Ex's & Oh's

[Itash Mecetti]

You can do whatever makes you happy, Samson, I will try to help where I can. You just need to ask for it.

Disbelief at first.

Samson had been preparing himself for a… conflict. After all, he had been made for a purpose and there were few things more useless than a tool that could not fulfill its purpose anymore. But as the clone laid out his concerns, his creator had been understanding, patient and even… relieved?

He had asked her for training.

True training that had nothing to do with medical expertise.

How to fight, how to use the Force, it had been a trying few months, but part of Samson felt it was also natural. The way his hand curled around the lightsaber hilt, the way the Force flowed when he commanded it.

It felt good.

It felt like coming home again and it concerned him.

But now Samson was on Dxun. Jungle all around, the cacophony of the wildlife, mosquitos aplenty, his goal? The Tomb of Freedon Nadd. He wanted to learn more and he wanted to do it on his own. Without the assistance of his Master and her consort. She had bought him a small freighter (nothing too luxurious, he had insisted on it) and some gear that would help him during his travel.

Good sturdy boots, a beskad, his lightsaber and enough mosquito killer canisters to last for a while.

Felt like this jungle never ended.

Slap.

Another mosquito died by his hand. How fierce of him.

[member="Tryp West"]

 

[Tryp West]

The music felt old. But not in a bad way, instead in a fashion that evoked by gone eras and sad sloe eyed women waiting at a balcony for whoever was listening. It was dark and lonely instead of dusty and pale, and she pulled up the bottom beat track, mirroring it again to deepen the bass line.

Her hands were dirty, but she didn't care as she pulled them across the screen of the data pad, fingers tapping and stretching as layer upon layer of music was laid down. Every now and then the smudging on the screen would get to be too much and she swipe at it with a spare corner of a bandanna before returning to work.

Laid out against a moss covered, fallen column, Tryp West was doing what she like to do best- composing music from the impression off of ancient artifacts. Feet kicked up on the capital, she'd propped up her head on her pack. The artifact in question was fairly innocuous. A black stone carving of a flower she didn't recognize, but knew from her exploration had once been part of a hand carved railing. At this point it sat perched beside her feet where she could look at it if she wanted, but all of the impressions and impulses had already been recorded, so it was really just a matter of sifting through it into something consumable by the core ward masses. Some pieces she kept to herself, but this one she'd sell off, she already decided. It was just the sort of sad honey nonsense they liked so much, and she already knew which two artists would end up in a bidding war over the rights to use it and call it their own.

Honestly, she was going to make a mint off of that little shard of rock.

"You see, Sith an' Jedi artifacts make the best music," she started talking, at first it seemed, to herself.

Toe tapping the air absently, she kept working as she did.

"Dun know why exactly. Probably somethin' ta do with the Force, mumbo jumbo yada yada. Maybe the impressions are stronger, they definitely last long than ones left by th' rest o' us. Anyway, I'm almost done 'ere, thinkin' a setting up a fire, not that ya need it when the air itself is lookin' ta smother ya, but cookin' is better than eating cold rations and I imagine a big fella like you can put away quite a bit."

That was when she looked over her shoulder, craning her neck.

"Ya reek a bugspray," she explained without waiting. Turning to look back down at the data pad, she hit save, then sent it off to her agent with a note on who to offer it to, while making sure they knew he was also offering it elsewhere.

"Well. Ya gonna sit or aintcha?"

[member="Samson"]

 

[Itash Mecetti]

[member="Tryp West"]

The first words made him freeze.

In truth Samson hadn't even noticed her sprawled on her back across the column. At first he assumed that she was just talking to herself? Or maybe over the comms to someone on the other side. Or maybe, just maybe there was another person around that he also hadn't detected. But then Tryp looked over her shoulder and spoke to him directly.

Eyes widened a fraction, before the clone rubbed the back of his neck in an embarrassed fashion.

"There... are a lot of bugs." He explained, before realizing that explanation was really obvious and unnecessary. Why else would Samson use bug spray, because it smelled nice?

It did not smell nice.

He looked on over to the place she indicated and awkwardly paddled over, before settling himself down. It wasn't very comfortable. Samson had realized from the beginning that his large frame was usually less a boon and more annoying. You'd think that people would be able to construct higher ceilings, make doorways less cramped, make the seats wider, but for some reason that did not occur to him.

