The mechanic was elbow-deep in the engine of an old landspeeder, a decidedly colorful stream of invective falling past her lips. This archaic model, from a Force-be-damned bygone era, was the current bane of her existence. The list of what wasn't wrong with it was shorter by two klicks than the list of what needed to be rebuilt and replaced. For the fortieth time that hour alone, she berated herself for taking on the project in addition to the other work waiting nearby.
Two speeder bikes needing routine maintenance and inspection were in the second bay, and in the third, was a broken down luxury model that had been towed in just before closing time. Nyraen sighed heavily as she rose from her crouched position, joints popping audibly as she stretched and stared down at her dirty clothing and filthy hands. A clean mechanic wasn't a good mechanic, in her estimation, but this was getting a bit ridiculous even for her.
A glance up at the holoscreen on the nearby wall told her it was getting late, and she had no desire to spend all night in the shop yet again. It took time for her to straighten things up and lock down each bay, and then flip the security system on. Weary steps carried the tall redhead upstairs to the spacious apartment above, where she debated the merit of taking a bath and relaxing, or taking a shower and going out for a change.
Staying in meant lingering on old memories again, and she didn't want to do that. Not tonight.
Nyraen changed and showered in a decent amount of time, finding clean clothes to wear even as she ran a comb through her mane of crimson curls. Clad in a t-shirt and slightly torn jeans, she grabbed her leather jacket and soon had the door locked behind her. The cool night air was welcome as she walked through the outskirts of the city she'd called home since the end of the purges.
All that time she'd been forced into hiding, using every last ounce of her ability so she wouldn't be hunted down and slaughtered for the accident of her birth. Hunted and slaughtered by her own brethren. By Mandalorians.
It left a vile, bitter taste in her mouth, and she still found herself looking over her shoulder at almost every turn. Nyraen turned her back on those that remained and still called themselves Mandalorian, so many of them remnants from those who had banded together to purge the Force users from their ranks. To kill loyal Mandalorians for...
The redhead forced herself to stop thinking in circles. It happened often and only left her upset and closer to the edge of losing her control over herself. She needed to feed tonight, and she did not need to be careless about it. A drink or two at the cantina would take the edge off, and she could use the quiet relaxation of her favorite spot for a while.
The Broken Compass was lit warmly from within, the open door beckoning her forward. It wasn't a particularly rowdy cantina, but it was lively enough to provide ample entertainment through observation. The bartender nodded as she entered, her favorite ale ready by the time she got to the bar and perched on a stool, jacket draped across the back. Silver eyes passed over those regulars she recognized, and absently coursed over the newcomers.
Two speeder bikes needing routine maintenance and inspection were in the second bay, and in the third, was a broken down luxury model that had been towed in just before closing time. Nyraen sighed heavily as she rose from her crouched position, joints popping audibly as she stretched and stared down at her dirty clothing and filthy hands. A clean mechanic wasn't a good mechanic, in her estimation, but this was getting a bit ridiculous even for her.
A glance up at the holoscreen on the nearby wall told her it was getting late, and she had no desire to spend all night in the shop yet again. It took time for her to straighten things up and lock down each bay, and then flip the security system on. Weary steps carried the tall redhead upstairs to the spacious apartment above, where she debated the merit of taking a bath and relaxing, or taking a shower and going out for a change.
Staying in meant lingering on old memories again, and she didn't want to do that. Not tonight.
Nyraen changed and showered in a decent amount of time, finding clean clothes to wear even as she ran a comb through her mane of crimson curls. Clad in a t-shirt and slightly torn jeans, she grabbed her leather jacket and soon had the door locked behind her. The cool night air was welcome as she walked through the outskirts of the city she'd called home since the end of the purges.
All that time she'd been forced into hiding, using every last ounce of her ability so she wouldn't be hunted down and slaughtered for the accident of her birth. Hunted and slaughtered by her own brethren. By Mandalorians.
It left a vile, bitter taste in her mouth, and she still found herself looking over her shoulder at almost every turn. Nyraen turned her back on those that remained and still called themselves Mandalorian, so many of them remnants from those who had banded together to purge the Force users from their ranks. To kill loyal Mandalorians for...
The redhead forced herself to stop thinking in circles. It happened often and only left her upset and closer to the edge of losing her control over herself. She needed to feed tonight, and she did not need to be careless about it. A drink or two at the cantina would take the edge off, and she could use the quiet relaxation of her favorite spot for a while.
The Broken Compass was lit warmly from within, the open door beckoning her forward. It wasn't a particularly rowdy cantina, but it was lively enough to provide ample entertainment through observation. The bartender nodded as she entered, her favorite ale ready by the time she got to the bar and perched on a stool, jacket draped across the back. Silver eyes passed over those regulars she recognized, and absently coursed over the newcomers.
[member="Daymon Vale"]