Private A rain slicked warning

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Ord Radama, Outer Rim Territories

Itzhal stared out into the world through darkened glass, streaked with the tears of Ord Radama. The world hadn't changed a bit; it was still the same cursed sequence of waterlogged cities and swamps clinging to a semblance of importance in a Galaxy filled with backwaters and crumbling ruins. It was almost charming. At least, when you weren't caught in the incessant rain, scrambling for a measure of heat sealed behind the smooth frames of metallic doors elevated above the cobblestone streets.

Beskar plates, slickened with the rain, covered the Mandalorian's frame as he stomped through the streets, his boots coated with a layer of mud that drained back into the cobblestones with the streams that flowed down his beskar'gam. Dressed in a luminescent green raincoat, another figure scurried past, with only a mumured apology as they bisected the old Mandalorian's path. They were gone a few seconds later, lost in the wet haze, with only a drifting echo to remember them by.

Clattering against the stonework, Itzhal's steps quickened.

Through the damp mist clinging to his bodysuit, a squat structure of dark stone and frosted glass appeared, beckoning with the soft light of a lamp sheltered from the rain. An old neon sign flickered beside it, though the words had worn with time, a fellow traveller had once claimed it was called 'Damona's Rite's'. Personally, he thought it would be fair to call it the only warm place on Ord Radama.

The egg-shaped door shifted to the side with a faint rumble that was barely audible over the racket of rain. Metal grates clanked underneath his feet, the water dripping through the gaps, mud squelched with an errant flick of his boots that discarded the worst of the mess. Behind him, an awful grinding sound screeched through the air, the door rolling back into place along the metal frame. Seconds later, air conditioning units roared to life, a wave of heat descending upon his head and shoulders.

Warm for the first time in what felt like hours, Itzhal closed his eyes, luxuriating in the feeling that sent goosebumps down his skin. He stood, wishing that if he stood here long enough, the memory of the cold would fade. He knew, though, it was a foolish thought. It never had before.

A softer rush of air from another entrance forced him to move, opening his eyes as he gazed through the doorway, drawn by the warmth that beckoned from the heated fixtures attached to each booth, including table lamps that radiated light and seats that he viewed with the dawning memory of pulsing heat down his back. Patrons of all kinds and races mingled around the edges of the bar, talking in a mix of languages that could have overwhelmed a protocol droid, if they ever recovered from the rain, unlikely as that was.

"I'm here," he sent to his contact, a short message, but a necessary one as he looked over the busy room.

Video footage from the bar streamed in the corner of his HUD, the image fuzzy but still distinguishable as he moved towards the side from which it was taken. An older Trandoshan covered in scars and cracked scales shot a glance his way, twitching for their glass, the liquid squirming under his grip, before they drained it dry and then slammed it down with a harsh clatter that sent gazes shooting their way. He was barely halfway there before they'd stepped off their stool. Not that they were his target tonight. Allesk Vaullo's name was clean, at least according to the bounty screen that replaced the video footage for a moment. He'd make a note to confirm that later.

In the meantime, he had another target.

"Tessa Thayne?" He asked, coming to a halt with a sharp clack of his boots, one hand flat against the corner of the table, from which he leaned forward.

Tags: Tessa Thayne​

 

[Tessa Thayne]

Tessa's fingers curled around the mug of caff, the heat driving out the cold that the damp that Ord Radama insisted on pressing into her bones, a half eaten bowl of stew rest on the table before her, steam still rising from its contents. She leaned back in the booth, staring unseeing out of the window as rainwater carved pearlescent patterns on the glass.

The drop had gone far better than she could have hoped for. Efficiency was not something you normally associated with gangs distributing spice. There was normally more dilated pupils form those skimming the surface and calling it 'quality assurance'. Whatever. She didn't pick the cargo, she just flew it to where it needed to go. She took the jobs that paid well and it just so happened this group were not only paying well, but they were clean. Tess didn't press deeper that that, she didn't need to.

Her attention shifted back to the room when a glass slammed on a table, one hand sliding from her mug to rest on the holster of her blaster beneath the table. She'd been in enough scraps to recognise trouble brewing by the shift in the air, but it didn't come. The mandalorian that had elicited such a reaction however, did. Tessa's gaze flicked past him, marking exits and escape routes as he made a beeline for her, his hand coming to rest on the corner of her table.

