The Road Less Travelled [Quietus]

[Darth Immortus]

"Don't give me hope, Farnese. Give me facts."

Count Aretine was hovering over the dashboard inside the cockpit while his captain feverishly flexed his fingers over the controls in the seat below. Wide-eyed and with sweat pouring down from his brow, Farnese desperately tried to remedy the situation. Warning lights were lit up across the dashboard and flashing against his ghost-white skin, seeming almost as numerous as the stars outside.

"I'm afraid the solar flare has done too much damage, my Lord. Gods know we were lucky enough to survive it. We will have to make an emergency landing."

The Count pressed his index and middle finger to his temple, closed his eyes, and sighed.

"An emergency landing. Is that what they call crashing, these days?" Vanco scoffed. "I employ you to fix these types of situations, do I not? So fix it."

Farnese swallowed hard. "My Lord, our hyperdrive engine has been completely knocked out and our thrusters are operating at 10% capacity. I can only hope that the nearest system is close enough - "

Aretine's hand met with the captain's cheek with a loud smack.

"What did I tell you about hope, Captain?"

He sighed. In moments like these, Vanco was gravely regretting the years he'd put into his swordsmanship training, coming at the expense of sufficient skill behind the controls of a starship. Even the Force could not help him now, Aretine knew. He was in the predicament most foreign to him, and consequently the one he most hated - his life was completely in the hands of another. One of Serenno's best pilots, they said. Could fly him to across the galaxy and back without blinking an eye, much less travel to Zeltros to meet with prospective insurers, they said. Would that be enough to keep him alive? There was something consistent in Aretine's life that ensured that the routine always turned out to be anything but.

"We have just enough to make it into Onderon's atmosphere," Captain Farnese gulped. "My Lord, I suggest buckling in."

"I'm sure you do."

The Count moved back into the lounge area of the small shuttle, the expensive craft that for all it was worth in credits, was now failing him miserably. Sitting comfortably in his usual padded reclining chair that had been provided to him, Aretine made sure to strap on his finest black cape and fasten the gold chain around his neck before he sat. He buckled the safety harness around his waist, and reached for the ice bowl beside his makeshift throne, pulling out a bottle of Serenno's finest wine.

"Care for a drink?" Aretine called up to Farnese, just as he could see the orb of Onderon lighting up the cockpit window as their ship was about to make atmospheric entry. He began pouring the thick, purple liquid into a glass.

"My...my Lord?" Farnese looked back, incredulous, before frantically returning to the controls. To his horror, the landing gear had also been damaged.

"What embarrassing news this will make. I had hoped that, should I die in Republic space, fate would at least deem it fortunate that I be shot down by enemy craft. Go out in a blaze of glory, as it were," Aretine sighed. "But no. The great Count Vanco Aretine, Sith Lord and sole living heir to the noble House Aretine of Serenno, vanquished by a... solar flare."

He raised the bottom of the glass above his head as he took a quick swig of the sweet liquid.

"At least when they find what's left of me, they'll find me in my finest attire. That shall soften the humiliation. Onward, dear boy."

Vanco took another swig, this time directly from the wine bottle, as the cockpit before him lit up into a bright white hue, as the hapless luxury shuttle broke through Onderon's atmosphere.

 

[Quietus]

In the heat of the Onderon summer, the suns could be as relentless in the jungles as they were on the deserts of Tattooine. There one had to deal with sand - not such a trouble except during those rare storms where it could blast the skin off your bones. Here one had to deal with the humidity ... aside from all the other things that could kill you in the trees, the humidity was more an annoyance than anything else. For the inhabitants of the jungle, it was barely that. They were used to it, the stifling hot air, and the sweat constantly beading on their brows and running down their backs. It was simply par for normal.

What wasn't normal, at least in a way that it was unusual, was the streak of fire slicing across the clear blue afternoon sky.


"Beastia Blackthorne."

Quietus sat with her back to the sun, stooped over a massive stone mound. Within it the stones were shifting and soft cries could be heard. The skreev nest was hatching and it had all of her attention. At a loud chirp the woman reached forward and began to carefully remove the stones.

