For the heat, she didn't have too many suggestions. People were known to survive Mustafar in regular civ-clothes, though the
how of it alluded her entirely. But before long, they were all out of the ship. The SIthling was clad in her usual armor and fifteen blades. Never leave the house without 'em!
But then a shot, a quick dialogue, and Scherezade's mood went sour.
"There are always people on Mustafar," she pointed out,
"and I remember your name. We met on Tatooine." And then there was the whole…
Thing,
"how about you don't threaten my people and say you'll consider their actions acts of war which you do not have the power to decree and then we can talk? So stop threatening because you are clearly outnumbered, and if you want to live, I suggest you learn some basic manners."
Scherezade was a Sith Lord, a trained Warrior, and a Blood Hound. None of the people with her were apprentices or low in experience. But just to show him, Scherezade thrust a hand forward, moving the rocks between them and Mike V'Trechen. Earth was her element, and she practiced it so many times until she'd become excellent at it. The space between them cracked, and slowly began to turn into an elongated sink hole.