Rheyla Tann
Character
The groan left the Sith like she’d just tasted the juiciest nerf steak. All from a nose scratch. Drama princess, Rheyla thought, rolling her eyes as a smirk tugged at her mouth—couldn’t help it.
She didn’t say anything. Eyes stayed on the hyperspace trail, one hand steady on the controls, the other loose near the throttle.
“Prom?” Rheyla snorted, eyes still on the controls. “Stars, that’s a mental image. Sith prom” A pause, then she fully turned in her seat, pushing her right Lek over her shoulder. "How would that even work? Slow dance before the murder starts? Aren't Sith all about emotion, sex, stabbing and stuff?” It was clear that Rheyla didn't know much about the Sith, just what she’d heard, or skimmed in passing..
She turned her gaze back to the consoles before her and flicked a few switches, adjusting their flight path, her tone deadpan as she exhaled, which sounded eerily like an offended huff. “And I don't do the "thing",” she said flatly. “I just like knowing where the sharp objects are in my cockpit.” She pointed out.
She glanced over again. Saw the Sithling sitting cross-legged like this was some kind of pleasure cruise. Too at home. Too relaxed.
And yet.
That last line—So I'll try not to disappoint you—hung in the air.
Rheyla didn’t bite.
Didn’t blink.
But the corner of her mouth curved, just barely.
“I’ll hold you to that, princess,” she said, low, cool, and amused.
She flipped a final switch, tone dry as dust.
“We’ll get there when we get there. You start whining, I’m strapping you to the galley table and feeding you cold ration bars.”
Beat.
“Or I eat the dinner I promised you” The corner of her mouth ticked upward. “Your call.”
The starlines collapsed in a blink.
Scourhawk dropped out of hyperspace with a jolt and a sharp whine, like she’d been yanked back to reality against her will.
Ahead, the planet came into view—dusky blue and tan, ringed with patchy clouds and a cluttered orbital belt of half-dead satellites and drifting junk. It wasn’t glamorous, but it wasn’t glowing either. Rheyla had been here before. Not often. Just enough to remember which ports charged extra for noise pollution and which ones didn’t ask questions.
She leaned forward, flicking a few switches as the console lit up with local traffic signals. Some in Basic. Some in… whatever passed for a dialect on this side of the Rim.
“Varneth,” she said flatly. “Population: enough to hide in, not enough to care.”
The descent started rough—just like she remembered. The clouds were thick, stained yellow at the edges. Scourhawk rattled as they cut through the atmosphere, panels humming under pressure. A few lights on the dash blinked angrily, but nothing she hadn’t ignored before.
She kept one hand steady on the controls, the other adjusting the flight stabilisers.
“No scans, no customs, no one shooting at us on entry,” she added. “We’re practically spoiled.”
Down below, the surface rolled out like a patchwork—rust-toned cities, weather-beaten spaceports, and distant stretches of farmland or waste. Hard to tell which from this height. Rheyla angled the ship toward one of the smaller ports—low-traffic, half-forgotten, and cheap on docking fees.
“Brace for charm,” she said, watching the pad ahead. “Landing struts tend to get shy when I bring guests.”
The ship banked hard. Thrusters flared. She lined up their descent over a landing grid that barely qualified as marked. Other ships squatted on the pad like stubborn drunks—freighters, cargo haulers, one old bucket that looked like it ran on prayers and leftover caf.
With a final hiss, Scourhawk touched down.
The engines whined, then fell quiet. The hull gave a lazy creak. Cooling metal ticked like a clock left running too long. Rheyla leaned back in her seat, exhaling. Then, as she looked over, she asked, “Still breathing, princess? Or did I land too soft for your taste?” There was a teasing bite to her question.
She didn’t say anything. Eyes stayed on the hyperspace trail, one hand steady on the controls, the other loose near the throttle.
“Prom?” Rheyla snorted, eyes still on the controls. “Stars, that’s a mental image. Sith prom” A pause, then she fully turned in her seat, pushing her right Lek over her shoulder. "How would that even work? Slow dance before the murder starts? Aren't Sith all about emotion, sex, stabbing and stuff?” It was clear that Rheyla didn't know much about the Sith, just what she’d heard, or skimmed in passing..
She turned her gaze back to the consoles before her and flicked a few switches, adjusting their flight path, her tone deadpan as she exhaled, which sounded eerily like an offended huff. “And I don't do the "thing",” she said flatly. “I just like knowing where the sharp objects are in my cockpit.” She pointed out.
She glanced over again. Saw the Sithling sitting cross-legged like this was some kind of pleasure cruise. Too at home. Too relaxed.
And yet.
That last line—So I'll try not to disappoint you—hung in the air.
Rheyla didn’t bite.
Didn’t blink.
But the corner of her mouth curved, just barely.
“I’ll hold you to that, princess,” she said, low, cool, and amused.
She flipped a final switch, tone dry as dust.
“We’ll get there when we get there. You start whining, I’m strapping you to the galley table and feeding you cold ration bars.”
Beat.
“Or I eat the dinner I promised you” The corner of her mouth ticked upward. “Your call.”
~~~~
The starlines collapsed in a blink.
Scourhawk dropped out of hyperspace with a jolt and a sharp whine, like she’d been yanked back to reality against her will.
Ahead, the planet came into view—dusky blue and tan, ringed with patchy clouds and a cluttered orbital belt of half-dead satellites and drifting junk. It wasn’t glamorous, but it wasn’t glowing either. Rheyla had been here before. Not often. Just enough to remember which ports charged extra for noise pollution and which ones didn’t ask questions.
She leaned forward, flicking a few switches as the console lit up with local traffic signals. Some in Basic. Some in… whatever passed for a dialect on this side of the Rim.
“Varneth,” she said flatly. “Population: enough to hide in, not enough to care.”
The descent started rough—just like she remembered. The clouds were thick, stained yellow at the edges. Scourhawk rattled as they cut through the atmosphere, panels humming under pressure. A few lights on the dash blinked angrily, but nothing she hadn’t ignored before.
She kept one hand steady on the controls, the other adjusting the flight stabilisers.
“No scans, no customs, no one shooting at us on entry,” she added. “We’re practically spoiled.”
Down below, the surface rolled out like a patchwork—rust-toned cities, weather-beaten spaceports, and distant stretches of farmland or waste. Hard to tell which from this height. Rheyla angled the ship toward one of the smaller ports—low-traffic, half-forgotten, and cheap on docking fees.
“Brace for charm,” she said, watching the pad ahead. “Landing struts tend to get shy when I bring guests.”
The ship banked hard. Thrusters flared. She lined up their descent over a landing grid that barely qualified as marked. Other ships squatted on the pad like stubborn drunks—freighters, cargo haulers, one old bucket that looked like it ran on prayers and leftover caf.
With a final hiss, Scourhawk touched down.
The engines whined, then fell quiet. The hull gave a lazy creak. Cooling metal ticked like a clock left running too long. Rheyla leaned back in her seat, exhaling. Then, as she looked over, she asked, “Still breathing, princess? Or did I land too soft for your taste?” There was a teasing bite to her question.