"Beastia ... we have seen a comet. It struck in the heart of Riversaw Clan territory, near the nesting grounds."

Not a comet, the woman's hands cut across the air, signing words in silence to the Tamer standing at her back, a ship.

"I will send Riders to investigate and assess the damage at once," the man turned to leave but was caught by her hand at his wrist.

No, her hands carved the command sharply, she was looking at him now, though briefly as her gaze moved to the sky above and to the west, send no one. I will go alone. Prepare Miir.

Something on the air had set her senses to alert - darkness had come to Onderon once again and it was not one she was familiar with this time.

@[member="Count Aretine"]

 

[Darth Immortus]

The first thing he could make out from this apparent hellhole, once the smoke began to give way, was the humidity. His ears were still ringing from the sound of the shuttle's massive hull slamming into trees, a cacophony of snapping trees and lurching, breaking steel. The flames of the shuttle carved a scar in the dense jungle canopy of Onderon, and although the hull itself remained mostly intact, the wings were gone, and the entire body was flaming. Farnese had wisely jettisoned the repulsors and cut all power to the engines just before landing, in an effort to contain the crash.

Vanco pushed himself up from the deck. The impact had thrown him from his chair, nearly into the cockpit. Only the walls separating the cockpit itself and the lounge area had spared him. His forehead was bleeding, that much he could tell. But to his surprise, he was still holding his wine bottle. Vanco recalled shielding his eyes with it as the light grew too bright from the landing. He lifted the bottle to his face again, seeing that it was now broken and shattered, shards strewn across the cabin floor, some of which were now digging into his clothes. As he stood up to his feet painstakingly, he could tell that his left arm was broken in at least two places.

Fortunately, it was not his sword arm.

Distraught, it took him more than a few moments to push his way into the cockpit proper. "Fortunate day, it appears I've survived," He moaned. "What about you, Farnese?" Aretine scanned the desecrated cockpit, seeing Farnese lying face down against the transparisteel windows of the cockpit, which had been cracked, but not completely shattered. The material could withstand all but a meteor hit. Farnese's head, by contrast, was immersed in a pool of his own blood.

"Wonderful."

The Count took quite a few moments get his bearings and stumble his way out of the shattered hull of his once glorious luxury shuttle. There was no verifiable exit anymore; instead, he fumbled for his lightsaber with a bloody hand, activated the deep crimson blade, and cut his way through the metal. The humidity outside was almost worse than the heat produced by his lightsaber against the melting steel. He wiped blood from his lip with the cuff of his useless arm.

The first thing Aretine knew he would need to do was find a good source of water. No sooner than he had decided this, though, than did one of the many screeching creatures of the jungle lunge forth towards him. It was a bird of sorts, a despicable beast, some fauna that the Count had never seen before and could not recognize. Still, it was just as susceptible to the lightsaber as any other creature, going down with one well-placed thrust through the beak. It was good to see that he had at least half his swordery skills.

"Not my ideal place for a vacation, I must admit," Aretine breathed to himself.

@[member="Quietus"]

 

[Quietus]

"Taking an early break, are you?"

Quietus looked up from tying the last straps of her boots to find her associate, Darth Volden, striding towards her down the cobble walk. The blond haired, saffron-eyed Arkanian man gave her a bemused glance, affording a short look to the nearby clutch of eggs now being tended by Tamers. He sniffed, "That wasn't a comet..."

She shook her head in reply, feeling the hot breath of her giant skreev, Miir, flush across the back of her neck. The beast wasn't particularly happy to have been roused from his afternoon nap, but a large slab of meat was enough to placate his appetite and rising temper. The woman reached up to bat a hand at his muzzle before resuming the chore of outfitting.

"A ship, then," Volden continued, eyeing her for a moment and then moving to take up the next piece of her armor, hands nimbly sliding it around her middle and cinching the leather at the side. He moved for the next, and as though performing a practiced dance, the pair fell into unison of the squire dressing his liege Lord... or Lady as it were.

