Finding Force-Users

[Astoach]

Astoach, at this long awaited point in time, had felt the urge to go vanilla. No more stalking, no more preplanning, he would do the by-the-books, instinctive, carnal, and animalistic hunt for a Force User, like the glory days. However, the most important part of such a hunt was the ability to identify a Force User, and while Astoach was not exactly fretful of stabbing the wrong person – for, as we all know, Astoach would be just as happy to stab people regardless – it was a well-known assumption to him that if he stabbed one person on accident, fine, it would be shrugged off. Stab two people, people would have their eyes out for suspicious persons. Stab three people, people start shabbing nonsense about a serial killer and the like, and it’s always come phase three that everything hits the chitter.

So, as all new blood Force Hunters may inquire, how is it you identify a Force User. Well, Astoach would say, head held high in the fictional process and musing of actually having people who cared for his opinion. The ligthsabre of course! For not a single, notable Force User was without lightsabre, and if they were, Astoach would just regard them as crippled, detrimental to sport and would shed no tears over missing such low-level game. While some non-Force Users were trained in the use of the sabre, primarily those with cybernetic implants, since the use of such blades required such incredible precision a normal sentient would be completely incapable of wielding such a beast, it would be a safe consideration to assume one who carried such a weapon was to be prescribed a knife to the gullet.

Yet as his depressingly weight footfalls, like bricks of led, trotted him through the rain-soaked streets of Nar Shaddaa, glinting bright arrays of neon pinks and blues, he caught no sign of such weaponry. In fact, he not only utterly lacked any direction upon targets of interest, but he also found himself lost to boot. There was a distinct irritation that comes from situations such as this, one that presses against the ribcage and eases into the esophagus like a worm, and one so notably painful it forced Astoach to find haven on a nearby bench. While soaked with rain, the cool kiss of liquid water to his back and buttocks did work to alleviate his intense, bottled ire and as he sighed in relaxation, his head fell back, exposing the black folds of his mask to the bright illumination to the street signs above. Jedi or Sith, getting anything done, successfully or not, was going to kick the crap out of him, and from what he could gather, tonight was going to be a very long night.

[member="Gav Arwell"]

 

[ReTRAKKS]

The streets were empty to every crevice and fold, and nothing lingered in the shadows. Gav walked through the rain without an umbrella or a newspaper to cover her head, obviously not caring that she was wet. After so many years on Grieak, where every person was treated as a warrior, none really cared about being wet. They would have bigger problems, like fighting for their lives, or hunting to feed a family. Without technology of any kind, everything was done the old fashion way.

Gav walked past [member=Astoach] without a single glance, not caring why the hunter was sitting in the rain. She didn't find it creepy, or unnatural, due to her inexperience in normal a normal Spaceman's life.

 

[Astoach]

Astoach’s neck snapped up, his head staring at the passerby woman with an almost dangerous sense of intensity radiating from his invisible expression. Yes, the mask would conceal his face, burying his appearance under layers of shadowy leather, but in the fractured light of the glowing billboards, planted in rows high above the dreary streets, shattered in the downpour, though each little droplet of rain, his eyes, wide and wild, were exposed beneath the puckered sockets of the mask. And how he stared at her, not in wanton desire, but out of animalistic strangeness, contemplating unfathomable, bestial thoughts unintelligible by intelligence, his eyes full of vacant concentration and ghostly musings, it was a dangerous stare. “You there,” he said, his voice echoing out from beneath the fettered shroud of his leather hood, muffled and broken by piercing rain. “Come here.”

“I’m looking for someone. Help me.”

[member="Gav Arwell"]

 

[ReTRAKKS]

Gav's complexion and apparel were beyond normal as well, rugged hunter's jacket, slightly shredded t-shirt, jeans and underwear, and combat boots. the sides of Gav's head were braided back, and tarnished brown warpaint clustered on her face. Gav didn't bother to look at the voice's source, knowing that the man was speaking to her in a demanding way. It was rude, and she didn't respond. Gav kept walking, waiting to see if the male would follow.

 

[Astoach]

[member="Gav Arwell"]

It was a rather abrupt behavior, an act of sudden defiance that spurned the gears of toiling frustration within Astoach’s head, submerged into the sea of wistful doubt. Lost, frustrated, and now snubbed by some tramp, a deep rooted impression of calamity arose within him like a flood of panic. She kept walking, slinking further into the dark mists of rain that shrouded the empty street, and began to vanish in the glinting downpour fog and the scent of petrichor. In the desperation of wanton need, lacking the invigoration of flesh and sacrifice, Astoach needed attention; he demanded limelight to detract from his bloodbound abstinence. Why would she dare walk away from him, he was in need. Like a lost child, starving along the alleys, dying; he was dying in a spiritual sense, lacking the sustenance of damnation.

