Private I Need A Drink

[The Lost]

What was crazier than ending up in the employ of a Sith as an apprentice?

This place. This whole place. The trees bled blood? Flowers that send you down memory lanes of other people you didn't even know? Darth Virelia had given her a task to complete here, but before she did anything like that the Lost was going to drown out this craziness with a strong, very strong, drink. That was the only good thing about coming to Nathema for the Chiss dredge. The more common folk sent here also felt the same as she did, and were just as desperate for a strong drink as she was.

Their bars were stocked.

So the Lost plopped down at one of the bars, already buzzed from an earlier one just down the street. Never drink too much in one place, always stay moving. Don't pull any attention, just enjoy the drinks and get out. It was how she avoided the Sith as long as she had while still being able to at least drink. Old habit's died hard, or something. She reached up for the glass provided, idly tossing down some of the allowance she'd been given. Another boon supposedly, but she expected she'd be paying it back with interest.

"Don't bother taking the bottle back. I'll just take the whole thing if you don't mind."

Iskera Valest

 

[Iskera Valest]

Iskera claimed the stool beside the Lost with the same quiet inevitability she had used to claim her life back on Denon. Fingers brushed a thin film of condensation from the counter before curling around her own glass. She swirled it once, examining the amber liquid as though it might answer a question she had left unspoken.

"Funny thing about bottles," she murmured, voice precise, each word shaped like glass being cut. "They make you think the measure is yours to decide. In truth, the bottle owns you. Until it's dry." She raised the glass and sipped—not a swallow, but a measured taste, enough to roll over her tongue before she set it down with care.

A memory came unbidden: the sharp bite of a paralytic she had once distilled, the way it had tasted clean, almost sweet, before it stopped a man's breath. The thought drew the faintest smile.

Her steel-grey gaze turned to the woman beside her. "I remember you," she said softly. "Malachor."

She lifted the glass again, eyes steady. "Will you keep running nameless, or drink until someone names you for what you are?"

The Lost

 

[The Lost]

The flinch was visible and almost catastrophic. The bottle that had been tipped to fill her glass yet again fell from her grasp before she scrambled to catch it. Fear. It was the same feeling she felt on Malachor when that voice first spoke out to her in her hiding place. Fear that only grew as she saw just how unhinged this woman was.

Crazy could be cold, too.

With both hands clutching the bottle from it's near death experience, she idly just lifted it up to take a swig. She needed it, considering the questions now probing her mind. ".. I'm pretty sure it's the Dark Lady who owns me right now. I just get a chance to dull that headache with this." She muttered. Bitterly, at that, before she drowned out further disgruntled grumblings with another sip. A longer one this time.

"I prefer being forgotten." There was safety in annonymity. A frown formed on her face as she stared into the bottle, as if that had answers. "Street rats don't get names, unless they want to get caught and sacrificed. Better to be an unknown face in passing. I don't plan on letting that change any time soon."

Iskera Valest

 

[Iskera Valest]

Iskera watched the flinch as if she had anticipated it—measured, dissected, filed away. The tremor of glass against counter pleased her more than she let show. A single fingertip traced the rim of her own glass.

"Forgotten," she echoed, tone even, cool as stone. "That's a trick street rats tell themselves when they've already been noticed. Anonymity is a currency, yes, but once it's spent, you can never buy it back." Her eyes flicked toward the bottle the Lost clutched like a lifeline. "And you, here, now—already spent it."

She took a sip, not hurried, not indulgent, but clinical. "The Dark Lady owns you because you answered when she called. The drink owns you because you need it more than air. And still you talk of being unknown." The faintest curl of a smile ghosted across her lips. "Contradictions make for excellent leverage."

Iskera leaned slightly closer, not threatening, but inescapable. "You can prefer being forgotten. You can even run. But names are given whether you accept them or not. Rats earn them from those who catch them. Apprentices earn them from those who keep them alive."

Her voice dipped to something almost persuasive. "You should decide who names you first."

The Lost

 

[The Lost]

"You don't buy it back. You find a new alley to survive in." Was the bitter response, but the Lost couldn't argue the facts. The moment she answered the Dark Lady, the moment she was dropped in that cursed arena, she'd lost everything that had made her her. That let her be another faceless member of the crowd, that let her survive and live on her own terms, squalor and all.

She was no longer free.

Anger bubbled up in her expression as she took another drink, then looked right at Iskera with the bravado of a cornered mouse. Loud, rageful, all hoping to make a predator think twice on whether she was worth the fight or not. "What the hell does it even matter to you!? You're the craziest of them all here, prattling on about making allies while that lady was using her mind to choke you out. Sith are always crazy! It's why I tried so damn hard to avoid you all, but now here I am, on another stupid mission talking to you of all people again. At least last time it made sense, I was a body you could dispose of as a shield if needed, but why are you trying to tell me I should pick my own name or something?"

Suspicion ran deep. As did the alcohol now boosting what little confidence she had ten fold. She squinted, red eyes dimming in a glower.

"What are you gaining from this?"

Iskera Valest