"Who's ship?" he asked over her shoulder as he tightened the leather and bone pauldron.

I do not know, Quietus' reply was unspoken and unsigned, and it passed completely unknown to those around them. They were words fed along Force Telepathy and they were meant for the Darth's mind only.

Volden's lips drew thin as he secured the last buckle at her back, "A Sith..." his words begged a question, hissing in her ear, "powerful, I feel it. You sure you don't know? You once knew them all..."

That was a long time ago. I don't make it my business to know them all anymore. I don't want to. Give me my lightsaber, Volden.

"I should come with you," the man drew a saber hilt from beneath his robes, one that was ancient by all standards of current model and design, but well used. It bore ivory inlays carved with symbols of the ancient and forgotten Sith language, something that very few people in the galaxy could read. Hesitating to hand it to her, the man locked his yellow gaze with her own of vivid jade.

Stare unwavering, Quietus turned to face the man and held out her hand. After a moment he sighed and placed the weapon within it, watching as she fluidly spun the piece in her fingers and clipped it at her thigh, right next to all the other weapons already waiting there. Miir stalked behind her, brushing his wing against her armored figure, and she reached for the handle of the saddle, hoisting herself up in a single graceful movement.

Wotcher, Volden. Touching a pointer finger to her nose, she felt the beast lurch beneath her and with a powerful thrust of his open wings they took to the skies.



It was easy enough to find the crash site - following the plume of black clouds rising from the sea of green treetops was all she needed to do. Yet even as she arrived and willed her mount to hover there, they did not land. That same sensation within her mind tugged at her, and like a compass it guided them along the canopy tops, following the trail of the Darkside Master as he scoured his way through the vast labyrinth of branches and roots and vines, some places so thickly overgrown it was all he could do to get through. Good thing he had that lightsaber.

As she drew nearer to the man from above he would quickly find the creatures abound had suddenly gone silent and...disappeared.

Swooping wings overhead announced her approach, as would her own presence within the Force - something she'd never bothered to hide, but also something she never bothered to enhance. It simply was, naked for any sensitive in the Force to feel it. The foliage before him shuddered, leaves dropping as she slipped through the branches and landed in a small clearing. The woman drew up from her crouch and set her sights upon him, shoulders squared, chin lifted in a gesture he was likely all too familiar with - superiority.

@[member="Count Aretine"]

 

[Darth Immortus]

Aretine had heard tales of this planet before. They were vague, especially now in his disheveled mind, but he could remember stories of men who tamed great beasts residing on Onderon. Why they would ever waste time doing such a thing was beyond him, but Aretine knew better than to question the whims of barbarians.

He had only just oriented himself, finally taking in the gravity of what had happened, when a presence announced itself overhead. Curiously, it came with the Force as well. Were these supposed beast-riders versed in the Force? He couldn't recall. Regardless, he had felt the presence of the Force among this individual and surely the same was true vice versa. It was too late for him to hide his presence now, and doing so would only appear timid. Whoever this person was, atop such a great creature, and whatever they wanted to do with Aretine - he would have to deal with.

What a surprise it was, as the figure landed and drew nearer, to see that it was a woman. Had he remembered the tales correctly? Her beast was ancient and no less barbaric in appearance as she was, covered with an armor he had never seen before. The same could not be said for Aretine himself; and yet the man in his tattered, bloody ornate rags, ripped cape, dangling arm and bleeding forehead, still managed to carry himself tall.

He squinted and laid eyes upon her, his olive skin caked in dirt, sweat and blood. "Many greetings," He lowered his chin, "And what a fine planet you have here," Aretine said rather unceremoniously. "I would not expect to come across another so versed in the Force here. Though I should expect you are either here to help me, or to collect a great bounty."

@[member="Quietus"]

 

[Quietus]

The woman stood before his words with a hard, unflinching gaze and no reply to speak of. What a mess he was, to be sure. Clearly he hadn't intended to stop here of all places - a refined Sith, or at the very least a Darksider marooned on what could be described as one of those 'Force-forsaken hellholes of the galaxy' for anyone not native to its bountiful and ...challenging forests. No, this planet wasn't one that saw the occaisional visit of Sith, not since falling under the jurisdiction of the Republic. Even Moridin had been hard pressed to venture to its surface.