Feeling like a giant wherever he went wasn't helpful.

"Sit, I suppose." Samson declared, while tilting his head and thinking back to her explanation. "You are... basically cuddling artifacts and write down what you hear?"

Perhaps she was a DSM-5? Raja would know better, his focus had always been more on providing assistance, filling in the blanks for her and being the muscle. Mental diagnosis were beyond him.

 

[Tryp West]

Tryp sat up, stretching out her back first, eliciting a series of uncomfortable sounding pops that gave away just how long she'd been settled in the same position. She groaned, reaching high above her head and rolling her shoulders and neck before swinging her feet over the side of the column. Rooting around, she traded her datapad for some other supplies from her pack and slid down to the floor, dropping bonelessly into a comfortable cross legged position.

"Well I don't recommend cuddlin' 'em," she said, pointing a folded up tripod at him before starting to set up.

Beneath her hands a small fire, kicked up from a tin with a pull of a string blossomed. Setting up the tripod she starting tearing open packages, mixing this and that into a collapsible pan before pouring concentrated caf granules into a percolator that was then balanced precariously on the edge of the tin.

"Most of 'em are kinda sharp, or at least, not cuddly. Cuddly chit rots. Especially in a place like dis 'un. But yeah. In a nutshell. The music sells well in the Core, even if they can't appreciate all o' it. But it pays the bills."

More than. Tryp could probably retire if she wanted to. But that sounded like no fun at all.

The smell of food started to waft from the pan, and she pulled out a plate from the pack, inspected it, and then dished out half of what was in the pan and handed it to him.

"I usually jes' eat from the pan anyway, so you may as well take the plate. Name's Tryp. Tryp West."

She eyed him up and down. Her gaze lingered on the scars, but only for a moment.

[member="Samson"]

 

[Itash Mecetti]

[member="Tryp West"]

She seemed serious.

It was not polite to stare, so Samson eyed the plate that was passed over to him. It seemed edible. But from the business dealings of Irajah Samson knew that looks could be quite deceiving and that some sentients were quite... disturbed. Once she gave her name, Samson nodded and offered his hand in a shake. That was the polite thing to do when meeting a person.

Shake their hand.

Why?

Samson did not rightfully know. It seemed strange to immediately go for touching a person you did not actually know. "Samson." She squinted at him and the clone shook his head for a moment. "Just Samson."

The food was hot, but it tasted okay.

Edible.

"Is there... a difference between Sith artifacts and Jedi artifacts with the type of music it releases?" Samson asked carefully over the plate, trying to balance it carefully on his knees. This entire situation was... strange to him. He did not really know how he went from exploring this temple to increase his strength to sharing food with a woman who apparently could hear music from artifacts.

Very odd.

Samson wondered if this happened more often and that he simply had been misled while preparing himself for these sort of expeditions.

 

[Tryp West]

"Beggin' your pardon, but I'll pass on the handshake. Like ta decide fer myself what people are like a'fore touchin' 'em."

Instead she pretended to tip a hat at him before doctoring up her own half of the food. She'd left his relatively bland, but that was mostly because it always struck her as impolite to hit people with food the way she liked it. She tipped some brilliant red powder in, wrinkled her nose after a sniff, then added a dash more as she stirred it around.

"Samson, eh?"

She shoveled a bit of food into her mouth, face flushing with the heat but chewing with obvious relish. Pushing the food to one side of her mouth, she kept chewing while she tried to explain.

"Not dat simple. Da art'facts dun make da music. Ah do. But ah use da impressions, da feelings, ta make it. Record nerve impulses when ah'm sensin' it all, and use dat too."

Her accent, already fairly thick, was a touch harder to understand when she was talking around a mouth full of food. Fortunately, she swallowed a moment later, breathing in through her teeth to cool her mouth down a bit.

"The music is diff'rent, fo'sho," she nodded. "But cause the memories are diff'rent. Ya follow Sammy?"

She leaned over, pulling a chipped mug out of her pack. At that one she was stymied, because there was no way either of them was going to drink out of the hot metal percolator.

"You drink caf?" She asked, possibly settling the problem if he said 'no'. "It's more like paint thinner than anythin' else, but whatareyagonnado?"

