Spoopy Scary

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)

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The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)

Wy would probably know about redguard burial ceremonies. She'd suggest to bury her someplace underground. She would have some credibility in this kinda situation I think.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

Where We Fear to Tread

A collab by: @Spoopy Scary & @MacabreFox

Gilane, Hammerfell - 30th of Second Seed

---

The black veil slowly, groggily lifted from Calen’s vision. He still felt sick, but he also felt an ache. An aching in his head - he thought he did, at least. He couldn’t tell. Everything seemed so surreal, not quite there. He knew he was being dragged, but he couldn’t quite feel it. He couldn’t feel the texture of the coarse and rocky ground of Anvil’s paved streets, but he could feel the pressure against his body. He could feel and taste something warm, wet, and metallic in his mouth. It was sticky. He swung his field of vision around to look at the two men dragging him through the street… he saw Quintus and Pavo. Oh, yes… of course… he lost. He couldn’t get away. He couldn’t find Rhona. The Dominion agents slew the guards in the streets. There were channels of blood between each and every brick in the ground, like veins coursing through the city… and the led to a single house. A manor. A castle. Castle Anvil.

He wasn’t sure if they dragged him along a long red carpet or through a river of blood, but the answer was clear when they threw in front of the throne and the ground splashed beneath him. His mouth filled with blood, but was it the river of blood? Or was it being thrown on his face, breaking all of his teeth? The river felt solid despite the splash. He felt so dazed and groggy that reason and logic flew out the window, but even in this state, he tried looking up. He saw Cezare, adorned in fearsome armor that might have once been regal and a billowing red cloak. Strange. There was no wind in here. Looking closer, the red cloak was dripping with a familiar sanguine hue. He wore an eyepatch for some reason.

“You’re a liar.” Cezare growled, taking a step forward. Calen somehow found the strength to roll over onto his back and tried crawling away from him; backwards, still facing him. Though his feet found purchase on solid stonework, he felt his arms suddenly drop and sink elbow deep into the river. As Cezare walked ever closer to him, he seemed to walk atop the river that Calen couldn’t escape. Too thick to escape, as it felt like cold molasses on his skin; but too thin to escape. Every time he tried to get out he fell back through like it was water, sinking deeper and deeper.

“No.” Calen denied, shaking his head.

“You’re a liar!” Cezare repeated. “You lied to me, you lied to them!”

“No!” Calen cried out again.

“All you do is lie!” Cezare shouted. “You love no one!”

“No!”

Three blasts of thunder shook the castle. Too loud, deafeningly loud. Like one of the Dwemer’s cannons knocking down the castle doors. Three sharp shots was all it took for him feel completely deafened. Blood dripped from his ears, and a low, dead, droning din drowned out Cezare. Though his mouth moved, no sound came from him. Calen’s throat felt swollen shut. Cezare was getting angrier and angrier that Calen could not hear him, he knew this somehow, but he was helpless to do anything about it. When he tried to speak, he felt like he was choking.

“Calen.”

Cezare drew his sword.

“Calen.”

He raised it above his head...

“Calen.”

And swung down.

Everything was instantly black. Sithis.

The sound of a rolling marble echoed through the Dread Father, and contrasting against the infinite void trailed a ribbon of red.

Rhona’s head rolled into view. Her lips moved,

“Calen? I need to speak with you.”

---

Her mind swirled and raged like a catastrophic wintry gale about to make landfall. Mortalmo’s words rang inside her head, just like the bells had tolled in Anvil. She couldn’t make up her mind, what would she do? She couldn’t approach Calen and blindside him, could she? What if she did? Rhona’s hands curled, clenching into fists as she ground her teeth. Hot tears burned her eyes as she fought to maintain her appearance. There was no use, she buried her face into the palms of her hands. Perhaps you should go find Calen.

Rhona decided that if she were going to confront Calen, she needed to wash her face, and do her best to erase any emotional distress. She made her way inside the Three Crowns and headed down the hallway that led her to their shared quarters. She recalled the way that the guards led the men, and headed further down the corridor. She had located the two rooms acquisitioned to the men, and took her chances on knocking on the first door. Not a sound came. Rhona moved to the second door, knocking harder, and called out for Calen.

“Calen? I need to speak with you.”

After a few moments, the dull sound of the floorboards creaked, followed by a few more low thuds and shuffling. Thud, shhh… thud, shhh… The brass knob of the door handle clicked, and the door creaked open. Calen leaned his face against the door frame as he mumbled his incomprehensible greeting, his blonde hair unkempt and out of place. His breathing sounded ragged, as if he was just running a race. There was a smear of drool near the corner of his mouth that he tried to wipe away. It was mixed with the faintest trace of blood. He was completely disheveled and could barely keep his eyes open and the skin around them was slightly off-color, but when his blurry vision finally focused on Rhona, they widened open with surprise and he stumbled to recompose himself.

“O-oh, uh, he… hey… Rhona! Wh… what brings you…” Calen stammered, but then he shook his head and sighed. He finally blurted out, “Are you okay?”

His disheveled appearance caught her off guard, she faltered in her words, but immediately squared her shoulders and huffed, “Calen, you have no idea what I’ve been through. And I just-” her face twisted into a grimace, hot tears stung her eyes again as she clenched her teeth, “Tell me that it’s not true. Tell me, please.” She begged, desperately trying to keep her composure.

“I…” Calen began, but the more he woke up, the more confused he became. Usually it was supposed to work the other way around. He didn’t know what she was asking of him. The truth? The truth of what? He stepped out into the hallway.

“You’re right,” he said, “I have no idea what you’ve been through. Quintus and Pavo told me Cezare found you. I’ve been worried sick, but… I thought you wanted nothing to do with me. We haven’t spoken since… since Skingrad. Brynja wouldn’t let anyone…”

Calen’s voice gradually became weaker until he finally slumped his shoulders and gave up on finishing his sentence. He was rambling. He had to get to the point.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know what he did, but I should’ve been there for you. I wasn’t. I’m so sorry…”

“Shut up!” She yelled, her tears spilling forth unimpeded, her mind wouldn’t be betrayed, not after what Durantel had told her, “You’re lying! It had to have been you, or else Cezare wouldn’t have found me, and fucking kidnapped me, Calen!” Rhona felt dizzy, and so she leaned against the door frame to steady herself, her hands covering her face as she cried.

“Wh-what?” Calen stammered, his face contorted into a look of confusion, “Why would you think I had anything to do with that? I helped you get away from him. He sent two guys after me because apparently he wanted to kill me. Did Cezare tell you all that?”

She groaned, struggling to catch her breath, “Durantel… he…” Rhona brought her hands away from her face, hands curling into clenched fists, “He told me that you told Cezare where I was…”

“Durantel?” Calen repeated, “You mean the Altmer? The one that hates my guts and calls me a dog?” Calen signed, running his fingers through his already messy hair. By Talos, he was gonna need to have a word with that Mer. He seemed like the sort that would get a kick from pitting two humans against one another. It would explain why Rhona is so scared.

“Look,” he began calmly, “I feel like you’ve been avoiding me since Skingrad - and if you were, that’s fine, we can have that conversation later - but I haven’t even seen you in Anvil until we were all boarding the Intrepid. Last time before that was on the Gold Road. What could I have told Cezare? And how would Durantel know that?”

“I did what I had to do, to protect you Calen. Cezare sent his goons after you to bring you back to him, he wanted to kill you right in front of me. I had to… I had to stop him. I…” Her demeanor began to change as she realized what Calen was saying, perhaps Durantel had lied to her after all, at least suggesting the impossible. Why would he do that to her?

“So why did you believe him?”

“I… don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.” She managed a choked out sob as she explained, “Calen… I killed Cezare. I had to because he would’ve killed you. I beat him to death, and I… I couldn’t stop myself.”

The bard’s throat clenched.

“Gods I’m so sorry, Calen. I don’t even know what to say.” Her face drained of color, the look of hopelessness consuming her features. Calen pulled her into his arms and rested his weary head on top of her’s. She stiffened in his arms, but found herself leaning into him, she shouldn’t have run from him like she did. He took a deep breath - the salty smell of the ocean still clung to her hair - and his body shuddered as he released it.

“I'm just… so relieved you're safe.” He whimpered. “You’re safe now.”

“I’m sorry, Calen. I was a fool.” Rhona wrapped her arms around him, burying her face into the crook of his neck. The warmth of his body against her own provided a much needed comfort then. She didn’t want him to let go, no, she could stay like this forever, right there in his arms. Let everything melt away, all of her worries and fears, the horrible events of Skingrad and Anvil dissipate into nothingness. “Can you forgive me?”

“Forgive what?” He muttered. “You've done nothing wrong.”

“For everything,” she whispered softly, “for the way I’ve treated you, acting like a spoilt child… even accusing you. I was afraid, and I ran from my fears, like I always do. I’m a coward, Calen. And I ran from you. You deserved none of this.”

“Don't… don't…” He choked up, but then he took another deep breath, shaking again before spitting out, “don't take responsibility for them. C-Cezare… and Durantel, they both made their choices. You couldn't help that. You have a good heart. I should've looked for you sooner.”

Rhona shifted her arms, she drew away from him, just enough so she could look at him clearly, “Calen…” she didn’t have to say another word. One hand drifted to his cheek, she stroked it affectionately with the pad of her thumb, her eyes searching his. There was a warmth in those dark brown eyes of his, even while pink and swollen with tears, something that had comforted her originally and she found it again. Rhona leaned in and pecked his cheek.

“I won’t run anymore.”

Calen stifled a smile, knowing it would only get the waterworks going again. He held Rhona’s arms in his hands. “Sorry about crying in your hair,” he said with a half-hearted laugh.

She laughed, “Kynareth would not be upset.”

“Really though, it’s probably a mess.”

Her smile slipped away, she wasn’t sure what to do now. Her brows furrowed, “I… you should get some rest. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

At the mention of getting some rest, of going back to sleep, his thoughts returned to the nightmare he just had a few minutes ago. Of Cezare. Of the sword. Of Rhona. He shook his head, both to shake out the haunting memory of it and out of refusal. He dipped in his head and touched his forehead against hers. This felt more relieving to him than the prospect of sleep.