"Tessa Thayne?"

She lifted her mug and took a sip, one hand still resting on that blaster. A well placed shot could buy her time for an escape if she needed it, though going toe to toe with an armoured mandalorian was definitely not on her agenda today.

"Who's asking?"

Itzhal Volkihar

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Ord Radama, Outer Rim Territories

"Itzhal Volikhar," The Mandalorian replied, his voice steady as he announced his presence and the name of a clan that had been reduced to a single man and a history forgotten, lost between the gaps of ancient legacies and the foundations of the future.

Tessa Thayne was not an easy woman to find; an ever-shifting shadow stretched across a sequence of dead drops and packages, remembered by few, and forgotten by many. An asset for those who needed something moved, and with a reputation for discretion that bordered on apathy.

A couple of days ago, she'd been nothing more than another ghost in the ever-shifting system of laws and governance, a mere droplet of rain compared to the torrential storm of criminals and scum that flowed through the lawless lands and the established reign of the newest Mand'alor. She still was, according to what little information the Protectorate database held on her. Rumours and hearsay, however, painted a rather different picture of the woman sitting before him.

It was only a matter of time before her apathy was carved into a blade.

He lifted his palm from the table, fingers splayed across the smooth surface, in a movement that angled the screen attached to his gauntlet towards Tessa and away from the rest of the bar. A hissed word, concealed within the gap of his vocalizer, activated the device for a second as it flickered with the symbol of the Protectorate.

His gaze lingered on the stretch of the table, and where Tessa's concealed hand rested against the holster of her blaster. "I was hoping we could have a conversation, business-related."

Tags: Tessa Thayne​

 

[Tessa Thayne]

Itzhal Volkihar

The name didn't ring any bells which did nothing to ease the tension in her muscles. Fingers slid around the grip of her blaster, lifting it slightly from the holster at her side. Tessa was good enough she'd managed to keep her name and the Relentless off bounty boards, but there would always be some avenue that she hadn't thought of, or maybe someone she'd worked with that decided she was a loose end that needed to be removed.

There was nothing good about a Mandalorian singling you out in a crowd.

His hand moved, a flash in his gauntlet drawing her eyes down to it as the Protectors symbols flashed at her. "Chit." she muttered. Her eyes flicked up, tracking where his visor was pointed and she slid the blaster back into its holster reluctantly, blue eyes flashing with anger. She did not like being cornered.

"Trust a Mandalorian to have all the subtlety of a rancor in a ceramics shop." she snapped. "Turn that off and sit down before you get us both killed."

Her eyes swept the rest of the bar, making sure no one had taken note. "I don't have any business with the Empire." she said after he'd seated himself, Her eyes settling on the cold reflection of his visor.

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Ord Radama, Outer Rim Territories

Tessa Thayne's eyes reflected a puzzle in motion, her brows furrowed with strain, searching for pieces that would unlock the answer behind his appearance. He doubted she would find it; her history was a patchwork of desperate people and dishonourable scum, a hive of possibilities, all with their own reasons to pass on her name. If he was generous, it was practically a compliment after so many years of service. Most ended up in a ditch or were utterly forgettable. His contact, however, remembered her well. He could almost see why; it took guts to consider getting into a fight with a Mandalorian, even more to hold that option in reserve.

"I try to avoid subtlety in cases like this," Itzhal drawled, his voice dripping with confidence. Mirrored in the man who stood before her, a statue chiselled out of beskar plates, and the darkened visor that reflected her movements—impervious—and undaunted by the blaster that crawled its way back into the holster at her side. "It sends the wrong message."

Sensors in his helmet watched his back as he slid into the booth, his forearms braced against the table, as the weathered leather seats squeaked in a sound not all that unlike a gamorean in pain. All the while, his visor remained focused on her. His voice softened, "But, thank you, all the same."

Then she lied to his face.

