Destruct the Architect

[Kiskla Grayson-Matteo]

Seven years ago​

Naboo​

Sensitive as ever, Kiskla hadn’t been awake for the past quarter of the hour. Her hands were locked behind her head, and ankles to her awkwardly long legs were crossed. Her breathing was soft, and nigh undetectably laced with the odd snore. At the sudden start of sounds, the violet curtain she had been dozing behind slowly lifted, and she caught the tail end of her companion’s wistful wiles. She exhaled tiredly, and rolled to her side — physically forcing herself awake. The grass folded in response to her adjustment, and she propped herself up on an elbow; fixing the ends of her hairs as some were desperate to cling to her pouted lips.
She literally had the biggest mouth on Naboo in so many ways.

“Maybe.” Kiskla agreed, blinking heavily as the stars circled above the pair of Padawans. “Though you’re not very good solo.” She ‘hmmm’d’ thoughtfully and nodded against the heel of her palm, reaching out to poke his chest with her limp arm. "You need me, like I need you.” Content with her input, she rolled back to her shoulder blades and rested her palms on her flat belly and smiled to herself, letting her eyes lull to a content close once more.

Present​

Dagobah ​

The Redeemer of the Republic had no qualms in fending him off, whilst eradicating him. Kiskla had a penchant for taking what was thrown at her, and throwing it right back. It would be no different with the incorporeal — especially when a faint, familiar whisper graced her awareness. Her eyes squeezed shut with a millisecond of relief, exhaling sharply before re-acquainting herself with the now. She could feel the bite of the tendrils, though she didn’t release her grip on the wedge she’d driven to discover the faint echo of [member="Harland Gates"]. If this all went well, she was going to kill him later for getting re-involved in her lift at this point of critical mass. The dark grip threatened to seep into her, and she let it — reducing the intensity of her Force Light for a fragment of a moment.

“You forget how familiar I am with your powers.” Kiskla replied, speaking to the distorted face of her childhood chum “How they’ve fuelled me through many victories. You forget how accustomed I’ve come to manipulating your madness.” That said, she reactivated her focus, the intensity searing. It was like resurrecting the sun. The Force burned her body, cells exploded within her as the Force endotracheal channel to exhale sharply through — as if it had been suffocating through centuries and this was it’s first deep gasp. Kiskla couldn’t help it, a piercing yelp echoed from her in response to the pain — within her the clash of the dark and the light occurred. The darkness was powerful, a trifle moreso than she could muster. Her own strength wavered and she felt her knees turn to honey. The glow that had been surrounding her began to fade, and after her haughty words, she was losing her grip -- losing the sound of Hal, and everything. Like the world beneath her was a fragile puzzle, slowly falling away piece by piece.The darkness extended it's breadth and plunged against her, creeping and seeping. The will within flickered, and the Grandmaster choked on her hold.

Her psyche was cast backwards, into a holding all of her own. Unlike Hal's prison, there were no lights. Only a suffocating cloud -- this was death. She was sure of it. She could feel it's cold, murky atmosphere unlike anything she'd ever experienced. The liquid that stung her eyes was cold, rather than the usual hot salt. Her mouth was dry, and everything felt 10 pounds more than usual -- weighing her down against the resistance. The lull of a haunting hum seduced her to a state of pleasant acceptance, that this was okay. She'd done what she could, the Force Light, but it hadn't worked. Whispers of her experiences ricocheted around invisible walls -- but a single string stood out. A Nabooian accent, but not belonging to Hal: "I promise returning to you is a priority." Kiskla was woozy still, on a delicate balance between giving up and clawing her way back. Then reason stepped in, and an emotion she'd not come to terms with. Something from the bowels of Kiskla's affectionate pit churned, roaring loudly to activation -- would you say love? I would. So would she. [member="Marcello Matteo"] said his life would be worse off without her, even if she was a pain in the ass -- and she was the perfect person to stick around and keep ruining his world! She wanted to see him again -- to be with him again as a real person, not as an afterlife afterthought. That wouldn't do. She'd promised him that she had something to say -- before anything ever happened to her, anything mortal, anything fatal, he had to know in an undeniable expression that she loved him. That's right, she loved him! She was a keeper of her word, always, and she had made a promise. With a deep, ethereal groan she rolled her heavy, shadowed shoulders forward and reached to tear through the constrictive black walls. Her holistic fingers were like wrecking balls, and the walls didn't stand a chance with Kiskla's newfound vigour.