“This is fine.” He whispered. She wasn't going to question him, her heart leapt at the welcoming sensation, it’s what she wanted. It’s what she needed.

Rhona wasn’t technically supposed to be in Calen’s room out of consideration for Gregor and Alim, but that was fine. The corner where two of the walls met at their end of the hallway was more than enough. At first they just sat on the floor together, side by side, enjoying each others company. As the hours dragged on, they found a more comfortable place with Calen’s back against the wall and Rhona as his little spoon. With his arms wrapped tightly around her waist, Rhona enjoyed the first sense of security she felt in a long time. Their little talks went on until their words were slurred and their eyes heavy. Rhona found her pillow on his chest, Calen his atop her head. For the first time in days, even while surrounded by Dwemer, the night felt peaceful.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

To Be Nord

^{Thanks to the lovely @MacabreFox for her help!}

---

Anvil, 24th of Second Seed

When the word traveled among the group that there was a new job to be had elsewhere, Daro’Vasora having been the one who had found and brusquely informed him of the plans. Though he found it curious that someone so new to this ensemble of odd ducks would be so casually sought out - he didn’t think himself to be of any significant importance to any one person of the group, but maybe he left some kind of impression. What it may have been, he did not know, but he wasn’t going to turn down an opportunity for work, especially if that opened up the possibility for more travel. He set out initially to see more of Tamriel, so perhaps he was with the right people in order to do that. So he did what he could to help. He’d wake up the next few mornings, bright and early, and help move some crates and stuff onto the ship. It was no chore he wasn’t already familiar with. Despite his inexperience with ships, he always woke up early in the morning to take care of the family’s stables and all the horses first thing in the morning, followed by pitching hay bales over a fence. Those who thought less of him at first might have been pleasantly surprised to learn that he was still a fit young man who kid keep pace with the other dock workers once he got the hang of it.

Being up bright and early every morning also meant that he was there when they first started ringing the bells. He was there when the Dominion ships crawled over the line of the horizon. He was there, running through the streets, when chaos in Anvil broke out.

He was lucky enough to avoid the Dominion agents -- most of them. When it became obvious that he was sprinting towards the city gates, looking as though he was going to escape the city, a bound weapon was conjured in an elf’s hand, but was quickly caught by one of the guards next to the city gate while the other one sunk their blade into the infiltrator.

“Go!” One of them yelled.

...

The memory of the last few minutes were on replay in Calen’s mind even as he collected as many things as he could from the wagon he had left in his stable. He packed as many things as he could into an overstuffed backpack, and then he stuffed what he could into Danish’s saddlebags. The essentials should come - septims, obviously, for if he was going to leave so much behind, he’d need every single one to recover what he lost once they landed at their destination. Soap? Can’t go sailing anywhere while smelling like a beggar. He packed his food too; half of it was left as well was a half-filled bottle of Solitude’s spiced wine. Khenarthi’s Breath, good as a backup, also has sentimental value. His books - his journal… his journal. There was no way he was going to leave without it. No way in Oblivion.

When he felt he had everything he needed, Calen jumped down from the wagon, landing on the straw covered ground with a crunch. He was just strapping Danish’s saddle on which he stopped for a moment, noticing that the sound of the crunching hay continued. The bard looked curiously around the other side of the wagon to see a familiar looking goat munching on the hay that he had set for Danish earlier in the morning. That was Rhona’s goat. Why was it here of all places? Gods, he didn’t have time for this.

“Here, here…” He whispered to the animal. As he beckoned the animal closer, the goat hopped, and ran towards him with its head low - the damn thing was charging at his knee again! The bard jumped over the goat - “Aha!” - but his cocky victory was rudely interrupted as the goat spun back around and headbutted behind Calen’s knee as he landed. He fell over and landed on the soft hay, looking up at the goat with frustration as the thing began sniffing through his pockets. Danish turned around and whinnied, his flank now facing the opening of the barn.

‘Farm animals are the worst!’

“I think he’s over here.”

Calen was immediately alert at the sound of a stranger’s voice. The sound of two pairs of footsteps were just outside the stable, two pairs of boots rustling through the grass and pounding against the dirt were coming ever closer. He immediately jumped to his feet in the crouched position and grabbed the wooden cudgel he had hanging from Danish’s saddlebag. Hiding behind Danish, who was nuzzling his face as some kind of way to extrapolate some treats from the Nord, he watched two shadows stretch across the stable.

“Well there’s his horse.” Said a different voice. It sounded distinct. Not Nordic, but not quite Imperial either. He heard a dialect like it before… in Bruma. These men weren’t elves.

Calen popped his head up from behind Danish and was relieved to see the face of two men, Quintus and Pavo. They were both at Skingrad like many of the other refugees. He sighed with relief as he looped the leather strap of his cudgel around his belt and began walking towards them.

“Thank goodness it’s just you two! I’m glad you’re safe.” He said, but then he looked to them thoughtfully. “What are you guys doing out here? Don’t you know what’s happening?”

The two men were both equal in height and girth, each being quite stout and burly. The one called Quintus took a step forward, his hand traveling to the shortsword buckled at his waist, he lifted the sword just enough out of the sheath, saying, “Well, Cezare wants to have a word with you. And he won’t take no for an answer. So why don’t you come along quietly with us?”

“Bad time for a chit chat, don’t you think?” Calen commented incredulously. “The city’s under siege -- can’t it wait?”

“Afraid not, lad.” Pavo said, mirroring his companion’s behaviour, “He’s paid us gold to bring you to him. And he’s not too happy with you.”

Calen rolled his eyes. That Cezare guy was starting to be a major pain in the ass. Didn’t he shake him off Rhona’s trail back in Skingrad? There shouldn’t be any problems. He rested his hand on his hips, “I can’t imagine why. I only helped him escape the Imperial City when that city was also under siege.”

The bard turned around and continued to fasten the buckles and straps of Danish’s saddle as he continued, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I’m worth enough gold to somebody for you two fellows to even bother, but…”

“You mean, you don’t know--”

“Shut the fuck up, course he don’t know.” Quintus elbowed Pavo in the ribs, “Look lad, Cezare has his wife back. We’re done asking nicely.” He drew his shortsword and brandished it towards him, Pavo drawing his own blade.

Calen remained still, the only sign of a reaction from him was the squeaking of the saddle’s leather as his grip tightened. He took a deep breath, though a little shaky, he calmly and slowly faced the two men with his hands above his head. He eyes darted between the two armed men. He knew them well enough that both of them were individually stronger and better at fighting than Calen ever was, but he was still wracking his brain to try finding a way out of this situation. Then he could try finding her.

“Is Rhona safe?” Calen simply asked. He hoped that they still had enough honor left to be honest with him.

Quintus laughed as he mocked him, “Is Rhona safe? Sounds like you’re a bit soft on her. She’s where she belongs. Cezare wants you alive to kill you himself, in front of her. Teach her a lesson.” He glanced at Pavo and nodded. His companion planted the sole of his boot against the side of a water barrel, and kicked it over.

“Really?” Calen replied, sounding pleasantly surprised. “So that means I’ve got nothing to worry about from you two, right?”

“Oh no, Cezare didn’t say we couldn’t hurt you, just wants you alive for himself.”

“You think you can do that?” Calen bluffed. “Haven’t you ever dealt with a Nord before?”

“My mother’s a Nord. Boy.” Pavo retorted.

“But you’re a Colovian. There’s a difference.”

“And what’s that?”

Calen, with both of his hands up, gave him a cheeky smile and slapped Danish’s flank as hard as he could, causing the pony to whinny and immediately buck his hind legs out. Two hooves were firmly planted into Pavo’s chest as he was sent flying back several feet. The sudden catapulting of his friend caught Quintus off guard, giving Calen enough time to draw his cudgel and hammer it against the side of the Imperial’s head with an effeminate yelp as his battle-cry, who instantly dropped to the ground with all of his senses dazed. Though Quintus tried to reach for his weapon, his hand only inched weakly in a random direction until his dizziness got the better of him and finally drifted away into unconsciousness.

Calen didn’t wait to even calm his pony down. He slid his cudgel back through his belt, hopped onto the saddle, and pulled on Danish’s reins to whip him around where he was able to get a good look at Rhona’s goat. It was pissing in its own mouth and spitting it on top of the still conscious Pavo who was -- now very likely wincing and spitting in disgust -- clutching what was probably a broken sternum. Calen threw up in his mouth a little bit but was able to coax it back down. What did Rhona call that thing? Tobias?

‘Farm animals are the worst.’

The bard growled to himself -- he should probably bring the damn thing along anyways. If it meant anything to Rhona, then “Tobias” was worth the energy. With a quick whip of the reins, kicking Danish’s flanks, and Calen clicking his tongue a few times, the pony spurred to action with surprising alacrity. As Danish dashed out of the barn, Calen slid partly out of his saddle and reached down to grab the goat by its horns. The momentum generated by Danish was enough to allow Calen to rock Tobias on top of Danish’s back and set him down in front of the saddle where he leaned forward and pinned the struggling goat down with his body.

With this unlikely A-Team, they were able to work together to escape the clutches of the dreaded Cezare. Though peril still awaited them behind the gates of Anvil, they were able to navigate through the chaos through luck and pluck until they were able to reach the docks where he saw some of the crew rushing onto the gangplank of The Intrepid. Among them was Rhona, being escorted by Daro’Vasora. Even in the chaos of Anvil, he could feel the tension in his body finally relax.

---

The Intrepid | Hilane, Hammerfell, 30th of Second Seed

The trip to Hammerfell was tense. Danish would be kept below deck, safe and sound, and Tobias was likely going to go wherever he pleased. Calen himself felt miserable. He didn’t have experience with ocean travel, and the swaying of the boat made him sick to his stomach - and the heat. It was worse than what it was in Anvil! Though they escaped one danger, it became clear that Rhona didn’t escape without harm. Perhaps it wasn’t visible, but she was shaken terribly and Calen wanted to comfort her. He really did want to, but he could read a situation well enough. Things were already complicated and he didn’t want to complicate things even further, and Brynja’s death glares to anyone who even thought about getting close was enough to dissuade him from even attempting. It was a few days of spending as much time as he could away from the harsh sun when it was actually Brynja herself who urged Calen to talk to Rhona, but by then, Dilane was already in sight. With no one knowing what was in store for them, they agreed that the talk should wait. This wouldn’t be the time to get distracted.

