Faction Exodus of War [THR]

[Hannibal Daxos]

Ukatis-Refugee Camp
Ryn Trask Tess Wyn-Tai Cali Ziiva
​

So much for low radar and smooth. Hannibal thought with a small smirk and laugh. "I wonder what else you do when you are cornered...?" Hannibal said under his breath with another laugh, he was sure that she heard him, but that was the point. Funny, and well, funny given their circumstances right now.

He let a short, almost-smile ghost across his face. "Keep your teeth in your mouth unless someone deserves the inconvenience." he said. "We watch each other's backs." Then, more practical, he tilted his head toward the tents. "Stay close, and don't look like you know anyone. Move like the rest of them, tired, hungry, and invisible. That's the simplest camouflage."

Or so he thought.....

"Oh, thanks. I mean, sorry for bumping into you. I don't know what happened."

Ryn collided with a pink skinned lady and it couldn't have come at a worse time.

"Oh, Don't mind him, he does this all the time." Hannibal said with a small smirk, yet it faded rather quickly as he looked between the four of them, giving Ryn a playful slap on the chest. "Ain't that right......"

"Moral officer extraordinaire, what is that." He looked to the pink haired lady, then to Tess. "And before you say anything, I'm sure it has something to do with Morale." Daxos chuckled lightly as this was the appropriate time for Tess to insert some sort of teasing comment. And then if it didn't, this was going to backfire terribly. Oh well, score two for the three stooges.

 

[Durak'Tur]

KINDNESS SHARED

Tag: Ariel Korvane

Durak’Tur’s deep chest rose and fell with the steady rhythm of one accustomed to long days of quiet labor. His amber eyes glinted in the dim light of the tents as Lady Ariel spoke, her words threading through the weary hum of the camp like a soft chord of music. For a moment, the Whiphid only regarded her in silence, the corners of his furred mouth curving slightly beneath the shadow of his tusks. There was humility in her voice, but also strength, the kind born not of title or wealth, but of conviction.

“Steadiness,” he rumbled at last, voice low and resonant, “is no virtue born of me alone, my Lady. It comes from those who refuse to falter, even when all else bends. You bring that same flame here.” He reached into the crate beside them, his large hands moving with unexpected gentleness as he lifted one of the luminous blankets she had brought. The faint hum of the Force within the fabric brushed against his senses, calm, rejuvenating, alive. “Your artisans have woven more than comfort into these. They’ve captured intention. That is rarer than bacta in these times.”

He turned toward the next row of patients, kneeling beside an older Ithorian whose breathing was shallow, the rise and fall of his chest labored. With careful precision, Durak’Tur draped the glowing blanket across the man’s form. The patient’s breath steadied within moments, a soft sigh escaping his lips. The Force stirred around them, subtle but palpable, like the first ripple of calm across a once-stormed sea. “See how the Force answers kindness?” the Whiphid murmured, his eyes lifting toward Ariel. “It does not wait for grand gestures, only for sincerity.”

As they moved together between the cots, Durak’Tur found his thoughts momentarily distant, drawn toward the quiet hum of the Force that bound all living beings. “Many fled here believing themselves broken,” he said softly. “But when they see us, Jedi and noble, soldier and child, lifting together, they remember that they are still whole. That they still matter.” His tone carried no pride, only the gravity of faith. Every act here was a prayer given shape, and he treated it as such.

When they reached the final tent, the air hung thick with the mingled scent of herbs, oil, and weary hope. Durak’Tur paused beside a cot where a young Rodian child stirred fitfully beneath a blanket, his small frame trembling from fever. The Whiphid’s massive hand lifted gently, resting just above the boy’s chest. A soft hum of the Force pulsed outward, warm, grounding, like a heartbeat shared. The child’s breathing steadied, his rest easing into quiet peace.

Durak’Tur exhaled, the sound deep and slow. “You are right, Lady Korvane,” he said after a moment, his amber eyes meeting her pale grey ones. “The Force moves through us, but it does not build by itself. It needs hands willing to lift, and hearts unafraid to reach beyond themselves.” His gaze flicked toward the line of healers and refugees still gathering near the med-tents, the faintest glint of quiet humor sparking in his tone. “And perhaps, a little guidance from those who remember what hope looks like.”