She’d allowed a lot of those tendrils to seep in and affect her, and absorbed them via tutaminis. The purple shadows swirled in her blood, pumping angrily as she searched them out with her own subatomic views via her practiced power, Art of the Small. There wasn’t a single sentient that could match her prowess with that technique. She used this efficiently, in what was seconds in real-time, knowing that time was of the essence. The darkness was manipulated, and exposed to her brilliant internal bursts of light that were brewing again. It was burning now, causing a deep, searing pain from the inside out. Like a shovel, she manipulated the curves of the blended powers to dig, dig, dig deeply into Hal and his conscious and otherwise. There would be no Beyond Shadows. There would be nothing for this demon. A combination of Art of the Small and Force Light burst from the girl’s blindingly glowing body; reaching for the ethereal form of The Son with her own immaterial grip. She found it. After desperate groping, she found the bodiless, hollow shape and evil silhouette. Her physical teeth grit; blood starting to cake at her nose and ears, lips splitting from the intensity. Strong, determined clutch curled around the ferocious body that was The celestial’s. He was weaker than before, she was using the power he had tried to thwart her with, against him; but at a different angle. Everything he tried to pull away now, still pumped through her.

There were no sounds now, nothing but horrified silence and determined, silent fighting for the ultimate victory. Kiskla would succeed — she’d die before the alternative came to fruition. With a final, exhaustive attempt, she wrapped the entirety of her spiritual spread around the Architect and gave a powerful tug upwards and outwards.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Yoink. Out in the open, the explosive clouds rolled, Kiskla and her tormentor clawing at each other in a deathly wrap — tangled in a disembodied intimacy that couldn’t be fathomed. Art of the Small still worked with Force Light to determine what was The Son, and rip, and meld, and reconstruct what he was. It was a savage struggle, but Kiskla was beating down with an intensity she’d never manifested before. Particle by ethereal particle, The Son was being picked apart as the celestial wildly reacted, looking for somewhere, anywhere to hide now. Not take over, but just hide from the Jedi’s rampage. Her feral power was more than he’d bargained for, it was something he’d thought only he could provide — but here she was, barbarically yet meticulously using his own strength against him and contorting it into something unrecognizable and the complete contrast to what it was. White light overpowered the purple shadows bit by bit until finally, finally, there was an unceremonious pop.

A loud gasp hurled itself from Kiskla’s diaphragm and she dropped to her knees. Her body was coated in sweat, blood and mud. Her head hung limply as her weight rolled to one side, the hip pulling downward toward the puddle until her hands also dropped into the damp liquid. Heavy breaths coated her lips as she panted, desperately fighting to continue breathing even though it felt like everything within her was on fire or bleeding. The will to remain upright wasn’t strong enough, she wasn’t strong enough, and soon her right shoulder joined her right hip for a brief moment until, as on naboo, she rolled over onto her shoulder blades. Her body was screaming in protest, her head pounding and swirling as an after affect to the struggle. Still struggling for breath. But she’d won.
She’d won.

Hal. Was Hal okay? She winced at the thought, but couldn’t summon any energy for an investigation — which deeply concerned her.

