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Sticky: General RP/CMO

Right so I can't do fancy codes, here's the legacy list, further info (usually) in journal

Flow Volere

serenityevades - Anxiety-prone Jedi Sentinel, brain to mouth filter is broken, but is a good guy who tries to do his best.

Abric Solari

starcrossedscoundrel - Gruff Scoundrel with a heart of gold, got himself married to an Imperial spy and holds a grudge against the entire Empire.

Natirru

starcrossedspy - ...Said Imperial spy. Nurturing Operative who puts his medicine specialization first, definitely still loves Abric.

Oberon Malo

freedomevades - Scarred Sith Juggernaut, much more emotionally than physically. Faced a lifetime of abuse and is working his way out of his parents' lies. Natirru protects and supports him.

Lazy? Sure, but we're just here to RP.

For Azrael and Theron; Introductions

Abric had never been happier to be engaged to a spy. It had been his cues he'd followed in picking up the Red Hulls cover identity as seamlessly as he had, and he's not sure they could have maintained that cover long enough to keep their friends safe without his guidance. He'd put on a voice for no reason at first, for crying out loud. He might have worn his throat down trying to keep it up, honestly.

But it had held up - aside from Flow's outburst that they weren't pirates in the cantina (nobody believed him, it seemed, thankfully) - and it had paid off and they were safe with old allies.

With things wrapping up for the day and a big mission ahead of them...leave it to Abric to ask the mundane, silly questions.

"So have you guys been staying here, or...? Don't see many places to sleep."

For the Kalligs; Party Time!

The Escape is bustling today; Dari is hosting an event that has drawn some attention. The tables in the center have been moved to make room for a larger, temporary stage, and various droids hover about, carrying lights and effects or projecting force fields to keep any practical effects from inconveniencing the audience.

The event? A dance-off, merged with a lip-syncing contest - yes, lip-syncing, no riding on musical ability to win the day. It's about being creative and remembering the lyrics because there's no improvisation of melodies to suit the routine.

And it's absolutely the kind of ridiculous fun Abric can get behind. That the entry fee helps fund the cantina is a substantial bonus. That winners get to keep their choice of effects droids and get free food for up to a standard year depending on placing, a smaller one. (That probe with the kaleidoscope effect light is so his, though.) He enters with a boisterous song and big, dramatic movements, and that awesome (gaudy) light, of course, and when he makes his way back to the booth he's sharing with his friends and family, he's grinning, sharing their laughter and riding the high of performing as an incorrigible showoff.

"You guys should've come with me," he said, leaning back in his seat. Flow smiled faintly and shook his head, while Oberon and Natirru shared reserved chuckles.

"I might have, if our styles wouldn't clash," said Oberon.

"It's a conflict of interest," said Natirru, "one of the volunteer judges knows me personally. I would skew her vote. She told me she was one of the judges, without knowing I'd be here."

"Oh? The tiny soldier or the anarchist?"

"Neither."

"...Please tell me it isn't your droid."

"Don't call her a droid and don't call her mine. ...But it's not her."

"Someone you know from your job?"

"You could say that. I'm not telling you who you're performing for, dear, they're hidden in the audience for a reason."

While Abric slapped Natirru's shoulder in playful frustration, Flow craned his neck to see over his taller boothmates. "Is that Val?"

For Val; Aftermath

It had finally come to a close. He’d ignited his lightsaber into Baras’s gut and watched him keel over, his life dissipating in a final, agonized gasp. He had vowed the status quo could not stand, though despite his lofty station he could not bring himself to voice the specifics. He had walked from the Council chambers, head held high.

But it did not feel the same. Not like Grathan, who had tortured others for awful experiments. Not like Draahg, who had harmed his friends. There had been a satisfaction in aiming for the kill that was absent here. It was over, and this was proof his abuses were no burden to him any longer...but it was also for himself, and emptier for it.

