flesh is temporary
Third level, hallway number five, seventh door on the right.
Tsisaar looked up from the sheet of paper, counting down the doors. Sure enough, the one he sought was only a few meters away...and he could already recognize the stench of rot and decay emanating from behind it. The Inquisitor's huleppi twitched along with his irritation at the thought. Some of the records he'd found had detailed just what the inside of this 'workshop' he was approaching looked like, and even with the modifications made to him, he still had mostly the same physiology as any other Khil in the galaxy.
Which meant that he'd have to scrub his tendrils down with bleach just to get the stench and taste out of them.
He folded the sheet of paper, quickly setting it within a pocket. He looked down at the items he held in his hands; the report had said that [member="Lethia Morow"] was a fan of crumpets and decorative tea cosies, so the Sith had felt it prudent to bring some along. At the very least, he hoped it would make a good first impression, if nothing else.
What he was least pleased with was the clothing he was wearing.
Tsisaar, as a rule, nearly always dressed in the same exact manner from day to day. Loose-fitting dark blue robes, simple trousers, that sort of thing. Almost his entire wardrobe consisted of simple variations on that basic idea. Yet—after deciding that Lethia Morow would make for a good opportunity to fulfill his assignment from Lord Velok—some of Tsis's fellows in the Saaraishash had avised—nay, insisted that it would be a wise decision to disguise himself somewhat.
So his lightsaber sat hidden far deeper than he was comfortable with, the trousers he had been made to wear were far tighter than he considered comfortable, and, as the least objectionable article of clothing, he was wearing a somewhat close-fitted dark button-up shirt. He looked like a civillian, perhaps a freighter captain, perhaps a pirate who had managed to get enough money to buy a new set of clothes. Either way, he did not like it.
It was too late to change, however, so he would just have to put up with it.
Stopping in front of the door to the Fleshwarped Fashions workshop, Tsisaar gave three sharp knocks to announce his presence.
Tsisaar looked up from the sheet of paper, counting down the doors. Sure enough, the one he sought was only a few meters away...and he could already recognize the stench of rot and decay emanating from behind it. The Inquisitor's huleppi twitched along with his irritation at the thought. Some of the records he'd found had detailed just what the inside of this 'workshop' he was approaching looked like, and even with the modifications made to him, he still had mostly the same physiology as any other Khil in the galaxy.
Which meant that he'd have to scrub his tendrils down with bleach just to get the stench and taste out of them.
He folded the sheet of paper, quickly setting it within a pocket. He looked down at the items he held in his hands; the report had said that [member="Lethia Morow"] was a fan of crumpets and decorative tea cosies, so the Sith had felt it prudent to bring some along. At the very least, he hoped it would make a good first impression, if nothing else.
What he was least pleased with was the clothing he was wearing.
Tsisaar, as a rule, nearly always dressed in the same exact manner from day to day. Loose-fitting dark blue robes, simple trousers, that sort of thing. Almost his entire wardrobe consisted of simple variations on that basic idea. Yet—after deciding that Lethia Morow would make for a good opportunity to fulfill his assignment from Lord Velok—some of Tsis's fellows in the Saaraishash had avised—nay, insisted that it would be a wise decision to disguise himself somewhat.
So his lightsaber sat hidden far deeper than he was comfortable with, the trousers he had been made to wear were far tighter than he considered comfortable, and, as the least objectionable article of clothing, he was wearing a somewhat close-fitted dark button-up shirt. He looked like a civillian, perhaps a freighter captain, perhaps a pirate who had managed to get enough money to buy a new set of clothes. Either way, he did not like it.
It was too late to change, however, so he would just have to put up with it.
Stopping in front of the door to the Fleshwarped Fashions workshop, Tsisaar gave three sharp knocks to announce his presence.