He rose to his full height once more, the light catching faintly on the sigil carved into the wood of his staff. “You and your House have brought more than materials today. You have reminded many here of the galaxy’s better side.” His tusks tilted slightly as he regarded her, not as a noble, but as an equal in service. “Tell me, Lady Korvane… what calls one such as yourself to the work of healers and refugees? Few of your station choose such paths when the stars offer comfort elsewhere.”

Why Offer Comfort?​

 

[Ryn Trask]

​

Ukatis | Refugee Camp
Interacting with: Tess Wyn-Tai Hannibal Daxos Cali Ziiva

​

Ryn's brows shot up, his brain short-circuiting for a beat at the words Morale Officer Extraordinaire.

Oceanic blue eyes flicked toward Hannibal almost immediately, because when a Zeltron said that with a happy friendly face, wel-ll, a man's mind naturally drifted to pleasurable places. Including -- that's what she said.

"Yeaahhh, I'm fine. Great," Ryn replied, trying and failing to wipe the grin off his face as he straightened up. He dusted off his jacket and threw Cali a quick, lopsided smile that was equal parts charm and damage control.

"Me and my pals here just looking for a place to see where we can help out," he said as he gestured vaguely toward Tess and Hannibal.

"Fled from the Core and figured we'd, you know, lend a hand. We've got a few particular sets of skills that might be useful to the Republic."

He finished with that trademark scoundrel grin, the kind that had gotten him out of -- and into -- more trouble than he could count.

"Promise, we're the helpful kind of strays."

 

[Ariel Korvane]

​

Nuvar Hollow Refugee Camp
Ukatis
Interacting with | Durak'Tur
Nearby Raylin Fall

Ariel gently tucked a swath of cloth over the small Rodian child, the soft shimmer of the Hibiol cloth fading beneath her touch as the child's breathing steadied. She looked up at the Whiphid, her silver eyes quietly musing before she gave a soft hum and a ghost of a smile.

"I suppose comfort was never meant to be my calling," she said quietly. "I was taught to weave, yes, but also to preserve our story within each pattern -- to let the cloth remember what we might forget. But even those simple duties began to feel smaller when the galaxy outside them started to break."

She adjusted the edge of the Hibiol around the child's shoulders, the comforting warmth of Force still humming faintly through its weave.

"My family crafts this material with a purpose in mind. Every fiber we thread, every pattern, every stain of dye, we weave the Force itself into every strand. To heal. To strengthen. It felt wrong to send it away without ever touching the lives it was meant to serve."

Those pale grey eyes rose to meet the Whipid.

"So I came to see them. To know them. To understand the impact of our weave and why it is important to maintain its legacy."

A soft smile curved her lips as she stood.

"And perhaps," she added with a lightness that almost sounded like laughter, "because even nobles need reminding that the galaxy doesn't mend itself."

She gestured toward the next ten as the faint glow of more Hibiol awaited use.

"Come, Master Durak'Tur. Let's see who else we can help."

 

[Durak'Tur]

THE SIGHT OF HOPE

Tag: Ariel Korvane

Durak’Tur’s deep-set eyes softened as he listened, the quiet timbre of her voice threading through the steady hum of the camp around them. The faint glow of the med-tents, the soft clatter of droids, and the muted murmur of the wounded all seemed to fade beneath her words. The Whiphid inclined his head slightly, the movement slow and deliberate, as though acknowledging something more profound than mere sentiment.

“Then your weaving, my Lady,” he said, his voice low and resonant, “is no lesser craft than that of any Jedi. You take what is unseen and give it shape, memory, compassion, legacy, all bound together by intent. The Force does not dwell only in sabers or meditation halls. It lives in what hands such as yours create.” His gaze flicked toward the folded stacks of Hibiol cloth nearby, the faint shimmer of its surface reflecting the warm light. “You give the Force purpose. Few can say as much, even among my own Order.”

He followed as she gestured toward the next tent, his long strides matching her pace, though his presence carried the unhurried calm of one who had seen many cycles of life and renewal. Within the next shelter, the air was heavy with the scent of burnt metal and bacta. Two miners, their faces still streaked with ash, lay on the cots, victims of a shuttle explosion during the last evacuation. Durak’Tur knelt between them, his broad frame filling the narrow space. He reached for one of the Hibiol cloths Ariel carried, spreading it gently over the worst of the burns. “This cloth,” he murmured, “it remembers healing. That is what makes it strong.”