The adrenaline left him as he and Quinn turned the corner into the hallway leading from the antechamber. He tried to mask the sudden rush of exhaustion and a sick feeling he couldn’t name.

“You see, Quinn? I told you, I would prove myself. I hope whatever doubts you had are alleviated now.”

The hints of several emotions flickered in him and were quickly controlled. The man could put most Jedi to shame. “I think- perhaps this is not the place, my lord.”

Oberon nodded, leaning on the wall as the aches of healing wounds set in. “I understand. Go back to the ship, Quinn. I’ll meet you there.”

For once, he seemed hesitant to obey. “Are you all right, my lord?”

“I’ll be fine. Go on.”

Quinn bowed his head with another, quiet my lord, and soon had vanished around another corner. Oberon sank to his knees, poisonous thoughts telling him he should be stronger. He was the Emperor’s Wrath, and he had slain the one who had reminded him so terribly of the people he once called his family, because he didn’t know that the word could mean anything else.

Someone approached - he could only hope it was Val or Vowrawn, because he didn’t think anyone but those two could see him on his knees and know it was not weakness.

For Val; Family

Leaving Voss was almost too jarring, after the relative peace had soothed him as much as it could. He was afraid, away from the shrine of healing, that he would relapse, and crash and be unable to get back up. But he’d wanted to see Val again, and rather than having Val come to Voss, and potentially meet the father he’d never really thought about having before, he took the Sith’s invitation. His father may have once been a Sith - there was a surprise around every corner, it seemed - but he had no reason to believe he’d approve of the company that had kept him as happy and steady as he could ever be in the situation he’d been in.

He sent Val a brief message to let him know he’d arrived at the other’s Nar Shaddaa apartment, and sank into one of the bright couches in the entry hall, watching the little butterfly habitat he’d set up there.

They're multiplying... (for Natirru and Abric)

There had certainly been parts of that all that Altair wished he could erase from his mind. The horror of what had happened to the cyborgs, in particular. But also having to pull rank, with his father and his Master in the room. It wasn't something that Altair had wanted to do, but... It had been necessary, he supposed. Honorary though it may be, he had been named Imperius's heir- it granted him the ability to throw his weight around, more than a Sith apprentice, more than a Lord, or even a regular old Darth... Still. It had been rather tasteless, with his Master right there. He, who was above nearly everyone else...

He'd apologized, of course, but he still wished he could forget it.

Now though... Away from the action, and on Nar Shaddaa. Not Altair's favorite planet, admittedly, but its neutrality was good, in more ways than one. His Master had gone... Somewhere. To meet up with the Jedi, perhaps? He wasn't sure.

So he had decided to stick with Natirru, preferring that more often than not when he had a choice of where to go, what to do. As much as he... Well, his Master's crew was a strange bunch. He quite liked the peace he could sense from Jaesa and often found himself spending time in her company, in silence. Vette was always a riot and she'd taught him much. When it came to Broonmark, Altair was glad stealth was an option to get around him, the intent and desire to kill he could sense from him like inky black tendrils that sent shivers down his spine.

Pierce was dumb as a bag of bricks and Quinn seemed to have a vibroblade wedged up a place it ought not to go, at least in Altair's opinion. Humanity: zero, Imperial rules and regulations: one. Not that he ever spoke ill of his Master's companions.

Regardless that was neither here nor there- Altair had separated from Natirru briefly, to scope out Valentine's place to see if they could rest and recover there.

He found it full of people. One of the older Sith's raging parties. From his vantage point, he'd counted nearly a hundred people, but there could very well be even more guests.

So that wasn't an option.

Heading back to meet back up with Natirru, he came around the corner where he could sense him, "Dad! Darth Imperius is throwing one of his- Oh."

In his eagerness to rejoin Natirru so he wouldn't have to be alone on Nar Shaddaa longer than necessary, he'd completely failed to sense the smuggler who'd been with them- there hadn't been much time to talk on the mission and expressing curiosity as to who exactly he was in relation to everyone hadn't really been something he could do.