When they finally reached Dilane, they discovered that they may have made the right decision. The Dwemer were already here.

But they weren’t at all what Calen suspected. They were cordial and pleasant, and Calen followed the cue of the ship’s captain and the company’s own fearless leader. He cooperated with them, allow them to inspect his belongings, his pony downstairs, to appreciate the artisan craftsmanship of his cudgel, chatting them up quite happily -- he could’ve fooled the sharpest of them. It wasn’t hard to be amiable, but secretly Calen wondered how long this supposed peace would last. He realized that recording history was going to be far more complicated than he thought. The implications of the occupation were unsettling. It was easy enough to write down the worst of the Dwemer’s atrocities, but also the best? Their culture? Their music? How could soldiers effectively fight a war if they couldn’t effectively dehumanize them? Calen realized he had his work cut out for him and that the only way he was going to get out of this was with an open mind.

Fortunately, he apparently made enough of an impression on the Dwemer that one of them helped direct him to the stables where he could give Danish proper shelter. The pony was irritable and spooky after several days of ocean travel and all of the stress and anxiety that came with it, and the heat of Hammerfell is something that would take getting used to. He just had to make sure the pony got plenty of rest and water in the meantime. Calen himself? He felt about as exhausted as Danish did. He followed the group to Three Crowns, found the room he would be sharing with Gregor and Alim (he didn’t have time to consider all the fun he would have with Gregor and his new soon-to-be friend), and threw himself onto a bed where he fell fast asleep.

Post Your Pikcha

tfw you're nervous for college

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)

This one is pleased to see a new face!

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

CALEN SMALLWOOD, 4E208. The Tragedy of Sir Gregor Sibassius [self-released single]

_{w/ @Father Hank}

---

Noon, 23rd of Last Seed, 4E208
Town square, Anvil

A quick visit to the city’s bathhouse and a spot of breakfast at a bakery had seen Gregor refreshed after his tumultuous encounter with Raelynn the night before. His wounds were healed, her scent washed off his body and his stomach was comfortably full. It was another warm, pleasant day on the Gold Coast and, despite all the unfortunate news that came pouring in from the rest of the province, Gregor saw many happy and relaxed faces on the streets of Anvil. Just like he had done the first day they arrived, Gregor went for a walk and let his feet carry him where they might while his mind continued to process recent events. He tried not to think about Raelynn too much but her sultry gaze and pained whimpers kept intruding -- it was hard to focus on something else when his whole body was still satisfyingly sore from the experience.

He looked up from his reverie when he heard a voice that he recognized. Gregor’s legs had brought him to the town’s central square, a bustling place of commerce and community, and it was there that he came upon Calen, the dashing young Nord whose carriage they had used to travel from Skingrad to Anvil. Gregor had already met him once before, however, way up north in frigid Skyrim, and it had actually been his conversation with the lad that had prompted him to return to the Imperial Heartland. A small crowd of spectators had gathered around Calen as he performed and Gregor joined them, watching him with his arms crossed over his chest and a small smile on his face.

“...When Elves lost Nirn to Man,
Akatosh gave the stone
To Saint Alesh in token of
Her right to sit the throne.

Red Diamond! Red Diamond!
The heart and soul of Men.
Red Diamond! Red Diamond!
Protect us till the end.”

As the song met its ends, some of the locals who had stopped to watch him perform clapped and cheered, dropping a coin or two within a bag that was at his feet, and carried on with their day. Those with nothing better to do decided to say and see what else the bard would sing for them. Chim-El Adabal, he learned, was a hit with the local Imperials. The song was rife with its history, and while the Red Diamond has been symbolic to all of Man through the ages, it held particular significance here in Cyrodiil. What’s more, they almost seemed to look to the song as one of hope for as long as the Imperial City remained under the shadow of the dwemer.

As he greeted each person who wanted to give their thanks or compliments, his eyes eventually landed on a rather tall and imposing figure amidst the people, as grim a sight as ever if he ever saw one -- and Calen greeted him with a smile.

“Ah, Sir Gregor!” He chimed. “What brings you? Come, sit! Join me! Can you carry a beat?”

The Imperial graciously accepted the offer to sit with Calen, the same smile still playing around his lips. “Hello there, Calen. What brings me? Naught but the whims of my feet. It’s good to see you again. Your song lifted my spirits, as I think it did everyone else,” he said and some of the other bystanders that still remained nodded in agreement. It was obvious that Gregor was a strange sight even in his homeland and he received many lingering stares, mostly focused on the various weapons he carried on his person and the unique set of armor he wore, but he wasn’t here to distract Calen’s audience. “Carry a beat? Oh, I don’t know. Fruits of a misspent youth. I’m afraid I have no talent in the arts. Why do you ask?”

“Because, my friend,” Calen began, grabbing a drum at his side and began gesturing it towards the older Imperial, “I hope to persuade you into joining me!”

Gregor blinked. He looked around and saw that several people looked at him expectantly. He
opened his mouth to say something, to protest, but closed it again. Hell, why not. He grimaced in resignation and accepted the drum, holding it beneath one arm like he had seen so many bards and minstrels do before. Almost immediately he could feel his pauldron stab into his shoulder so he continued to fidget with the drum’s position for a few seconds while Calen watched with a smile until it sat comfortably against his waist.

“Well then,” he said, trying to remain optimistic. “What are we playing?”

“Shall we start with something easy first?” The bard proposed. “If you’ve ever been to Whiterun, then surely you’ve heard of Ragnar the Red. Or would you prefer something more original?”

“Ragnar the Red!” Gregor exclaimed and laughed. “Oh boy, you bet I’ve heard that one. But I think it’ll be original enough for your current audience. What, uh…” he began to ask, unsure of how to phrase it. “What tempo are you looking for?”

Calen chuckled a bit before standing up and taking a step towards Gregor’s side, and he didn’t realize until this point that the two were of the same height. The knight had a presence about him that made him feel taller than he really was. The bard refocused and said, “Well first of all, here’s a tip: play with your fingers, not your whole hand. It’s easier to control the volume that way and…”

Calen rolled his fingers over the top of the goat skin, creating four quick separate beats.

“...it’s easier to control the speed. The pitch gets higher the closer you hit to the rim.”

Gregor followed Calen’s example. The concept of being able to control the pitch of the drum was new to him and he had to admit to himself that he’d never noticed the difference before. He really wasn’t very musical. “Use fingers, higher pitch close to the rim. Got it. Any more advice?” The Imperial looked Calen in the eyes with a pleading glance. He wasn’t bothered enough with public perception to seriously fear embarrassing himself, but he wasn’t actively looking to make a fool of himself either. Either way, he could tell that Calen was amused and that was enough for him. The lad was… endearing, and reminded Gregor of how he had been as a young adult. Before everything. The brief moment of being lost in thought was not lost by Calen, however, he didn’t seem to give any indication of noticing.

“Actually,” Calen began, “let’s try something a little different. An original, I’ve been meaning to show you it. Could you give me a one, two, pause; one-two, three, pause; one-two-three, pause; repeat?”

The idle strumming on his lute began to pick up as the bard began looking for his rhythm, and once he did, a folkish melody came to life from his fingertips. He looked to Gregor expectedly, humming to himself a song, but wasn’t prepared to begin until the Imperial was able to find his beat.

”One-two, one-two, three… one-two-three…” Gregor muttered the rhythm under his breath while his fingers tapped along. It took him a few tries to get into the groove without mixing up the order or getting the timing wrong, but after he did he looked down to Calen with a smile (still muttering) and a nod. The bard returned the gesture with an impish grin as he sped up the melody before his voice entered the song,

“It started with a flagon,
drinking in my wagon,
when the sight of him came to view.
The likes of who was between far and few,
when it hit me like a brick,
his enormous...”

Calen stopped playing his lute for a moment as if to allow the crowd to fill in the blank themselves, before giving them a cheeky smile and finishing, “...personality.”

The crowd laughed and clapped and Calen continued strumming, before aiming his cheeky smile at Gregor beside him. Gregor faltered for a second as he joined the crowd in laughter, surprised and impressed by Calen’s hitherto unknown (to him) songwriting abilities.

“His name was Sir Gregor,
a man full of vigor,
piss and vinegar,
a bottle of liquor,
and when the fair maiden came by, he would...”

Calen stopped playing once again, this time allowing the crowd to shout suggestions at him, most of which were lewd and foul, but Calen leaned his head in and corrected them with a smile, “...greet her respectfully.”

The contrast between Calen's finisher and the suggestions made by the crowd was enough to warrant another uproar of laughter among both the men and the women watching and listening, and he looked to Gregor once more and started slowing down the pace of his lute as a sort of signal to slow down the beat as well. Gregor complied, a wide grin on his face. The song almost seemed as though it was finished, until the crowd's disappointed silence gave way to what almost sounded like a stage whisper of a prayer, “Come to me, Dibella, for without you, my words must lie dull and leaden without the gilding of grace and sagacity to enchant the reader's ear and eye."

Then the pace began to pick up once again, but this time, on a more somber note. The melody was slower and there were more frequent rests, and when Calen's voice joined the strings, it was soft and gentle.

“Let's set aside all distractions, my friends,
and face a simple truth.
There's two sides to every septim,
just look to me for proof.
This knight's no exception,
don't you make no mistake.
The burden of vigilant shoulders,
is the lives of a hundred strangers at stake.

“Tell me, love,
would you sacrifice your right to be free?
To suffer Oblivion a hundred times
to save a family you'll never see?