He looked up then, his gaze steady upon hers. “Your work carries more than your House’s name. It carries hope itself, and that,” he said, tusks lifting faintly in something like a smile, “is a power the galaxy forgets too easily.” The Force moved between them, a current of shared purpose and quiet understanding.

As he rose once more, the tent’s lights flickering gently across the fur along his shoulders, his tone shifted with quiet humor. “And you are right,” he added, voice deep but tinged with warmth. “The galaxy does not mend itself. But perhaps it can be convinced to try, if we keep showing it how.” His amber eyes lingered on her for a moment, a question unspoken but evident in their calm glow. “Tell me, Lady Korvane… when you return to your people, will they see what you have seen here?”

He left the question open, his words carrying an invitation rather than a challenge, as the soft hum of the Force wove through the tent, light, warmth, and motion blending into the rhythm of hands that healed and hearts that remembered.

Mend It All Together, One Bandage At a Time.​

 

[Ariel Korvane]

​

Nuvar Hollow Refugee Camp
Ukatis
Interacting with | Durak'Tur
Nearby: Raylin Fall

​

It would be a lie to say that Ariel wasn't pleased by the Whiphid's praise. His words carried weight, and though she carried herself with composure, there was unmistakable pride beneath it. Pride in her family's legacy, in their craft, in the meaning threaded through every weave her House had ever made.

Ariel paused, the gentle shimmer of the Hibiol cloth casting a faint glow across her gloves as she secured the edges around the miner's burns. For a moment, her pale grey eyes stayed on the patient's breathing as it slowly began to become a bit more steadier, before she lifted her gaze to the Whiphid.

"I hope they will," she said softly. "Though I think some truths must be seen to be understood."

Ariel's voice carried quiet honesty that came not from humility but from conviction.

"Perhaps when I return, I'll bring more than fabric and numbers. Perhaps I'll bring stories. Of healers who believe the Force listens to every act of kindness. Of those who choose to build when it would be easier to turn away."

The auburn-haired noblewoman straightened, brushing her hands over her cloak as if smoothing away thought. Her expression softened as she studied him.

"If you don't mind my asking, Master Durak'Tur, where did you learn to listen to the Force so closely? To see it in things most would overlook?"

Her question wasn't idle curiosity but genuine wonder.

"You speak of it as though it were a friend, not a power to command. I was taught to weave it, to guide it through purpose and pattern, but not to truly know it."

She tilted her head slightly with a hint of a smile curving her lips.

"Do you think the Force reveals itself differently to each of us, or is it we who choose how deeply we listen?"

 

[Tansu Treicolt]

OBJ I | UKATIS | NUVAR HOLLOW REFUGEE CAMP
​

"Well, if this ain't a fine bit of nothin'." She gave a low whistle, boot scuffing the dirt. "Nothin's a great place to start makin' somethin' though."

Obviously, and not wrongly, the priority of the camps were the people; healing them, feeding them, calming them. Generally making them feel some semblance of normalcy, stability, or at the very least safety in the wake of devastation. That meant machines, feet, hooves, treads of all kind trampled over the areas meant to plant and grow and left them lacking.

Still, a few refugees were at work piecing together rough frames from scrap wood and shipping crates, setting them into shallow rows where the field met the edge of the camp.

Tansu crouched beside them, brushing her fingers across the dirt. "Y'all're on the right track," she said, voice easy, warm. "Just needs breathin' room. Loosen her up a bit, mix in some of that ash and compost."

She'd joined them without ceremony, and let the roots of her upbringing flourish in simple ways: Showing how to break the soil loose, line the bottom with ash and scraps, and turn graywater through until it held the faint smell of life again. The beds were small, like private gardens, not to the scale Mykel Dawson 's terraforming machines were capable of, but the task kept the minds of the refugees focused and steady, and the growth they'd yield from their own hands would be rewarding.

When the first bed stood ready, she straightened and brushed the dust from her palms to her thighs, watching one of the younger workers pour the first handful of seed into the softened ground. For the first time since they'd touched down, the place smelled like earth instead of engines.

Gloves slid from her hands and she looped them to her belt, taking a moment to brush off any grit that had slipped through the leather to her skin before glancing toward Tydeus — who was here on a favour trade.

Unsettling to think he considered this a favour.

"Yer lookin' mighty fidgety," she drawled, half-smile tugging. "You wanna find somethin' else to put those hands on? Looks like plenty still needs doin'."

____________________________________________________________
Tydeus Shorn
____________________________________________________________
​

 

[Aiden Porte]

Objective 1
Tags: Vodet
​

An hour later, the valley was wrapped in the muted glow of late afternoon, the heat beginning to soften but the work showing no sign of slowing. The steady rhythm of hammers and welding arcs had become a kind of heartbeat for Nuvar Hollow punctuated by shouts for supplies, the whine of repulsorlifts hauling water tanks, and the creak of prefab joints settling into place.

Aiden stood near the edge of a newly completed shelter, brushing dust from his forearms as a small group of refugees an Ithorian mother and her two children stepped hesitantly inside to inspect their new space. The mother turned to him with eyes that shimmered faintly beneath the grime, and when she bowed her head in thanks, Aiden returned the gesture with quiet warmth.

"Make sure you stay near the central line for meals." he said, his voice carrying the fatigue of long hours but not the weight of complaint. "They'll have fresh water as well."

He watched them disappear into the shade, then turned to where a convoy of transports was arriving at the outer road. More refugees, more wounded, more stories that would blur together by nightfall. He could feel the weight of their fear even from here, the way it rippled through the Force like a tide drawn by distant grief.

"Porte!" a voice called. One of the quartermasters, a burly Nikto, jogged up holding a datapad slick with dust. "We're running short on ration crates for Sector Three. Think you can get hands over there before the next shuttle unloads?"

Aiden nodded, taking the pad and scanning the list. "I'll head that way with the next rotation, we will pull from the emergency stores if we have to. No one misses a meal tonight."

He handed it back, wiping his brow with the back of his wrist before taking a deep breath of the warm, earthy air. The camp stretched farther than it had that morning, dozens more shelters now stood in uneven rows, the beginnings of streets forming between them. Somewhere a generator kicked on, spilling light into the dusk as the first lanterns were lit along the walkways.

Aiden took up a crate from the nearest stack and began carrying it toward the distribution tents. His stride was measured, his shoulders aching, but the small smiles he passed, the mechanic resting her torch, the child waving from the threshold of a new home, were enough to keep him moving. It was then Aiden could see from afar, Vodet, a Jedi Master whom he hadn't seen in a long time.

"Vodet! It's good to see you here my friend!"

 

[Tess Wyn-Tai]

OBJ II
TAGS: Ryn Trask | Hannibal Daxos | Cali Ziiva​

Tess spun on her heel so fast the mud splashed. "What'd you just say?" she snapped, jabbing a finger square at Hannibal's chest. "You wonder what else I do when I'm cornered? I'll tell ya what I do: I throw hands, that's what! And if y'all keep runnin' your mouths, I'll show ya firsthand!"

Heads turned nearby. She didn't care. Maybe it was the nerves, maybe the stink of too many bodies packed too close, but her temper flared like a blaster misfire.

"And you!" She swung toward Ryn, eyes flashing. "Don't think that grin's gonna save you neither, pretty boy! You crash into one more person and they're gonna start thinkin' you're lookin' for trouble! You're supposed to be blendin' in, not flirtin' with the local population!"

Right on cue, she gestured wildly toward Cali. "And what in the seven suns is that? A Morale Officer Extraordinaire? What in blazes does that even mean? You go 'round handin' out smiles and hope? That's your job? Ain't no wonder this Republic's always knee-deep in messes if that's part of the payroll!"

"What kinda Republic hires someone to make folks feel good instead o' fixin' problems? I swear, y'all really do things backward out here." She folded her arms tight across her chest, huffing out a sharp breath. "Back home, morale came from gettin' paid and not crashin' into the dirt. Not from whatever that is."

She trudged ahead a few paces, muttering under her breath. "Morale officer... stars above, what next? Jedi life coach?"
​

 

[Cali Ziiva]

Equipment of Note: Mobile Workshop, Lightsaber (Blue) with Lens Modulator, Bubblegum Popper Gloves

​

Cali looked over at Hannibal all wide-eyed at hearing it happened all the time. What happened? Bumping into people? Then a big smile was Hannibal's response to questioning the title she'd dropped. He quickly looked to a woman in his company, which forestalled the Zeltron's bubbly response.

Ryn explained what they were doing there, which drew Cali's complete attention. Her pink flop of hair shifted to one side as she rolled her head a bit. "You want to help?" From the Core? Well, plenty of people were from the Core. Imperials too, but not just Imperials. "A particular set of skills, huh?" A bit vague. In another circumstance menacing. Sounded like they were a handy bunch though and a refugee camp could use help.

Before she could respond, however, the third had some spicy words for the Pink One. Cali stared wide eyed at Tess as she went on a verbal rampage. Sounded like her title had caused all kinds of confusion! Which was strange. It hadn't sounded confusing when she'd thought of it half a second before she'd said it. ...still didn't sound confusing in her head either!

"Yep!" Cali chirped in response to 'smiles and hope' even as Tess continued uninterrupted.

"Uh, isn't not crashing into the dirt part of the job though? I don't think that instills morale." Cali looked up and to the side for a moment. "Then again, people would feel a lot more down if ships were falling out of the sky all around them."

"So, like, I am here to help! Guide you. Feel better. These are difficult times for folk. They've had to run for their life, abandoning all their possessions, leaving behind jobs and even family. They've been stuck inside of transports overflowing with people with little enough food or water to go around. Not to mention the lack of beds! Nothing makes you grouchier than not getting a good sleep." Lack of food or water wouldn't do much for resting peacefully either. "And even when they get here there's tons of questions. Like, where do they go? What do they say? Are there enough resources to go around? It's all so stressful."

"But then people like me come around. Maybe we can't do anything about the past, but we can help with all those questions about the future, you know? We have a lot of people contributing to bring medical and housing services to everyone in need. At no expense. It'll be a start. Somewhere to stand so they can get back some of what they might have lost. It's the least we can do for one another, right?"

Cali smiled over at Ryn. "I can ask about volunteering. I don't suppose you could tell me your names and some of those skills? There are a lot of things to do around camp, and if you have a skillset we're short on it could make a HUGE difference for all these people."

Ryn Trask | Hannibal Daxos | Tess Wyn-Tai​

 

[Hannibal Daxos]

Ukatis-Refugee Camp
Ryn Trask Tess Wyn-Tai Cali Ziiva
​

"Throw hands, just like you throw your mouth too." Daxos laughed as he winked at Ryn and shook his head. But then it didn't stop there, she went on a speech shared a border with rude and dumb.

​

"Goodness, woman!" Hannibal muttered under his breath as he gave her an elbow to her shoulder. "Could you be any more rude, that draws attention to us as well!"

He held his hand out to Cali, to give her and a small shake. "Forgive my friend here, she's not herself when she's hungry. So the quicker we get some food in her body the better everyone will be."

He looked over to Ryn with a subtle nod. "That's right, we will do whatever we can to help. I'm Hanni, This is Winnie." Daxos pointed to Tess. "And this here is Honey." Hannibal pointed to Ryn.

"We are general laborers, construction, electrical that sort of thing."

 

[Tess Wyn-Tai]

Obj II
TAGS: Ryn Trask | Hannibal Daxos | Cali Ziiva​

Tess blinked at Cali, trying hard to figure out what she'd just heard. The pink one talked faster than a swoop-bike engine in fourth gear, and half of what she said about "morale" and "hope" made Tess's head spin. She didn't dislike her exactly; she just didn't know what to do with her.

But before Tess could piece together a polite response, Hannibal started laughing. Her head snapped toward him like a turret locking on target. "Will you quit laughin' at me?!" she barked, her voice rising above the murmur of the nearby crowd. "I ain't bein' rude! I'm just," she waved her hands, flustered, "tired and hungry and surrounded by fools with no sense o' direction!"

A few refugees nearby paused to watch, which only stoked her temper. "And stop callin' me Winnie!" she shot, glaring daggers at Hannibal. "My name's Tess! Tess, got it? Not Winnie, not whatever else you're tryin' to pull outta your karkin' head. And we're not no 'general laborers' neither!"

She jabbed a thumb against her chest. "I didn't leave Sacorria to haul crates and shovel soil! I got brains! I can fly, I can fix, I can think my way outta a jam better than all of you!"

Her voice wavered with the heat of it: frustration, pride, and a touch of panic. "You think I came all the way out here to pretend I'm just some farm hand again? No, sir!"

Her words echoed longer than she meant them to. The nearby chatter had gone quiet, and when she finally noticed the stares, her cheeks went bright red.

She froze for a beat, then coughed into her fist and looked anywhere but at the boys, or Cali, who still looked like she might offer her a comforting hug at any second. "Uh… what I meant to say was… yeah. I'm just real eager to help the Republic. Real eager."
​

 

[Durak'Tur]

WHAT TAKES SHAPE

Tag: Ariel Korvane

Durak’Tur’s gaze lingered on the patient’s now-steadier breathing before shifting toward Ariel. The low lamps painted the lines of his fur in amber and gold, and for a time, he said nothing, as though the Whiphid considered her question not with his mind, but with the rhythm of the Force itself. When he finally spoke, it was in that deep, gravel-soft tone that seemed to come from the earth rather than the air.

“When I was young,” he began, “the Force was not a thing I heard. It was something that hunted me.” His tusks caught the light as he gave a faint, wry smile. “Whiphids are a people of the ice plains. We are taught to listen for storms, for the cracking of the glacier beneath our feet, for the breath of the predator in the wind. I learned early that survival was not about mastery, but awareness. To live was to listen.”

He turned his gaze outward, toward the camp beyond the tent flap, the glow of fires, the shapes of the displaced huddled under the night sky. “When the Jedi found me, they taught me to hear the same patterns within the Force. Not to bend it, not to shape it, but to recognize when it spoke. It is patient, you see, patient enough to outlast our need to control it. And when we finally stop trying to command it…” He let the thought trail, the faintest smile forming again. “That is when it begins to answer.”

The Whiphid shifted, setting his staff against the ground, the faint hum of kyber resonating lowly through the wood. “You speak of weaving, my Lady, of threads and patterns. Perhaps that is not so different from my own way. The Force has always been a loom of many hands. Each of us adds a strand, some through battle, some through healing, some through art, and some through simply enduring. No two patterns are ever the same, nor should they be. That,” he said, his voice softening, “is what makes the tapestry alive.”

His amber eyes returned to her, calm and earnest. “So to your question… yes. The Force reveals itself differently to each of us. Because it speaks the language we are willing to hear. To some, it is a storm. To others, a song. To you, perhaps, it is the thread that remembers what the galaxy forgets.”

Durak’Tur paused, studying her with quiet respect. “Tell me, Lady Korvane, when you weave, do you feel it guide your hand, or do you believe it waits for you to decide the shape?” The question came not as a test, but as an invitation, an open door left between them, where dialogue and the Force itself could both continue to flow.

Allow It To Take Shape.​

 

[Tydeus Shorn]

"Yer lookin' mighty fidgety," she drawled, half-smile tugging. "You wanna find somethin' else to put those hands on? Looks like plenty still needs doin'."

The boy narrowed his eyes at Tansu. Dirt smeared her sun-touched arms and stuck to her tangle of hair, golden the way wheat was golden. On her the grime looked... natural.

"Sure."

His eyes, cold and gray and distant, swept across the camp and found a group struggling to move a few heavy cargo boxes off a speeder. He raised a hand and reached out in the Force. One of the boxes levitated into the air and then floated slowly down to the ground with a gentle thud. He dropped his hand.

"There. I helped."

Tydeus scowled, dark brows drawing together.

He wore a simple black shirt and black fatigues, with imperial remnant-issued combat boots. His lightsaber hung on one hip, his blaster on the other. He didn't belong here, with the refugees. He didn't help clean up the aftermath. That wasn't his purpose in life anymore. There were probably refugees from Tion who had needed help. People he could have saved. He didn't. He wasn't here to save them. He was here to put an end to Darth Carnifex . Permanently. Anything else took his focus away from that singular goal.

But he owed Tansu. So he was here.

That didn't mean he enjoyed it.

"These people are dead already," he said harshly, "You know that, right? Might not be this rendition of Sith. Or imperials. Or Mandalorians. But sooner or later another conquering warlord is going to sweep through here. And they'll just be casualties again. Numbers on a screen."

Tansu Treicolt

 

[Tansu Treicolt]

​

"Oka-ay, maybe a smidge less petulance with your next endeavour." Tansu frowned. Technically he wasn't wrong, and the people he'd helped looked around for who to wave at as a way to express gratitude. He'd saved them backaches.

"Hey!" Her hiss was sharp and her arm snapped out to grab at his sleeve —ever-cautious not to ever establish skin contact again —and gave him a sharp yank out of earshot of the people that had just been gardening. Distracted by dirt and the conversation of potential growth.

A few strides steered them back in the direction of a more sheltered area to back-and-forth, away from sensitive eavesdroppers. Tansu'd only seen Corazona von Ascania once at the Lightsworn gathering, before it all went to personal chit, and only knew the rest of her by Talsin Lota 's familiarity, and she didn't want her reputation to constantly be something about her company dampening the focus of the events.

So like on Atrisia, she navigated the conversation away from prying eyes and ears.

"Yeah, yeah, death comes for all." She agreed, agitated by his delivery in the context of an environment that begged for optimism and hope.

"That ain't mean time spent livin' has to be wasted away and givin' up, all dismal as though they're already slippin' into a grave.

Who cares if it's a few hours or a day or however long to get folks back on their feet? Maybe next time they'll be in better shape to stand up to what's comin' for them."

His attitude confused her. His planet had been devastated, he'd held the ashes of his kin, he lived with their deaths gnawing away at him. Wouldn't he want people to care for those ruined by Carnifex's scourge? His people no less — the Prince of Tion.

Never one to keep her thoughts to herself, she asked as much: "Wouldn't you want the same help for Tion's survivors?"

____________________________________________________________
Tydeus Shorn
____________________________________________________________
​

 

[Tydeus Shorn]

"Tion," he snorted, twisting and reversing her hold on his sleeve so that he held her by the arm - but only on the fabric.

"You want to know what's happening on Tion?"

Tydeus did not want their skin contacting again. Not after last time. Just another thing to blame the Kainate for.

"They turned it into a penal colony, Tansu. A prison planet."

His teeth clenched, muscles writhing along his jaw. He gestured around with his other hand.

"All of this? All this help? It's a band aid on a leaking dam," his eyes were hard and edged, "You want to really help them? You get out there and you kill Solipsis. But that would be too expedient for Jedi sensibilities," he sneered. "Gotta play the peacemaker. Well guess what? There is no peace."

The boy shook his head, locks of raven hair with one streak of silver tossed about his face, "Why did you even ask me to come? I'm sure your boyfriend would be a better fit. I'd bet he'd love to play the hero."

About the only thing he was useful for. Definitely not a lightsaber.

Tydeus snatched his hand away and stalked off toward a nearby tent, his mood a black and darkening cloud.

Tansu Treicolt

 

[Tansu Treicolt]

​

Oh he was mad mad.

She immediately regretted bringing up Tion, and grimaced at the turn of events.

"I shouldn't've —" If only words were tangible things she could gather up in her hands and shove back down her throat. But they were out now, and the gears were spinning. His cloud darkening and his words sharpening.

"Becau–" she started to answer, but didn't give her the chance to explain that she thought this might be helpful for him, to see there was more than one way to crusade and spread light. Instead, shockingly, he filled the space with a crack toward Talsin. Her jaw dropped, gobsmacked at the pivot.

Oh no no. No. Nope. People didn't get to insult her man and walk away. She'd chased down her sister about it and she'd darn well chase Tydeus down about it. The last word wasn't so easily had when trading licks with a Treicolt.

Tansu didn't let Tydeus stomp off very far at all.

"First off, loving to show up at these sorts of things makes it sound selfish. Talsin ain't selfish. Second of all, he ain't playing hero." she snapped, chin tipping up. The emphasis she delivered made it clear that in her eyes, he was one. Plain and simple. "He shows up because he cares. Because he doesn't look away when people need help. Even if it's unglamorous or not always cutting off the head of the snake every. single. time." Finger jabbed into his chest before her hands tossed up: "Augh! Don't even bring him into this."

With that out of the way, she huffed and rolled her shoulders. Her tone softened just enough for thought to creep in through the cracks of her temper: "And 'sides, tell me somethin'—why's it gotta be one or the other? Why can't it be both? Fight the big bad and help folks get back on their feet? Yer makin' it sound like mercy's a distraction from the mission."

She followed a step behind him, shaking her head. "How can this be a waste of time, but chasin' holocrons across the stars—diggin' up scraps from the dead—that's better?"

The incredulity of her tone eased. "It's almost never just one thing. Measuring the worth of this versus that is like..like measurin' your pain against somebody else's. The size of one don't make the other smaller to the person livin' it."

She paused then, voice quieter, almost pinched. Every other time they'd crossed paths, she'd never been able to speak from a place of loss — this time, thanks to Talin Treicolt , she could empathize. "Everyone's got somethin' that feels like the biggest thing they've ever faced."

____________________________________________________________
Tydeus Shorn
____________________________________________________________
​

 

[Ryn Trask]

​

Ukatis | Refugee Camp
Interacting with: Tess Wyn-Tai Hannibal Daxos Cali Ziiva

​

Ryn blinked. Once. Twice.

Then his brows shot up as Tess went off like a blaster cannon in the middle of the camp. He gave a half-step back, the corner of his mouth twitching somewhere between amusement and panic as her voice carried over the crowd. When she hit the part about 'throwing hands,' he gave Hannibal a side-eye that silently screamed you had to poke the rancor, didn't you?

By the time she finished, the camp had gone quiet enough that even the droids looked uncomfortable. Ryn cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to smooth things over.

Right. Time for plan Besh!

"Right. What she means," he said quickly as he flashied a charming but slightly uneasy grin toward Cali, "is that we're real motivated to help out."

Oceanic blue eyes shot Tess a look that begged her to stop talking before they got arrested.

"We just got outta the Core and figured we'd pitch in however we can. Maybe see if you folks need any pilots, or anyone with some naval experience."

The Kuati tried for a casual tone even though his pulse was still racing from the scene that had just unfolded.

"You know....keep things moving, get ships where they need to go, make sure nobody crashes into the dirt."

That last part earned a faint, crooked grin as he glanced back at Tess.

"Sound good, Morale Officer Extraordinaire?"

 

[Asmus Janes]

Kaile Vera

Atrisia: two days ago

Asmus blew across the surface of his caf. He stood by the window and watched the sun rise across the city. Kaile was asleep on the bed behind him, Bix was in the next room. They had leased a small house for a week.

He took a sip of caf. If kaile woke before Bix he would need every ounce of caffeine. He was exhausted. Bix hadn't been sleeping, but beyond that nothing had prepared him for early second trimester Kaileann Vera. He wasn't entire certain he would survive the month.

A moon appeared in the dawn sky. Asmus blinked. He dropped the cup of caf.

"Kaile, love!" he called, running to the bedside and shaking her gently awake. "Get our things! I'm getting Bix!"

---

Ukatis refugee camp

"Careful on the ramp down!" Asmus called out. He had Bix held against his side in one arm and was directing people with the other.

Some of the crowd they had squeezed onto the Messa still looked at him with fear. Asmus had fired a warning shot at their feet.

Kaile had lost her first child in a crush of evacuating people. Asmus wouldn't let that happen again. They had allowed some people to board their ship before they fled the Death Star, but on his terms.

"I think we see if people are settled and sleep on the ship," he said to Kaile over his shoulder. "We can work out where we go tomorrow."

 

[Ariel Korvane]

​

Nuvar Hollow Refugee Camp
Ukatis
Interacting with Durak'Tur

​

Ariel listened in silence to the Whipid's tale, his words painting a picture that felt both distant and familiar almost like a memory whispered through the Force itself. She admired the way he spoke of patience and awareness, how he found harmony where others might have sought control.

When he finished, she looked down at the folded Hibiol cloth in her hands, the faint shimmer of its weave catching the lamplight.

"One could say it is both," she began thoughtfully. "Because one could claim that it is the Force guiding my weave, or that I am simply waiting for inspiration to shape what it is I wish to craft."

She gave a thoughtful hum, brows furrowing before smoothing over as she thought over her process. How her and her sisters worked daily among her aunts and mother while the men took to collecting the raw materials, creating the dyes, and working with materials in blacksmithing for the alchemical components for the heavier or more intricate imbuements of armor and accessories that they offered.

"At times it is a commission, a duty to fulfill. Other times, a need or even emotion can guide the hand as well -- the patterns, the dyes, the vibrancy of the hues. They all speak differently depending on the heart behind them."

She paused, her pale stormy eyes lifting to meet his.

"Perhaps in time I'll be able to answer that more clearly. But for now," she said with a small, warm smile, "I shall say that the need and the chronicles are what guide my hand. The personal works, however, are shaped by feeling."

Ariel ran her fingertips lightly over the Hibiol's edge, as if sensing the quiet hum within it.

"Maybe that is how the Force speaks to me," she mused. "Through what must be remembered and what I cannot help but feel."

​