Now though, his first instinct was to move to half hide behind the man he'd come to consider his father, reaching to grab a hold of his sleeve- like a child seeking security by clinging to their parent. He said nothing else- butting into their conversation seemed rude, and he could wait.

Anguish (for Natirru!)

The apartment laid in near silence. The stirring of droids nearby, not disruptive. The faint sounds of animals, downstairs.

The low electrical hum of the many datapads and computers he'd surrounded himself with was loudest of all. Outside, lightning flashed and rain poured down endlessly. The normal background noise for Dromund Kaas. The normal background noise for much of Aden's life, after leaving the safety of the Chiss Ascendancy.

Staking out targets, in rain, in cold. Alone, isolated. For years.

It was different now. He sat in the safety of the home of a man he'd already come to see as a father. He was warm. He was comfortable, bundled up on one of the beds by the window.

Something about it was...

He sat the datapad he was working on optimizing down, and curled up in his blanket. Pulling himself into a ball, legs drawn up against his chest.

The ragged breathing came first, then the blurry vision through tears that spilled down over his cheeks before he could stop them. He was alone. It was fine if he didn't.

He shook his head. This was silly. Emotional. Sentiment. Regrets. Anger and overwhelming sadness.

Remaining curled up, he sobbed, quietly.

Another sob that shook his entire body, before he was on his feet, pacing, not knowing what else to do with the sudden distressed energy that overtook him.

He walked circles around the room, more hot tears falling, pulling in ragged breaths.

Then a cry of anguish, as he balled a fist up, punching the nearest wall. Another ragged cry, another punch. Something cracked. Knuckles, he realized. Broken. Skin torn, already bleeding. Another cry, louder, not enraged. Physical pain was normally something he avoided.

The emotional--- whatever he was feeling was worse, though.

He cried out, again, smashed his balled up fist into the wall, smearing blood across it, the pain growing deep and aching. His next cry was more a scream, caught up in sorrow.

It wasn't so long ago that he was injured. Didn't matter.

Another scream as he punched the wall with his uninjured hand, with enough force to break his fingers.

Finally, he sank down where he stood, slumping forward to sit leaned against the wall, loud wails escaping him between shuddering sobs.

Why.

Why had no one saved him sooner? Why had he become this-- this--

Why did such good exist in the world and why had he encountered it when he deserved it least?

He didn't understand.

He was glad he was alone. These cries he couldn't stop, the screams... Unsightly.

For Valentine; Victory!

The VIP lounge was well away from the crowded bustle of the Imperial fleet’s cantina, far from the casual conversations of mayhem and destruction and atrocities the more darkly-inclined enjoyed. A bit of peace, after a tough, harrowing battle. Natirru had sent the little mercenary Treek back to his ship to rest in the medbay, as she’d been least prepared, but Kaliyo, naturally, refused to pass up free drinks.

Natirru couldn’t say he blamed her. He slumped into a booth and started pouring drinks from the bottle already provided, still more focused on providing for others than himself. At least this wasn’t likely to nearly get him killed, like it had back there.

“So who’d you say normally haunts this lounge?” Kaliyo asked, after promptly draining half the drink she’d been poured.

“It’s best not to ask, I think,” said Natirru offhandedly, nudging a filled glass Valentine’s way. “Let’s focus on celebrating our victory, shall we? I think we’ve earned the right to it. They built that droid very well.”

For Valentine; Momentary Peace

Tatooine wouldn’t have been Abric’s first choice of vacation spot. But the others were crowded and noisy and had too much potential to bring back unpleasant ghosts of their recent trials. The little desert planet was out of the way, not at all densely populated, and so long as one could stand the heat, or find a way to stay out of it, it was quiet.

