Lifelong Nerd, Roleplayer, Writer and Philosopher
(NOTE: This whole ordeal is meant to be a conversation between a small group... As such, its best if this doesn't get too crowded - that said, I hope you all have fun reading, at the very least - mid-size to longer posts preferred. Let's see how long we can make this one work before we go our separate ways to various other RPs across the site.)
On Chandrila, it was a good day because of two things - one being that the weather was pleasantly warm, just warm enough to produce sweat beneath the tan fur of the Bothan who was leaning against a forgotten corner of a local restaurant, basking in the sun's pleasant warmth. The other reason the day was better still was because of the relative silence of the tourists' locale that the teen was frequenting - not silence in the traditional, void-like meaning of the word, no, but rather the fact that this section of the town, bustling with activity due to the very restaurant that the female sat next to, was largely free from the loud, boisterous and democratic political affairs that Chandrila was infamous for. Indeed, the restaurant in question, known to locals as The Iron Crystal, was constantly busy, and, as the native Chandrilans had little interest in catering to tourists unless they absolutely had to, one could find a certain, if unusual, form of repose merely by sitting on the sidelines and people-watching.
It was in Riskyr's best interest to do so, as she had little left to do for the day and needed the time to relax, having used the morning proper to prep her starship, the Maverick Jester, for her departure the following day, at around lunchtime. 7K-88 had not been required to accompany the Bothan, who had traveled into town to meet a friend who had eagerly sought to meet her upon hearing that she had returned. It certainly couldn't hurt to spend a day catching up with the closest thing she had to a peer-aged friend, and calling him even that was a stretch. At sixteen, Riskyr was lanky and short, and her petite, boyish frame and short hair had always made her an oddity among other girls, and, as she had never been inclined to care much for the silliness of other women, this nonchalant, dismissive attitude was reflected in her style of dress: the Bothan's hands traveled down to tighten the sleeves of the dark blue hoodie that she had tied around her little waist, the unneeded coat trailing down over the fabric of her loose-fitting breeches, over her scrawny little backside and rustling lightly against the faded blue fabric of her pants in time with her movements. The Bothan's bare, thin arms folded over the gray tank top covering her nigh-flat chest as she used a pointer finger to push her large, rounded reading glasses back into place on her muzzle, a tapered ear shifting to one side as Riskyr finally caught sight of her expected companion.
A short, blue-skinned being, his trunk shifting to and fro excitedly as he caught sight of his friend, approached the corner of the restaurant. The Ortolan was rotund, nearly waddling with every slow, though determined step he took, his one good eye bright as it took in the sight of the female, while his other eye was dull and gray on the left side, having been useless and blind since his birth. The Ortolan was clad in baggy, dark green cargo breeches and a black unadorned sash looped over one shoulder and down to hang over his opposite hip, hugging the large expanse of his naked torso easily. Short, pudgy hands and fat, babylike arms shifted to either side as he reached the Bothan, who, getting down onto one lanky, exposed kneecap, spread her thin arms wide to hug the elephantine alien. The female's small, furred lips traced over his forehead affectionately as the two wrapped their arms around one another, the Bothan letting her kiss linger proper for a few moments, while each attempted to lightly rock the other, savoring one another's presence for a few moments longer.
Finally, Riskyr broke the embrace and rested a single hand on the Ortolan's head as she settled her scrawny backside down onto the ferrocrete beneath her, that she might continue to bask in the midday sun. Her companion settled down next to her, his trunk twitching in excitement as he settled next to her and instinctively placed a pudgy hand onto the pocket of the Bothan's left leg, the youngling wordlessly questioning her as he had often done, every time they met over the past two years they had been friends: he wanted her to sing to him, or perhaps tell him a story that she had picked up in her travels. For now, Riskyr decided to focus on pleasantries. To one side, raucous laughter erupted from the crowd, but the two easily ignored the hustle that traveled all around them, akin to a storm raging around a boulder on the shore. A dark green, LOM-series protocol droid lumbered past the two, cursing in Huttese as it noisily sauntered through the laughing, talking, thick crowd all around them.
