Private Turn a Left at Taul!

[Lysander von Ascania]

Location: Who cares
Tag: Skye Mertaal

Despite things not unfolding as planned, for they seldom did, there may have been the faintest flicker of reluctance in his emerald gaze. No blasters had been fired; no blood stained the floor. There was no reckless brawl with the furry reinforcements, nothing at all to just mask the sting of that moment earlier. But even then, it didn't bring comfort.

Bitterness coiled like a serpent in his gut, replacing pride. Sure, he played the part, shoulders slumped, every single step of cruel reminder.

Anger simmered beneath Lysander's exterior, hotter than their initial encounter. That little collision in the alleyway had already sparked a fire, and now, the flames were just climbing higher.

But it was the audacity of her collar grab that cut the deepest; it was straight up disrespectful. Credits, bounties, alliances, all of that felt meaningless compared to someone grasping his neck like he was no better than the Rodian thug. Back on Korriban, he'd already ended several acolytes for far less.

His reputation was built upon control, poise, and above all, respect. This wretched woman went on and trampled over every fething piece of it without the slightest hesitation.

The blonde's tongue was burning with all kinds of retorts, words primed, ready to be unleashed. He clenched his jaw so tightly that the muscles now ached.

Neon banners and every thrum of that venue slowly blurred. And he was certain she clung to the collar longer than necessary, or perhaps time simply slipped away during all his burning fury.

But soon, it was just the two of them and an unconscious Rodian. The fact that she was still holding his marked prize didn't help either.

When they finally halted, the silence before them was beyond suffocating in its awkwardness. Lysander could no longer contain that storm inside. Eyes narrowed into cold slits, and he finally spat. “How dare you drag me like I’m some crate of spice.. boxed, and beneath you. You must be new to this game. I don’t come quietly. And I definitely don’t come that cheap.”

He inhaled, but it wasn’t to steady himself; it was to keep from screaming. “None of this would’ve happened if you hadn’t tossed that stun grenade like it was gorram glitter. I had him. I was right there! And you stole the moment.”

Both hands twitched at his sides, fingers curling. A laugh escaped his lips, but it carried no joy. “Brother? That’s rich. You throw a grenade in my face, sabotage my hunt, and now I’m family? Weak excuse. Does that mean I get to ruin your hunts too? Just keeping it fair.”

During the brief pause that followed, he didn’t blink; he probably didn’t breathe either. “And the green guy belongs to me.”

 

[Skye Mertaal]

TAG: Lysander von Ascania

The kid never shut up.

By the time they hit the edge of the landing pads, Skye was convinced he was less teenager and more nerf fly in human form just constantly buzzing, needling, trying his hardest to wring a reaction out of her. Her jaw worked beneath the helm, but she said nothing. He wanted her attention. He wanted the fight. Well, he wasn't getting neither.

[ That so. ] she said flatly, tone cold. Her T-visor didn't even bother looking toward him once.

She swung her gaze away just as quick, voice command activating the Shadow Phoenix's slave circuits. Engines hummed alive with the familiar growl, ramp sliding open in a smooth glide of durasteel. Home turf. Fethin' finally.

[ Well. Wait your turn, kid. ] she said flatly, tone the verbal equivalent of a door slammed in someone's face.

The Rodian sagged over her shoulder like a sack of muja apples, every step heavier as the nausea churned in her gut. Her skin had gone several shades too pale, the ache of withdrawal nipping harder than she'd admit.

Just needed to get inside. Get answers. Figure out what was on the datastick and tablet, get her credits, and get the hell off Sejong before the Tigerkin or anyone else came sniffing.

The brat's rant kept rolling behind her, every word dripping with nail-screaming, aggravating, wounded pride and venom. The Huntress didn't bite. Didn't slow. Just kept moving, one gauntleted hand coming up to tighten her grip on his collar as if to punctuate who exactly was steering this mess.

If he wanted to throw his tantrum, fine. She had bigger problems to deal with. Like staying on bloody karkin' feet long enough to cash in.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Tag: Skye Mertaal

Lysander’s brow quirked in disbelief as her comment hung in the air. His shoulders were even tensing in response. A note of self-doubt sparked in his gaze, even as he tilted his head in a gesture that clearly displayed he was actually listening. His gaze snapped down to her fingers, confusion soon spreading across his expression. Why wouldn't she let go? There was a storm of retorts that quivered on his tongue, each one sharper than the last, desperately wishing to break free.


A harsh laugh broke from Lysander’s throat, but that wasn’t before he writhed in her grip. “You’ve got a death grip, huh? What? Afraid I’ll fly off if you let go?” His breath hitched, twisting his body slightly, trying to wrench the collar free once more. “That checks out, I suppose. Another stage five clinger, terrified of losing the real prize if you let go.”