Val would arrive to find quite the gathering at his stronghold there. Many of their crew members had chosen to remain on their ships, but several were gathered around the bar, idly chatting, drinking and enjoying the peace, when tension between soldiers of the Empire and Republic were low. Flow and Oberon were somewhere on the property, hidden away in an underground room and definitely not wanting to be found. Inside, Natirru slept on one of the couches, passively watched over by his crew - Lokin and Vector played a team game of cards against Kaliyo and Corso - probably best not to ask how that team was formed. The former pair raised their hands in greeting as Val passed, but said nothing, to avoid waking Natirru.

And out on the balcony, the jukebox was on, and Abric was dancing to it alone, a popular club dance with little originality but plenty of fun, and easy to match to the beat of most songs. He chuckled, seeing Val enter, and turned off the jukebox with his elbow as he leaned casually on it. Everyone was having a good time, nobody was dying or broken. He was in a good mood.

“Hey, there! Sorry we took over your place a little.”

For Altair; Mistakes were made...

It had seemed like such a normal task. Normal for a war zone, anyway. Capture the people from the crashed Republic escape pods and bring them back. The colonel added another wrinkle, however, when he did not produce restraints, but shock collars. “Extra strength”, he said. And he made it so very clear he expected them to be used. Oberon had filed that away under “never”, at the time. But when they stood lined up before him, cowering, but covertly looking to run...

Oberon hadn’t thought. He had only considered getting the prisoners back alive, and the way to stop them was in his hand... Their cries of pain tore him apart, and his apprentice running off even more so. He almost released them then and there, but something, some combination of defeat and his old friend the fear of consequences, saw to him going numb inside instead. He fought his way through the gathered Republic forces in a haze, and he stumbled behind some collapsed structure when he’d reported back to cry. He didn’t know how long he was curled up there. Where had Natirru gone? Had he gone to comfort Altair? Or was he as sickened by his actions as he was? Had he simply taken a longer, safer way around? Had...had he been cut down in the fighting?

If either of them were dead because he’d done this, he would never forgive himself.

He deposited his holocom on the ground before him, pushing himself to sit up so it captured his face. He set a message to record, and sent it out to both of them.

“Altair, Natirru- I think I’ve lost the right to call you my father - I-...I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I hadn’t thought- ....I acted rashly, and I was wrong. I have hurt those who were already subdued and hurt both of you. If you don’t want anything more to do with me, I understand. If so, you won’t hear from me again. I won’t force you to stay at my side, I won’t make you feel trapped. It may be too late, but...I still don’t want to be like the people who raised me. My...never mind. I just wanted to let you know - no pressure. I won’t hunt you down if you don’t want to come back.”. He shakes his head, and reaches over to end and send the message. Nothing more to do but curl up and cry some more, until the self-loathing passes enough to do something, or until some Republic soldier finds him and picks him off.

For Aden; A Friend In Need...

The Dark Council can't put up with Zhorrid forever. He knows this. He also knows he's not looking forward to reporting the truth to her, as a Sith hardly needs forever to dispense death. And she will not believe him until Watcher Two's report corroborates it. She can probe his mind and she will choose not to, because she has built so much of her intimidation tactics on revenge for her father.

He's come prepared to the Sith sanctum this time. He has what he needs to, to treat pain and burns and lower a heart rate elevated by electric shock. If he survives, he can pull himself back together without having to stagger his way back to a transport pad. Maybe her untreated injuries will render her too weak to do much damage. Maybe she's partially blind now. He can only hope.

Of course, nothing is worse for hope than apprehension, as he is stopped by the sounds of activity within and a nearby acolyte catching his eye and shaking his head to warn him against going in there.

Suffice it to say, he's got a bad feeling about this...

For Kieran; Birds of a Feather

Wherever his duties took him, Flow always found time to come back to his apartment on Coruscant. He had a family of orobirds to look after, after all, and while Abric occasionally stopped by to help take care of them and while he had a droid to help, they were his pets and he loved them. Sometimes, taking care of them was the only way he had to get through times of intense stress. And sometimes, he just wanted to spend time with his feathered friends.