"Impressive. Most people struggle to meet their own eyes when they lie," He leaned back, one arm stretched over the couch, the other hand splayed over the table, palm pressed to the edge, fingers visible and far from the holster of his blasters. "I'd ask if that's experience or sheer confidence, but I'm not here for that."

She wasn't the only one dealing with a puzzle.

"I'll cut to the chase. I'd like you to stop before circumstances beyond my control make you."

Tags: Tessa Thayne​

 

[Tessa Thayne]

Cases like this? Great, so she was on the Protectors radar. She shifted in her seat, letting out a small annoyed sigh and shoving the bowl of half eaten stew aside. Not like she was going to finish it now anyway. Her hands wrapped back around her mug as she took everything about him in, every chink in his armour, pinpointing lines in the bracers and gauntlets that told her arsenal was hidden beneath them. There was no escaping this conversation, no matter how much she wanted to, so she had a choice; play nicely, or make him hate her.

The corners of her mouth twitched at his assessment of her words.

"Its not a lie."

Tess didn't have business with the Empire. In it and around it? Sure, but certainly not with it. Her fingers drummed once, an eyebrow arching at his words. she looked past him, eyes sweeping the bar again as she took a beat to pick her response. Someone had ratter her out and this was the result, it could have gone a lot worse.

She had no intention of making it that simple.

"You're gonna have to narrow this down for me, what exactly would you like me to stop, Itzhal?"

She grinned, bringing the mug to her lips to take a sip, watching him over the rim.

Itzhal Volkihar

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Ord Radama, Outer Rim Territories

Ceramic skittered across the table, its surface glinting in the light, as the half-eaten stew swirled dangerously close to the edge. A sticky clump from another meal forced the bowl to stop with a flimsy plop, revealing an island of popahen, surrounded by the spice-laden broth that still lingered in the air, despite the lukewarm heat emanating from the favoured dish. He barely noticed it.

Blue eyes stared him down, assessing every scratch in the armour, and each weapon he brought to bear; a Mandalorian warrior under the shroud of a peacekeeper—reflected in Tessa's eyes—the type of man that in another world could leave nothing but ruination in his wake. Metal casings in an assortment of shapes lined his belt: EMPs, stunners, and thermal detonators sat side by side with the squat shape of an emergency field kit. Slender gunmetal grey prongs that amplified his commlink signal concealed the presence of another barrel, discreet, unlike the purposeful stretch of sleek metal connected to the missile launcher above. The sliver of light in her eyes dimmed, resigned to their conversation, and yet, a moment afterwards, they gleamed with purpose.

Itzhal chuckled, the sound muffled by the metallic tone of his vocaliser. It had been a while since he'd encountered a smuggler that left him scrambling in the dust, twisted around discarded trails and impossible routes. Clues lost in translation, awaiting the right mix of knowledge and tenacity to piece them together, tracing leads that grew out of stardust and determination, until the prey was within sight. He'd forgotten the thrill of it. Their wordplay was just another piece of the puzzle.

He waited till she finished, tracing the grin that split across her lips, a delightful little challenge in the shape of a taunt, "Within the Mandalorian Empire, there are rules and regulations, many of them tedious, but they follow the same shape as many other civilisations. You're a smart woman, so tell me if this rings a bell."

He lifted the palm of his hand off the table, his fingers stretched, the nails clamped to the surface.

"Imported goods are subject to tax; bypassing customs to avoid these taxes is classified as smuggling. The transportation of merchandise listed as contraband, including sentient creatures, within the confines of Mandalorian Space is classified as smuggling."

Slowly, his fingers peeled away from the table, left to linger inches above the vinyl surface, speckled with stains from the discarded stew.

His thumb drifted back to the table, "Zeltros."

"Taris," he punctuated with a jab of his index finger.

Midway through his point, he let his middle finger drop to the table, marked with the soft whisper of "Celanon."

"Feraie Junction," he continued, a steady rhythm drilled into place with the sharp ring of his nail pressed down into vinyl.

The pinky fell without a further word, but the pattern painted in a star-crossed veil of vinyl remained.