“O, the tragedy of Sibassius!
To devote himself to Mercy,
yet to save no mercy for he!
O, the tragedy of Sibassius!
Running a race against death
until his last breath!
O, the tragedy of Sibassius!
Find humor in irony young lord,
for if not you,
then your memory will outlive the last of us!”

The crowd must have applauded and cheered, for the song was good and Calen’s voice beautiful, but Gregor did not hear them. A chill ran down his spine. Without knowing, Calen had sang a haunting song about the truth of his life and his quest. The young Nord had only referred to Gregor’s work with the Vigilants of Stendarr, he realized, since that is what Gregor had told him about (in some detail; Calen had been an eager listener) when the two of them traveled through Skyrim aboard Calen’s carriage, but it hit every beat of the real struggles he faced. Oblivion -- not the Daedric realms, but the actual void of amnesia -- was coming for him. He was, in the very realest sense of the words, running from death. The scars that crossed out Arkay’s face on Gregor’s chest itched. The grin had faded from his face and he looked away as a shadow fell over his features. And yet another thing was painfully true: there was a very real chance he would never see his family again. Between the Dwemer, his line of work and his precarious dealings with the Ideal Masters, Gregor knew he was walking on a razor’s edge every day. As for mercy...

“No,” Gregor heard Hannibal whisper in the back of his mind. “Don’t. Please.”

He looked up to find the crowd gazing at him expectantly and he conjured a wry, self-aware smile. “Aye, it’s a hard life,” Gregor said, playing off his reaction as an ordinary moment of reflection for a warrior and witch-hunter. “Well sung, my friend.” He meant it and tried to convey a sense of gratitude to Calen with a glance and a nod -- if not for the unfortunate accuracy of lyrics, the fact that Calen had created and dedicated a song to him was nothing but flattering and sweet.

“Thank you so very much!” He beamed graciously, bowing his head -- partially to hide the rosy-red flushing of his cheeks, but he popped back up with a wide grin full of shining teeth. He continued, “I make a habit of remembering as many of my patrons as I can, but you hardly made it difficult! The story of the vigilants has gone unappreciated for so long, and having the opportunity to hear yours inspired me. I was hoping that you would be the first one to hear it. I hope it wasn’t too dour!”

“Not to worry,” Gregor said and Calen’s infectious grin lifted his spirits a little. Still, he was reminded of his family and all of the associated fears for their safety now that the Dwemer had invaded Cyrodiil. “I just hope that all of my work to save my family won’t be in vain if the Dwemer attack Bravil…” Gregor added, trailing off towards the end. It was a realistic scenario and one he felt utterly powerless to stop. He looked at Calen and wondered if the grim reality of the situation would even make a dent in the young man’s optimism.

Calen’s eyes darted between the spectators, some of whom were walking up to drop a few coins into his bag, and Gregor himself, whose apprehension was not lost to the bard. A quick moment of decision-making, and Calen swiveled back around to the crowd, and threw his arms out.

“Thank you for your patronage, everyone!” He announced. “That will be all for today! Again, thank you all so very much!”

Between some applause, disappointed groans, and a few satisfied comments, those who didn’t wish to tip the musician for his services dispersed, and the others soon followed. It was in this time, that Calen waited anxiously for a moment of privacy with the knight whose praises he just sung. When he finally felt like he had a moment alone with him, he asked, “Can you not go to them?”

Gregor stared at Calen for a few seconds while he absent-mindedly placed the goatskin drum on the ground. “I…” he began, uncertain, as the truth of the matter rang in the back of his mind -- I can’t return home until my task is finished, lest I cannot find the strength to leave them again -- but he quickly found a more general, less personal reason. “I don’t think travel is safe, no. We don’t know where the Dwemer army is moving and the road to Bravil runs close to the Imperial City. The alternative is traveling through Elseweyr but I do not trust the Thalmor either, what with the moves they’re making.”

Calen nodded in understanding, and said, “I’m not so worried about the Thalmor, but trying to cut through Valenwood and Elsweyr… haven’t seen those places myself, but from what I understand, they’re not… heh, hospitable.”

The Nord thought about carefully a few moments longer. There didn’t seem to be any easy answer to trying to find and retrieve his family, nor was Calen of a tactical mind -- and surely the knight has thought of more in depth ways to recover them in all the time he has spent in Cyrodiil since the attack on the Imperial City. Finally, he sighed.

“You can always visit the Great Chapel of Dibella.” He resigned to saying. “She’s no Stendarr, but the Queen of Heaven is still a Divine. If not for mercy, then pray for a blessed life of love and happiness for you and your family. That is a type of mercy, I think.”

The Imperial averted his gaze and bit back a wretched laugh. The Divines… then again, his family had been no part of Gregor’s crimes. Maybe they would protect his family not for his sake, but simply their own. “Perhaps... “ Gregor said and rubbed his chin, his eyes finding Calen’s again. “It seems like that’s the best I can do at the moment. Thank you.” He placed a comradely hand on Calen’s shoulder and smiled. “The gods will provide. They always do,” he lied.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

It's Such a Wonderful Thing to Love

---

Anvil, Cyrodiil 21st of Second Seed, Midday

Calen considered himself well traveled for the most part. Was this the first time out of Skyrim? Yes and no, he had occasionally brought his cart to High Rock's border halfway to Jehanna to drop people off, but he barely considered that an abroad experience as he always turned back to serve the people of Skyrim. Cyrodiil was his first experience truly traveling the international flight, and the Gold Road between Skingrad and Anvil was a long and arduous one, even with what little respite Kvatch provided for the weary travelers. Though most of the group fared rather well, Calen was suffering from a unique experience among the company.

“Oh Gods – oh Stendarr! It's so hot!”

The home-grown Nord was having a lick of trouble adjusting to the warmer southern temperatures as they steadily inched closer towards the tropical line. He had long since shed his outer layer of clothing, and the white and blue shirt underneath helped to at least reflect some of the harsh sunlight, but his acclimation to the heat left much to be desired. Even his pony seemed especially spooky and more sluggish than usual, and trying to tend to Danish had put a strain on managing his own supplies. It put a bit of a damper on the mood of the trip as the one who was usually the sole bard responsible for the morale of his compatriots was too distracted by his own misery, however, even in his wallowing was he not entirely oblivious.

It was possible that said misery had tinted his perspective a bit, for he couldn't help but notice that the one friend he actually got to know on a personal level – and that was not to say he wasn't friendly with the others, but lacked the same kind of intimate understanding – was avoiding him. Out of sight, she was, and he was no stranger to casual affairs or one-night flings, but he couldn't help but wonder if perhaps he had overestimated the significance of their time together. It made an already uncomfortable man distracted and subdued, but he put his best smile up when questioned. Passed it off as hot and sweaty, not used to the climate – no one was none the wiser.

It was good they were going to Anvil. There were questions he wanted answered.

Like how its lighthouse was a beacon of hope and refuge to weary sailors, it's front gates were beacons to weary caravans. He was one of the few without the luxury to immediately rush into the safety of its walls, for he had to pay the stables and string Danish up himself, who was welcomed with cool water and plentiful hay. He helped the people he carried off of his wagon and collect their belongings, before pulling it into a neighboring storehouse.

When he was able to join the others inside the walls, however, he was met with a marvelous sight. The paved cities, the architecture of the buildings, fountains, the hustle and bustle of countless people – it nearly rivaled Soltiude in the culture and beauty it exuded, and he was very much tempted into setting a box down in the middle of the square and playing his music. But as the hot sun beat down on his head and shoulders, his mind turned towards visiting the local tavern for some shade and drink, as well as friends and music – but the thoughts of such revelry would've been the antithesis of what he intended to accomplish upon coming here. He wasn't much a man of resolve, but it had been too long since he gave a visit to a proper temple to his lady.

He laughed and smiled with acquaintances along the way, other refugees, familiar faces, members of the company, and gave a cheery hello to new faces as he circled around the city looking for where this temple would be.

“You mean the Chapel? It's over east. It's a big, tall building, you can't miss it.”

Making a beeline towards the Great Chapel of Dibella, he wondered how he ever could've missed it. It was like the size of a castle, towering high and proud into the blue sky with ornate windows and brickwork decorating it all along the way. It's size and beauty of its outward appearance had put the Temple of Dibella in Markarth to shame, and his mouth hung open and speechless in awe. It was fitting that the Goddess of Beauty had a chapel so encapsulating. As he pushed open one of the doors, he was greeted with a dimly candlelit interior, wide and spacious, with a long walkway leading up to a large altar before a tall statue of Dibella herself looking over her worshipers. Though the chapel was rather empty of patrons aside from one or two, there was a priest and priestess dressed in red, leading their followers in dance and song.

Calen smiled at them. Though it was clear that this was not the same kind of temple as the one in Markarth, they still practiced the arts.

Though as he walked on towards the altar, the rhythm of their Cyrodilic melody was tuned out from his ears as he thought carefully about what he was to say. There has been a lot on his mind lately, so perhaps... just to start from there, then? He sighed heavily and fell to his knees, then leaned forward as he pressed his head against the altar. The was weird. Strange. Usually he just prayed the usual prayers, be all happy and the like – they were usually laced with flowery words like poetry, it only seemed right given the Goddess he was praying to – he wasn't terribly used to being so... open and vulnerable with his feelings. He figured that's where he should start. Shame on him for breaking one of her rules.

“Blessed Lady... I ask for your forgiveness for not living and feeling honestly.” He muttered.

'No', he thought to himself, 'That's not it. I'm here now. I'm talking. Confronting this... I've been honest. Honesty isn't the issue. Oh, Dibella, why am I here now?'

Calen hesitated for a minute, then continued, “No matter the seed, if the shoot is nurtured with love, will not the flower be beautiful? Illia has told me you've said this, and I've done what I can to live true by your sentiments... but I've grown doubtful, not of you, but of myself. Past and present friends and lovers alike, I still hold them in great esteem, but I... the fire of my ardor remains stoked, but... I'm afraid. That of my fellows, their own would sizzle down to smoke and embers.”

An image of Rhona appeared in his mind, wrapped in blankets, but was quickly replaced by a moment of eye contact with her on the open road before she quickly moved deeper into the crowd and out of his sight. A twang in his chest made him wonder if this is what it felt like to be the lute he plucked at so often, but he quickly focused back on his prayer.