He kept them out on the balcony, with plenty of plants and a water source and a trunk of food nearby. They were comfortable at high altitudes, being cliff-dwellers, even though it had taken them some time to adjust to the noise of Coruscanti traffic.

This was proving to be a peaceful afternoon of grooming the fawn-colored female he had taken with him to ride on his most recent mission, while her brilliantly colorful mate and chicks affectionately butted his back and legs, wanting their turns. At least, until there was a spike in something- unease, distress, a deep-rooted sort Flow was familiar with. He stopped and looked over his bird's back at the neighboring tower's balcony, and the birds, sensing the change in that way animals do, followed suit.

For Altair; Alien Solidarity

Honestly, the Reclamation Service was the only thing he liked about his time on Tatooine, aside from getting to spend some time with a certain unlikely Jedi friend that wasn’t combat. No, all of that had been a happy accident that could have just as easily been tragic. There was too much fear laced into all of it for his liking. But the Reclamation Service had welcomed him from the start, and while he found it difficult to admit to someone outside his small sphere of friends close enough to be family, he appreciated it. So for them, and because he had reason to delay returning to his ship and finding out how much his master knew about his desire to kill him, he remained to help clean up and organize Czerka’s records. They insisted such a task was too menial for a Sith, but all of the heavy lifting he would have been useful for had already been done, and he didn’t want to leave. He hoped that sent the message that he couldn’t bring himself to say.

There was a lot to sort through, and the team was beginning to disperse, reassigned as work seemed to be wrapping up to those higher on the ladder. Oberon didn’t think much of it as a different team came to help them with everything, until he felt the familiar sense of another Force-sensitive. He looked up to see what other Sith may have arrived, watching the newcomers file in with a lazy sort of interest that held carefully concealed fear behind it. One never knew what to expect when another Sith arrived. Some were personable enough. Most could be safely dealt with normally. But some...

For Valentine; Healer, heal thyself

He wasn’t quite sure how it happened. The rogue Mandalorian fell, toppled to the ground in his dying breaths and his automated turrets kept firing. And he, so focused on the well-being of his friend and his apprentice, somehow had a lapse. Maybe he was exhausted from the battle. Maybe seeing one foe fall had been enough of a relief. Maybe he misjudged the state of said apprentice’s health. Either way, one second he was collapsing, and the next, the turrets had focused their fire on their next target: Natirru himself.

He wasn’t sure how Oberon - or Xalek, for that matter - could do it. How they could keep an eye on the battle in spite of their pain, for as much as he liked to think he had high pain tolerance, it was all he could do to grab every unused injector, call every charged probe, release as many nanobots as he could to keep himself conscious, sinking to his knees as he continued to draw fire. Some of it glanced off the probes, some of it he managed to twist away from, in those moments of awareness. Some of it was dutifully absorbed by his one shield generating probe.

It felt like forever. But he knew if he fell, Valentine was next, and while he had great power, he would not survive this onslaught alone. Valentine was the only hope of this ending favorably. He would never be able to launch an offensive like this. Never be able to stop those turrets.

And when it was over, when the sound of turret fire and Force lightning faded into a silence punctuated by the pounding of his pulse and his labored breaths, as his focus wavered, a wave of nauseating dizziness overcame him, and he slumped sideways onto the deck, mind swimming as he tried to assess his injuries. High on a combat adrenal and with his own adrenaline running strong, he knew he wouldn’t be able to tell by feel what kind of shape he was in yet. And yet, he could not lift his head. He was numb to all the pain, but he had no strength. He was trembling. Pain he wasn’t processing. He was bleeding. Laying in a small puddle of it, source unknown or perhaps many. He couldn’t tell. How bad was he? He couldn’t tell.