Tags: Tessa Thayne​

 

[Tessa Thayne]

Zeltros, Taris, Celanon, Feraie Junction. None of these places narrowed down who could have possibly given out intel on her. There were a dozen contracts, a dozen people that could have sold her out. She took a measured breath frowning as she took her gaze from him to the bar itself, eyes tracking patrons as they moved about their business, some chatting casually, others with heads close together with a seriousness that suggested business.

"Alright, so you've done your homework." she said finally looking back at him. "But the fact that you're sat across from me in in a bar rather than an interrogation room tells me you've got nothing but hearsay, and hearsay isn't enough for you to put me behind bars."

She took another sip of caff, raising a hand to flag the barkeep, lifting two fingers to request them both a drink. Leaning forward she rested her forearms on the table, setting her empty mug aside.

"For the record, the only sentient creature to step onto my ship is me. People aren't cargo. As for everything else?" She shrugged, "Why do you care what happens to me?"

Itzhal Volkihar

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Ord Radama, Outer Rim Territories

Whispers travelled in the shadows, lies and truths, two faces of a scarred coin that flipped, end over end, in an endless cycle of rumours and hearsay. It was those rumours that Itzhal shared with Tessa; his fingers stretched across the table, each a point in a trail of crime written in stardust, he watched as recognition filled his target's eyes. He braced for the moment that followed—the tip of his whipcord launcher pointed in her direction with a slight tilt of his gauntlet—awaiting an explosion that never came. It was not a surrender. Gears spun in the back of her head, calculations visible in the gleam of her eyes.

"I'll make a note of that," Itzhal leaned back, bringing his hand around to cup the side of the table, where his index finger tapped an old beat against the grain. The last time, she'd stared him in the face with a lie. This time, he could only hope she hadn't. He wouldn't know the truth till the day she was brought in with evidence in tow; even then, the rest of her crimes might go unanswered. If they were both lucky, he'd never have a reason to learn the full details.

"As for what happens to you, the truth is I don't. Not really," the old Mandalorian admitted, his voice steady and firm—there was no apology in his words, no guilt to soften his heart.

"I don't know you," He continued, visor pointed towards her, never once turning away from the brutal truth. "I know the shape of you; smuggler, runner, survivor. But that isn't who you are. I don't know what gets you up in the morning, even when the days are hard. I don't know why you do a job that ends up with you either lying face down in a ditch or growing old in a prison cell. I don't even know if Tessa Thayne is your real name."

In the corner of his eye, the barkeep poured a set of two drinks; straight from the tap, untouched by anyone but him.

"The truth is Mrs Thayne, I am not a great man," His voice was as quiet as a whisper, for all that carried with the weight of a sledgehammer. "I cannot claim to be some moral bastion; I have lied, I have hurt others, and I have even killed. Some of them were people who made this Galaxy a better place than I ever will. I can't change that."

He leaned forward, both forearms braced against the table, "More than anything else, however, I am a righteous bastard. I am sick and tired of watching this entire shithole continue to spiral around the drain. I could wait till evidence falls into my lap, or a blade finds itself lodged in your back, but your loss is not my victory."

Razor sharp splinters of ice leaked into his voice, "No, that's the easy way out. I want you to stop, because I believe we can do better."

Tags: Tessa Thayne​

 

[Tessa Thayne]

Tess saw it all, the slight shifting in his wrist that told her he was aiming something at her. She knew mandalorians, she knew the way they moved, how to read the angles and shifts in their shoulders and helmets when most people saw nothing. There was no getting out of this conversation, not unscathed at least so she might as well settle in, let him speak his piece and go on his way, assuming that was his intention. She could handle an old warrior with their version of wisdom.

An eyebrow arched briefly when he declared he didn't care, seemed an odd stance but she accepted it all the same. When he mentioned her name the knuckles on her hands paled as her grip tightened, her heart did the jump it always did when face with a mandalorian and her true name. But the moment passed, it wasn't his MO. She lifted the cup letting the breath she'd held escape behind it before she finished the dregs, setting it aside with the bowl of stew.

There was a frown at the title 'Mrs Thayne.' It did not bring her any sort of pleasure to hear her name uttered in such a way. Tess, Tessa, even just Thayne. but 'Mrs'. No thanks. Still, she listened, a smile curving her lip as he admitted to killing. Naturally, he was a mandalorian, still she didn't interrupt. She held her ground when he leaned forward, holding his gaze with a defiant gleam in her gaze. He was close to pressing the boundary of what she would tolerate before reason left her and she reacted on instinct.

