Private Beautiful Rocks

[Mara Aurelai]

Luna Mine, Harterra

Mara wrinkled her nose as she opened the door of her speeder. The air outside reeked of sulfur and other minerals, creating a noxious cloud just outside the entrance to the mine. Her expression only grew more disgusted as she took her first few steps on the muddy ground. She had dressed for the locale, trading her Hapan gowns for a more practical getup, but still. Her boots were expensive.

Arlessa should be arriving any minute in her own speeder. Relations had cooled between them since Secciah’s funeral, but Mara took it as a good sign that Arlessa had requested she join her as they toured the famous Luna Mine, where most of Harterra’s precious moonstones were harvested. Moonstones had long been the source of House Khal’s wealth—and according to Mara’s spies, it might soon become their ruin.

The Queen Mother had recently asserted that Harterra’s moonstones were now a “strategic resource of the Consortium” rather than a provincial asset. Arlessa was expected to increase exports to the royal court at reduced “tribute rates”. If she complied with the Queen’s demands, she risked bankruptcy. If she refused, she might be labeled as disloyal to the crown—or worse.

Whatever decision Arlessa made, it would have consequences not only for the future of her family, but for Harterra’s economy as a whole. The miners who labored would be affected, as would everyone else who profited from those beautiful rocks. It would suit Mara's purposes to destabilize Arlessa's reign, of course, but she wasn't sure if the fallout would be worth it.

Arlessa Khal​

 

[Arlessa Khal]

Arlessa did not arrive loudly. The low hum of her speeder cut through the sulfur-laden air only briefly before it settled into stillness, the engine powering down with quiet efficiency rather than announcement. When the door opened, she stepped out without hesitation. Her movements were both unhurried and precise; as though the environment had already been accounted for before she ever set foot within it. The air was no less acrid to her. She just simply did not react to it. Her attire, like Mara’s, had been adjusted for practicality. But where Mara’s adaptation still carried the imprint of preference; Arlessa’s bore only intention. Nothing extraneous. Nothing that could not endure the conditions it had been brought into.

Her gaze lifted almost immediately, not to the mine, but to Mara. She took her in fully. The stance. The tension in her posture. The faint displeasure that had not entirely left her expression. It was well noted. “Lady Mara,” Arlessa greeted, her tone even, carrying neither warmth nor distance, only acknowledgment. She closed the space between them at a measured pace, her attention briefly shifting past her toward the mouth of the mine, where the haze of minerals lingered like a veil over something deeper. “It is not a forgiving place,” she said, though whether she referred to the terrain or the circumstances surrounding it was left deliberately unclear.

A faint pause followed as she came to stand beside her. Not ahead, not behind. But equal footing. At least in appearance. “The Luna Mine has sustained Harterra for generations,” Arlessa continued, her gaze now resting on the darkened entrance. “It has also endured every attempt to control it.” There was no emphasis placed on the statement. It did not need it.

Only then did she glance toward Mara again, more directly this time. “I trust your journey here was uneventful.” It was a simple question. On the surface. But her attention lingered just a fraction too long. Not on Mara’s words, but on the space around them. On the subtle undercurrents that had become far more difficult to ignore since their last meeting. The absence she had noted before, she did not expect it to have changed. And yet, she looked. Not searching blindly. But testing. “Shall we?” Arlessa gestured lightly toward the mine’s entrance, though she did not move just yet. “There is much here worth understanding, before conclusions are drawn about what it should become.” Again her response was layered. The mine. The Queen’s demand. Mara herself. This was not an invitation. It was positioning. And this time, Arlessa would not simply observe. She would learn.

Tag: Mara Aurelai

 

[Mara Aurelai]

Arlessa arrived in a speeder with a noticeably quiet engine. Probably the result of one of her inventions, Mara thought as she watched the other woman exit her vehicle. Arlessa was always tinkering on the machines around her, whether customizing them to her preferences or seeking to improve their functionality.

Mara was still wearing her Force-imbued ring. The illusionary aura it generated wrapped around her like a protective cloak, hiding her absence in the Force. Right now there wasn't a great deal to notice; she was in a calm state, untroubled any significant emotions, and the illusion reflected that serenity. Though the disgust in her expression over the stench emanating from the mine was markedly missing from her smooth and undisturbed "aura".