“This one was not the first time, nor I fear her to be the last, and it reminds me that I've often wondered if I left others feeling the same way. I wonder now if the path I walk is true – no, it's true – I just wonder if it's for me.”

The smoky smell of incense filled his nose in that moment, like rose and lotus. He looked up at the statue, and in the midst of his somber face did the corners of his mouth curl upwards slightly. He was faithful, yes, but not much of a holy man. He couldn't interpret the signs of the divine very well, or tell if they were signs at all, but he wanted to have faith that it was a message. He knew the smell well, and looking up at the statue took him back to the days in Markarth, in the days of the wagon, learning all he could of her doctrine. This was simply the way of love. Love sometimes hurts. That's part of what made it beautiful. He remembered what he told Rhona a few nights ago, "When I think about past loves, I don't think about what I lost. I think about what I gained. The love I felt in those moments were real, and those moments are valuable to me. So the memories don't hurt me that much. More than anything, they feel... fulfilling."

He chuckled to himself a bit, thinking, 'I can be such a hypocrite sometimes.'

The young bard stood up, smiling. He wasn't really sure about how much he has accomplished here, but he knew this place would comfort him. The sight and smell of his Lady, the other worshipers – despite it's differences, the chapel had the same atmosphere. It brought on memories which helped to remind him why he was here and why he decided to become a follower. Regardless of whatever misfortunes that were behind him and those that lie ahead, there was beauty and wisdom to be found in each of them. Besides...

He had history to record. The dwemer wouldn't likely return again for a while after Tamriel figures out how to send them back down to their skeever hole.

Though the walk back to the front gates of the city of Anvil was a bit of a hike, he made good pace in finding that spring in his step. The warm sun and beat down on his skin and the humidity in the air clung to his clothes, he was able to begin appreciating the difference in weather between southern Cyrodiil and Skyrim. As he circled around the stables to get to the storehouse where he kept his wagon, intending to procure some of his instruments and his journals, he was barked at by one of the refugees that had followed their caravan earlier. Apparently they still had problems with getting in.

“'Ey, Calen!” They said. “Where you been? Frolicking about in the tavern and the local girls, I reckon!”

Calen just laughed in response, yelling back, “Yeah, I guess you could say that!”

Star Wars - The Old Republic: Legacy

Eriadu, Docking Bay 6_

“Shriek Hawk log 97; Year 3003 After the Conquest of Mandalore...”

A feminine voice echoed out from the cockpit of Plug-6 Heavy Fighter. The ship lay in the hangar completely dormant, silently as can be, with only the outside sounds of workers and arriving and departing ships to breaking what would've been a maddening silence. There was a brief moment of pause, as though the person inside the vessel was gathering their thoughts, before they continued their report.

“We have arrived on the planet Eriadu... as much of a dirtball this planet is, it's still a hub where we can resupply and replace the funds or finance them via contract. Zekha's modifications to the lateral and electromotive stabilizers actually worked. To say nothing of the previous fixes made to the navigation deflector system, we now less drag and turbulence in hyperspace and atmospheric entry, and landing has never been smoother. As much as I hate to say it, that shabuir really pulled through. A day of drinking at the local Ranosca cantina should've been a good enough reward.”

The woman leaned back in the seat of the cockpit, lifting up and draping over two long, blue tentacles over the back of the chair as she propped her booted feet up onto the console. The tall, blasé twi'lek woman sunk deeper into her chair toward one side, causing her tchin – one of her lekku – to fall back over her shoulder. She continued talking into a stick-shaped recorder that was in her hand.

“I'm on the opposite side of the galaxy as the planet Manda'yaim now.” She said. “Been as far and wide as a person could get at this point. But even as far as I am from home now...”

A smug little smirk creeped onto her face.

“I haven't had my fill yet. Woorah, signing off. K'oyacyi!”

Silence enveloped the small freighter once more, and Woorah found herself relaxing in its tranquility. Leaning back and closing her eyes after a long journey through hyperspace and finishing all of her preparation before shutting down for the day. Despite Zekha's handiness, it was her ship, so it was her responsibility to make sure she fulfilled the same tired old rituals to make sure this thing keeps running. Though she had every intention of staking Ranosca out when they had first landed, the comfort of the darkness, silence, and cozy chair was just... so persuasive.

Then like a sudden, screeching mynock, her wrist-com crackled to life as Zekha's distinctive voice came through, but she only opened her eyelids slowly to show that her eyes were already rolling around in her head as if she was already anticipating whatever verbal diarrhea was about to come spewing from his upper asshole.

“Hey, Woosie, I think I found something you might be good at. Ever think of dropping in an application and giving me the ship?”

Hilarious.

“I got us a few credits, in my benevolence I’ll be at the bar, first one or two are on me, depending on if you want something hard or one of those disgusting cocktails you fawn over.”

Unexpected. Though to be fair, he was probably having a pretty good day – get your ego stroked by a job well done, then be told to go out and play to celebrate. Heavens know they didn't have the money, so he probably stole it off some poor local saps in one way or another. Well hey, they both had their own funds. If he was willing to pay for one or two of her own drinks, then it was no skin off her back. Woorah lazily brought her wrist to her face and spoke into the device, “Ne'tra gal if they got it, Narcolethe if they don't. I'll be out soon.”

She didn't mention anything about how the drinks she fawned over would probably turn the Dug inside out – no need to make him feel small. Well, smaller than usual. Her eyes peered over to one of the lockers between the cockpit and the rest of the ship. Ever the wary and suspicious type, she judged that it would be best to go in armed and armored. After all, she knew the only thing she could expect in the Outer Rim was the unexpected.

---

Eriadu, Ranosca Cantina_

It took a few minutes to get armored, but minus the jetpack, it took half as long as it otherwise would have. Though she didn't have her entire arsenal with her at the moment, but that was okay; she wasn't wading into a battle or anything. She wore nothing that was too obvious or overt, and the only thing that was in clear sight was one of her blasters holstered to her thigh, but it was clear enough that she was packing enough heat to dissuade anyone from trying to pick a fight with her. It worked exactly as intended when she finally entered the cantina. Not so dramatic was everyone's reaction to her that everyone knew she entered the room, nor did she divide the crowd as she walk through to find her way to her partner-in-crime, but most of the people she brushed past certainly gave her the room she needed when stepping out of her way.

Her glance fell upon the dancers on-stage – 'Zekha, gar di'kut' – and figured he must've walked past the platform at some point. There was certainly a number of interesting people, many of whom she was taller than, so the few who were closer to her height or even taller were people who caught her eye. One such figure was a hairy one leaning back against a wall and observing the room. She visited Kashyyyk once or twice, so she knew a wookie when she saw one. It was just so curious to find one on their own here of all places. She made a mental note to herself to keep that one in mind while she moved through the crowd.

Zekha said he was getting drinks, so the bar...

… it was less a matter of looking for him, and more of a matter of listening for him. Particularly his “you” phrases, as it was only a matter of time until he got someone to either chase him off planet or provoke a cantina-wide brawl. Thankfully, it was obvious it hadn't gotten to that point yet. It didn't take long before she spotted him at one of the far ends of the bar. An empty glass or two stood before him, with another full glass at his side, untouched. Judging from the lack of color that Ne'tra gal had, he probably had Narcolethe waiting for her. Flanking around the bar, she strolled up to his side from behind.

“It's too hard to find some decent Ne'tra gal this side of the galaxy.” She commented, reaching for the glass in front of her. She smelled the drink in front of her and it nearly burned her nose – sure enough, it was Nacrolethe – and she took an eager swig from glass. It wasn't her first choice, but it still tasted like home. But then her nose caught a different scent, one that was much more unpleasant. She peered over and looked into the bowl in front of her partner.

“Chubas? Really?” She remarked disgustedly. She remembered smelling that garbage back in her slave days all the way from Kaburra's chamber. “Yoka to Bantha poodoo.”

Star Wars - The Old Republic: Legacy

Woorah Sha

Name:

Woorah Sha

Age:

30

Class:

Bounty Hunter / Mercenary / Arsenal

Home Planet:

Ryloth

---

Appearance:

Woorah stands out in a crowd, not just a a turquoise colored twi'lek, but also because she is an inch shy of being seven feet tall. Despite the tendency for female twi'leks to be sexually objectified, and she certainly could invest in her appearance if she tried, people are usually taken aback when they see her. She's not like most twi'leks; built like some kind of amazonian warrior, her arms, back, abs, and shoulders broad with what must have been a lifetime worth of strength training. Her features are striking, with high pronounce cheekbones creating a sort of shadow over cheeks and giving her face an angular appearance on an otherwise squared shape. A single claw-shaped scar stretches from the bottom of the right side of her jaw to the middle of her cheek. Her eyes contrasts her skin with an intense orange hue and violet colored make up or warpaint covering the whole ocular socket and winging off a little bit down her nose, but far off to the sides of her head by her temple. A similar shade paints her upper lip, but her bottom lip is barren of makeup except for a single stripe running down the center. Woorah's lekku have wavy stripes going down from base to tip, but that is as complex as the pattern goes.

Her demeanor and how she carries herself is rather unusual for the type of image the above description would evoke, though. Her eyelids are usually drooped over her eyes, in a rather bored, uninterested, unimpressed, or apathetic fashion. This does not suggest that she does not feel, though some people might come to think that, but rather she does not wear her emotions on her face and instead has adopted a boring persona. This impeccable poker face is often root of many a hilarious dead-pan remarks and comments at the expense of others, and sometimes her bored, uncaring countenance will be interrupted by an immature smirk once in a while, but usually she just gives the impression that she'd rather not devote too much energy to any particular task and would rather spend her time lazing around. Though the perceptive ones among us would take note that the lazy do not have the build of an alpha kath hound. This goes to tell you that this display of passiveness is a show of deception, and luring the people around her into a false sense of security. Even while she's lazing around, she carries and positions herself carefully like she's expecting trouble – it's the relaxed, disguised poise of a hunter.