Tess did not like people in her space.

She took a breath, measured and calm when he'd finished and the waitress appeared with the drinks she'd ordered, setting one in front of each of them and clearing away the stew and caff mug. The entire time, Tess held his gaze, unflinching almost challenging.

"I wonder, what wrong it is your trying to balance out to have you sit across the table from a alleged smuggler and try to convince her to change her course." She placed her forearms on the table and leaned in to meet him. "The only people in my line of work that wind up in a ditch or with a blade in their back are the ones who trust who they're working with. It's not a job full of friends, the only moral compass to exist is the one you draw yourself."

Fingers curled around the glass, sliding it gently to one side. "If I stop, there will always be someone else to take up the job. That someone could have no morals, they'd haul things across your borders with malicious intent. they could be someone with no experience that winds up dead in your backyard and then you've got a feth tonne of paperwork and an even bigger mess to clean up."

She leaned back. "Trust me, when I tell you that my existence in this role is doing you a favour."

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Ord Radama, Outer Rim Territories

Conclusions had always been a matter of judgment, shaped by the experiences and perspectives of those who reached them. Often, as the very name suggested, they signified the end of a journey; a resolution of a lingering question, the final stroke in an intricate operation, or the last statement uttered in a lengthy conversation. There was a definitive weight to these endings, a matter 'concluded' as one might say.

However, words had and always could mean more than one thing; language shifted and shaped to the needs of the people, and people were fickle. Just because a conclusion was often the end of a journey did not mean it had to be the end. Old endings served new beginnings.

Itzhal's conclusions were more akin to the latter; formed from scattered facts and assumptions that he held loosely, ready to discard the moment they clashed with reality. When it came to Tessa Thayne, the lack of history between them provided a blank slate, an impression of substance that had only begun to fill out as he took her measure.

Fact: Tessa Thayne had known other Mandalorians.

Evidence: She'd kept calm when confronted with a Mandalorian, a feat that, while not impossible by any means, was hardly typical. Familiarity had guided her eyes as they traced over the plates of his beskar'gam, an assessment with far more experience than one would expect from a traditional smuggler running around in armorweave. She'd kept an eye on his gauntlets at all times—noticed the port that concealed his fibre-corp launcher and the subtle twist of his wrist that had lined it up, cautiously alert. Tightened knuckles had betrayed the nervousness that her face hid when he spoke of her name, as if he had something to pry further into—combined with her unusual track record of ventures into Mandalorian Space—short intervals, but building over time to an alarming frequency for one who otherwise seemed dismissive of the average Mandalorian.

Suspicion: Tessa Thayne may have once possessed Mandalorian family.

It would be simple to lay the words out on the table, evidence piled in presentation of the conclusion he'd come to. He discarded the thought before it could even settle. Mrs Thayne was not a woman unaware of the reasons she was running; nor was that his problem—people deserved the right to handle their issues however they wished, it was only when they started affecting others that it became a complication that required further inquiry, and even then, situations could be muddled.

In the quiet left after his words, Itzhal waited. He shifted his weight towards the back of the table, reaching across for the discarded stew bowl that he replaced with a cold drink as the waitress arrived.

Old memories slivered into the gap her question pried open; skin prickled with half-remembered heat that burned across his forearms, the headlight above their head distorted with a blue shimmer that crept across his visor, non-existent sparks filling the rest, before it vanished with a hollow, guttering snap-hiss.

He sighed, releasing the oxygen in his lungs with a measured exhale that followed the slump of his shoulders. Tessa leaned forward, illuminated by the soft, bland hue of the light above. Their drinks forgotten, and the world outside reduced to a vague haze as his attention narrowed to her and her alone.

Excuses fell from her lips into the gaping abyss of possibility—the terrible unknown preying upon the fearful, the creeping dread of what ifs and questions that lingered without an answer.

Itzhal leaned back, away from the table, his spine straightened, and his shoulders lifted, "Do you really believe that?"