For Kieran; Not the strangest job

Maybe he'd made something of a name for himself, what with his role in assisting House Organa during his time on Alderaan. Maybe he just happened to be the one with the best reputation or largest lack of a bad one.

Either way, it's strange enough in the first place that he would be hired by Jedi for something. Whatever they would need moved in secret would be of great importance. Which meant he needed all the help he could get. He made sure his little old freighter was fitted with the best weapons and armor he could buy, and for good measure he asked his own Jedi friend, Flow, to come with him.

Flow stayed behind in the ship, ready, in case there was some trap meant to strand them. He'd noted the landing coordinates were for a place out in the middle of an ocean, far from anything else. If someone meant to strand him, they'd find boarding uninvited rather difficult.

Abric, for his part, came out to meet his clients with a practiced, easy posture.

"So, you had a job for me?"

For Valentine; these two needed to meet anyway

Abric had never needed a drink as much as he needed one right now. He had something else to do on Alderaan, but it would have to wait. He had too much to unpack and too much about himself to examine and if he could just relax for a bit maybe he could handle it. And get as far away from it all as possible. Flow had agreed with him, even upset as he was over witnessing torture firsthand instead of through his Force-sensitivity. He would get through it. He'd seen something upsetting but was sure of who he was in it all. Abric had just had a handful of preconceived notions attacked and needed time to process.

For an otherwise awkward, vulnerable kid, Abric thought, Flow had a lot of hidden wisdom and strength to tap into.

Not like him. He just wanted to be the strong and wise one. Or did he? He didn't know what he wanted to be anymore. What he should be. He'd thrown himself into hating Imperials after his betrayal only to find a Sith had been Flow's friend and confidant, and he couldn't pretend his spy of an ex-husband never loved him anymore after learning he hadn't even given him a false name.

He seriously needed a drink. Needs one, rather.

Nar Shaddaa is far enough away, and has an impressive selection of places to tell his mind to shut the hell up for a while. But he's just wandering aimlessly, until a young woman in a pink robe points him at a cantina in particular, its sign labeling it as "The Escape".

"I sense you have much on your mind," she says, keeping her head down so her hood obscures her features. "I think you'll find what you need in there."

"Thanks, uh...miss Jedi?"

The robed person says nothing, except, "Good luck." And then she continues on her way.

Abric heads inside, notes immediately the difference in atmosphere. There are more male holo-dancers. More women watching female dancers. More mixed crowds. No dancers in person. Staff dressed like normal people. He can guess what this was intended as an escape from. The prospect of having a drink without an attempt at seduction (or another party worrying he might) actually does sound pretty appealing. That's a distraction that doesn't help for long.

He looks for an empty booth...and finds himself staring at another Twi'lek. A very familiar one. Oberon looks up from the paper pinwheel he's folding up (showing his human companion how, apparently), and meets his eyes. His mouth falls open in silent question.

For Valentine; Movie Night at Nar Shaddaa Stronghold

It had been a harrowing handful of days for Oberon and Natirru both. But more than anything, more than even the threat of his master’s wrath, Oberon was afraid for Natirru’s safety. He had known they both had business in the area - their meeting at the spaceport had been enough proof of that. But when the agent had shown up to a mission they had both signed up for looking like death warmed over and had said it was cover, meant to obtain a sample of a drug, Oberon realized just how dangerous Intelligence work was for its own assets. It was not merely a makeup job, whatever had been done to him had made him feel like his body was coming apart from the inside out, and it didn’t take Oberon’s Force sense to see it wasn’t an act.

When he appeared again, healthy but clearly unsettled, with tales of even more invasive disguise measures - these being implants meant to mask his bio readings, from someone who expected enough distrust to offer to do so without anasthesia, and Natirru had declined - not that Oberon was particularly ungrateful, mind, for less suffering or chance of an unfortunate movement permanently paralyzing him. But even the knowledge that he’d had a companion to watch over him did nothing to dissuade him from all the paranoia his father-figure had seemingly ignored or never had. They stepped out of the automated taxi still debating this point.