Her casual wares is telling, wearing a “keeping it simple” fashion sense with a v-necked white shirt, though a closer inspection reveals that the fabric is duranex, making it lightweight yet cut-resistant. This shirt is tucked into some snug-fitting, padded, synthleather pants. By the time you meet the high-cut boots, it becomes clear that she dresses for practicality, because nobody would take her for a person with a fashion-sense. The only accessories she wears with this outfit is a utility belt, a holster that is strapped to her right thigh, and she wears on her left wrist a wrist link.

When she's wearing her gear, she's a completely different sight. She's decked out in Flex Heavy Armor and a personalized Mandalorian styled helmet, complete with the T-shaped visor, but with two rounded slots in the back to compensate for her lekku. To clarify, this helmet slides right onto her face – she doesn't have to thread her lekku through a couple of holes. To go into detail about what she carries with her besides her two micro-pulse blasters would be a long list of technobabble, but it suffices to say that it comes equipped with a JT-9 jetpack, an adrenaline stimulator belt that acts as a home for grenades and mines, a retractable blade underneath her right wrist, a wrist rocket launcher on both arms, a miniature rail-cannon right behind the launcher on her left arm, and all of the ammunition she needs to make use of her gadgets. She has at her disposal a huge arsenal, and she can't wait to show you what it looks like.

Personality:

Woorah is a little peculiar all things considered, because she doesn't carry herself in a way that would be expected of someone her size, shape, and age. She has mastered her poker face, carrying herself in a rather bored, uncaring, and even lazy manner. Indeed, she comes off to others as a very nonchalant individual and that things will usually work themselves out in the end, and perhaps not the whole presentation is a complete and utter facade and part of her might actually believe that not everything is worth putting all of her energy into. This apparent complacency does not equate to her being hospitable though. Instead, the delivery of the abrasive or blunt nature of her snark comes off as rather deadpan, since emotion is mostly filtered out of her casual everyday interactions. Jaded, uncaring, and seemingly impossible to impress, she mostly seems interested in chewing bubblegum and tinkering around.

That makes it especially hard to notice the other aspects of her personality. Her bluntness, for instance, is far more ingrained in her personality than her stoic presentation is. It's symptomatic of half a life lived while being raised and nurtured by Mandalorians. She speaks her mind and says what she means, always looking others in the eye, but her disposition sometimes makes others wonder if she's just being sarcastic or implying at something else. Which is fine by her, because as far as she cares, she did her job. She spoke her mind and how the other person receives that message isn't her problem. This devil may care attitude serves her well, as it keeps the other person guessing. A stranger being able to predict her is more unsettling than anything else, because she likes having the edge that being hard to read gives her over other people. Whether its one way or another, Woorah likes being in control even if the other party doesn't realize it. Having access to information or munitions unavailable to the other party makes her feel secure just in case she needs make an explosive exit or put the fear of Woorah into some poor bantha fodder.

Naturally, there is a side to her that she keeps to herself and doesn't ever show to anyone who isn't a part of her clan. She has proven to be intensely loyal to those she has devoted herself to protecting. Whether it's her sister or the other Mandalorians, they are her family, and to slight them is to slight Woorah. Though the years of discipline and number of firefights she has been in has steeled her nerves, tempered her resolve, and stoked her tenacity, she is not beyond losing her cool and tossing aside her poker face if it's in the name of survival or the absolute annihilation of her enemies. This telling emotional intensity can be counter-productive, making her easily readable and possibly manipulated, so she keeps this vulnerability under wraps as best she can. She rationalizes that if she can keep her emotions hidden, the enemy can't control them, which means to her that she's the one in control. Though it isn't readily apparent, love has actually been one of her greatest motivators in life.

Her relationship with the Mandalorians, and their multi-ethnic culture, means that she mostly doesn't suffer from racial prejudices – mostly. She still finds herself filled with hatred when she sees a Gamorrean or a Hutt, or any slaver, and heedful with Trandoshans at best. While there were one or two of the latter among their ranks, and they were the exception – not the rule. Her life philosophies reflect the philosophies taught in the Resol'nare and Canons of Honor. To live honestly and with honor, to seek glory in battle, and to be Mandalorian meant to readily die in the stead of a loved one. Though recently she has come in conflict with her code of honor; she is not sure if she could truly answer the Mandalore's call to arms if it meant potentially meeting her sister on the battlefield. She also wondered what it meant to be a leader. If the Mandalore did indeed lose to Exar Kun or whomever else, would they be a leader worth following if they dishonored themselves and all Mandalorians by dedicating the entire clan to another man's cause? A man who was not even Mandalorian?

Woorah, might not show it, but she has grown to be insightful, cunning, and acutely aware of her surroundings even if she might feign ignorance. She's intelligent enough to understand complex tactics and the construction and chemistry behind high-tech explosives and propulsion technology, and is a decent enough mechanic to perform some simple maintenance on her small freighter. At her best, Woorah is devoted and honest, but at her worst, she can be callous and volatile.

History:

The Makings of a Warrior

The Outer Rim planet of Ryloth was not home to many of the same luxuries that were afforded to the Core worlds, and given it's inhospitable environment of ripe volcanic activity and thick jungles filled with dangerous predators, it was also a risky investment for Imperial activity. With no major government keeping a close eye on the twi'lek home planet, this left it available to those who would exploit its resources and its people: the Hutts. Though it has been a target for so long, the Sha family stayed safe in the damp underground and never thought that it would ever happen to them. Unga'rasha and Ani'sha, her father and mother, cultivated edible fungi and made textiles to provide for their clan. There wasn't much time in her childhood for their parenting style or their philosophies to leave a mark on Woo'rasha and her younger sister, Allu'rasha, before they were dragged from their homes by Hutt cartel slavers with their mother. Trandoshans and Gamorreans sacked their home and when their father tried to defend them, a blaster bolt sent him dropping to the floor like a sack of bricks. Combined with brute force, they had broken their mother's fighting spirit and she allowed not just herself to be taken, but her children too. Woo'rasha was old enough to understand what was happening, and when she saw her mother give up, she felt betrayed.

Ani'sha was separated from her children and was probably sent to some backwater planet to act as some Hutt's trophy. It's difficult to say exactly where – Woo'rasha never saw her since then. She never committed herself to trying to get her back, accepting her fate like her mother did theirs when the three were first abducted from Ryloth, but that was also all the time she had to think on the matter. The cartel was keen on breaking the children to become subservient to their new Hutt master, Kabbura, on Nar Shaddaa. They knew better than to beat or whip them – you can't leave lasting marks on the merchandise after all... especially with the Cultural Exchange Festival coming soon. It was a series of days that came every couple of years where the merchants and traders would come to Nar Shaddaa to trade in exotic materials and products with one another, and there was a market for everything. Kaburra was of the mind that he would rent out some of his slaves for a night, and two young Ryloth-born twi'leks were bound to be popular with the other unlawful types. They were both above the average height – that must have meant that they were passable.

So instead they poked and prodded them with force pikes. Woo'rasha was the one between the two who gave them the most trouble, helplessly trying to defend her younger sister. It is entirely possible that her sister would have broken and succumbed were it not for her trying her damnedest to keep her together, but her younger sister was always the insightful and intuitive one. She was the one to tell her when she shouldn't fight back, as though she could see something Woo'rasha couldn't. The they were both too young and not matured enough for most people to try taking advantage of them, but that didn't stop Kabbura from parading two young twi'lek girls around like they were trophies.

Despite Woo'rasha's fighting spirit, she still felt afraid, and meeting Kabbura for the first time had put the fear of God in her. Whatever she did to the guards before, she never tried laying a single finger on the Hutt. Woo'rasha and Allu'rasha spent years grovelling underneath Kabbura's slimy thumb. While the older sister spent every waking moment she could wracking her mind to come up with a way to escape (that is, when the Hutt's enforcers weren't trying to beat her and make an example of her), the younger one had just about given up.

When the Cultural Exchange Festival finally arrived, Woo was 14 years old and Allu was 10, and though Woo was older, her temperament discouraged anyone who would be interested in renting her from Kaburra for a night. Allu, on the other hand, was far more... submissive. Thus began the most frightening and fury-filled night of Woo'rasha's life. She spat and fought, bit and raged against her captors, and was prodded and stunned by force pikes only to start fighting again as soon as she finally regained consciousness. It was beginning to anger Kaburra. One of the most important events of the decade, and one of his products was beginning to cost him! Who knows what he would have done to her, if a particular group of men in suits of armor hadn't come to watch her fight and spit. They were amused, watching her like it was some kind of show. When the spit came flying their way, one of the dissatisfied men violently kicked her down to the ground, but it wasn't enough to stop someone who was already hardened by years of abuse. Another person entering the fray was exactly the type of distraction she needed, for while she was on the ground, she used her feet to pull the bottom of a Gamorrean's force pike towards her and kicked it into the bruiser's face.

With the pike still on its stun setting, it was enough send the Gamorrean falling over and convulsing for a few moments. Woo'rasha scrambled to try wrapping her chains around its neck until the other Gamorrean at her side yanked harshly on them from behind and sent her flying back. The guard promptly set its foot on top of her to keep her from moving while it prodded her with its own force pike over and over again on a lower setting. The armored men's amusement were replaced with surprised satisfaction, as though they were impressed – they agreed to ask for the Gamorrean to stop and to lead them to Kaburra. Woo'rasha, still chained, was dragged with them to meet her Hutt master. There, the men introduced themselves as Mandalorians, and the senior among them was named Garter Oai, who offered to buy the young twi'lek's freedom. It wasn't a hard trade on Kaburra's part at all, for it was either to hold onto a slave girl that couldn't be easily controlled or make him any money, or to make some profit now and cut his losses. The two parties agreed on a price, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she felt her shackles come off.

It didn't stop Woo'rasha from fighting, however. As far as she was concerned she was trading one master for another, and more importantly, they were going to leave her sister behind. She kicked and screamed, refusing to be taken again, believing that the freedom they bought her was an illusion. Finally, they relented. They asked, “Who's your sister, girl?”