[member="Samson"]

 

[Itash Mecetti]

[member="Tryp West"]

He looked at his hand with a puzzled expression, but then took it back.

Very odd.

Samson had assumed that it was an universal sign of politeness. Perhaps this was not the case on this world? Or wherever this Tryp came from anyway. Either way, that didn't really matter much. The politeness was there in the way of easing communication, they were already talking, so it didn't truly matter. Samson watched her chew her food with the same ferocity as a krayt dragon would devour a bantha.

It was making it a touch difficult to understand what she was saying exactly. "I think so..." He mumbled, but it was clear that the clone was more confused than anything. "And... how do you exactly sense these things?"

Still in that carefully interested tone.

It would not do to anger her, if this was some sort of medical condition. The mention of caf did brighten his expression a touch though. Did he drink caf? Ah, if only she knew the appetite of his Creator. Irajah did not often go without at least several cups of caf throughout the day. When in proximity to that you often picked up a habit or two, it was not any different here.

"Oh, I certainly do. But only if you have enough for yourself as well... Tryp." What an odd name too.

Every once in a while Samson looked over from his plate to her. It did not escape his notice that her eye often trialed to his scars, but he had no shame in that regard. The marks were proof of his first devotion.

Irajah was markless now.

But he would carry the sins of his forebearer and do better.

 

[Tryp West]

She didn't miss any of it. The vague confusion, the deliberate politeness, the brightening at the mention of caf. With a small internal sigh, she poured him the first cup- not because there wasn't enough to share, but because it was the right thing to do and she could practically hear her mother admonishing her for even thinking about having the first cup.

"Yep, brews two cups perfect. No milk or sug, sorry."

The cup was smaller, so she set it down on the ground within easy reach for him. The plate hadn't been a worry, but big mitts like those? Best not to chance it.

She leaned back against the column, finishing up the food on her plate while she contemplated how to explain it properly to him. She obviously didn't mind the questions, but she was a bit surprised at his interest.

Wiggling her right hand at him, he could see that some sort of black metal shot through her fingers, all the way up her forearm to disappear into rolled up sleeves just above her elbow.

"You familiar wit' psychometry?"

He nodded his head, but looked a bit unsure and she shrugged.

"I can 'see' the memories of an object... or a person.... jes' by touchin' 'em. Couldn't tell ya how, so dun ask. Sometimes clear, sometimes just impressions. It's a Kiffar thing, not all o' us, but enough. Ah had the cybernetics put in to help.... not the sensing, but the, well, what I do with it all after. They let me look over everything withou' touching it again if I dun wanna. Measures biometrics, electric impulses, stuff like that. An' when I'm done with it, I can... file the memory away. So it t'ain't clutterin' up my mental space. I use the psychometry an' the other read outs to make music."

Reaching up she pulled out the data pad and snagged the small, carved stone. She tossed him the later, low and underhand, while holding onto the former. She pulled up the music file she'd been working on, then reached up behind her ear into her hair. After a moment of fiddling, she drew down a long wire, plugging it into the pad.

"Someone spent a lot o' time, leaning over a balcony dat rotted away 'undreds a years ago, waitin' fer someone that neva' came back," she said quietly. The images were grainy, incomplete. It wasn't like watching a holo, more like the impressions of one, seen through a shattered mirror. The music started, opening notes deep and tremulous, strings and piano. The voice that joined in was synthetic but fine.

Tryp made a face.

"It's sentimental dross, but dat's popular in the core right now," she said, shutting off the music and unplugging herself from the pad. The images disappeared. "'Specially wit' dat dark feel, Coruscant will go wild for it. Like dey forgot what it was like under da One Sith," she shook her head. "Wheels turn an' all I guess. No accounting for taste."

[member="Samson"]

 

[Itash Mecetti]

[member="Tryp West"]

The bitterness of the caf was a surprise to him.

Irajah drank hers with a royal amount of sugar and it was not a surprise, then, that Samson had grown used to that same practice. It covered his tongue and throat with an almost oily, scratchy texture. With some difficulty he managed to get through the first swallow. The second one was easier after that. It seemed that part of the trick involved simply getting used to it.

Samson could do so.