 

[Harland Gates]

Whatever little was meant by that conversation seven years ago - those words had still held weight and sway within the mind of the spacer. Perhaps that's why his mind had shifted; coerced by the pressure of the blonde to force Hal's conscious mind from slipping into the empty black abyss of the Architect, and directed to a memory that would draw out his own will and mind from that of the overpowering onslaught of this ethereal malevolent deity. A journey into the stars is all that Harland had ever wanted, and if he were to be completely honest, he'd wanted Kiskla by his side in all his adventures as he discovered worlds, plotted new hyperlanes, and had fantastic adventures. Seven years ago, he would have never dreamed that in order to fulfill that passion - he'd be leaving Kiskla, the Jedi, and the entire Order behind. He still didn't regret his decision to leave the Order, and to discontinue his Jedi training. He still didn't believe in what the Jedi stood for, and he couldn't reconcile his own failures and faults to be part of the Order. He'd never be the Jedi that Selev had seen in him, but he did regret leaving her. She would have never come with him; that much he knew too well - still he would of offered, had things gone differently. The soft knoll of grass laid peaceful and still while the stars above shown even brighter. The young padawan staring up at the stars in their infinite beauty and majestic wonder.

A sudden flash of brilliant purple etched it's halo about one of the shining lights above - tearing the star from it's place against the dark canopy of sky and ripping it across the horizon line to slam into the depths of the lake dozens of kilometers from them. The water burned and boiled from the heat just as another trail of indigo fire careened from it's pinprick of light and tore it's path down to one of the smaller islands, exploding with ferocious energy. In panic, the blue eyed padawan startled himself to a crouched position, looking immediately to his right and finding nothing there, no sign of his blonde friend. All at once he wasn't a boy anymore, he was garbed in the spacer clothes he knew so well now. The sky was tearing apart, and the stars he'd witnessed that night were dying, coming into a cascade of a dramatic meteor shower. The lines of their plight and descent ripped the figment of imagination and memory to shreds, revealing the scene on Dagobah from a non-corporeal view. Watching in silent horror as the scene burned away, and the distended serenity of his memory revealed the truth behind the guise. He could hear the roar of battle, and watch the demand it was putting on the grand master as the roaring demonic bellow of The Architect answered back with the fury of all the ages.

"AARRRGH!" The Architect screamed with crackling of ambient energy spilling forth now from the very threads of it's hosts jacket. Reigning back it's tortured cry, the anger and pain washed through and energized the entity drawing out a venomous throaty laugh. "I forget NOTHING, Jedi." The voice echoed back in reprimanding fashion, chiding her attempt to dislodge him from this paltry host. "This was a gift - a chance of learning in ways that not even you have fully comprehended. This was MY place, MY purpose...MY victory." He screamed and hissed drawing the energy it still controlled up and around in a cloud of purple haze. "You will not wrestle this from me!" Despite its words the Architect knew it wasn't going to hold it's own against the power of the Force Light, and quickly took the bait as Kiskla opened herself up to the darkness again, letting the power and anger rage like the pure potent sin of wrath to drive against her will. The Architect though wasn't seeking immediate revenge, this was a fight for survival. The contest was not to see if he could reclaim the girl - it knew better than that, but it's plans were far more nefarious. "The darkness is power - I...am power." It echoed in both Hal's and Kiskla's ears as it pushed in, and utilized the dual Force connection; both from the pilot and the Jedi to enact it's choice of combat. Tendrils shot out again, but this time, not for either of the two locked in such stiff competition. These tendrils reached back and slammed into the roots of the tree, igniting the bark in unholy fire. The door was there - that ceremonial place where Kiskla had opened the floodgates, and took on this demon. The door to Beyond Shadow, and a gateway to the transcendent plane. The Architect was going to forge a new path - a pathway between worlds where he wouldn't need a stubborn host to bare his presence. He'd step right out in his own form, clothed in nature, fueled by the power of life itself.

Locked in this mental prison, Hal screamed in futility and beat upon walls that were not truly there. He saw the plan of Kiskla, he recognized what she was doing, to try and save him. Despite knowing that he couldn't contend with The Architect on equal footing - he did not want to see what that deity would do when strangling the life and breath of his best friend. Slowly the hold of The Architect began to slip, and cracks began to appear in the shelter of a closed off well. His spirit was reviving, his body was no longer tingling with an energy that kept his own will paralyzed. As his own grip on reality started to return - so did some of the memories of things he had learned about the Force. Simple truths that he either had forgotten or locked away. They were coming like a flood, drawing out perhaps in perfect serendipity to put an end to this struggle. Grey mist began to seep into the darkness where he was starting to see more light, congregating into a form before him - one he hadn't seen in many many years. Dark locks of hair hung about a stern and unwavering visage, along with a trimmed goatee, and a spirit that exuded both a peaceable calm and an unquestioning authority. Master Jos'na Selev, the first and only mentor in the Force that Hal had ever respected.