So what, then, was she to do with a man who had clearly lost his way? A bounty? The thought was laughable. She had no care for bounties. Here on Onderon there was life and there was death. The first of her three options dealt with the latter.

Her first option was likely the most obvious: dispose of him and be done with it. Likely he'd prove stubborn, but his wounds would be a terrible hindrance. Not to mention the likelihood that he wasn't versed in fighting in such a setting, giving her the upper hand. There was also the hordes of beasts to be beckoned at her will. Fair chance he could be versed in Sorcery and AoE spells, but with head trauma like his he'd be hard pressed for more than a handful of powerful attacks.

Her second choice was less obvious and perhaps a bit more cruel: leave him to die. He was more than a week's travel to Iziz on foot and all that blood would draw the hunger of the predators. They hunted at all hours of the day being opportunists. His resolve would likely wane, but only after his energy did.

The third choice was not one that she favored, but likely the easiest one and would see him far more swiftly out of her hair and off her planet: help him.

I will help you, the words would echo in his thoughts lest he wasn't guarding his mind. The woman lifted a hand, clearing his path to her of vines and branches by invisible tendrils of the Force, but you must hand over the lightsaber. I swear it will be returned to you upon your departure. Those are my terms.

@[member="Count Aretine"]

 

[Darth Immortus]

"The woman speaks through powers of the mind," Aretine raised an eyebrow in amusement, as he moved closer towards her. He began to circle slowly, looking her up and down. "What's the matter? Don't you speak?"

He narrowed his eyes inquisitively, waiting for a response. When it was clear that none would come, he knew he must respond to her offer. He had little to bargain with. He was without any resources save for his own cunning and powers, and his body was severely damaged. His great wealth back on Serenno was of zero use in this remote jungle.

"Truly grateful I am, to hear the word help," He said finally, and deactivated his lightsaber. The hilt went right back onto his tattered belt, the buckle of which still glistened with the proud display of the Aretine coat of arms. "But I'm afraid you may not have my lightsaber. You see, it is my only bargaining chip in your strange world. You know little of me and I know even less of you. Not to mention it is considered dishonorable in my world to lose one's weapon from their grip. But in return you may have the word of a nobleman. I am Count Aretine, ruler of House Aretine of Serenno, and Sith Lord and Master, Darth Immortus. And with whom am I speaking?"

@[member="Quietus"]

 

[Quietus]

Her own gaze followed him as he moved to circle, but a swift step back would stop the man in his tracks. Arrested by her immovable presence, she stared at him with all the alertness of one who had been born into his world, raised within it, and reared - curiously enough - by a man very much like himself. In fact, now that he was closer, her own eyes narrowed at the strange likeness he bore to the man she once called father.

Then there was his calling, Darth Immortus.

Was this some sort of sick joke played out by the late Darth Moriir? The man of death, sending an envoy from the grave in the form of one who claimed immortality?

One would never guess it by her current appearance, but a long time ago she'd called the noble manor of the Governor of Coruscant and youngest Dark Lord of the Sith ever seen her home. A very long time ago she, too, might've accepted the words of a nobleman. Back before she knew better.

Very well, so be it. I am Beastia Blackthorne, leader of the Beast Tribes, and you are on your own. Her reply was sort, but on her strange world words meant nothing. If he could not consent to her terms, then he could find his own way off planet. With a sniff the woman stepped aside, opening a path for herself through the jungle and ensuring it closed tightly behind her. The rush of wings high above the canopies signaled her mount on the move.

@[member="Count Aretine"]

 

[Darth Immortus]

"Now then, Beastia Blackthorne," The Count called after her, "What reason would I have to draw my weapon against my only possible hope for help in this Force forsaken - excuse me, this lovely place?"