But any mildly foul expression disappeared once she explained it further and he could stop worrying about possibly dealing with someone whose mind had been touched. "Ah, that explains it." A nod before he sipped once more.

Four sips in and the clone realized that he actually liked it pure.

Strange how it had never occurred to him to try it differently, until now. What other things did Samson assume he liked? "That is very impressive, Tryp." Samson was most definitely impressed at the ingenuity of the idea. "I do not think I have heard of anyone using psychometry in this fashion."

One more sip and the caf was done.

He put aside the empty cup and sighed contently. "Thank you for the caf and the food, I wish I had something to offer in return."

Shoulders shrugged.

"Unless you are in need of medical attention?" It must have been surprising. This mountain of a man, scarred in strange ruins and voice like gravel. Hands large enough to crush a melon... or perhaps a head or two. Eyes intense, scrutinizing, watching and observing. To be a... medic apparently? Or a healer of some sort.

 

[Tryp West]

"S'far as I know, I'm the only one," she said, the touch of pride clear there as she accepted the compliment.

She accepted the cup back easily. Without really thinking about it she just absently gave it a swipe with the edge of her shirt before refilling it and settling back with a contented sigh. Obviously she wasn't overly concerned about silly little things like germs. She took a sip, made a face, but it had the familiar look of a habitual expression.

"Not gonna lie, I can't stand dis stuff," she said, but she was smiling. "Would strip the paint offa the outside of a speeder. But keeps things movin', if ya know what I mean."

"Yes, it does give you much energy. Should be careful with it though," Samson responded carefully. "One risks a prolonged stay on the toilet, if they drink too much."

She paused, blinking at him.

"Well now dere's a fancy way o' saying it gives ya the trots. That's da point, Sammy. Only way ta keep camp food movin' on its way."

Now it was her turn to look at him with a careful peculiarity.

"Dun need no doctorin', but thanky kindly. Dun get sick, almost never get injured. I work careful like."

Tipping her head to the side, she studied him.

"But if'n yer ammenable, I'll trade fer a story. Yours. Or someone else's if'n its too personal. But you could colour me curious indeed what a soft, well spoken, doctoring sort you, beggin' yer pardon, looks like half a mountain all by his lonesome, is doing all the way out here."

[member="Samson"]

 

[Itash Mecetti]

[member="Tryp West"]

An inclination of the head followed.

It, incidentally, offered a better look at the scars on his neck and considering Tryp's occupation?

She would have no issue recognizing them as Sith runes. Equally the woman would presumably notice that the scars were rough, healed yes, but not done with a surgical precision at first. Raw. Violent and painful. If Tryp had no need for medical assistance than there was little that Samson could offer other- the proposal she offered made him blink this time around.

Surprise colored by confusion for a brief moment, before shrugging.

It was a difficult perspective... this. In itself Samson did not truly care about secrets or keeping things hidden away. It seemed complicated, to lie and lie, how did you ever keep all the little lies straight?

"My story is not my own, I am sorry." That is all that the clone could say without putting Irajah at risk. A promise had been made to her. That he would keep her safe, it was difficult to recognize which facts would be a danger to her and which would not. Better... to simply stay quiet about it all. Some things could be risked, but this was certainly not one of them.

"But my purpose is. I have come to learn." A nod now, satisfied and happy, because it was the direction that kept him going now. Pleased with himself to have found it in the first place. "The Sith, the Jedi, all in between, unfiltered knowledge not colored by rising tempers and contemporary bias."

Not the entire truth.

Samson would not risk going to the current Sith, the current Jedi, or anyone else.

Not when that could put his creator at risk.

"What made you decide to make music of these artifacts, if I may ask?"

 

[Tryp West]

She's started picking at her mostly empty plate again with her fork, less because she was expecting to find anything edible there and more just because it was there.

Tryp squinted at him slightly. Then pointed the fork right at him.

"Yer story is always your own," she said firmly, brandishing the fork like it mattered. "'S'okay if'n ya dun wanna share it. An' I respect that. But that attitude is dangerous, and gonna lead you to trouble, beggin' your pardon. Meybe not mah business.... nah, definitely not mah business. But. No one else owns your story, Sammy."

She put the fork down, stretching.

