Blackthorne
She of the Trillion Thorns
Coruscant
The Undercity
The Wayward Rat - Traveling Black Market Bazaar
It was getting harder and harder to keep business afloat now that the Alliance had come to claim the jewel of the galaxy. Coruscant would never be a clean place, no. Not after so many centuries of dirt would it ever truly be cleansed, but the scrubbing fingers of justice and good were certain to make things difficult for the disease to continue as it had.
The Wayward Rat was the answer to the encroaching bleach of the Alliance forces. A market that moved and scrabbled along the undercity, squeezing through the impossible holes to eek out its life off the dredges of what the upper levels had left behind. Weren't difficult to find, per say, not if you knew the right people to ask the right sort of questions. People that lurked in the corners of the by-ways that the common citizen never traveled. Questions that posed themselves as offers, come-ons. Riddles as answers given for the right pound of flesh. Sometimes living, sometimes willing, othertimes neither of the above.
No one ever said the undercity was a nice place.
She'd been to Coruscant only once before and it had not been for anything remotely relating to why she was here now. Hard to think that long ago, upon a time before the galaxy knew real silence, her family had ruled here. So much for legacies - though she supposed it wasn't such a great loss. The undercity spoke of a festering foundation that slowly collapsed in on itself over the years. No one bothered to fix it for the simple fact that it couldn't be fixed, just like it couldn't be clean. Instead they built empires ontop of the crumbling layers. Generation after generation, faction after faction; the greatest historical layercake of the universe.
Faint purple smoke coiled through her gaze as she stared up through the darkening skies. It wasn't night that approached but the lower levels of the city that rose. She'd never been below the smog, never wondered what sort of realm existed beneath the veil, and here today she would witness it first hand.
But first a ride on public mass-transit. The tramway rumbled in bated silence; a whole car filled with people who refused to talk to one another despite sharing the same recycled air and choking on one another's rot. The young woman watched the ashen faces around her, intrigued in the way they so willingly broke their gaze. Might've been her wardrobe. Might've just been the norm.
Might've been the presence of the Truesword hidden, seething and malevolent, beneath the lengths of her leather trenchcoat.
[member="The Slave"]
The Undercity
The Wayward Rat - Traveling Black Market Bazaar
It was getting harder and harder to keep business afloat now that the Alliance had come to claim the jewel of the galaxy. Coruscant would never be a clean place, no. Not after so many centuries of dirt would it ever truly be cleansed, but the scrubbing fingers of justice and good were certain to make things difficult for the disease to continue as it had.
The Wayward Rat was the answer to the encroaching bleach of the Alliance forces. A market that moved and scrabbled along the undercity, squeezing through the impossible holes to eek out its life off the dredges of what the upper levels had left behind. Weren't difficult to find, per say, not if you knew the right people to ask the right sort of questions. People that lurked in the corners of the by-ways that the common citizen never traveled. Questions that posed themselves as offers, come-ons. Riddles as answers given for the right pound of flesh. Sometimes living, sometimes willing, othertimes neither of the above.
No one ever said the undercity was a nice place.
She'd been to Coruscant only once before and it had not been for anything remotely relating to why she was here now. Hard to think that long ago, upon a time before the galaxy knew real silence, her family had ruled here. So much for legacies - though she supposed it wasn't such a great loss. The undercity spoke of a festering foundation that slowly collapsed in on itself over the years. No one bothered to fix it for the simple fact that it couldn't be fixed, just like it couldn't be clean. Instead they built empires ontop of the crumbling layers. Generation after generation, faction after faction; the greatest historical layercake of the universe.
Faint purple smoke coiled through her gaze as she stared up through the darkening skies. It wasn't night that approached but the lower levels of the city that rose. She'd never been below the smog, never wondered what sort of realm existed beneath the veil, and here today she would witness it first hand.
But first a ride on public mass-transit. The tramway rumbled in bated silence; a whole car filled with people who refused to talk to one another despite sharing the same recycled air and choking on one another's rot. The young woman watched the ashen faces around her, intrigued in the way they so willingly broke their gaze. Might've been her wardrobe. Might've just been the norm.
Might've been the presence of the Truesword hidden, seething and malevolent, beneath the lengths of her leather trenchcoat.
[member="The Slave"]