He was forced to push after her, bending the air around him to painstakingly push apart the branches she threw in her way. The act was beginning to sap his strength. Aretine supposed that there was little choice. He could give her his hilt, and risk the definite possibility that he would find himself roasting over a cauldron of stew in front of these savages, or remain here, alone, where he would likely die anyway.

"Go on then." He stopped walking, and held out the hilt of his lightsaber towards her. It surprised him that one such as her possibly did not recognize that a Sith could still be powerful even without the aid of his weapon. "And you'll forgive the obstinance, for I have lost rather a lot of blood."

The Count fainted and collapsed on the jungle floor.

@[member="Quietus"]

 

[Quietus]

She turned, lifting a hand to grab at the proffered hilt with the Force just as the man crumpled to the ground.

The hilt hung dolefully, spinning just slightly as though it weren't certain what to do. How embarrassing. She collected it in her grasp, curiously looking it over. For a lightsaber hilt she'd seen very few more finely crafted and she surmised that the materials were likely very expensive. No doubt it would fetch a fair price on the black market, and she wasn't above such things. But other than the dullest of slights against her, that which she was entirely able to brush off, she had no reason for such things. Not yet anyways.

With a twitch of her nose she lifted her free hand and watched as the massive trees towering above her slowly bowed out, forming an opening large enough for her skreev to descend. The beast touched down, clinging to the base of several trees, and reached to scoop the fallen man off the jungle floor with clawed digits. An agile succession of leaps and bounds brought the woman back to the saddle. Miir climbed the trees and they groaned under his immense weight before whipping out from beneath him as he took back to the skies.



It was evening when she woke the man with something akin to smelling salts. Arm reset and bound in a splint of wood and handwoven cloth, she'd forgone her own healing abilities simply because she wasn't known to be a generous woman. She had treated the open wounds with poultices and a solution that would help to dull the pain, all created from the plants of the jungle around them. They were still in the wilds, but settled at the edge of the trees on the slope of a mountainside. Their camp overlooked a narrow valley within which the calls of the nocturnal fauna echoed like throngs of thunder, interrupted by the crackle and snap of their fire. The smell of cooking meat wafted through the air.

As he came to, Quietus calmly stepped aside and took up residence on a branch in the tree that Aretine currently was propped against. Miir was not far off, enjoying his own portion of the kill, raw and bloody.

 

[Darth Immortus]

The Count's face shriveled at the scent of the salts as his eyes fluttered open. Wherever he was now, it didn't look too much different than the place he last remembered; surrounded by jungle canopy on all sides. But intuition told him that they had traveled far. As to where their destination was, that still remained a mystery.

He moved his arm, and noticed that it had been bound with a makeshift splint. It wasn't sophisticated, but it got the job done. Then again, Immortus didn't take this woman for one of much sophistication. His head hurt less now than before, and a few free fingers dabbed at where his open wounds were. They were greeted instead by a slimy solution, rather foul in smell but with healing properties that he could feel. Despite the smell, he left it on. Instead, the Count opted to remove his torn black jacket and high-collared shirt, exposing his olive chest beneath, glazed in sweat. The embers of the fire burned in his eyes.

"I thank you for your healing," Aretine mumbled, and then returned to staring absent-mindedly into the fire. He saw the meat roasting over it, and his mouth instinctively salivated at the sight. "May I inquire as to where you are taking me?"

@[member="Quietus"]

 

[Quietus]

The woman reclined on her branch above him, legs stretched, back against the trunk, hands crossed at her middle, eyes closed for the time being. She did not have his lightsaber on her person anymore, not that he could see.

To Halcyon Citadel where you will be able to contact whoever it is you must to secure a pick up. Then to the spaceport of Iziz when they arrive.

No one could yet say she wasn't a woman of her word. Even if helping him meant extending certain luxuries and liberties, she'd see it through. The woman cracked an eye to glance down at him, and you're welcome. I'm not familiar with House Aretine of Serreno, but I was familiar with House Lusethem a very long time ago. Killed off before your time but noble people regardless.