“Allu'rasha.” She answered. “I'm Woo'rasha.”

They allowed her to lead them to where they were usually kept, and it took some time for her sister to return. When she did, she was escorted by a single Gamorrean, and shuffled along the ground. Her eyes were aimed the ground, dispirited, and avoided eye contact. She was more submissive, yes, but this? This was different. It looked like she lost any hope of fighting back, even while presented with the opportunity to leave. Woo had no idea what she suffered while she was gone, but whatever it was, it must have been terrible. The Mandalorians looked on with pity.

They told her they couldn't take her. Naturally, they were met with indignation, but they explained; it was because they were Mandalorians that they could not take her. They were a culture of warriors, and someone whose spirit was already so broken could never hope to survive their way of life. In addition, she was wrapped around Kaburra the Hutt's finger, and he would not be so keen on losing her too. It costed them enough to get one of them out of slavery as it was. Though she was still angry, it was the prodding of Allu'rasha that convinced her. Woo's younger sister told her to leave while she had the chance, and when she was stronger, Woo could come back for her. They shared a heartfelt goodbye and a hug, and Woo'rasha found herself stepping onto a G-Type light shuttle and flew off world for the first time in what felt like... forever. Garter Oai tried to ease the tension on board by half-halfheartedly offering her a chewstim.

The life ahead of her would be rough grueling – she would become acquainted with the best and the worst the Mandalorians had to offer her, but the one who had saved her, Garter Oai, would be the one that would teach her all of life's basics, especially including survival and combat. This new life began as soon as her feet touched the ground on world of Mandalore. The planet was varied in its different environments, with white-sand deserts near the equator and massive forests to the north, and when Mandalore couldn't provide, she would be shipped to the orbiting moon of Concordia, covered in thick forests – though some spots were stripped down for mining at this point of time, it was still dangerous enough with the local fauna that she would get a nice scar on the right side of her face from a maalraas.

The trials ahead of her consisted of being forced to fend for herself in the wilderness, being thrown into intense obstacle courses, enduring the elements, strength and endurance training, weapon training, computer usage, repair, first aid, and so on. Some training exercises required her to react almost instantly, conditioning the instinct to draw her weapon or parry an attack at a moment's notice, even if you've no reason to suspect it. She was rated on how quickly she could draw her beskar blade – Mandalorian iron – at the sound of a force pike or other similar weapon being activated behind her back at random times. The sound was a familiar one to her, and it often evoked a quick reaction from her, but it's true purpose was to simulate a fight with a Sith or Jedi, who were regarded to be one of the strongest opponents.

Some exercises were especially brutal. Not just physically, but mentally. They sought to condition her in almost every way.

“What's your name?!” Garter yelled at her while she exercised in the midst of a tropical storm.

“Woo'rasha!” She'd yell back.

“Wrong!” He'd shout, kicking her in the ribs. She couldn't tell if the crack came from her ribs or the distant thunder. When she fell over, they'd tell her to get back up. The hutts and slavers never wanted her to get back up, they didn't encourage perseverance. They would then continue, “Your father died shamefully and your mother left you for dead! Why do you cling to your old clan? Your clan is nothing! You owe nothing! You're a Mandalorian now! What's your name?!”

“Woorah! Sha!” She'd answer.

“What's your name?!”

“Woorah! Sha!”

The conjoining of a twi'lek's personal and clan name was meant to signify unity. To break them apart was to be dishonored or exiled. While she was not exiled or dishonored in the truest sense, she was dishonored by her own family, and to be left for dead could be a form of exile. This way, Woorah severed her own connection to her former clan. She was in the Mandalorian clan now – that's all that mattered. They drilled her on the Canons of Honor and rules of battle, what it meant to be strong and what it meant to be a Mandalorian; the Six Actions. She spoke the language, wore the armor, and acted for the sake of the clan. Though she soon found herself at home here, she was told to never reveal to an enemy or potential enemy what you're thinking. If you keep them guessing, they won't be able to predict what your next move will be. So she began practicing her poker face. She wasn't very good at it.

She even learned from weapon smiths, and found her talent in the chemistry of demolition. They volatile reactions and how to control or provoke them came naturally to her, and she found herself helping them make everything from fireworks to land mines and jump packs. There were some close calls, but she dedicated enough time with the weapon smiths to build a small usable arsenal from dumb rockets to the higher tech remotely-detonated magnetic darts, becoming one of the clan's demolition experts. Over the course of five years of dedicated every day training, she was, for all intents and purposes, a Mandalorian.

Her first mission would be at the age of 19, and her first mission would be at the historical Battle of Iskadrell. The Mandalorian Crusaders raided the cyborg slavers, and leading their ranks was Mandalore the Indomitable himself, piloting their personal basilisk war droid. His power and prowess in battle was unmatched, cutting down swathes of the enemy forces single-handedly in an unparalleled display of martial prowess. If the zealotry of the crusaders weren't enough, the Mandalore leading the spearhead was bolstered their spirits even further. To them, the battle was nothing more but an exercise. To some, a statement. Others found nothing but honor in the glory of combat, and while Woorah too found herself caught up in the exhilaration of the fight – ripping holes through all of her enemies with her repeating heavy blaster, blasting and tearing them apart with her vibroblade and home-cooked explosives – it was the liberation and conversion of thousands of slaves that she found most worthwhile. Not only did it give the battle a purpose, to her it also felt like a taste of revenge against those who would practice slavery. In her eyes, it made the honor and spilled blood of their glorious victory taste even sweeter.

Hell, she even wanted a tattoo to commemorate the occasion, which most if not all Mandalorians respect, but Garter was a fussy adoptive dad of sorts. He pressed to minimize the number of permanent markers as much as possible. Woorah reluctantly conceded.

The many following years of her life would be filled with such battles, triumphs and defeats alike, but they never cowed in the faced of adversity and that's what kept their battles from being true defeats. It was shortly after the Battle of Iskadrell, now a blooded Mandalorian, did she ship out to return to Nar Shaddaa five years after she had initially left. She had two Mandalorians at her back in case things went south: Suna and Rayton, Mandalorians of her generations. The clan as a whole did not seek an all-out war between the trade planet and the many different cartels of Hutts that called it their home, but Woorah was following one of the Six Actions in defending her family, even if that family member was not one of the Mandalorians. Technically, there was no strict rule against it. If she were to fail here, it meant that the clan was obligated to back her up, and that meant war with all the Hutt cartels allied with Nar Shaddaa.

When she finally arrived and came face to face with Kaburra the Hutt once more, it took everything she had to keep herself from trying to kill him as he condescended to her. Mocked and belittled her as the same scared child that left him that day, and sarcastically commented on how glad he was to see her so grown up and strong, and that it was like watching his own children come of age. He continued to give her the run around when all she wanted to know was where her little sister was, until he was finally satisfied with exacting the kind of emotional response he wanted to get out of Woorah.

“She left me,” he said, “shortly after you did. Some men in robes asked for her, proposed a gamble I couldn't refuse.”

Though there was a look of desolation on her face, there was also a spark of hope. She wasn't here, but that wasn't a bad thing. Anywhere would be better than being a slave on this garbage planet.

Kaburra continued, “I don't like cheaters, so worry not Woo'rasha, I do intend on taking her back.”

Her hand immediately reached for the blaster pistol at her side, prompting all of the bodyguards in the room to draw their own weapons – and one of the Mandalorians at her side, Rayton, set his hand on hers, keeping her from drawing her weapon.

“That's all we came for.” He calmly reminded her. The twi'lek sighed out her frustration and nodded, leaving Kaburra alone in his chamber. He heard him call out after her, “If you ever come back here again, know that you'll never leave.”

The most she could hope for her sister from that moment was that wherever she was now, she was living a better life or that her suffering had ended. The brutal life of being a Mandalorian had her come to acknowledge and appreciate the brevity of life, and death was simply one part of it. She moved forward with her sister in mind, and though she was prepared for the worst, hoped that she may once again see her in the future. After seven years of many trials and hardships and stories to tell, fighting everything from beasts to battles and raids, she would get her wish at the age of 26.

Preceding the events that ignited the Great Sith War were years of boiling tension and preparations – the actions of Exar Kun and Ulric-Qel Droma were inciting unrest among countless factions across the galaxy. Some societies, like the Mandalorians, could practically smell war coming. It was a like a fog rolling across the stars, or a smoke billowing from a small handful of kindling. There were preparations to be made on their part as well if they were to play a part in the events to come. One such place where they could possibly use one of the Sith's ancient weapons against them was Malachor V, a planet that was deemed sacred by the Mandalorians, and mythed to be one of the locations for the originating Sith temples. Her clan sought to be the ones to prove the fact and Woorah was one of the ones who volunteered to find them. They were warned to come fully geared just in case, so she did just that. Covered in Flex Heavy Armor, sporting her jet-pack, armed to the teeth with wrist launchers and home-made demolitions, a couple of blaster pistols, and so on. There was a reason why she was famed in the clan for being a walking arsenal.

Unexpectedly, the fertile planet was lush, hospitable, and surprisingly devoid of any “crazy, unsettling, Dark-side voodoo magic” as the Mandalorians called it. No sign of civilization. There wasn't even a large abundance of predators, and their comlinks weren't suffering any interference, which was enough to convince the warriors that it was safe enough to split up to cover more ground. Woorah went ahead on her own to search the forest floor for any sign of an ancient civilization. She felt the tip of her boot hit a rock and she looked down –

The electrical sound of a weapon ignited nearby, and instantly, Woorah reacted with a retractable beskar blade ejecting from the underarm of her armor. She spun around and the blade immediately came into contact with a brilliant blue beam of light. Sparks flew between her blade and a lightsaber. Woorah had no time to get a visual on her assailant before they leaped away, but they were obviously a Jedi of some sort, and judging by the distance they put between them, they must have been alarmed by the fact that their weapon didn't immediately slice her in twain. It was that distance that helped her attacker to avoid an energy bolt that came screaming from the blaster in Woorah's other hand. The Jedi was swift and nimble, far more than Woorah was while covered in all of her armor and gear. They came flying at Woorah's back, so she activated her jetpack to send a rush of blistering hot fire and exhaust towards the Jedi's face, causing them to rear back just long enough for the propulsion to turn Woorah around while she was in the air so that she could face them directly –

That face... she'd know that deep ocean-blue face and elaborate lekku pattern anywhere.