She did indeed recognize the scars. She couldn't read them necessarily, that had never been her goal, after all. But the fact that he was either a sith or had been mistreated by one was clear (though, to be fair, it could also have been both).

"S'why I do this, so you git your answer," she continued, starting to clean up from the grub. "The people I'm writin' about? Long gone. But there's stories. Meybe they ain't mine ta tell. I wouldn't argue with ya if'n ya said that. But dey're stories worth tellin'."

Giving him an unapologetic eyeball again, Tryp shrugged.

"Meybe I'm in it fer the stories. Meybe it's jes better than piloting a garbage tug. Somedays its one, some days t'other. Maybe I jes 'ave itchy feet. Ask me tomorra' my answer might'n be diff'rnt."

Standing up, she brushed dirt and debris off of her rear and jerked her head at him.

"Come on."

There was a questioning look on his face.

"If'n yer lookin' for learnin', found somethin' earlier that might'n be o' more use ta you than it is ta me."

@Samson

 

[Itash Mecetti]

[member="Tryp West"]

She did not understand.

Which was fine.

Understandable.

When you first meet a person, your first thought was not going to be: Oh, perhaps he was a clone, made to specification from an old, cruel Sith Lord. At least, Samson hoped that that wasn't a usual consideration. That would get quite exhausting at one point or the other. But Samson did not argue the point, because he couldn't explain it without giving away the crux of the matter.

Knowledge was power or so Irajah had tried to explain to him multiple times.

A detail on its own was small, but pick up enough of them and they could be a powerful weapon indeed. So Samson figured it was best not to take that risk. Not with someone he did not know anyway.

"I appreciate your advice, Tryp." Samson offered gently, but he did not say anything more. Instead settling in to listen. Strange how both their goals were similar in some measure. Both busied themselves with the gathering of lore, story, knowledge, to remember what was forgotten. But the intent was different- she did it because the other options did not seem to peak her interest.

Samson did it... because there was no other option left to him.

None that he could find that could harmonize with what leeway he was given. "I will be sure to ask you every day then." A joke. He thought. That was what a joke was, was it not?

A measure of stone-faced implication that had no bearing in reality.

Humor was hard.

Head tilted next as she beckoned to him, but what was there to lose here? Samson rose and perhaps this time the sheer size of him would hit even harder. After all, she had been laying about before and now she'd have more perspective. "What did you find exactly?" Curiosity was offered to her as he followed along and away from the little makeshift campsite.

 

[Tryp West]

The jungle outside was starting to darken as the sun set, and the shadows in the building were already growing long. If Tryp was concerned about being in Sith ruins, with a strange (very large) man covered in Sith runes, at night, alone, she didn't show it. Truthfully, she wasn't particularly concerned. If he was going to do something, he was going to do it. It seemed unlikely from the way he'd acted, the way he spoke, but she figured she couldn't control the actions of other people by being afraid. She'd burn that bridge when she got to it, if need be.

Reaching into a pouch on her belt, Tryp produced a glow rod. Cracking it to activate it, she held it high as she picked her way over the rubble and then ducked through a half concealed doorway. The stairs led down, moss covered, damp.

"Bit treacherous," she called after her before heading down. "Watch'er step."

She cut off at the second landing down, water pooling lower than that in a way that would require rebreathers to explore. But that was fine with her. What she wanted to show him was here.

"Found this room yesterday," she commented, stepped aside and letting him through as she held up the glowstick. "Didn't touch a damn thing. I'm an explorer, not a moron." The room was illuminated in the pale, blue light. It was clear in a moment what she meant.

Even without the Force, there was nothing benign about the contents of this room. Shelves lined one wall, a desk, now broken and half rotted, took up another. What had once been scrolls most likely had liquefied in their slots. But there were other things still. Dark things. Hungry things. A half dozen assorted items that screamed Sith even without having to touch them.

"This the kinda thing yer lookin' fer? No good fer me, I'm not the right kinda fool ta touch even a one'a'em. But figured might be of some use ta you."

@Samson

 

[Itash Mecetti]

[member="Tryp West"]

He followed silently.

