, displaying a crown of ten well-maintained horns.  Nine of them, anyway; one, on his forehead, was very clearly and very nastily broken, jagged and cracked while all of the others were smooth and sharp.  The scars on his face seemed to amplify themselves in the hangar lights, unimpeded by the large hood or the wrinkles of his tan skin.  His olive green eyes carried the wisdom of decades and somehow burned with the fire of a far younger man, giving Calmcacil a hint of the infamous glare that Rutil would bestow upon trainees that bemused him.

"Shall we?"

It was hard for the old man to be anything but brusque and curt, even with the respect he had for the Masters of the Order.  He silently cursed at himself, waiting for Master Calmcacil to lead the way, hoping that the rest of their discussion wouldn't feel as forced or awkward.

Calmcacil hadn't been joking.

The walk back to the hangar had not been an especially long one.  But by the time Rutil got there, he could already see troops and equipment mobilizing with a pace he hadn't seen since the Clone Wars.  And considering those men had been purpose-bred for it, seeing it on full display here spoke volumes of their professionalism and their training.  He strode through their numbers with purpose, and was equally impressed by how they effortlessly moved around him, not stopping to address the man they surely must have known was their acting commander.  In truth, he wouldn't have it any other way; the mission was more important than some ego-stroking formality.  For over a century, Rutil had been slavishly devoted to the customs and structure of the Jedi Order.  But in putting aside the trappings for just a short while, he had achieved far more than what he had set out to do.  The Jedi Guardian had sought only to begin an alliance and lay some groundwork, and now he was to embark on a scouting expedition with little more than a wink and a nod from a Jedi Master.  Perhaps adhering to the rules as strictly as he had been had been a waste of time...

He had barely rounded a corner, his path flanked by various snubfighters and a CR90 in the distance, on an outboard platform, when an officer - set apart from his fellow men by the uniform he wore - almost ran headlong into him.

"Master Iorek!" the middle-aged Human exclaimed before standing stock-still and bringing his hand up to salute, "Captain Ric Marris of the Spearhead, at your service, sir!"

With a nod of acknowledgement, Rutil continued walking, motioning for the man to follow him and immediately falling into a role he had not been in for decades.  "Report."

"Master Calmcacil has placed my vessel as well as a few others indefinitely under your command, sir.  There are 100 soldiers divided into five platoons, one squadron of fighter craft, and the crew of the Spearhead herself, all awaiting orders.  I'm hoping you'll pardon the debacle here, we were told we would be casting off right away."

"And you were told correctly, Captain.  I want us ready to lift off the moment the last crate is loaded."

"Aye-aye, sir!"

With another salute, Captain Marris turned back in the direction he had been traveling in at twice the speed, apparently every bit as eager to get underway as Rutil himself was.  The Jedi himself kept walking, going nowhere in particular, his path taking him closer to the corvette situated outside the hangar.  His green eyes ran over it, admiring its design, but came to a dead stop as the word "SPEARHEAD" came into view, emblazoned on the flat side of the hull.

This deal just kept getting better...

----------

An hour after the Zabrak Jedi had returned to the hangar bay of the Jedi Base on Felucia, a group of ships lifted off. Racing out of the hangar was a group of twelve Skipray Blastboats, holding a tight formation as they shot into the sky. Not long after and not far behind them, the CR90 corvette lifted up off of its platform and - with a mighty roar and push from its large engines - almost overtook the fighters outright as it took off.

*Pilot of a StealthX, the report had said. One "Kirito Ozuna." Admittedly something about the name made him frown and nearly want to shudder, but if he were to judge everyone he knew based only off a name, well, he'd know far fewer interesting people.

As he entered the hangar, he spotted the StealthX, as well as a young Jedi he didn't recognize seemingly coming from the ship. Deciding it was who he was looking for, Aerandir addressed him,* "Jedi Ozuna, I presume?"