"Hi, Churv." the Bothan said, her signature crooked, left-sided smile crossing over her muzzle above the tufted tan fur of her thickening goatee, "I trust that you had no trouble getting here from Grandpa's?" Risk allowed her right hand to slip down into the confines of her left pocket somewhat awkwardly, while her left hand rubbed affectionately over the light, peach-like fuzz that covered the top of her Ortolan's head. Pulling an unadorned black case from her pocket, the Bothan opened the container to reveal a slightly worn, cherished flute composed of a dark, oiled wood, much to the toddler's delight.
"I'm always safe, Bard." The Ortolan's deep, though youthful voice seemed to echo from beneath the thick flesh of his twitching trunk as he turned his good eye up to look into his reflection in the lenses of her rounded, silver-framed glasses. "The governor hasn't sent Stormtroopers to carry us away, yet."
This imagery always served to make the Bothan smile, as, fortunately for the two of them, such would most likely always remain a joke: the local Imperial presence couldn't care less what the locals did, so long as they kept out of the Empire's affairs. "Even if they tried," the female softly mused, "They'd have a hard time of it, you little tub."
The Bothan's thin, gentle fingers rubbed affectionately over Churv's head, patting the thick flesh lightly as an afterthought. The Ortolan gently wrapped his thick, short arm around the middle of the female's thin back, each now properly wrapping the other in a one-armed hug and content to hold one another as the morning, with all of its bustling activities, task-oriented droids and laughing, wheedling and gossiping tourists surged all around them. This was a repose of most pleasant, lazy variety any one scholar could hope for, and who better to share it with then her Father's oldest friend's grandson? The Bothan's sky blue eyes glowed with affection, the toddler's hands clasping their fat digits together in expectation as the Bothan wordlessly began a soft performance, her oiled flute raising to her thin lips as the Bothan's cheeks expanded, and the gentle trilling of her flute began, her hands gentle shifting her flute up into the air as her finger danced over the instrument with practiced ease, a gentle melody reverberating through the air softly and causing a second, silver protocol droid to stop in its walk past the two and affix them with a curious look, before it shifted back into the crowd and out of view.
His hands clapping with gentle slaps before him, Churv giggled up at Riskyr, "Story and song afterwards, please?"
On Chandrila, it was a good day because of two things - one being that the weather was pleasantly warm, just warm enough to produce sweat beneath the tan fur of the Bothan who was leaning against a forgotten corner of a local restaurant, basking in the sun's pleasant warmth. The other reason the day was better still was because of the relative silence of the tourists' locale that the teen was frequenting - not silence in the traditional, void-like meaning of the word, no, but rather the fact that this section of the town, bustling with activity due to the very restaurant that the female sat next to, was largely free from the loud, boisterous and democratic political affairs that Chandrila was infamous for. Indeed, the restaurant in question, known to locals as The Iron Crystal, was constantly busy, and, as the native Chandrilans had little interest in catering to tourists unless they absolutely had to, one could find a certain, if unusual, form of repose merely by sitting on the sidelines and people-watching.
It was in Riskyr's best interest to do so, as she had little left to do for the day and needed the time to relax, having used the morning proper to prep her starship, the Maverick Jester, for her departure the following day, at around lunchtime. 7K-88 had not been required to accompany the Bothan, who had traveled into town to meet a friend who had eagerly sought to meet her upon hearing that she had returned. It certainly couldn't hurt to spend a day catching up with the closest thing she had to a peer-aged friend, and calling him even that was a stretch. At sixteen, Riskyr was lanky and short, and her petite, boyish frame and short hair had always made her an oddity among other girls, and, as she had never been inclined to care much for the silliness of other women, this nonchalant, dismissive attitude was reflected in her style of dress: the Bothan's hands traveled down to tighten the sleeves of the dark blue hoodie that she had tied around her little waist, the unneeded coat trailing down over the fabric of her loose-fitting breeches, over her scrawny little backside and rustling lightly against the faded blue fabric of her pants in time with her movements. The Bothan's bare, thin arms folded over the gray tank top covering her nigh-flat chest as she used a pointer finger to push her large, rounded reading glasses back into place on her muzzle, a tapered ear shifting to one side as Riskyr finally caught sight of her expected companion.