"Quite a pickle you've gotten yourself into young padawan." Selev chided his former apprentice with a heavy gaze while his arms wrapped about in the robes of his cloak across his chest. The haunting image of him seemed real, but Hal knew that nothing was what it seemed in this astral projection of his mind's eye. "It seems as if Miss Grayson is here to bail you out once more - but at what cost?" A curious brow lifted in begging the question to the spacer who stood somewhat slack jawed at the appearance of a friend long dead, thought to be at one with the Force, and at peace - if even that was true.

"Not helping." He said after a moment to think, his eyes narrowed as he looked to the scene again, the vision of what had once been a peaceful Nabooian memory was all but gone replaced with the image of Kiskla taking on the deity seemingly on her own. "What am I supposed to do though? You never trained me for this...how could you? Did you even know about this?" His anger flaring up at his former mentor's way of getting right under his skin.

"The Force doesn't always grant what we wish to see, but often will give us a glimmer of what it wants." An old adage he'd used ad nauseim to instruct Gates back on that lush green world they called home for so many years. "Your path is what you chose, the Force did not choose that for you."

"Still not helping." He looked somewhat despondant towards his former mentor, and then back to Kiskla as she gritted her teeth in conflict. "I know I can't help her...maybe you can."

"I'm not really here Harland, and you know that."

"Then what good are you?!"

"You left the Order, and you turned your back on the living Force. My instruction in it is not going to do anything for you now." He paused for a moment, stroking the goatee like beard before his hand came out and gently placed on Hal who looked far more than worried. "You've done something different than I expected." Selev said with a soft smile. "The Force doesn't leave us, just because we stop training young one - it is your will." He smirked. "That stubborn and audacious bravado that has kept it at bay." The smile finally came. "So do what you have done best well after I was no longer there - show it just how rancor-headed you can be." And just like that, the image of his former mentor wisped into smoke.

Tooth and nail, the Architect fought within Kiskla, tearing and slashing at every crevice it could, but only to find more white light burning away at his resolve with every passing second. His focus though, was not on her as much as it was on the door. He had to open it, had to allow himself an out when this went down. He would exhaust all resources, tap into all streams of the Force he had sway over to link the planes of the ethereal and physical to join and merge. He'd find a portal to this physical plane without a chosen one, and he'd become his own perfect vessel that would savor in each malefic drop of blood that he ripped out of every creature in his path. His metaphorical mouth watered at that power, and it kept him burning, attempting to unlock that secret - that is until a voice echoed within him that he didn't quite recognize. As Kiskla summoned her strength and pulled the last bit of Force born control The Son kept on Hal, the voice of the spacer overtook the lips previously running in firm demonic concourse with this enemy.

"For all those years plotting and pining for the perfect puppet - you should have thought a lot harder about choosing my best friend." Hal said with conviction, his eyes open and flashing in brilliant purple. Fists clenched at his side shaking with the power and conflict of The Son still battling for control, but for some reason losing his grip. Both arms came up to his side, grasping onto the forearms of the Jedi before him, holding her in strength, and keeping her footing sure. "So let me make one thing abundantly clear. You are NOT welcome in her. You are NOT welcome in me..." A brilliant white flash of power escaped through the Jedi's final push of power, as the will of Harland Gates shut out his Force signature entirely (as he had done several times in the past five years). "..and you are NOT welcome in the Galaxy!"