In response to Arlessa’s greeting, Mara bowed her head. Not in deference—they were equals, being both Duchas of their respective worlds—but out of amicable respect. “Lady Arlessa,” she said. “Forgiving or not, I can’t say I’d want to work in this place day in and day out. Though I suppose one would at least get used to the smell after a while…”

She trailed off, spotting a man in a miner’s uniform approaching them. He stopped several feet away from the women, bowing low. “Ducha,” he addressed Arlessa, voice roughened by years of breathing in dust. “My name is Vorn Marek. I’m the foreman here. I’m to give you a tour of the mine.”

“Hello Mr. Marek,” Mara greeted him with a friendly smile. “I’m Mara Aurelai, the Ducha of Stalsinek IV. I’ll be accompanying the Ducha of Harterra on the tour.”

Vorn glanced at her. There was caution in his gaze, and weariness... maybe even tinged with some private resentment. He bowed to her, same as he had Arlessa, muttering, “Forgive me, I did not know—”

“There’s nothing to forgive, then,” Mara interrupted gently. "Let's begin the tour."

The foreman straightened up and led the way. Mara followed close behind Arlessa as they entered the mine shaft.

Arlessa Khal​

 

[Arlessa Khal]

Arlessa did not miss it. Not the bow. Not the tone. Not the illusion. Where Mara’s presence should have moved - subtly, naturally, imperfectly - it remained….curated. Smooth in a way that living things rarely were. Calm, yes. But too evenly so. Like water without depth. And yet, Arlessa gave no outward indication that she had noticed. She inclined her head in return to Mara’s greeting, accepting the gesture at face value, even as she quietly set it aside for later consideration. “Adaptation is a remarkable thing,” she replied, her voice carrying lightly between them as the foreman approached. “Though not all things should be grown accustomed to.” Whether she meant the scent, the labor….or something else entirely, she did not clarify.

Her attention shifted seamlessly to the foreman as he spoke, her posture adjusting; not to elevate herself, but to acknowledge him fully. There was no dismissal in her gaze, no impatience. Only recognition. “Mr. Marek,” Arlessa said, her tone steady, respectful in a way that did not feel performed. “You have my thanks for receiving us.” She noted the roughness in his voice. The wear in his stance. The way his eyes moved; not just with caution, but with something quieter, more ingrained. That, too, was information.

When Mara spoke, Arlessa did not interrupt. She allowed the introduction, the soft correction, the gentle redirection of the moment to settle as it would. Only a slight shift of her gaze marked that she had taken note of the exchange between them; particularly the foreman’s reaction. Resentment. Not toward Mara alone. But toward them both.

As they began to move, Arlessa stepped forward without hesitation, falling into pace beside the foreman rather than behind him. Not leading. Not following. Positioned where conversation could occur without obstruction. Mara’s presence at her back did not go unaccounted for.

The mine welcomed them with a narrowing of space and a deepening of atmosphere. The sulfur hung thicker here, clinging to the air in a way that settled into the lungs rather than merely passing through. The light shifted too; natural brightness giving way to the dim, deliberate glow of embedded fixtures lining the walls.

Arlessa’s gaze moved not idly, but with purpose. Supports. Reinforcements. The cut of the stone. The rhythm of the labor further within. She listened before she spoke. “How long have you overseen operations here, Mr. Marek?” she asked after a few moments, her voice carrying just enough to reach him without echoing through the shaft. “Through how many cycles has the mine remained under your care?” It was not idle conversation. It was a measure. Of knowledge, of loyalty and of strain.

Her hand remained at her side, her posture composed; but her awareness extended outward, brushing lightly against the edges of what could be felt within the space. Not forcing. Not probing deeply. Just enough.

And again, there it was. Mara’s presence....without presence. Arlessa did not turn to look at her this time. Instead, she allowed the faintest pause to settle between her question and whatever answer the foreman would give; her attention split not in distraction, but in quiet calculation.

If Mara wished to remain unseen in one way. Then she would simply have to be observed in another.

Tag: Mara Aurelai

 

[Mara Aurelai]

Mara went into the mine with an open mind - at least, outwardly she seemed unjudgmental. Privately, she suspected that the conditions the miners were working in were substandard, perhaps even inhumane. Ducha Secciah had been a cruel ruler, after all.

