Sharp Wit for a Dull World!
Oh, really?
Sessia stared at Lilinara's rapidly retreating back.
"Valarin..." She shook her head. Without sparing her brother a second glance, she took off after her friend.
What a ridiculously girly sequence of events. That's going to be edited to death if I ever go back and edit.
Communion.
Every year, in the dying days of the harvest season, the children of the Thirteenth Gate
No, damn it. That's not working.
Crap. It's Friday! I'm not going to have anything up!
The damned ceremony was taking too gods-damned long.
Lilinara concentrated on holding herself still. The unfamiliar weight of her new armor left her unexpectedly weary early on in the ceremony, and the metal links seemed to have a new set of too-loud noises for every time she shifted her position in the slightest.
She felt like an idiot in her new regalia. From the gold-washed chain and finely tooled belt and scabbard to the rich velvet tabard, the entire get-up made her feel like a doll on display. Which was of course, ridiculous. Amidst the highest ranking officers of the military, impeccalbly armored and dripping with decoration, and the finely feathered peacocks of the court, her accustomed garb would have drawn more attention than this gilded confection.
She didn't have to like it, though.
"...years of peace. That time has come to an end. It falls to my son..."
Argh. I think I know where this is going, I just don't know how to get it there.
The midsummer sun beat down upon the caravan, inviting all sorts of comparisons to hammers and anvils. Despite the killing heat, and air that felt thick enough to drown in, not a single soul was tempted to beg the ragged squadron of soldiers that escorted them for a moment's rest. When a child or elder stumbled, the person nearest, villager and soldier alike, took their weight upon their shoulder, and struggled on.
By noon, despite their best efforts, the pace of the weary refugees had slowed to a crawl.
Oh, to hell with it.
This is an old character study for a Star Wars game that had one session then evaporated.
Damn it.
Three years into it, and there was no more room for illusion.
Kalee Verit had always been a well-behaved, respectable girl. She had been born to a well-behaved and respectable family, raised on a level of Coruscant where a person could look out of a window and see unfiltered sunlight, or perhaps a patch of sky.
Three years ago she had slipped the leash and left the Academy, without a word to peer or parent, sick to tears of discipline and platitudes, sick to death of being well-behaved Kalee Verit, quiet girl, bright girl, easy to miss, stays out of trouble, scores top marks…
From the start, Kalee had shown promise. Intelligent and curious, quiet and well-behaved. She had been a dedicated student, and had dutifully joined school clubs and teams. She had dutifully abandoned her budding interest in mechanics when her father had been horrified at her interest in such a middle-class trade. Her mother had been disgusted at the thought of her beautiful, promising child doing something so unladylike.
Two years ago she had made the right contacts and said the right things. She was running with a crowd that did everything that her parents had cautioned against, and several things that they had never mentioned, because Nice People did not talk about those things. She was quick with computer systems, and quick with electronics, and years of dance and calisthenics meant that she was also quick on her feet. Her future had been promising, in this dark reflection of society.
Just as expected, Kalee finished her schooling at the head of her class. Respectfully, she had asked her parents’ consent to her enrollment in the Naval Academy, with a proper, ladylike goal of a posting with support personnel. Her father, himself a retired Naval officer, embraced the idea. Her mother, confident that Kalee would be given an appropriately safe and dull posting, kept her objections to herself.
One year ago she had watched her best friend die. Zannat had introduced Kalee to Trandill Xidora, a member of a Falleen family that formed the basis of a little kingdom in the galaxy’s darker underbelly. Zannat had gently coached Kalee in the nuances of maneuvering in the volatile underworld. Zannat had died choking on her own blood, her throat slit by one of Trandill’s lieutenants for a failure that he himself had precipitated with a too-loose tongue. Kalee had not protested. She swallowed bile and looked away, just as Trandill expected.
Kalee watched as the cargo doors hissed shut on the last of the livestock. The last one to be loaded, a young ho’din male, stared at her with huge, dark eyes. She shook her head, and boarded the ship, heading for the bridge.
Her fortunes were rising. They were always rising. She had survived the death of her patron with surprisingly little turbulence, and had risen from duty as a bodyguard where none was expected, to one of a two-man team dedicated to transporting the most valuable specimens of Xidora’s stock, a year in relatively safe assignments was nothing to be sneezed at. Muscle was disposable, the talent and skills trusted with ferrying a cargo of pleasure-slaves and those trained in the sciences was less so.
She hated herself a little more every day.
As the ship slid into the empty vast of space, she slid up behind her partner, a lean trandoshan with a crooked jaw, and watched as the last moon of the planet disappeared past the starboard viewport. She smiled and patted his shoulder, congratulating him on a smooth takeoff. Six months working together, and nothing but unequivocal success.
She would have killed him for five credits.
A thought occurred to her.