As she walked, Astoach rose, limply, like a rag doll tugged upright by a ascending hand pinching the head, and watched her, eyes glinting with malevolence, a hungry despair of raw need. In the Force he might be sensed as cold, as calm, a derelict phantom of frost whose sheer aura of radiating chills trickled shivers down the spine. Evil, that was what he was, dancing the thin lines of vulgar insanity and this true moment, this brief flash into the void beneath the black mask, that sepulcher of madness. His breathing became heavy, haunting the rainy night as it echoed, raspy and full of desire, and it would follow behind her. The figure had since risen in silence, like the dead from beyond the grave, and made pursuit, feet creeping along the ground, sunken into crystalline puddles and sludge that lined the street in overflown gutters.

His coat billowed about him, granting him the flurried appearance of a shadowy apparition, sunken into existence from a nameless wormhole that shrunk and expanded about his form. He was now angry and as anger sunk away all rationality, so too did his vulgar humor, swallowed by quicksand of this mire of malice. His breath drew on, and then sharply sunk into a whisper, a shrill tone that portrayed his cruel intent should the pestilent denial continue, “I said I’m looking for someone.” His black eyes glittered with wickedness and a gaunt hand, stretching from the fetters of worn cloth attire, attempted to snake onto her shoulder, to dig long black claws, dirtied foul years-worth of lacked hygiene and snagging into carrion, into the skin. “I can’t find them… maybe you can help me?”

 

[ReTRAKKS]

Thinking she was done with the spaceman from the bench, Gav's left shoulder was struck from behind, in which a set of black talons breached her leather shoulderpads and into her shoulder. Gav's body lurched and stopped, more focused on her muscles freezing, and what to do about it. Grieakian soldiers were taught how to stay alive, and what to do in any situation. Right now, her skills didn't show her how to reason with a creepy space man.

With her right light, Gav turned her body 180 degrees to face [member=Astoach] . With his claws still embeded in her shoulder, Gav launched her right leg into Astoach's chest. If this worked, Astoach would be launched backwards, both giving Gav breathing room and releasing her shoulder, but with the effects of a claw wound.

" How dare you attack an uninterested pass-byer without a proper reason." Gav said, ready to draw her combat sword any moment. " It is strongly different and unwise, even for a spaceman. "

 

[Astoach]

Astoach took the resounding blow to his torso, experiencing her painful expulsion with the revered practice of a professional. He willed his body to fall lax in flight, his muscles sighing into smooth relaxation for the brief seconds of elongated travel, the wind whistling about him, blowing free his thick, grimy locks of brown hair about his face, drenched in black false-flesh. Then they tightened, swooning into control of the situation, for as his body reached its prophesied collision upon the steely ground, coated with a film of greasy rainwater, Astoach, caught the momentum into a roll on his back, swinging his hips high so that the speed would carry him back to his feet. It worked, the tight spin launching him, drenched, to heavy-booted feet with a tremendous thud and splash of sparkling rain water. His hand was bloodied, thick droplets of warm, ruby liquid, sparkling sickly, spat from his hand in large globules, crashing into the pool of liquid below to mix and swirl with the stagnant dirt. Two black fingernails remained embedded in her shoulder, weeping blood from tattered fetters of flesh.

"I don't care that you're not interested," began Astoach in the midst of madness. Lost, again, like some little boy. Unforgivable. In the midst of burrowing shame he had been claimed again by sorrow turned sour, curdling into insane wrath of citric flames. He took a step forward, trailing that bloody seepage that marred his hand, yet paid it little mind, allowing the crimson tears to seep away in the showers. "I asked you a question, you answer, understand?" His neck rolled, cracking stiffly, and the faint glitter of the black, molten slag of his eyes shone like spotlights as it reflected the overhead illumination in limelight. As his eyes glowed in cascades of blackness, his dark clothing fluttered about him with a life of its own, shattering the stillness of night with grim wings of toiled cloth. "Can you help me find them?"

"Force-Users," he cooed in a ragged whisper, emitted from phantom lips cast from the dark sepulcher serving as his mask, his Polyp.

[member="Gav Arwell"]

 

[ReTRAKKS]

With every second Gav was near this strange spaceman, the more she grew uneasy. While [member="Astoach"] asked his question, Gav used her right hand to grasp one of the talons in her shoulder, and pulled it out. The removal of the talon made her bleed, which the Grieakian soldier through the talon aside. She then turned towards the second as she responded.

" I'm afraid I can't help you. I have an airfield I have to get to. " Gav said.

 

[Astoach]

[member="Gav Arwell"]

"Then I'll walk with you," he countered, gliding forward on soft footfalls to edge nearer. His eyes inhaled her, peering out from beneath the mask like black coals and imbibing the visage of her figure. He was interested, he was desperate, he was frustrated and she was his ventilation so help him the Force. His feet sunk into the water, kicking up titanic splashes of liquid that clung to his outfit, situated atop the already rain-soaked cloth and weighing it down, trapping the garments to his skin and revealing his form. Showcasing his gaunt, defined body, the disturbing traces of thick scars, burn scars stretched in small webs of slashes, cascaded across his figure, edging just below his neckline. He made no more foolish attempts to touch her, but he zoned in all the same, with an uneasily hurried gate as he trekked through shin-high waters, intent to reach her. "I'm looking for Force-Users, I want to talk to them. Please."