An unnatural howl of searing pain and horror echoed in the Dagobah swamp as the cloud of gaseous purple and black ripped free from the plane, the door shutting like a steel trap without the power to keep it open long enough for a viable connection. Like a plume of fire it roared up into into the atmosphere dissipating in a brief but climactic mushroom cloud of a powder-keg. Dirt and ash settled like snow upon the ground, touching the leaves of the trees and quietly making their descent across the glade. Hal's form stood covered in dirt and ash, his skin caked with bruises and wounds that were now just surface abrasions. He was weak, barely able to stand on his own legs, but filled with adrenaline that rushed through him. His breathing came in deep gulps, trying to reign down the throbbing in his head as his eyes squinted and his form crashed soon to his knees. Both hands moved to Kiskla, picking the girl up in his arms, and holding her close to his chest. A slow wry smirk starting to slide over his face.

"Promise me we're not gonna do that again." He offered with a bit of a charmed smug smile, brushing some of the hair from her face. "After all you need me, like I need you." It was worth repeating.


[member="Kiskla Grayson"]

 

[Kiskla Grayson-Matteo]

“Not your idea of a good time?” Kiskla whispered in response, wanting to say more but the pain that burned in her chest restricted her from voicing anything else. She did manage to force a pathetically wan, and weak smile on her bloodied lips. The marrow of her bones felt like flaming embers, her muscles screamed with the fiery sensation from the overuse of Force Light. Kiskla was drunk in the exhilaration, and like any young girl inebriated of any sort of toxin, someone was there to cradle and hold her. But his touch was painful, the pressure against her delicate body was like thorns.

What was perhaps more terrifying than the pain, was the fact that Kiskla had no physical sight. She felt like her eyes were open, and they were, but she couldn’t see a thing. Not through The Force, nor through any sort of normal visual standard. Fear gripped her intensely, and she squirmed in protest, giving a small gasp against the fabric of [member="Harland Gates"]’ jacket. Reacting instinctively, her hands moved to what was solid, and traced to where she had felt his fingers against her cheeks. Her initial interaction was with the air, a pathetic paw executed blindly until she found his fingers and coiled her own between them.

“Are you okay?” She asked, unable to see the evidence of him for herself, but she couldn’t feel anything. The senses that had been wild with oppression and darkness were muted, and the only empathetic cue she was receiving was that of weakness and discomfort. "I'm sorry that happened to you. Nobody was supposed to be part of this."

 

[Harland Gates]

Wherever that distended and deformed cloud of sentient force born deity went, it was no longer tied to the mortal plane in the swamps of Dagboah. The ethereal shadow that had hung over the landscape keeping back all manner of wild-life that would normally haunt the damp and humid bog of a planet had been expelled. Slowly, as if testing the waters sounds began to return of the natural kind in the distance. A cool rain starting again as even the clouds had been kept at bay, letting cool drops of water pepper down in a light drizzle to cascade across the landscape. Dark star-burst patterns or burned and tarnished moss caked the ground beneath the pair as the grand master lay limply in the spacer's arms. His entire body felt like it was alive and on fire at the same moment. Electricity seemed to arc through his veins prickling his flesh from the inside out. While his muscle system was sore in nearly every juncture, the energy he felt was more potently alive, causing his blood to rush faster and stronger through the limbs. He felt the heat of adrenaline and the after affects of possession slowly begin to die down. The rain itself felt like a balm to his wounds, cooling the fire within, and keeping him in check from overheating, a token bit of relief after such an ordeal.

"Think I'd rather take my chances with a Krayt Dragon, to be honest." Hal responded with a slight chuckle watching her digits grasp at nothing, attempting to locate his digits by sheer luck and chance - searching for that solid anchor to reality. The cascading white streaks erupting from a paled murky pool of fog where her pupils had once been gave the pilot pause as to what she'd put herself through in order to not only secure her survival, but his alone. Guilt was going to come from this - and he already knew it was going to weigh heavy, but he chose for the moment to not focus on that emotion, and rather be satisfied that they were both still breathing. Interlacing his digits with her own, and offering that bonded touch even with the facial cues of her lips and cheeks as she cringed from each thorn like prickle of even the slightest touch. Though much as he suspected she was quite uncomfortable, he wasn't about to let the woman out of his embrace while he kept his presence on the forest floor. She was apologizing, and he was rolling his eyes at the moment for how after all of that madness she felt like she owed him an apology. There was that robe-head mentality, or perhaps it was just the girl's continued friendship with him that was bearing to light her want for his safety. "Like I would ever let you have that much fun without me." Another wry smirk crossed his face as he placed a soft kiss to the back of her hand as he held it within his own. "Close your eyes - it's likely gonna take some time to reel back from whatever white light adventure we just survived."

