Yasha Cadera
Mom'alor
The sun rose on the Corek-Cadera-Feanor Estate, glowing on Yasha's mottled back as she bent over a set of seedlings from her greenhouse. A sundress replaced the armour the former Mand'alor wore during her tenure, a visor more akin to sunglasses tipped down to protect the woman's day-blind eyes from the glow of dawn. She almost got through the planting before the sun rose on Alderaan's eastern hemisphere. Clucking her tongue, Yasha knelt in the planting bed and stuck her trowel in, lifting enough of the well worked soil to pop in a tender shoot for yet another experiment.
If she could create strains of a native leaf-green with protein, it could be grown in nutrient-deficient soil, and thus staunch hunger in dozens of harshly conditioned worlds. But first, she needed to see if her seedlings were viable. Botany was not a quick science.
Momentarily checking around her, and contented with her lonely state, Yasha shivered. The olive skin of her right arm shifted its' chromatophores to its' natural state: A sickly, dappled green. The Vong-Flesh radiated up the entirety of her right arm, up along her neck and swept halfway across her face in spider-trails. Down her back, the skin disappeared beneath the open back of her sundress. There, in the earliest sun, the pin-pricks of the morning's chill combatted with a promised heat, and Yasha was content. Trowel plunked into her planting basket, she shook out the vong-flesh arm, and the tendrils of her fingers stretched until she used them as five evenly spaced gouges to pull back the soil.
Hopefully she'd get this done before she smelled the stim-caf and breakfast foods
Noah Corek
inevitably began once he awoke. But where was Alex? Yasha cracked her neck at a degree some might consider severe, nigh dislocation, and cracked it the other way with another gleeful shiver. Once this was done, she wondered what they'd all get up to? If anything at all.
Alexandra Feanor
If she could create strains of a native leaf-green with protein, it could be grown in nutrient-deficient soil, and thus staunch hunger in dozens of harshly conditioned worlds. But first, she needed to see if her seedlings were viable. Botany was not a quick science.
Momentarily checking around her, and contented with her lonely state, Yasha shivered. The olive skin of her right arm shifted its' chromatophores to its' natural state: A sickly, dappled green. The Vong-Flesh radiated up the entirety of her right arm, up along her neck and swept halfway across her face in spider-trails. Down her back, the skin disappeared beneath the open back of her sundress. There, in the earliest sun, the pin-pricks of the morning's chill combatted with a promised heat, and Yasha was content. Trowel plunked into her planting basket, she shook out the vong-flesh arm, and the tendrils of her fingers stretched until she used them as five evenly spaced gouges to pull back the soil.
Hopefully she'd get this done before she smelled the stim-caf and breakfast foods