As they plunged into the dark depths, the stench of sulfur grew stronger and the air became unpleasantly warm and humid. It couldn't have been good for the lungs. Mara didn't voice her suspicions out loud, however. The main reason she was here was to observe Arlessa's reactions to whatever they found. If the new Ducha witnessed horrors in the mines, what she did next mattered. Her attitude toward the miners whose hard work provided her family with wealth and riches would set the tone for the rest of her reign.

"I've been the foreman for sixteen standard years, Ducha," Vorn Marek replied. He evidently didn't know the proper way to address her, as he kept calling her Ducha rather than Your Grace. "My father and his father before him were foremen too."

"Really?" Mara moved closer, walking a step behind him. "Does the job get passed down from father to son?" As she spoke, she fiddled with the bracelet on her right wrist, discreetly adjusting the settings.

"No, of course not." His answer was quick and a little nervous. "Males cannot inherit a title. The Ducha chooses the foreman."

And she conveniently chose members of your family. Mara didn't voice her thoughts, but she imagined Arlessa had come to a similar conclusion. Men may not have been able to inherit in Hapan society, but there were loopholes to every law. Secciah likely made a deal with the Mareks in exchange for his fealty... and perhaps he was hoping that Arlessa would continue the tradition. What would the new Ducha have to say to that?

Arlessa Khal​

 

[Arlessa Khal]

Arlessa listened. Not only to the words; but to the space around them as they were spoken. Sixteen years. Long enough for habit to take root. Long enough for loyalty to become something quieter and more difficult to separate from survival.

Her gaze shifted briefly to Vorn Marek as he answered, noting the way certainty came quickly; but not cleanly. There was something practiced in it. Something that had been said before.

And then Mara moved. Closer. Just behind. Arlessa did not turn, but she felt the shift - not through the Force, not in the way she might have expected - but in the more tangible world. The faint adjustment in the air. The subtle change in proximity. The way the foreman’s attention flickered, ever so slightly, as Mara spoke. Her awareness sharpened; not outwardly, but inwardly. And quietly.

“Sixteen years,” Arlessa repeated, her tone thoughtful rather than probing. “That is not a position one holds without proving capable.” She allowed a small pause to follow; not long enough to discomfort, but long enough to separate what came next from what had already been said. “Continuity has it's value,” she added, her gaze drifting briefly along the tunnel walls, toward the reinforced beams and the workers further within. “Particularly in places where disruption carries consequences.” Her eyes returned to Marek. Not sharply, but with intention. “But so does perspective.” It was not framed as a challenge. Not yet.

She slowed her pace just slightly. Not enough to halt the movement forward, but enough to draw the moment out, to let the weight of the conversation settle where it would. “The Ducha chooses,” Arlessa echoed, acknowledging his words without confirming them. “Which means the responsibility for that choice does not rest with tradition but with judgment.” Only then did she glance back briefly toward Mara. Not to meet her eyes. But to place her. The distance. The position. The timing. And something else. It was subtle. Not the Force. But influence. Arlessa did not react to it. Not outwardly. If anything, her composure seemed to settle further into itself, rather than shift under it. Whatever had been introduced into the space; both intentionally or otherwise was noted, categorized and set aside. For now.

Her attention returned to Marek as though nothing had interrupted it. “Tell me,” she said, her voice calm, steady and carrying easily despite the narrowing of the tunnel. “In your sixteen years….what has changed?” It was a simple question. But not an easy one. Her gaze held his; not with pressure, but with expectation. Not of the answer he thought she wanted. But of the one he might hesitate to give. Because that, more than anything, would tell her what she needed to know.

Tag: Mara Aurelai

 

[Mara Aurelai]

Vorn Marek was not a man inclined to show much emotion, it seemed, but he did perk up with greater interest when Arlessa inferred his capability. “I’ve been a miner since I was fourteen years old,” he said. “I know the ins and outs of this place like the back of my hand. I’ve known the people who work the mine all my life. Many of the men down here are folks I grew up with.”

He presented a solid case for continuity, but Arlessa was already bringing up a possible change in management. If Vorn resented the idea of being replaced, he didn’t show it, his craggy visage unreadable as stone. But there was a slight shift in his posture, his shoulders hunching. Whether it was in anger or defeat wasn’t clear.