A short, blue-skinned being, his trunk shifting to and fro excitedly as he caught sight of his friend, approached the corner of the restaurant. The Ortolan was rotund, nearly waddling with every slow, though determined step he took, his one good eye bright as it took in the sight of the female, while his other eye was dull and gray on the left side, having been useless and blind since his birth. The Ortolan was clad in baggy, dark green cargo breeches and a black unadorned sash looped over one shoulder and down to hang over his opposite hip, hugging the large expanse of his naked torso easily. Short, pudgy hands and fat, babylike arms shifted to either side as he reached the Bothan, who, getting down onto one lanky, exposed kneecap, spread her thin arms wide to hug the elephantine alien. The female's small, furred lips traced over his forehead affectionately as the two wrapped their arms around one another, the Bothan letting her kiss linger proper for a few moments, while each attempted to lightly rock the other, savoring one another's presence for a few moments longer.
Finally, Riskyr broke the embrace and rested a single hand on the Ortolan's head as she settled her scrawny backside down onto the ferrocrete beneath her, that she might continue to bask in the midday sun. Her companion settled down next to her, his trunk twitching in excitement as he settled next to her and instinctively placed a pudgy hand onto the pocket of the Bothan's left leg, the youngling wordlessly questioning her as he had often done, every time they met over the past two years they had been friends: he wanted her to sing to him, or perhaps tell him a story that she had picked up in her travels. For now, Riskyr decided to focus on pleasantries. To one side, raucous laughter erupted from the crowd, but the two easily ignored the hustle that traveled all around them, akin to a storm raging around a boulder on the shore. A dark green, LOM-series protocol droid lumbered past the two, cursing in Huttese as it noisily sauntered through the laughing, talking, thick crowd all around them.
"Hi, Churv." the Bothan said, her signature crooked, left-sided smile crossing over her muzzle above the tufted tan fur of her thickening goatee, "I trust that you had no trouble getting here from Grandpa's?" Risk allowed her right hand to slip down into the confines of her left pocket somewhat awkwardly, while her left hand rubbed affectionately over the light, peach-like fuzz that covered the top of her Ortolan's head. Pulling an unadorned black case from her pocket, the Bothan opened the container to reveal a slightly worn, cherished flute composed of a dark, oiled wood, much to the toddler's delight.
"I'm always safe, Bard." The Ortolan's deep, though youthful voice seemed to echo from beneath the thick flesh of his twitching trunk as he turned his good eye up to look into his reflection in the lenses of her rounded, silver-framed glasses. "The governor hasn't sent Stormtroopers to carry us away, yet."
This imagery always served to make the Bothan smile, as, fortunately for the two of them, such would most likely always remain a joke: the local Imperial presence couldn't care less what the locals did, so long as they kept out of the Empire's affairs. "Even if they tried," the female softly mused, "They'd have a hard time of it, you little tub."
The Bothan's thin, gentle fingers rubbed affectionately over Churv's head, patting the thick flesh lightly as an afterthought. The Ortolan gently wrapped his thick, short arm around the middle of the female's thin back, each now properly wrapping the other in a one-armed hug and content to hold one another as the morning, with all of its bustling activities, task-oriented droids and laughing, wheedling and gossiping tourists surged all around them. This was a repose of most pleasant, lazy variety any one scholar could hope for, and who better to share it with then her Father's oldest friend's grandson? The Bothan's sky blue eyes glowed with affection, the toddler's hands clasping their fat digits together in expectation as the Bothan wordlessly began a soft performance, her oiled flute raising to her thin lips as the Bothan's cheeks expanded, and the gentle trilling of her flute began, her hands gentle shifting her flute up into the air as her finger danced over the instrument with practiced ease, a gentle melody reverberating through the air softly and causing a second, silver protocol droid to stop in its walk past the two and affix them with a curious look, before it shifted back into the crowd and out of view.
His hands clapping with gentle slaps before him, Churv giggled up at Riskyr, "Story and song afterwards, please?"