“Thliss? How much would you say our cargo today is worth?”
"Valarin..." She shook her head. Without sparing her brother a second glance, she took off after her friend.
What a ridiculously girly sequence of events. That's going to be edited to death if I ever go back and edit.
Communion.
Every year, in the dying days of the harvest season, the children of the Thirteenth Gate
No, damn it. That's not working.
Crap. It's Friday! I'm not going to have anything up!
The damned ceremony was taking too gods-damned long.
Lilinara concentrated on holding herself still. The unfamiliar weight of her new armor left her unexpectedly weary early on in the ceremony, and the metal links seemed to have a new set of too-loud noises for every time she shifted her position in the slightest.
She felt like an idiot in her new regalia. From the gold-washed chain and finely tooled belt and scabbard to the rich velvet tabard, the entire get-up made her feel like a doll on display. Which was of course, ridiculous. Amidst the highest ranking officers of the military, impeccalbly armored and dripping with decoration, and the finely feathered peacocks of the court, her accustomed garb would have drawn more attention than this gilded confection.
She didn't have to like it, though.
"...years of peace. That time has come to an end. It falls to my son..."
Argh. I think I know where this is going, I just don't know how to get it there.
The midsummer sun beat down upon the caravan, inviting all sorts of comparisons to hammers and anvils. Despite the killing heat, and air that felt thick enough to drown in, not a single soul was tempted to beg the ragged squadron of soldiers that escorted them for a moment's rest. When a child or elder stumbled, the person nearest, villager and soldier alike, took their weight upon their shoulder, and struggled on.
By noon, despite their best efforts, the pace of the weary refugees had slowed to a crawl.
Oh, to hell with it.
This is an old character study for a Star Wars game that had one session then evaporated.
Damn it.
Three years into it, and there was no more room for illusion.
Kalee Verit had always been a well-behaved, respectable girl. She had been born to a well-behaved and respectable family, raised on a level of Coruscant where a person could look out of a window and see unfiltered sunlight, or perhaps a patch of sky.
Three years ago she had slipped the leash and left the Academy, without a word to peer or parent, sick to tears of discipline and platitudes, sick to death of being well-behaved Kalee Verit, quiet girl, bright girl, easy to miss, stays out of trouble, scores top marks…
From the start, Kalee had shown promise. Intelligent and curious, quiet and well-behaved. She had been a dedicated student, and had dutifully joined school clubs and teams. She had dutifully abandoned her budding interest in mechanics when her father had been horrified at her interest in such a middle-class trade. Her mother had been disgusted at the thought of her beautiful, promising child doing something so unladylike.
Two years ago she had made the right contacts and said the right things. She was running with a crowd that did everything that her parents had cautioned against, and several things that they had never mentioned, because Nice People did not talk about those things. She was quick with computer systems, and quick with electronics, and years of dance and calisthenics meant that she was also quick on her feet. Her future had been promising, in this dark reflection of society.
Just as expected, Kalee finished her schooling at the head of her class. Respectfully, she had asked her parents’ consent to her enrollment in the Naval Academy, with a proper, ladylike goal of a posting with support personnel. Her father, himself a retired Naval officer, embraced the idea. Her mother, confident that Kalee would be given an appropriately safe and dull posting, kept her objections to herself.
One year ago she had watched her best friend die. Zannat had introduced Kalee to Trandill Xidora, a member of a Falleen family that formed the basis of a little kingdom in the galaxy’s darker underbelly. Zannat had gently coached Kalee in the nuances of maneuvering in the volatile underworld. Zannat had died choking on her own blood, her throat slit by one of Trandill’s lieutenants for a failure that he himself had precipitated with a too-loose tongue. Kalee had not protested. She swallowed bile and looked away, just as Trandill expected.
Kalee watched as the cargo doors hissed shut on the last of the livestock. The last one to be loaded, a young ho’din male, stared at her with huge, dark eyes. She shook her head, and boarded the ship, heading for the bridge.
Her fortunes were rising. They were always rising. She had survived the death of her patron with surprisingly little turbulence, and had risen from duty as a bodyguard where none was expected, to one of a two-man team dedicated to transporting the most valuable specimens of Xidora’s stock, a year in relatively safe assignments was nothing to be sneezed at. Muscle was disposable, the talent and skills trusted with ferrying a cargo of pleasure-slaves and those trained in the sciences was less so.
She hated herself a little more every day.
As the ship slid into the empty vast of space, she slid up behind her partner, a lean trandoshan with a crooked jaw, and watched as the last moon of the planet disappeared past the starboard viewport. She smiled and patted his shoulder, congratulating him on a smooth takeoff. Six months working together, and nothing but unequivocal success.
She would have killed him for five credits.
A thought occurred to her.
“Thliss? How much would you say our cargo today is worth?”
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