 

[Darth Immortus]

Fantastic. Of course it all sounded rather too good to be true - he would have to see it before he believed it. Something told Aretine that he would be spending longer than expected on this backwater heap. And then there was the matter of finding a new pilot to replace poor Farnese, and even worse, his investors on Zeltros were probably flipping their lids at his absence. Surviving this debacle would indeed be an endeavor. He was perfectly ready to die before, with wine glass in hand, and yet fate somehow saw a reason to keep him alive. What he wouldn't give for a drop of Serenno red right now.

"Splendid. With any luck I shall be on my way as soon as possible," He replied. Then, to her next statement, the Count smiled. "Much noble blood has been shed on Serenno over the years. Perhaps unnecessarily. But whatever our feuds, we are still the noblest of peoples. And you would not have heard of House Aretine before recently. We have only been elevated to Great House status under my careful ministrations."

Aretine leaned in closer to the fire. It was the dry of the fire that was more soothing than the heat. There was far too much moisture on this planet.

"You do get around, don't you?" The Count remarked. "One such as yourself, I would not expect to see wielding the Force. Who taught you to use it?"

@[member="Quietus"]

 

[Quietus]

He wouldn't see the faint smirk on her face.

His house might've risen to prominence under his careful ministrations, but House Lusethem had fallen to ash by the careful ministrations of a then 14 year old girl who had been her younger Aunt. So much work to get to the top to be toppled by a fledgling witch. How delicate the balance was.

I've seen a few planets... she'd seen most all of them. Through thick, through thin, through Gulag and Omni. Her time spanned generations. The woman pulled a bladder of meade from her hip and drank as her thoughts lingered and memories flooded.

Many people taught me. Names you would not likely know, they've been lost to time.

 

[Darth Immortus]

"The lady assumes I am not a learned man," Immortus smiled. He felt strange calling this woman, with her barbaric tribal dress and hedge-magic, a lady, but he would be polite to his generous host.

"I have studied the ancient Sith holocrons of my Order, and spent many hours delving in the tomes of ages long gone by. My knowledge extends further than you may think."

The Count shuffled closer to the fire.

"Although you are a most peculiar relic. Not least by the way you communicate. So go on then. Where exactly do you come from, mystic?"

@[member="Quietus"]

 

[Quietus]

Not everything in history is archived... the woman arched a brow as she settled a bit more comfortably against the tree trunk, otherwise you would already know who I am.

Not that Beastia Blackthorne was a name one might find within the Sith archives. No, not that name. But Halcyon Citadel? That was quite prominent several hundred years ago. Constructed by Lord Daritha and later inherited by Quietus, she'd turned the place into the home of the Pillar of Knowledge where she lead as a High Master on The Sith Council for many years. Subsequently Onderon had come under her rule and turned into a great and powerful bastion for the Council. It's great beasts had seen many wars as the mounts for the skilled Tribe Warriors. Daritha maintained a small council of Beast Tribe men for several years off-planet. Halcyon Citadel was to the Sith a great relic ... if one were so inclined as to look that far back.

Being called a relic herself, however, was certainly something new. If she was a relic...what did that make her grandmother? The thought amused her.

I come from Korriban, the mental reply was lazy and rather unenthused. Clearly she did not share any particular care for that place and truth be told, she didn't. Head canted to one side, she opened both eyes now to gaze down at him, ruminating on the strangeness of his face in the firelight. It haunted her. And I am no Lady.

Clunk. The bladder of meade landed on the ground beside him, its contents sloshing but contained by a bone stopper.

@[member="Count Aretine"]

 

[Darth Immortus]

Aretine furrowed his brow and sighed, blowing air upwards at his disheveled black hair, which was falling in loose strands across his bloodied forehead. There was a chance that this event would leave a scar on his otherwise impeccable features, which the Count would moan about later. He supposed he should be thanking his lucky stars for simply being alive, but the Count was not about to grovel to any unseen deity.

"Fine then, if you insist on being elusive and secretive, have it your way," He mumbled, unsatisfied, and picked up the bladder. He supposed that the gruff toss of the canteen was some sort of unceremonious invitation to partake in a drink. That was how these people did things, apparently. "I care not. Now, what is this swill?"

