Ophelia DuSang
Feeling in the Form of a Girl
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BYO8Et7-4Mc
Archaeological Archives
“You will kindly surrender your weapons, gentlemen.” She announced before adding, “No blasters in the archives, please.” Ophelia’s voice was silvery and slightly elevated. As per usual, she was performing her best approximation of aristocratic basic. Perhaps leaning a little heavy on the accent in places. Here and there, her Coruscanti pronunciation peeking through.
Two men entered the stony, subterranean vault. Seadar Vertri and his hired security, Bryfran Wynn. The former was a youthful-looking man, perhaps a little older than he seemed, donned in matte black plate armor. It was more ornamental than functional, Ophelia speculated, as it had been uniquely crafted to fit his form. Tapered at the waist with an exaggerated flair at his shoulders. Fringing the woven straps, strips of glinting gold. The gilding matched his hair and his immaculately manicured goatee. Handsome enough for someone playing the part of an interplanetary merchant prince. He thought so, anyway.
Bryfran Wynn, the merchant’s guard, was another story all together. The man was solid and, when he moved, he appropriated more space than he actually needed. He wore no armor, but rather, a long brown duster and leather patched uniform from some far away, unidentifiable conflict. His head looked as if it had been hastily shaped from a block of clay; hard angles and asymmetric folds of thick flesh arranged in an everlasting grimace.
There was something savage about him, Ophelia gauged, after drinking in his guise and pairing it with his presence. And not in a flattering way. Not in the way which eluded to the fierce elegance of primeval forces. No. There was something festering inside of him. Something had spoiled in his soul.
Behind them, a trio bipedal of droids shuffled in. One pushed a cargo crate on a small float sled while the others flanked. Behind Ophelia were two flanking figures of her own, a Knight and her acolyte. Both stepped forward as Vertri and Wynn assumed their positions a few meters across from their host to collect their weapons. Vertri surrendered his sole pistol without protest, but his hired man bristled, becoming taller, before smirking at the hilt on the Knight’s belt.
“I lose mine and you keep yours.” He rumbled, words thick with scorn, “Can’t say I care for the way you play your games.”
“This is not a game.” Ophelia’s eyes were firmly set on the savage. Her voice was stripped of all its charm. No warmth. No musicality. This man stoked her anxiety and she spoke plainly before glancing to his keeper to compel his compliance, “Please.”
“Come now, Bry.” The merchant prince urged, falsely saccharine and tight, “The nice lady and her friends mean you no harm.” After a drawn-out hesitation Wynn, at last, removed his blasters from the crisscross holsters on his hip and handed them over. He wasn’t happy about it, though, and the scowl he wore made his resentment explicitly clear.
“Good boy.” He looked back to Ophelia, clapping his hands, “Now, would you mind if we dispense with the formalities and…” His brows raised enticingly. The consummate salesman, “… get to the goods?”
“By all means.”
The droids lumbered mechanically forward, turning the sled so that it hovered parallel to Ophelia’s position. When they retreated, she advanced. Her eyes fixed on the cargo, “Open it, please?”
“Of course.” Vertri, without moving, addressed the air, “Speech Recognition.” A panel on the crate came alive and responded with a twinkling chime, “Moulee-rah. Dopa. Bo. K’wanna.” With that, the crate’s lid released a slow hiss of opaque steam. It lifted and pulled back. Ophelia watched it, she couldn’t not. As the clouds dissipated, glimpses of ivory curves were slowly revealed. Oh, the agreeable agony of anticipation. She was drinking in a steady breath when the merchant spoke again.
“Take all the time you’d like to appraise its condition.” He said through a confident grin, “But don’t expect to find any dings. We took every precaution transporting it here. Spared no expense.”
“I will assess its condition, thank you.” Ophelia kneeled beside the cargo. The last frail wisps of steam shattered against her face. “As well as… appraise its authenticity.”
She did not see it but she felt Vertri prickle, “I…” He began, “You.” He was grasping, off balance, “There must be some mistake. Spectroscopic analyses were forwarded to you a week ago. Do… you mean to run them again?”
“Spectrographs can be fooled, Mr. Vertri.” She removed her right glove. I can’t. The artifact was resting before her without mist obstructing her view. It was no bigger than a child’s toy and, to a layman, it may have been plain and unimpressive. A simple cylinder carved from white stone; a body draped by a cloak. Its lines reached for each other at its neck, signifying shoulders, atop which rested an abnormally large head. Genderless. Flat affect. But for the eyes. They were unblinking briolettes, facing upward. Staring at the heavens. Grotesquely frozen in beholding the face of God.
Hello, beautiful. Ophelia’s naked hand reached for it, but didn’t touch. Rather, it hovered just above the figure’s smooth slopes. Let’s get better acquainted.
“Oh, I see.” She heard the merchant, but she did not respond, “You’re one of… them.” His last word had been placed quite delicately. It was one of those tactless comments that one attempts to save at the last moment. Gather it back into the mouth as it spills off the lips. It was an easy mistake to make, though. Ophelia carried no saber and she wore blue while the others wore black. She was but a First Order curator. A temp. A civilian walking the great halls of warriors and priests.
But yes, beneath the surface, she was in a very fundamental way one of them.
@Tirdarius