Did he know? Nope, not a single clue whether or not she'd be alright, but it would be far more comforting to have the void of black encompassing her vision if her eyelids were shut. It'd feel more natural, less terrifying he wagered. He wasn't entirely sure what had happened, or what kind of astral projection and force nightmare he had just lived through. Harland knew the basics, and understood her story on the surface, but there were a lot of meta levels of knowledge that were wrapped up in this whirlwind of darkness that he wasn't privy to, which was probably a good thing. What he didn't want to think about though is what she would of had to endure if she had done this on her own. The girl was just as reckless and stubborn as she was when they were kids on Naboo - but on an entirely different self-sacrificing level. It bothered Gates something fierce to think she was so concerned for the Galaxy that she'd neglect her own well-being to this degree. Probably more-so since he had seen the aftermath first hand, felt it's power tearing through him. He was going to need so many refreshers to get this taint off of him. Surface abrasions aside, the way he felt right now, alive notwithstanding, he wanted to get rid of as soon as they were both able to travel again.

"I don't want to see you playing at anything resembling work for at least a week. Bed rest, food and liquids." He chided her lightly with an amused tone while keeping hold of her hand, letting her come down from the force infused light that spilled from her like the conduit she had become. "You may be the grand master, but even Kiffar's that battle otherworldly force demon body snatchers need their rest." It was really the only logic he could wrap his head around, and while it was probably not as apt a description as she could come up with, it would have to do. "Doctor's orders." Though he was far from anything professional in the medical field or otherwise. Would she listen? Not likely.

[member="Kiskla Grayson"]

 

[Kiskla Grayson-Matteo]

The scent of metal was heavy between them, metal and mud. It was blood and dirt, and she could feel it soaking into her — she could only imagine how [member="Harland Gates"] looked. She sincerely hoped that she wouldn’t have to imagine for long, and this blindness was indeed temporary.

“Selev would be impressed with you.” The blonde whispered, finding that speaking at a more audible decibel pained her throat and the roof of her mouth. She didn’t say anything to his point about how rest was needed. Kiskla Grayson was not the first Jedi to sustain an injury, and she would not be the last. The idea of taking time to recuperate was as if suggesting a tropical retreat; it seemed astronomically vain and selfish in a time as oppressed as the one they were living in. And she was supposed to be at the forefront of it. People only followed those they believed in; and each time Kiskla was the vanguard of the battle line, and returned alive, people believed in her a little more. It was a sick cycle.

But then there were moments like this, of triumph and tenderness that blew everything that was a mundane activity right out of the water. If anyone had told the pair as teenagers this would happen to them, they’d be met with snorts and eye rolls. As much as Kiskla hated to admit it, she wasn’t sure what the odds would have been if she had come into this alone, without her childhood best friend with her. What if Marcello had come? Would he have killed her? Would she have been able to overpower him if he’d been transferred to as Hal had? Maybe it was the perfect balance, a delicate and subtle reminder of The Force.

Kiskla didn’t believe in that hullabaloo, except for a brief moment when the possibilities were evaluated as nothing more than sheer circumstance.