“What if they...don’t do only what this madman advertised, Natirru? What if they have trackers?”

“She would have recognized listening or tracking devices.”

“All right, but what about injectors? They’re on your spine, for stars’ sake! They could have been made to do anything, and do it directly to the majority of your body!”

“We’ll cross that bridge when the path leads us there, if it ever will. You’re catastrophizing, Oberon. I can take care of myself.”

“I’m starting to wonder if you can. Val will be able to look out for you.”

“We’re here for his hospitality. Just a place to rest. I don’t want to drag him into this.”

Oberon folded his arms, watching Natirru walk with open worry. His voice came out smaller and weaker than he intended, betraying every bit of the fear he had been letting out under anger’s mask. “I can’t lose you.”

Natirru stopped cold, radiating deep pain. “Don’t. You won’t lose me. I promise. But even covert missions have potentially lethal risks. I will do everything I can to ensure I’ll come home safe, but I can’t compromise my mission or my morals.”

If Val had been planning to come out to meet them, they’re both putting out quite a lot of tension and uneasy fear.

For Mordecai; Let's patch you up

Only two people knew who set the droids loose on the streets of Kaas City, chasing down innocent people, clashing with the unaffected security droids on patrol, and causing panic. Natirru isn't one of those people, but he's all for stopping this madness right here. He's a blur of activity, treating the wounded, lifting toppled droids off pinned victims long enough to allow them to escape or be pulled out. He moves with purpose, with the sure focus of one trained for this. And when there are no patients, he turns to combat.

He sees a large droid that could be useful and ducks away to vanish, to creep up on it and to leap onto its back, jamming his vibroknife between its joints to hinder it and provide a handhold while his other hand is occupied with slicing, trying to undo the programming that tells it to attack anyone, to only to go after the threats here.

Of course, it provides an excellent vantage point from which to notice he's got another patient...

For Valentine; Sunsbaked

Oberon does not form passive Force links easily. The handful - literally less than he could count on one hand - that have are those he would guard with his life. His conviction is so strong he has trained himself entirely around guarding them for that eventuality.

So what does he do when the thing endangering one of those links is the environment, and not some foe he can taunt or Force persuade to come at him instead?

He's approaching a vaporator for water already when it hits him - Flow is weak, and his consciousness is fading. The Jedi had become a friendly sparring partner over their encounters throughout their mutual time on Nar Shaddaa; Oberon could sense he enjoyed their bouts and the questions and answers over clashing blades...and that, more and more, something weighed on him. It left an unsettled feeling in the pit of Oberon's stomach, and now he realizes he should have heeded that.

He takes as much water as he can carry, leaves credits for the poor farmer who has to refill it (and buys food off him while he's at it), and runs for his speeder. He forgets to refuel it.

When he finds Flow, delirious and barely conscious in the desert wastes, the speeder doesn't have enough left in it to get them to safety. He sees the white domes of another moisture farm and makes for it, running out of fuel on its rim and having to carry - Force levitate, he doesn't have the physical strength to carry a person that far - Flow down the stairs and across its bowl.

There is no one there. It's too far from anything for anyone but droids to maintain, and none of the automated workers are programmed to take any other instructions. Apparently nobody ever expected anyone to find themselves here after it was built. He gets to work stabilizing the Jedi, breaking open medpacs to soothe the sunburns and cool his skin with the kolto inside and injecting him with another in the hopes of restoring his focus. While he is conscious and able to sit up, he gives him water, and his confusion is met with gentle encouragement to rest. The night passes, and Flow improves. He spends much of the morning asleep, but it's clear he's recuperating, and not slipping away. With the immediate danger behind them, Oberon turns his thoughts to getting them both out of there alive. Natirru would be able to properly treat Flow. But he also could never make it through this desert, himself. Chiss aren't made for that sort of thing. Doesn't he have a friend who keeps a home here...?