Tags: Tessa Thayne​

 

[Tessa Thayne]

Tess saw the tension the tightening of his shoulders when her question of his past hit home, a heavy sigh followed and she found satisfaction in that, knowing that she'd struck a chord. She wasn't typically cruel, but something about this whole situation made her vindictive. It was her typical response to authority, one she'd never quite been able to shake, like the rage that surged without warning whenever someone got in her face without invitation. The fact that there was a table between the two of them at least save her that, because she had no doubt, rightly or wrongly. that had it not been, Itzhal would have absolutely been in her space.

He sat back and the question that followed made a muscle in her jaw tick. She looked away, lifting the glass to her lips as she did and taking a drink more to buy time to respond that for the need for it.

Did she believe a word she had just said? Some of it was true. There were no friends among smugglers and thieves. Was she doing any Mandalorian a favour? Absolutely not. Everything about what she did was selfish, but she wasn't going to admit that out loud. She looked back at him, setting her drink back on the table. "Belief doesn't alter reality, no matter how much we might want it to."

Well it wasn't a lie, but it wasn't anything else either.

"I'm good at what I do. If I wasn't we wouldn't be having a conversation in some backwater bar, we'd be in an interrogation room and I'd be in stun cuffs. Unless you can offer me a better lot, which," she added, holding up a finger to stop an attempt that might come forward, "you can't, then I'm going to do what I do best. Because it keeps me flying, fed and most importantly, busy."

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Ord Radama, Outer Rim Territories

Old stains worn into the couch stretched with the expanse of Itzhal's arm, and leather creaked against beskar plates as he settled into place, one heel burrowed into the flex of his other ankle. Her jaw clenched, sealing away an answer that they both knew, yet the truth was not so easily dragged into the light as seconds passed and her drink clinked against the table. Their eyes met—ice cold clashed against the turmoil of the ocean—neither side willing to yield, stubbornness ingrained through separate lives of struggle.

Trailing his finger over the rim of his drink, Itzhal murmured, "Flying, fed, and busy."

There was a land speckled in dust, where duty meant nothing and lives held a price cheaper than dirt, where a woman like Tessa Thayne would settle with their lot in life, because they were 'good at it'. Wariness lined the furrows of Itzhal's face, a frown marred his lips with an expression that barely reached the unpleasant chill in his eyes.

"It's not a long list, Tessa," Itzhal whispered, his voice tinged with a deep sorrow that seeped in like the hollow chill of winter. Unfulfilled dreams hung heavy in the air, raised on a platter, dissected at a whim—belief doesn't alter reality, no matter how much we might want it to. What a sad admission for one who had once dreamed, lost on a trail of stardust and shattered wishes.

Itzhal wrapped his fingers around the sides of his drink, his brow furrowed in thought, tracing over the shape of a puzzle piece buried beneath the surface of this rain-swept world, lost in the shape of what could have been.

Leaning forward, he sipped at his drink, cupped between both hands as he brought it back down to the table, "Give me a week, and I can get you in contact with people who'll pay for those skills, legally, and without a ledger soaked in red at the end of it. I promise you won't even have to see me again. Please, consider it, let this be your cin vhetin."

Tags: Tessa Thayne​

 

[Tessa Thayne]

It's not a long list, Tessa

Tessa looked away then. It wasn't a long list and she'd tell herself it was enough. She'd tell him it was enough, but they'd both know it was a lie. She'd had ample opportunity to make that list longer, to come home reconnect with her mother. She could have found her home in the Protectors or int the Empire. She had chosen not to, not because she didn't want it, feth space was lonely, smuggling lonelier. You relied on yourself, you trusted no one. Every smile and handshake was done with fingers crossed behind your back, just on the off chance that they tried to kill you first.

Whatever emotion he stirred she trapped behind iron gates, drinking deep before meeting his gaze again. "It's enough."

The first lie.

Quiet settled, and Tess watched him, drinking his drink, contemplating. His next words made her eyebrows arch high, blinking in bewilderment, for a second, she said nothing. then the shock wore away and she laughed.

