Character
TAG:
Vren Rook
The tundra billowed and fluttered, the light dash of snow growing heavier and heavier as each minute passed. The impossibly cold temperatures had begun to fall lower long before the blanket of sleet had materialised, heralding the coming storm. For now, it was traversable. It wouldn’t last for long.
Tee, from the cockpit of her gunship, sat in stillness, watching as the blizzard descended with increasing haste and ferocity. It was safer by far to sit it out than attempt to take off in such weather; at least inside she was warm. Her helmet on the seat beside her, she ran a finger through her hair, looking for any straggling greys that she may have missed; she was insistent that she was far too young for such a thing as ageing hair. Nonetheless, she sat, absent-minded and thought on other things.
“Cowpoke Niner, this is Blast from the Past”
She once again tried the intercom. No such luck.
A few moments passed. She didn’t know why she wanted to try again-she had enjoyed no luck for the last hour.
“Cowpoke Niner, do you copy?”
She huffed a loud sigh, replacing the intercom switch. There was no doubt that Vren would have responded if he had heard the call. She knew he would know exactly who was calling him.
She stood reluctantly, stretching her arms and legs in a fashion that resembled a limbering acrobat but with far less dexterity or natural flair. The hum of the Abbess was gentle background noise, barely audible to Tee. She had listened to the ship purr for near two years, and she took great comfort in it; it meant the ship was functioning and she wasn’t in any immediate danger.
A mid-pitch whirring sound caught her attention, the sound of a ball of metal running along a predetermined track built into the wall. It was A-V3, her droid assistant. He spoke to Tee in his dry, clipped tone.
“External temperatures have exceeded negative forty degrees centigrade. Visibility is two above zero.”
Tee stood, watching the small, spherical droid as it sat, various lights flickering as it tampered with outlets and electrical sockets.
“So, what you’re saying is we’re stuck here for the meantime?”
A-V3 looked as quizzically as a small metallic droid in the shape of a ball could muster, of that she was certain.
“Yes. You are recommended to remain here indefinitely, pending further assistance or, dare I say it, rescue.”
She was sixty percent sure that he had attempted a sarcastic comment there. She nodded, muttering something about checking his programming.
She wandered into the galley area, running a hand along the wall, and taking hold of a nearby datapad. It was filled with all sorts of documents, information, companion guides, even manufacturing notices for all manner of tech. She liked to keep her mind occupied with the close and detailed inner workings of spacecraft. As much as Vren belittled her piloting skills, she was an expert mechanic. There wasn’t much about a spaceship she couldn’t fix, lest it was missing half the fuselage due to stray heavy blaster fire or a wayward accidental collision with an asteroid. She was a master at her craft and her family had made sure she knew all there was to know about it.
There was a ritual element to their work, too. Not unlike the Forgemasters who imbued their armour with all kinds of sacred energy, the shipmasters of Ord Vaug were chiefly concerned with the sanctity of the Mandalorian craft. After all, the craft was an extension of the warrior itself. It had a life, saw combat, carried scars and lived a journey through service, through warcraft. She would hope to bring a little of that to the Enclave, to Kestri.
She had journeyed out into the deeper regions of the planet, far from the main settlements, to seek out a spot where she could work, where she could build her own shipwright, her own Forge.
She had the funds, socked away from a decade of high stakes risk and return, ensuring she was able to walk away with not only her life but a pretty penny to pay for her skill. She could ensure that the outpost would serve as both a place of work but also a place of comfort, for her and her companions, if she gathered any.
She had Vren.
Vren
And there were a few others, she hastily added to her mental checklist.
Mostly Vren.
She huffed again, irritated that she was, once again, arguing with herself in the silence of the ship. She was tired of this already.
She travelled back to the cockpit, holding a Keldan apple in her right hand. She took a juice-laden bite and, with a mouthful of pulp, called out again.
“Slowpoke Niner. This is Blast from the Past. Do you hear me?”
Vren was the kind of fella who’d have heard her the first time but thought it funny to leave her guessing.