“We’ve been prosperous,” he answered her question. “There’s been more moonstone mined here in the last ten years than in the previous fifty. It made the late Ducha very rich.” And with the influx of wealth, Secciah had spent more than her predecessors, building palaces and vineyards whose upkeep were a constant tax on House Khal's funds.

Mara listened without comment, her eyes wandering. Workers came into view as they passed through the tunnels, dirty men in uniforms so soaked with dust and sweat that they could never be fully clean. Helmets with built-in flashlights and visors offered protection, but they likely wouldn’t be enough in the event of a cave-in or gas explosion.

“What are the working conditions like?” Mara asked. “How many casualties are there on average each year?”

Vorn hesitated. He had likely learned from experience that there was little to be gained from complaining to the Ducha. “On average, between thirty and fifty each year,” he said. “That’s counting the injured as well as dead. Most don’t die. They get hit with rocks, or fall in a hole, or their mask isn’t sealed properly and the gas gets them. We send them home, let them recover, and they’re back to work within a week.”

“What’s the standard pay?”

“Twenty four credits an hour.”

“That little?” Mara’s eyebrows rose. “For such back-breaking, dangerous work?” She turned to Arlessa. “With the Queen Mother claiming her share of the moonstones as tribute, things will only get more difficult for these people and their families.”

She was stating the obvious, but that was the point. The Ducha of Harterra was in a difficult position already, beholden to the whims of the Queen. Could Arlessa overlook the conditions here if it meant preventing bankruptcy?

Arlessa Khal​

 

[Arlessa Khal]

Arlessa allowed Marek to speak fully, to lay out the shape of his experience in his own terms of years, familiarity, loyalty. It was not without merit. That much she acknowledged, even if she did not say it aloud.

Prosperity. Her gaze shifted, just slightly, as the word settled into place. Not toward Marek this time; but outward. Toward the mine itself. The walls. The workers. The evidence that did not require interpretation. More mined in ten years than in fifty. And yet....

Her attention moved again, slower now. Deliberate. The worn uniforms. The fatigue etched into movement rather than expression. The kind of labor that did not end when the shift did. Prosperity, she thought, without allowing the word to reach her lips, is a matter of perspective.

Mara’s questions followed, and Arlessa did not stop them. She did not soften them, either. Instead, she listened. Thirty to fifty. The number did not visibly strike her; but it did not pass unnoticed. Nothing in her posture shifted, yet something in her stillness deepened. Became more defined.

Twenty-four credits. Her gaze returned to Marek then; not sharply, not accusingly. Simply present. He had answered honestly. Or at least, honestly enough.

When Mara turned to her, Arlessa did not respond immediately. She allowed the implication to settle, to exist in the space without rushing to meet it. Beholden. Difficult. Overlook. The words lingered, though unspoken.

Arlessa stepped forward then. Not ahead of them entirely, but just enough to shift the line of movement. Not leading the tour. Redirecting it. “Prosperity,” she said at last, her voice calm, carrying evenly through the enclosed space, “is a term often used without precision.” She paused, her gaze moving once more across the workers nearby. Not lingering on any one man, but not avoiding them either. “For the House,” she continued, “it appears as abundance. Expansion. Influence.” A slight breath followed. “For those who extract it…” Her eyes settled briefly on a miner adjusting the seal of his mask. “…it appears somewhat differently.” It was not condemnation, but a mere observation.

She turned her attention back to Marek, though her awareness did not narrow. “You have increased output,” Arlessa said. “Significantly.” No praise. No criticism. Just fact. “Was that achieved through expansion of the workforce….or through increased demand placed upon those already here?” It was a question. But also a test. Not of loyalty this time. Of structure.

Only then did she glance; briefly toward Mara. This time, her gaze did meet hers, though only for a moment. Measured. Acknowledging. You are not the only one asking questions here.

Her attention returned forward just as smoothly. “As for the Queen’s interest,” Arlessa added, her tone neither dismissive nor concerned. Simply steady, “it is not the existence of pressure that determines the outcome of a system. It is how that pressure is managed.”

It was not refusal. Nor compliance. But something else. And she left it there unresolved, by design.

Tag: Mara Aurelai