"Fucking Mandalorians." she said shaking her head. "First of all," she leaned forward, one finger pressing against the top of the table, her eyes glittering with anger, not at him, not really, just at the sheer audacity. "ni cuyir va solus ne'waadas a cin vhetin."

Speaking her mother tongue ignited something in her, a boldness that threatened to become something stupid as she contemplated briefly how much damage, if ay she could do. Another finger pressed against the table top. "Secondly, I don't need you to find me legal jobs. I fly a freighter, I move cargo. I take whatever jobs pay, legal or otherwise. It just so happens that the others pay better."

She lifted her fingers from the table and sat back running a hand through her hair, before huffing out a breath and shaking her head.

"Thanks, but no thanks."

Itzhal Volkihar

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Ord Radama, Outer Rim Territories

Both hands cupped around the sides of his drinking glass, Itzhal traced his thumb along the ridged lines, slight deformations designed to allow a better grasp. The glass felt cool against his skin, a welcome distraction as he sat in silence, the dim light of the tavern casting flickering shadows across the worn laminate covering the table before him. He found solace in the simple act of holding the glass, tracing the contours, and grounding himself against the swirling thoughts and observations that threatened to overwhelm him.

Tessa Thayne's blue eyes flickered with a haze of emotions, sadness and longing that the drifting smuggler couldn't contain, only hidden by the sharp twist of her slender neck—though it did little to avoid the momentary flash of acknowledgement before she reacted to her own fragile emotions, leaving the old Morellian to speak again, only this time with less favourable results. She had such emotive eyes when she cared not to bury her feelings. Her nostrils flared with surprise, a short inhale that followed the high-arched curve of her eyebrows, and the shutter-quick blink of her eyes that did nothing to hide the sheer shock of his audacity.

It was impossible to miss the anger that followed, burning behind her eyes—a window to the rage that boiled beneath her skin, searching for some form of release. Itzhal's hands clasped around the glass, shoulders braced; bitter laughter echoed off the small, enclosed walls of the booth.

As he stared into the depths of her gaze, cold blue eyes met her fire with a deliberate calm; he forced himself to breathe slowly, rhythmically. Each inhale with mechanical precision, through his nose, filling his lungs with the musty scent of the tavern mixed with the faint smell of oil and spice that clung to her jacket as she leaned over the table. He waited, a patience born of decades as the fire raged against him.

In the end, he tilted his head in a gentle nod of acknowledgement.

Considering his next set of words, his thoughts were interrupted by a harsh bleep coming from his gauntlet, the trill of a comm-link following seconds later as he pulled his arm close, and tapped to open the frequency.

"Itzhal here," he said, voice steady with a cool level of professional detachment that he didn't entirely feel.

On the other side, a mechanical voice responded, "Reported disturbance at 84 Black Spire Causeway, Lower Vire District, suspicion of breaking and entering. Requesting additional units at the premises. Please respond."

For a second, Itzhal glanced between the gentle glow of his comm-link and the table in front of him—walking distance; it was twenty minutes away.

Outside, rain battered against the windows, a constant pitter-patter not unlike the tick of a grandfather clock. He sighed, "Understood, I'm about five minutes away."

Then, with only a moment to reach for his buy'ce, he looked over Tessa, the locks of hair that framed her face knocked loose, "Apologies, Mrs Thayne, it appears that duty calls. I am aware that I have stretched your patience to the limit, but I'm terrible at leaving things alone, so I'll say one last thing."

Pushing himself out of the booth, he stood to his full height, staying on his own side to avoid blocking her exit, "You choose what jobs you take, what leads to those goals of yours; flying, fed, and busy, it ain't much, but it's honest, and you can have far worse than that. I knew a friend once, kept cycling the drain, kept getting dragged back into the underworld, but I remember what he told me even to this day. There are chains that bind us, chains that we apply willingly, but I wish for freedom. I am the captain of my own future, and I will fly free or die trying."

With the hiss of seals, he lowered his buy'ce, glanced around the room, then back towards the table with a slow nod of his helm.

"Good day, Mrs Thayne, may you fly free," and with that, he turned and left, disappearing into the cold downpour of rain, a flare of heat and fire shooting past the windows outside.

Tags: Tessa Thayne​