Her moment of hesitation was enough to allow the Jedi to close the gap and swing an upward swipe towards Woorah as she landed, who only came to her senses just fast enough to narrowly avoid the lightsaber – but her helmet was scored up the center. The armor fell apart, revealing her face to Woorah's attacker. Revealing her face to Allu'rasha. Her face was stunned and speechless, her mouth agape, and Allu'rasha met her with an expression that was none too different.

“Allu'rasha...” Woorah said breathlessly, still not believing her eyes.

“Woo...” Her sister replied. Her body was covered in the iconic coarseweave tunic, but were dark brown in color and was lacking the tunic. Her pants were tucked into some black boots, and she wore a dark colored tunic. Woorah wasn't quite sure what she was seeing. Based on the illustrations she has seen, the way she dressed resembled both Jedi and Sith, but her lightsaber was definitively blue. The lightsaber itself was then suddenly deactivated. Alarmingly, the tone of Allu'rasha's voice suddenly sounded harsh as she asked, “What are you doing here?”

“I... ought to ask the same of you.” Woorah answered with some confusion. There was a sort of serenity in her sister's voice that she never remembered hearing before, although it almost sounded strained, as if she wasn't accustomed to using it. “What are you? A Jedi?”

“Yes...” She answered with some reluctance. Then she pointed towards the rock that Woorah had stepped on earlier. “And I came for that.”

Upon closer inspection, the partially buried rock had engravings upon the surface. Before Woorah had any time to even contemplate the discovery, the lightsaber ignited once again, and burned a hole straight into the ground. When the lightsaber turned off, the stone was destroyed and whatever script that was on it before was either gone or illegible.

“What was that for?” Woorah demanded. “And for a Jedi, you were awfully quick to try killing me.”

“I didn't know it was you!” Allu'rasha refuted. “The Jedi has its need for shadows, and Sith relics like these and those who seek to use them must be destroyed. The real question is why are you looking for them?”

“To fight the Sith, of course. Rumor has it there's a war brewing, haven't you heard?”

“Oh, Woo'rasha...” Her sister sighed.

“It's Woorah now.” She corrected.

“...What?” Allu'rasha spat, looking insulted. “Have you lost your senses?”

“Have you?” Woorah shot back. “Father died like a coward. Mother gave up on us. Why would you want to hold onto that? That sorry excuse of a clan did nothing for you or me, but the Mandalorians did everything.”

“Not for me.” Allu'rasha said. “But you did. That's why I kept it.”

“But Allura has such a pretty ring to it.”

“Don't... call me that.” Her sister said gravely at first, but then she sighed. Shaking her head, she took a few steps back. From that moment, a voice from Woorah's wristcom crackled to life.

“Sol`yc Ver`alor Woorah Sha, this is Alor`ad Garter Oai reporting in – nothing here to the west. What's your status? Over.”

Allu'rasha's voice called out to Woorah before she could answer, “I can't... let you do this to me. I can't allow myself to be compromised, but I need you to listen to me: there are events unfolding that you can't foresee. When the time for your battle does come, your Mandalore will not be able to defeat Exar Kun. The Mandalorians – your... people are already fetishizing the dark side's power. Whatever you do... just please promise me that you won't pick the wrong side.”

Woorah hesitated for a few seconds, wondering if she should be honest to her captain or if she should lie to him for her sister's sake. It was an excruciating few seconds until she made her decision.

“Negative, nothing to report. This place is a dump.”

“Ten-four, we'll rally back to the rendezvous point and try to find another location. Over and out.”

Following the exchange on the comlinks, there was a few awkward moments of silence shared between the two sisters. A few off glances, especially for Woorah, who was so used to looking every one of her clan members in the eye and speaking her mind directly. Finally, their eyes locked together.

“Nice moves.” Woorah commented dryly.

“You too.”

“Where'd you get them?”

“My master. Temple instructors. They found me not even a year after you left. You?”

“Right... Mandalorians. Battles. Fist fighting wild animals.”

“Right...”

“Freed some slaves on Iskadrell, too.” Woo added.

“I wondered if you were there. Sounds like something you'd do.”

“Allu... rasha...” Woorah began, “...will I see you again?”

Her sister took a deep breath and pondered the question for a moment before saying, “That will depend on you.”

Allu'rasha suddenly disappeared, as if vanishing into thin air, but the rustle of the grass gave her away. To think that her sister had been adopted by the Jedi after all this time, and now she had her cool new weapons and crazy space magic. It would take some time to get used to, but so would her new disposition. She was never the type to fight, let alone make a first strike. She was never the type to sound so confident... or so wise... and it got Woorah thinking about the warning her sister made about picking the wrong side. She wasn't sure if she meant the wrong side for herself or simply the side that was the opposite of her sister. It would require some extensive thought. She didn't feel like she could just leave the clan on a whim, but it was surprising how her sister was able to make her doubt everything so easily.

She wasn't wrong, though. The clan seemed convinced that this power was their answer to winning.

Woorah returned to the rendezvous point and they eventually returned home with no results. They questioned why she was missing her helmet, but she shrugged them off by saying the damn thing hasn't been fitting her right for a while and she got frustrated with it; but if there was ever a Sith temple on this planet, they couldn't find it. They thought that it had to be invisible or long gone by now, but the guilt of lying ate at her a little bit. She hid her feelings with a stoic poker face, mastered over many years of practice, and went back to business as usual. Except it wasn't business as usual. The next two years were spent critically analyzing her clan with the echoes of her sister's warning ringing in her head.

She watched and listened, payed attention to the politics of Mandalorian leadership that she payed no heed to before – so many of them talked about the honor it would be to fight with a “Not Jedi”; a Sith. A Jedi too, perhaps, but the Sith were closer to their way of life. Seeking power to fulfill victory, and what a grand duel it would be... but Woorah realized that if any of the Sith were any stronger with their Force powers and lightsaber skills than her sister was, then none of them stood a chance. Exar Kun? Allura was convinced that even Mandalore the Indomitable couldn't beat them. What would that mean for Woorah? Would she have to fight her sister? If she joined her side, she'd have to fight her clan, and that wasn't an option either. She never thought about the consequences of losing or fighting a battle like this before. There seemed to be so few choice available and the time remaining until the impending war boiled over was running short.

When she was 28, she finally talked to her clan. She explained that after spending fourteen long years learning all she could about how to be a proper Mandalorian and finding glory in the name of the clan, she thought that it finally came time for her to see more of the galaxy. See new planets and the kind of people they offered her. It may be her last chance to see it before the next big war spills over and destroys all of it. She was surprised to find out that her clan was supportive of her decision. Individuality was important after all, and the only condition was to answer the Mandalore's call when the time comes. Right. The Resol'nare. She accepted, not sure if she be true to her word, and bid her goodbyes before taking to the stars with her clan's parting gift: a Plug-6 heavy fighter. Although it was small and somewhat cramped if holding more than a few people, it packed a bunch firepower in its small size and was still a suitable freighter for storing the belongings of a nuclear family.

The past two years have been spent exploring the galaxy, getting into trouble, and working odd jobs until she got into bounty hunting. It was the kind of work that put her skill-set to good use and was able to give her a reputation, though muddied it may be. She's not clean, but she guarantees that she can get the job done. Now 30 years old, she has left her mark from the Outer Rim to Core Worlds, done work on remote worlds like Kashyyk and Malastare, and has made contact with some interesting friends. Among her recent associations is an old wookie matron probably gone senile and a sardonic dug engineer with a god complex. She was curious to see what kind of people that galaxy had to show her, and oh boy, did the galaxy not disappoint.

---

Equipment:

Flex heavy armor with retractable beskar blade, green and orange color motif, 15 kg
2 M-113 Micro-pulse blasters, 1 kg each
JT-9 jet pack, 9.1 kg
2 Wrist rocket launcher, 2 kg each
4 Dumb wrist rockets, .25 kg each
3 Homing wrist rockets, .25 kg each
3 Magnetic detonator darts, .25 kg each
2 Hollow-tip wrist rockets, .25 kg
1 Fusion missile, 3 kg
Miniature rail cannon, .5 kg
1 Flashbang grenade, .5 kg
2 Thermal detonators, .5 kg each
1 Ion grenade, .5 kg
Adrenaline stimulator belt, .5 kg
Total Weight: 95 lbs/43 kg

Skills:

Over the course of many years spent with the Mandalorians, Woorah had essentially mastered the art of warfare thanks to the tutelage of the artisans of war themselves. Tactically minded, gun savvy, physically capable, and one hell of a shot, she had honed her martial talent like a fine blade. Her strength and reflexes are fine tuned after years of intense conditioning. She also spent a lot of time with her clan's weapon builders, designing her own weapons her gear and building them from scratch. She has a mind for chemistry and mechanics judging from her ability to build, rebuild, and wire homemade demolitions and repulsor equipment, and make minor repairs on her freighter.

Like most soldiers, she has some basic first-aid training. While she's no battlefield surgeon, she knows how to use a medpac and how to inject stim-shots, and while she's no crack pilot, she's good enough at computers and vehicle operation to bring her from place to place and employ some evasive and combat maneuvers. She has been exposed to enough languages over the years to be fluent in a few of them. Aside from Galactic Basic, she can communicate in Ryl, Huttese, Mando'a, and can understand a little bit of Shyriiwook without a translater, and only knows how to speak back in one or two different gargles.

After a few years of bounty hunting, she was able to easily adapt the knowledge of hunting the Mandalorians armed her with and applied it to hunting people across an entire galaxy. Indeed, most of it pertains to extensive information gathering and computer operation, and with it, has once found a smuggler hiding in the Core Worlds all the way from the Outer Rim.

---

Misc:

Bubblegum in the Star Wars universe is called a chewstim and it's one of Woorah's favorites.