 

[Harland Gates]

There was a time in which that was all he ever wanted - to make his Master proud. While the words had flowed from the Jedi Master's lips on Naboo a dozen or so times (and even more off world) he didn't feel like they were anything but hollow sentiments. Making Selev proud was something Harland knew he rarely did, simply because he saw his own faults and failures along the way. Being dug out of one scrape or another, not by any Jedi merit, but by his friend and his Mentor playing at keeping him breathing a minute longer. The idea that Selev would have been dead over over five years before Gates could make him proud didn't exactly light up the spacer on a positive note, but a smile still touched his lips as he held Kiskla in the quiet of the Daobah swamp. There was no rush to move at this point though - as both of them needed their rest. Gates barely had enough energy to stand, and he was quite sore from all the jostling around the energy did within him. Kiskla seemed more externally wounded (which was just plain obvious) and he knew that neither of them were going to get up and start walking back to the ship in the next few minutes. Within the dim fog, and rustling of vines and trees in the distance Hal simply held Kiskla in his embrace, and let her rest from such a taxing and monumental occasion. He knew she hadn't thought this through - while she could do amazingly well at working within a situation, she never had the head for all that bigger picture stuff, and nor did Hal. It took a third party of observation to really clue each other into a potential pitfall or folly the two would gloss over. Getting them to listen to that advice, that was decidedly harder and proven with how Harland had to berate the woman until she had accepted in an unwilling fashion. The result though - he couldn't argue with, and he doubted she'd muster up the stubbornness to do that either.

A Few Hours Later

Lights flashed back and forth on the tip of each wing on the Wild Goose while the engine check was done by skilled hands and admittedly tired eyes. Humidity, the atmosphere itself, and all manner of plant and insect life was something he had to be careful of. Just landing here was doing no favors for the exhaust vents. He couldn't imagine what kind of damage the famous Jedi Master of the old order had gone through to get his X-wing operational after being dunked into the swampland. Thankfully among the miniaturized storage space was a meager version of a refresher, that both Hal and Kiskla could make use of to get cleaned up from the muck and mire this planet had to offer. Feeling a thousand times better with a clean face, and combed hair, the spacer continued his rounds about the outside of the ship, while the cockpit lay unsealed. He hadn't said much to Grayson since they got back to the ship -- a journey that was part walking, and part carrying the Jedi Master until she could capture solid footing again. They didn't need a lot of words between them - not after what they had been through, and who they already were.

"Looks like there's only about half a pint of seaweed trying to choke out the exhaust ports this time, we should be hitting atmo in ten." Hal offered to the whereabouts of Kiskla while he forcefully wrenched out the tangled mess of slime ridden foliage from the ports on the aft of each wing. "Sure you're clingy, but you don't have nearly enough room service to make up for the rest of this planet." His comment directed completely at the clogged mess of green leaves that was trying to forcefully choke the life out of the Goose, and keep it land bound. People rarely visited Dagobah for a reason - as it was not exactly on the top ten lists of destination cities for a vacation. After a thorough vetting that all the compartments on the outside were free from plant debris, and he wasn't seeing any stray Mynocks coming in for a snack, Hal touched his boots to the rungs of the ladder and climbed into the cockpit. "These are going to take days to clean." He noted, flipping open the side compartment to look at the twin blasters that had been knocked from his hands hours prior. The Lazy-eye was fine, and would be during pretty much any adverse conditions, but the MT-14's were another matter entirely.

Shifting about and falling into the pilot's chair, the system readouts were scanned for any abnormalities before he gave the all good signal with a whistle and whirl of his index in the air. Once Grayson was seated, and all the cargo was in order, the cockpit lowered and came to a hiss sealing them into the craft once again. Somehow he doubted the trip through hyperspace would be as eventful as the story-time Kiskla laid on him coming here. He didn't mind though, she probably had a lot of thinking to do on the way back home. The Wild Goose's engines fired and the craft rose up smooth from the moss laden sod, tucking the landing gear in and shooting off from the enclosure canopy he had parked it under. Brilliant blue fire ripped from the wings as their trail from the murky jungle fog charted their path upwards and away from the planet proper. Coordinates were locked soon after as the planet diminished in size behind them. Starlight pin pricks of light gave to an instant stretching before the craft vanished into the hyperlane to take them back to Anaxes.

[member="Kiskla Grayson"]