It took some doing at times, where Samson had to duck as some of the stairways were not constructed with his height in mind. Tight, cramped corridors that ended in a little alcove that had two direction: farther down into deep waters and then a hallway leading into a room next to it. "It takes competence to uncover secrets on a site picked clean many times over by scavengers and opportunists." Samson calmly stated a fact that doubled as a compliment and perhaps tripled as a query. Just how had Tryp been able to discover this, when nobody else had across all generations? Had it been her psychometry? Touching walls and other objects, until the impression printed itself into her?

Possible.

Very, very possible.

But any further line of questioning was dampened once Samson entered the room and was greeted by the artifacts. Fist clenched, nails biting without drawing blood, but enough to show anxiety. He could feel them calling to him like old friends.

Making promises.

He did not have any friends though. "This..." Samson nodded before easing his fist and letting it shift into an open palm. There was a frown there, on his expression, as he called upon a hexagonal shape from one of the shelves. It floated above his stretched out hand and started to glow a hue of red. "You did well not to touch them." His skin crawled by its proximity and the heat coming off of the holocron. A short glance over to Tryp showed that she did not feel that heat.

"You find these sort of things often then?"

Curious query as the holocron slowly rotated in the air in front of him.

It looked more fragile than he had first imagined.

Strange how an Order who believed in strength before all would lock their secrets into these weak capsules of time. Why not a vault or a glasteel display case for protection? "I wonder why an Order obsessed with personal strength would funnel their power and secrets into these things. Risky thing, that."

 

[Tryp West]

"You did well not to touch them."

Tryp leaned against the wall by the doorway. Taking a pair of gloves off of her belt, she started pulling them on. Clearly she had no intention of accidentally touching anything in this room.

"Like I said, I'm not a moron, Sammy."

Even with the gloves on, she just watched him as he made his way around. She did not miss the delicacy of his actions, the blatant use of the Force, but she wondered if he was aware of the momentary glow- so weak that it would have been missed had she not been looking at the back of his neck when it happened- of the runes all along skin. The light had crawled from mark to mark, like an illuminated parasite traveling just beneath his skin before disappearing again. Arms crossed over her chest, one knee bent and foot flat against the wall, she considered.

"Not often," she said finally. "Mostly I'm not lookin' fer stuff like dis. Worthless ta me and while I could sell 'em, well. Seems best ta let sleepin' Sith lie in dis regard."

"Sometimes I'll take a contract, lookin' fer somethin' specific like fer a client. But usually I let stuff like dis be."

Pushing back off of the wall, she picked her way over to him.

"Dat's easy," she said softly, looking at the holocron, but making no move to touch it.

"Dey valued strength, sure," the past tense use in this case was clear- Tryp was talking about the Sith of the past, not of the present. Not that present Sith couldn't fall under the statement, simply that she primarily functioned in her windows to the past, rather than the present. "But also subtlety, challenging themselves, again an' again. What's da challenge in building a duracrete bunker, eh? But that? A confection o' glass an' da Force? Dat takes artistry. Anyone can pour duracrete. Only a Master o' somethin' could create something like dat and have it survive. Fer every holocron ya find intact, a dozen 'ave already shattered or bin crushed ta dust. Dat Sith, da one dat made dat? Dey won. An' get ter be 'membered."

She breathed in deeply, musing half to herself now. "Somethin' people seem ta ferget about Forcers is dat dey're still people. Jes folk, under all dat black an' angry red eyes. Dey got da same motivations da rest o' us have. Jes'..... are willin' ta go farther than we are. Dey pay a price," she said the last part a little harder, giving him a scrutinizing look. "An' fer them its worth it I reckon. Jes' remember, dat price always comes on da back o' other people. Not jes themselves."

It wasn't clear whether she was sharing her opinion in general, or if she was warning him specifically. For a moment is seemed like the later, and then she was shrugging, smiling easily and stepping back. Testing the load bearing potential of the mouldering desk, she decided against leaning there and instead bumped her hip up against a chunk of ceiling that had fallen down beside it.

@Samson

 

[Itash Mecetti]

[member="Tryp West"]

Samson was blissfully unaware of the way the etching in his skin were interacting with the subtle force usage.

The Force was still new to him.

