ʜᴄ sᴠɴᴛ ᴅʀᴀᴄᴏɴᴇs
"Nar Shadda motel." Not hotel, which might imply some classy gathering-place for dignitaries and mover-shakers, or some vacation retreat for any civilian types who want to get a small taste of thrill and illegality before returning to their dull, dusty lives. Not hostel, which suggests a charitable initiative on a planet all too short on charity, providing comfort and aid to the lowly and downtrodden, the groaning majority of Nar Shadda, food for starving bellies or shelter for the cold and lonely. Not even brothel, which might suggest at the very least a semblance of decorum, some beaded curtains, or even just a sense of liveliness. This was a motel. The most mediocre that the Smuggler's Moon could offer, with prices just a shade too high to be called reasonable. A good place to hide, but a terrible place to be.
Sintel Kay, aspirant to the Sith, sprawled out in a green, plastic-covered armchair, waiting for the noise to blow over. He hated waiting. Sith needed to know how to wait, how to have a good bide and all, but that didn't make it any less horrible. Maybe this was why all the Darths were so angry all the time when he saw them in the holovids.
On the complementary, small, and shoddy holoscreen, a hulking, armored man impaled a lithe warrior on a lightsaber blade, their eyes glinting with rage, hatred, anger, victory. A "Kaggath", a ritual duel to the death between the Sith. He leered and taunted as the light left her eyes, promising her an afterlife of pain as an imprisoned spirit, then making good on those promises.
Sintel licked his lips. They were so... passionate. So alive. The Zeltron's Sith uniform, if a hastily-assembled costume decorated with some obvious Sith iconography could be called such, was stuffed in the closet, a death's head helmet resting on top of it, a towel draped over it.
Pausing so he could get a better look at the deathblow, maybe try and pinpoint the moment when the other Lord kicked the bucket, the took another adhesive bandage out of his bag and slapped it on another cut. Glass showers were murder on the skin. His gray-green tunic was on the floor, bloodstained from covering up his injuries as he had slipped into this place. His unzipped jacket and grey slacks did little to conceal the figure of someone who hasn't struggled much in their life - although his decision to run away from his family had changed that.
As he covered up yet another cut, his milky pink skin looking like a patchwork, practically, he sighed, taking in the sensation of the dull ache of his injuries, mulling it over, savoring it. He had sent out a call - a message. Some contact info, and a place to meet. Only time would tell if he was answered.
Sintel Kay, aspirant to the Sith, sprawled out in a green, plastic-covered armchair, waiting for the noise to blow over. He hated waiting. Sith needed to know how to wait, how to have a good bide and all, but that didn't make it any less horrible. Maybe this was why all the Darths were so angry all the time when he saw them in the holovids.
On the complementary, small, and shoddy holoscreen, a hulking, armored man impaled a lithe warrior on a lightsaber blade, their eyes glinting with rage, hatred, anger, victory. A "Kaggath", a ritual duel to the death between the Sith. He leered and taunted as the light left her eyes, promising her an afterlife of pain as an imprisoned spirit, then making good on those promises.
Sintel licked his lips. They were so... passionate. So alive. The Zeltron's Sith uniform, if a hastily-assembled costume decorated with some obvious Sith iconography could be called such, was stuffed in the closet, a death's head helmet resting on top of it, a towel draped over it.
Pausing so he could get a better look at the deathblow, maybe try and pinpoint the moment when the other Lord kicked the bucket, the took another adhesive bandage out of his bag and slapped it on another cut. Glass showers were murder on the skin. His gray-green tunic was on the floor, bloodstained from covering up his injuries as he had slipped into this place. His unzipped jacket and grey slacks did little to conceal the figure of someone who hasn't struggled much in their life - although his decision to run away from his family had changed that.
As he covered up yet another cut, his milky pink skin looking like a patchwork, practically, he sighed, taking in the sensation of the dull ache of his injuries, mulling it over, savoring it. He had sent out a call - a message. Some contact info, and a place to meet. Only time would tell if he was answered.