Vren.
Vren Rook
The tundra billowed and fluttered, the light dash of snow growing heavier and heavier as each minute passed. The impossibly cold temperatures had begun to fall lower long before the blanket of sleet had materialised, heralding the coming storm. For now, it was traversable. It wouldn’t last for long.
Tee, from the cockpit of her gunship, sat in stillness, watching as the blizzard descended with increasing haste and ferocity. It was safer by far to sit it out than attempt to take off in such weather; at least inside she was warm. Her helmet on the seat beside her, she ran a finger through her hair, looking for any straggling greys that she may have missed; she was insistent that she was far too young for such a thing as ageing hair. Nonetheless, she sat, absent-minded and thought on other things.
“Cowpoke Niner, this is Blast from the Past”
She once again tried the intercom. No such luck.
A few moments passed. She didn’t know why she wanted to try again-she had enjoyed no luck for the last hour.
“Cowpoke Niner, do you copy?”
She huffed a loud sigh, replacing the intercom switch. There was no doubt that Vren would have responded if he had heard the call. She knew he would know exactly who was calling him.
She stood reluctantly, stretching her arms and legs in a fashion that resembled a limbering acrobat but with far less dexterity or natural flair. The hum of the Abbess was gentle background noise, barely audible to Tee. She had listened to the ship purr for near two years, and she took great comfort in it; it meant the ship was functioning and she wasn’t in any immediate danger.
A mid-pitch whirring sound caught her attention, the sound of a ball of metal running along a predetermined track built into the wall. It was A-V3, her droid assistant. He spoke to Tee in his dry, clipped tone.
“External temperatures have exceeded negative forty degrees centigrade. Visibility is two above zero.”
Tee stood, watching the small, spherical droid as it sat, various lights flickering as it tampered with outlets and electrical sockets.
“So, what you’re saying is we’re stuck here for the meantime?”
A-V3 looked as quizzically as a small metallic droid in the shape of a ball could muster, of that she was certain.
“Yes. You are recommended to remain here indefinitely, pending further assistance or, dare I say it, rescue.”
She was sixty percent sure that he had attempted a sarcastic comment there. She nodded, muttering something about checking his programming.
She wandered into the galley area, running a hand along the wall, and taking hold of a nearby datapad. It was filled with all sorts of documents, information, companion guides, even manufacturing notices for all manner of tech. She liked to keep her mind occupied with the close and detailed inner workings of spacecraft. As much as Vren belittled her piloting skills, she was an expert mechanic. There wasn’t much about a spaceship she couldn’t fix, lest it was missing half the fuselage due to stray heavy blaster fire or a wayward accidental collision with an asteroid. She was a master at her craft and her family had made sure she knew all there was to know about it.
There was a ritual element to their work, too. Not unlike the Forgemasters who imbued their armour with all kinds of sacred energy, the shipmasters of Ord Vaug were chiefly concerned with the sanctity of the Mandalorian craft. After all, the craft was an extension of the warrior itself. It had a life, saw combat, carried scars and lived a journey through service, through warcraft. She would hope to bring a little of that to the Enclave, to Kestri.
She had journeyed out into the deeper regions of the planet, far from the main settlements, to seek out a spot where she could work, where she could build her own shipwright, her own Forge.
She had the funds, socked away from a decade of high stakes risk and return, ensuring she was able to walk away with not only her life but a pretty penny to pay for her skill. She could ensure that the outpost would serve as both a place of work but also a place of comfort, for her and her companions, if she gathered any.
She had Vren.
Vren
And there were a few others, she hastily added to her mental checklist.
Mostly Vren.
She huffed again, irritated that she was, once again, arguing with herself in the silence of the ship. She was tired of this already.
She travelled back to the cockpit, holding a Keldan apple in her right hand. She took a juice-laden bite and, with a mouthful of pulp, called out again.
“Slowpoke Niner. This is Blast from the Past. Do you hear me?”
Vren was the kind of fella who’d have heard her the first time but thought it funny to leave her guessing.
Vren.