He takes out his holocom and sits at Flow's side, taking his hand as he stirs. "It will be all right. I'm calling a friend to take us somewhere safe. I don't think he'll care we're meant to be on opposite sides."

He sets it to Val's frequency and waits for the older Sith to answer.

For Valentine and his family; an unusual reunion (+Oberon)

How strange it was that both Natirru and Oberon had met Darth Imperius and had never told the other. Natirru, because he had been so exhausted after the assault on Hammer Station, and so preoccupied with ensuring his kolto supplies were restored, that it slipped his mind completely. Oberon, on the other hand, was ashamed of the breakdown that had facilitated their meeting, and had never mentioned it to Natirru.

Today, that changes, somewhat. Today, Oberon insists, haggard as Natirru looks lately (those supplies won't pick themselves up), that he come with him to this little shop he knows. The two walk the streets of Dromund Kaas wrapped up in cloak and jacket against the brisk chill the rain carries today, the smaller Twi'lek weaving between people effortlessly and waiting for his companion to catch up, strangely like an excited child. Whatever the eagerness in Oberon is, Natirru welcomes it, following his Sith charge with a patient stride.

He's surprised at the coziness of the shop Oberon leads him to, as well as the way his expression lightens - a brightness in his eyes, smile, and posture that he had only seen before at home - at the sight of the Twi'lek woman out front preparing to open for the day. They were clearly too early, and Natirru finds himself smiling for Oberon's fortune in finding a place like this - he's not one to hurry anywhere unless summoned officially, and then it is fear that moves his feet, not...this.

"Hello, Ms. Noir." Oberon raises a hand in casual - if excited - greeting, and Natirru visibly does a double-take behind him. He's not even trying to look like a proper Sith. Rather than disappointment or worry, he looks up at the woman and her shop in a sort of hopeful wonder that transitions slowly again into a gentle smile. He has found another rare source of solace in this empire, somehow, despite being taught to trust none of it. It's real, every bit as real as it had looked on approach. "We're too early?"

For Valentine; No rest for the weary

[At first, Nar Shaddaa had been a powerful sight and experience. Colorful neon lighting the dark in brilliant displays. Packed with vibrant life like Coruscant, but more, all of these people from everywhere, Republic and Empire and everyone in between, with perhaps scorn but no violence.

And then he had found the violence. Sensed it the deeper into Imperial real estate he'd gone, a vaguely unsettling prickle of someone else's fear and then lots of someone elses, intensely, primally afraid and then they started vanishing. Dying. And beneath all that, the pain of overworked and mistreated slave labor throughout the facilities, the existential fear of sleeper agents waking up with missing memories, their original selves suppressed, and the horror of a man watching his allies hacked apart to facilitate it. He had felt others in hardship, he had been in the presence of people working themselves into panic. This was his first encounter of something so densely clustered, and it wreaked havoc on his emotions. Abric had been with him for a good deal of it, but another "duel" - a spar, really - with Oberon had seen them parting ways, Abric moving on while he stayed. The Sith that he, despite himself, was beginning to call a friend in his own mind, had insisted he rest, before departing for a task he himself needed to do.

He would find no rest, as he received a holocall almost immediately after leaving Imperial property. There was a gang - no, a cult, dedicated to some "Great Healer" that was supposed to be a Sith. The clash between name and ownership was suspect, and the owner was supposedly going to visit a certain cantina in the district he was headed for.

He slipped inside, and found he had met his limits. The relief of minds fuzzy with drink or actively enjoying themselves made it impossible not to just sit down, lean back into the booth and observe, and soak up the more comfortable atmosphere. Like a warm bath for the weary soul.

Discretion was never his forte. In fact, it was exactly the opposite. He makes no secret of watching people who are obviously Sith when they enter. Maybe it'd be normal for a Jedi to do so. He's counting on that and the local laws not landing him in further trouble.]