The Count hoisted the bladder up above his head and wrapped his lips around it, taking a satisfying gulp of the mead inside, the frothy contents dripping out to roll down his dirt-caked chin and neck. One would expect that someone with such refined taste buds as the Count's would react terribly to such a drink, and if he were anywhere else, he probably would have spit it out. But so great was his hunger and thirst here on Onderon that Aretine could eat a rancor and swallow up a river.

He gave a satisfied sigh as he lowered the bladder, and wiped his mouth with his bare arm. "Not bad." Aretine tossed the bladder back to Beastia.

"Korriban, hm? Well, surely not originally. Your skin is certainly not red enough, and I see no tendrils hanging from your face. And I would not call you lady, but Beastia seems far too improper to be rolling off my tongue. Did your mother not like you or something?"

@[member="Quietus"]

 

[Quietus]

A hand shot out to snatch the bladder with such speed and precision is might've been a snake. Eyeing him, the woman calmly withdrew the bladder and tied it back to her hip, Not when I was a child... she smiled thinly, I was born on Korriban so that is where I am from. Unless perhaps you mean a place of far greater significance to my rearing, in which case I come from Onderon. Or maybe you mean where my parents made their home - so then I am from Coruscant, but also Honoghr. Later Corellia... that was where my mother started to like me, and for a time Dromund Kaas.

If you're after blood - Zeltros, then, and a far away planet only able to be found by those who have already been - Garhall.

The woman's eyes narrowed and as she shifted they caught the light of the fire, Beastia is my title here. Where you come from it equates to Queen.

 

[Darth Immortus]

"I see," Darth Immortus said with an inquisitive stare. "Well then, as befitting one of noble rank, I suppose it only proper that I refer to you as Beastia... despite my better instinct."

He eyed the meat roasting over the fire, wondering if it was ready or not. He didn't care if it came from a mynock's ass, he would devour it. "We have no Queens on Serenno," Aretine continued. "The Counts rule. And the comital title is heritable by men only. But the female nobility still plays a significant role in our society. And if you, Beastia, possess but half the noble graces of our women, then I will consider myself in good company."

Aretine didn't quite know what to make of her. She seemed to have blood from all corners of the galaxy, and yet somehow ended up here. How very peculiar the galaxy outside of Serenno was.

"You'll forgive my rude manners, but is the meat nearly ready? I'm afraid I'm famished."

@[member="Quietus"]

 

[Quietus]

Depends on what definition you give to 'noble graces'...

A brow larked at the man, moony eyes flickering to him. The Beastia might not wear fancy dresses with highly acclaimed brandnames sewn to them, or spin around ballroom floors as a beauteous belle. She might not be the most eloquent of speakers or have the touch of a dove - there was no place in the jungles of Onderon for those things. Her graces remain in something far more powerful, far more deadly.

...and 'good company.' Her eyes narrowed somewhat. She'd spared his life, agreed to help him, tended his wounds, and was about to provide him a meal. That wasn't good company here, that was gracious company. Savages they might be but no one could say they got anything from the Beastia that they didn't earn - good or bad.

It should be ready enough for you. Quietus dropped soundly from the tree, causing the Skreev to look up from the bone it was currently sucking the marrow out of. It seemed to consider her approach to the man, watching with a still, careful gaze before seemingly losing interest or perhaps being silently waved off. The woman drew from her hip a dagger the length of her arm and cut into the hank of meat, shaving off the charred and blackened outer layer. Slivering a small piece and lifting it to her mouth, she chewed at it for a few moments before spitting it into the fire, nose wrinkled.

Medium well. Anything more will spoil the taste.

She preferred to eat it raw. Very rarely did she take her meals cooked, but one couldn't assume a Count of Serreno to have the stomach for such things. Without another word the Beastia set to work carving the roast, placing several pieces on a collection of broad, fat leaves nearby. She passed them to her charge, set the roast off the fire, and took a seat to the side where she began to clean her blade.

@[member="Count Aretine"]