This was an almost alien position for him, to feel confusion in the midst of confrontation. Words always came easily, often harsh and careless, yet he already restrained himself from succumbing to ideas he might've recklessly leaned into before.

The lightsaber clipped at his belt was a constant reminder of his restraint, a reminder that he could easily remove her hand with a flick of his wrist. But that very thought unsettled him, leaving a knot in his gut.

And so, pragmatism gnawed at his conscience.

If it earned him credits, would he hesitate? Somehow, it felt hollow if it meant becoming a monster to get what he wanted.

That admission weighed heavily on him and even carried into his every side alongside the other bounty hunter.

Gradually, the intense heat of his anger began to ebb, retreating just enough to clear a path in his mind. During that brief stretch of quiet, his thoughts sharpened, and he weighed his next words more carefully.

His voice lowered. "We split the credits fifty-fifty when this is over."

He turned his head, attempting to glance over his shoulder for any potential signs of pursuit. "And I'll watch your back if you watch mine. That's all I'm willing to offer."

It was rare for him to extend an olive branch, even if it was heavily wrapped in frustration.

“No betrayals.”

 

[Skye Mertaal]

TAG: Lysander von Ascania

Skye let him go, hand falling back to her side as the blonde writhed loose. Fine. He could walk or he could follow, his choice, not hers.

Guess he stuck with following.

The cargobay swallowed them both, the Shadow Phoenix's interior humming with low power cycles. Skye's boots echoed on durasteel as she moved, her space carved into something more livable than a transport, save for that single cell sitting like a scar at the back.

The kid went quiet, and that silence prickled worse than his sass. He was up to something. Anyone who was that quiet after running their mouth always was.

A faint tremor worked through her fingers as she keyed the cell controls. Cold sweat itched beneath the collar of her armor, and nausea rolled sharp in her gut.

Focus. Just figure out where the credits went.

With a grunt, she dumped the Rodian into the cell. The stun and scrapes wouldn't kill him, but the hangover from that grenade would sting like hell. Her fist slammed the switch harder than necessary, reactivating the solid state hologram barrier. Blue light rippled as it moved, casting its soft cerulean glow across worn beskar and the flat, unblinking T-visor.

That visor swiveled to him when Lysander finally spoke. He was trying to negotiate. A fifty fifty split.

That's when she looked at him. Really looked at him. The kid had to be no older than what... fifteen? Sixteen? What was he doing out here trying to claim bounty's in shortpants and a silk shirt?

If there was anyone who wasn't ready to do any sort of bounty hunting. It was him. Then her eyes latched on that saber at his hip.

Her lips pursed into a thin line. Ugh a Force user at that. He was for sure going to be trouble.

Don't do it. Don't karkin' do it, She told herself.

[ Bloody karkin' hell. ] Her curse slipped in a low barely audible mubble.

She didn't bother with more than that. Just turned, voice sharp and plain.

[ You can have him once I'm done. ]

Moving past him, she hit the panel at the ladder well. The ramp behind him began to close, hydraulics groaning as daylight shrank to a slit.

Stay. Or go.

The choice was his.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Tag: Skye Mertaal ​

The blonde's breath hitched the very moment she released the grip on his collar. A sigh escaped, hardly audible, yet was enough to convey his relief. All lingering tension unfurled, but it didn't mean a trace of resentment wasn't there, an ember of pride, that refused to be extinguished. Sharp retorts were poised on the tongue, ready for release.

But surprisingly, he held back, coming more naturally than he would have expected.

Having paused at the threshold, his gaze swept across the interior with the curiosity of a Loth-cat scenting foreign air.

His scan wasn’t mere observation; it was strategic. Everything was part of a puzzle he needed to solve. Confusion nibbled at his composure, especially with the tension easing so rapidly. And it was then he realized paranoia lingered, which was why he gave one last glance over his shoulder. At this point, he wasn't expecting pursuit, but because trouble always seemed to be at his heels.

Once he finally swung back to the other bounty hunter, he didn't attempt to search her physically. Instead, he felt her presence, a pulse of unease humming. The ripples in the air betrayed her emotional turbulence.

He could have delved deeper into the Force’s sensitivity, picked her apart like a surgeon. While it had its merits, especially as a Sith, something about wielding that kind of knowledge just felt intrusive, and wrong.

All he needed to know was that he was safe, and for now, that was enough.

So he didn't press further, choosing to tuck her details away in a corner of his mind for later use.

As she spoke, Lysander simply offered a silent nod, his lack of response speaking volumes. She was strong; no doubt. But like all sentient beings, not invulnerable.

He himself was no exception to this universal truth.

There was really only a split-second choice at the ramp before it had begun to close, like the ship was making the choice for him.

It meant leaving his own ship behind. However, he’d suffered worse losses. Docking fees were manageable, for his greenhouse hustle on Korriban had stacked his credits more than most would expect.

I’ll figure this out later.

That mantra had carried him this far through countless trials. Surely it wouldn’t fail him now.

 

[Skye Mertaal]

TAG: Lysander von Ascania

The Huntress's boots hit each rung of the ladderwell harder than she meant to, the weight in her limbs dragging more than it should. For a second, the 'verse tilted sideways, her gut twisting with vertigo.

Nope. Nope. Not karkin' passin' out.

Jaw tight, the Witchmaster shoved herself into the pilot's seat, hands moving over the Firespray's controls on pure muscle memory.

Gorram it, the vertigo nearly made her bite down on her tongue, but the ship's systems humming alive steadied her nerves. Console lights flickered across the T-visor's surface slowly grounding her.

A sharp beep and a questioning trill cut through the cockpit. TR-23 lingered at her flank like it always did, the salvaged Anti-Boarding droid tilting its headplate toward her.

[ If you see some blonde kid down there, Tee-Arr, knock him out if he starts diggin' into things. ]

Another chirp, affirmative this time, the droid rolling towards the small lift that would roll him down to the retrofitted cargohold.

Good. The Bounty Hunter didn't have the patience for babysitting. Not when every instinct screamed to punch out of Seoul before something else went wrong. Nek take it, she hated when jobs stacked like this.

Her gloved fingers flicked switches in quick succession, every action efficient, clipped.

Dank Farrik, her head still swam, but the ritual of preflight dulled it. The Huntress locked herself into the rhythm, drowning out dizziness, the kid, and everything else but the one thought that mattered.

Get gone. Fast.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Tag: Skye Mertaal
​

The blonde simply stood in place as she ascended, leaving him from sight, with the hum of the ship swallowing her footsteps. His attention involuntarily drifted toward the cell where the Rodian was unconscious. The blue glow cast across the alien's form made it appear deceptive, as if death itself had come to claim him.

Naturally, his first instinct was to follow into the cockpit, but something held him back, a hesitation that had crossed his mind long before taking a single step; better to wait here than risk distracting her, or worse, provoking her into irritation merely by existing. From the little intel gathered so far, the woman's tolerance was thin, and breathing the wrong way might be enough to set her off.

So, he held back.

Shuffling quietly, he edged over to a nearby crate and sank down between it and the cold wall. His back pressed against the wall, and though the spot was far from comfortable, he figured it was secure enough to wait out the awkwardness. The contours of the crate dug into his side, but he eventually settled, glancing ahead.

Only a brief moment passed before he noticed a droid rolling into view, the timing almost too perfect to be chance; it was as if it had been summoned. An eyebrow lifted, mildly surprised, but ultimately swayed by indifference.

An exhausted exhale was then drawn out form his lips. A hand dove into the depths of his legging's pocket, retrieving the datapad he had been purposely avoiding since first light. As Lysander's thumb grazed the screen, a sharp ache stabbed at his chest; it was a pang of endless regret.

Closing his eyes, he willed his mind away from a familiar place that once held only pleasant memories. After he managed to shake off the sting, or most of it, he reopened them and tapped the device again.

No new messages were glowing back this time. Having spent so much time amidst others on Korriban, the solitude felt strange, but not entirely unwelcome. He liked himself, liked what reflected in the mirror most days, but this still felt foreign, nonetheless.

He scrolled through the contacts until Dangeruese's name appeared, stirring more recent memories. They were never in regard to business or trade, but usually small, personal details that were most likely only humorous to him. But those very memories still brought a faint smile to his lips.

Danger Arceneau

Ms. Dangeruese,

Greetings from behind the Blackwall! (It's for their safety, not ours btw.)

I hope things are going great out in the 'verse. I know you've got a million things going on, but I couldn't let another slip by without saying hello! Don't worry, I'm not trying to hijack your Holonet feed (I promise!).

I've been missing our medbay chat lately. More than I thought I would.

Every time some type of uncertainty tries to creep in, your voice from back on Ruusan has a way of guiding me. Kind of like a secret compass!

That drawl of yours? Might be stronger than the Force, not gonna lie.

What you shared with me in that room means so much; it keeps me grounded no matter what comes my way now.

Well, most of the time.

And in case you're wondering.

Yes, I did something stupid today. No, I don't regret it. Yes, I'll probably do it again. I might've made a tactical error. Or three. But I'm still standing.

Anyways. I didn't write just to ramble; mostly, I just wanted you to know I've been craving your advice lately. It helps.

-Lysander

 

[Danger Arceneau]

Lysander von Ascania

​

It seemed the Core was in the fritz again. Myra had gone down with Makai to try and talk some business with the Dark Empire representatives, but even then, Danger still had to handle meetings and calls with the rest of her corporate brethren. Nonetheless, when her private commline gave a buzz, the woman picked it up, her thumb sliding across the screen to read the notification and message.

It wasn't long before a soft smile began to perk along the edges of her full red lips as she read the message, her expression softening to one of maternal affection and then subsequent concern as her brows drew together. So he was back within Sith Territory again then?

As Danger continued to read, she gave a shake of her head, giving a cluck of her tongue before she brought her cigarillo up to take a drag from her cigarillo. Sue her, she had her own vices. It made her human.

A sigh escaped her along with a stream of spicy blue white smoke as she thought back to Voss, that medbay, and all that had ensued thereafter. She could only hope that the young man was doing his best to find his way. Certainly the Kaggath and everything that came after had changed something in him. There aint no mistaking how those types of near deat situations have a way of affecting you.

She was not going to pry, but she also missed their conversations. Anything Lysander told her was up to him to relay. As it was, for now, she jotted down a few words for him as her thumbs quickly typed out a message.

​

No need to fret 'bout cluttering my line, Lysander. Truth be told, I'll take your rambling over half the dreck my boardroom tries to shovel my way.
I'm glad my words found a place with you. Means more than you think, hearing that. Life's got a habit of throwing storms, and sometimes all you can do is hang tight to the compass that steadies you. If my voice helps, then you carry it with you as long as you need.

As for that "stupid" streak… well, I ain't one to scold. We all trip our own wires learning how to walk through fire. Just promise me you'll know when to step back before it burns more than you can mend. You're worth a damn sight more than wasted scars, Lysander.

Keep your head up, and remember, you've got a home port here, whenever you need it. That ain't changing.

~Danger

​

Danger's thumb lingered on the comm after the message sent, the screen dimming to a quiet black. For a moment she just sat there, cigarillo poised between two fingers, the curl of smoke climbing slow and thin toward the ceiling.

Those fire emerald eyes didn't move, but her mind sure as hell did. Sith space. The Blackwall. That boy had a knack for finding the very places she wished he would stay clear of. She wasn't naive enough to think she could pull him out, not at 'tall. He had made his choice walking into that Kaggath, and the set of his jaw after he left Voss told her he would keep makin' choices or good or for worse -- that was all part of growin' up.

Another drag and a flare of a bright cherry tip, then a pause. The burn in her lungs settling her in the here and now, away from thoughts of what scars he might be collecting while wandering the black out there.

Tipping her head back, Danger gave a slow exhale, watching the smoke spread like a veil before her face, watching how they swirled and flowed into whirls and arcs. She gave a soft click of her tongue, half a reprimand, half resignation. She missed their talks too, more than she would admit to him. In that medbay, he had reminded her of old ghosts and the children she had fought to keep alive, some who had not made it.

After a few seconds, the Queen of Trade leaned back in her chair, eyes closing for just a breath longer than usual. Let the 'verse wait a minute. The boy had reached out, and she had answered. It was all she could give him across the void, her voice, her steadiness, the promise that he still had someone in his corner.

And Nine Hells willing, it would be enough to keep him standing until he found his own ground.

 

[Skye Mertaal]

TAG: Lysander von Ascania

They hit and passed atmo in short order. By the time they made the jump into hyperspace, that fine trembling in Skye's fingers had turned noticeable.

Damn it.

A nauseated shudder ran through her, cold as ice, clawing deep into her spine and twisting her belly with the putrid burn of acid. She could feel it itching its way up her throat, and the Huntress had to swallow that bile back before she puked it up.

A few more minutes ticked on by, and no sound of Tee-Arr's paddlebeamer being activated meant that at least the kid wasn't getting into chit or trouble he had no need to.

Now she had to deal with this karkin' mess of things.

For someone who deeply desired her solitude and had decades of hermit tendencies, having someone once more in her ship was the sort of annoyance she didn't want to deal with. She cursed herself again at the way the pang in her conscience still seemed to strike at her in the damnest of times, poking at her from the deep, rubbing salt on wounds that she had no need feel the sting of again.

With a sigh that said she knew she'd have to deal with this anyways, Skye placed them on autopilot, the streaks of hyperspace reflecting off her t-visor and helm as she got up.

Her heavy steps would be the tell of her approaching presence from the ladderwell, as would be the slight chirp and trill from Tee-Arr.

Time to see who this kid was.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Tag: Skye Mertaal
​

It did not take long, not long at all before the silhouette of the other bounty hunter emerged near the cargo-hold entrance. The low and constant hum of the ship's engine thrummed through the floor, like another heartbeat beneath his skin. Each click of boots echoed in the tight space.

Amid the surroundings, he too caught the rasp of his shallow breathing, the only tether to the present, while his mind was busy delving into memories, that was, until awareness anchored him once again.

A soft glow flickered from the datapad, its screen blinking back to life with a fresh notification. Everything around him began to shrink, just enough for one small spark of connection. Out of everyone he knew, Ms. