Half-Considered Beatings
Parallel to Ghosts of the Empire
Early Spring, 900 ABY
The argument weaved in and out of the mental backdrop of this entire fucking debacle.
Silya had been counselled to accept the loss, and for a moment, she had. But to then be told that the blade was replaceable, that it hardly differed from any other of its particular make from Eshan… that… that was foul. Offensive. Another blade wouldn’t feel the same in her hand, wouldn’t bear the markings of time, and therefore memory, upon it. Nor would another blade be such a tether to its original owner, the host of differences she held with the woman in question, and the culture that had birthed both.
It wasn’t the first time she had yelled at her mother, but thankfully, she had managed to keep her head on, otherwise. Remorse had begun to gnaw at her periphery as she cooled; that was only after she had bent Dougall into ferrying her around (bless him, he hadn’t given her a single lick of refusal), but it wasn’t enough to make her turn back.
That had been days ago, and only now was her persistence in tracking down the thief close to paying off, but creeping through this run-down sector of Ord Radama’s capital as the local star pulled back the last of its light and gave way to nightfall, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being observed despite coming up empty when she tried to pinpoint the source. A feeling that had settled in the moment she had set foot in this part of the city, one that was hard to separate from how it felt to be here at all: poor areas such as these were too easily given over to crime, and the last thing she needed was to be noticed by any of its practitioners.
She wasn’t meant to… wasn’t supposed to be in a place like this. At least not while alone. No, she was supposed to be up the Hydian, on Telos IV, with her Master. But she needed that blade back, and she needed to teach this fool a lesson... she couldn’t take her eyes off her mark at any point, not even while tugging her hood more snugly over her head, and hugging up against the side of one of the more structurally sound residences across the street from where his armoured form vanished into another building, thumping music calling out and becoming muffled once again as the door shut behind him.
Thrast thought things over for a minute or two, composed herself, and leaned out to check and make sure the coast was clear. Then, before leaving to cross the street, the young Knight glanced behind herself, an act driven by the mild onset of location-induced paranoia... and nearly jumped right out of her skin when her gaze passed over what should have been a dark, empty space in the shadow of the building, illuminated by flickering, fading lights... and those bright blues widened at the sight of this larger individual that had managed to sneak in beneath her - admittedly distracted - notice. She might have been a bit on edge, but to her credit, she didn't scream.
"What the--" Silya uttered as she reared back a step, her hand reflexively going to the hilt concealed under her cloak. "--who th'fuck..."
It was at this juncture that the door began to creak open once again.
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