Some training here and there, but nothing that would evoke a visceral response that was necessary to truly be of note to him. He seemed absent as he listened. The fact that Tryp received a nod here and there, soft grunt in acknowledgement, spoke against it though. "Selling artifacts of the Sith-" Samson thought about that for a moment, before chuckling softly. "-or Jedi, I suppose. Quickest way to receiving attention that is... less than pleasant in the long run." Calm agreement, before the holocron softly floated back onto the shelf and Samson let go of the Force churning inside of him.

He looked over to her at the last mention she made.

The first things were logical, they made sense and Samson filled it away for later perusal. It was good. It meant that any holocron he could find would be from the hands of those powerful, strong, competent in one way or the other. It meant that the journey would not be to waste and his time would be well-spend.

Head tilted then.

"I am keenly aware what type of price the Sith extract from people, Tryp."

Soft response and he looked at her then. Truly looked, not just the soft brush of eyes across the lines, but into her eyes and open. It sounded as if Samson was talking about his scars- implying that he had experienced the price on his own skin. That was not what Samson was talking about though. Instead his mind went back to his creator and what she had experienced at the hand of a Sith. Painful extraction that had taken much from her, it didn't matter what she had taken herself afterwards.

Not to Samson anyway.

 

[Tryp West]

His answer confirmed her assumption, even if it was a wrong assumption. That indeed, he'd suffered at the hands of the Sith. She hadn't been trying to pry, per se, it hadn't been the point of those observations. She just nodded, leaving it lie. If he wanted to elaborate he could, otherwise she wasn't going to poke at it. Tryp herself wasn't a particularly private person- not much to hide- so why would she? But she recognized the privilege inherent in a life lived without secrets, and that not everyone had that luxury.

With a soft ooph of breath, she pushed back off of the stone with her hip.

"Well, hope'fly der's somet'in' in 'ere dat'll be useful to ya," she said with a stretch, rolling her neck and shoulders.

"I'll be spending another day 'r two 'ere, but I'm mostly workin' d' upper levels. Stuff down 'ere isn't.... well." She gave the shelf and what looked like half of a child's skull a meaningful eyeball. "Not my cup'a'caf, if'n ya feel me."

Gaze flickered to him and she gave him a not entirely dissimilar once over- twice- before obviously coming to a decision.

"If yer stickin' around, yer welcome ta join me fer meals or jus' company. Can't offer much, but I ain't out 'ere cause I 'ate people. Quiet is nice, but in a place like dis, company is good too."

[member="Samson"]

 

[Itash Mecetti]

[member="Tryp West"]

He hesitated for a bit.

Before giving her a short nod. "That would be nice, thank you." Turning slightly Samson studied the shelves again, the artifacts on them and deposited on the ground, the table ruined. None of the papers had survived, the damp of the nearby water causing only further degradation. Paper, skin, all of that needed dry grounds to be of any use for long-term storage.

But that's where the holocrons came in.

They would have to be enough for now. "If this place disturbs you, feel free to leave me here alone for now." It was strange how wrong it felt and yet how much it made him feel like home. The dark crawls on his skin did not worry him, it just made him cautious. This might not inspire fear in him, but that did not mean there wasn't real danger here for him.

It would take only one slip of the foot to be destroyed... or worse by these things.

"I know where to find the camp when I come up for... air." It was the polite thing to do here. It made little sense for her to remain here amidst these strange artifacts, glowing softly with menace just for him.

 

[Tryp West]

She shrugged but started heading toward the door anyway.

"Dun't disturb me none, but ain't nothing for me here, so ya dun 'ave ta tell me twice," she said with an easy smile.

She didn't bother telling him to be careful. He knew. She knew. And while Tryp was not particularly laconic, she didn't waste her time or anyone else's if she could avoid it. With a quick salute, she ducked back out of the room, whistling as she headed back up into the upper levels of the ruins.

****

As far as she was concerned, her shift was over. It was too dark to fiddle around without stronger lights than she had to work with, and besides, she'd already finished a piece today, which meant she was fully prepared to take a well deserved break. Whenever he re-emerged, he'd find her stretched out. Ankles crossed and feet propped up on the broken head of a statue, she'd laid back with her hands laced behind her head right beneath one of the holes in the ceiling.

"Clear night," she mentioned when he approached. She was chewing on a stick and she used her tongue to move it to the side of her mouth as she pointed up.

"Been cloudy, last couple o' nights. Was startin' ta miss da stars."

[member="Samson"]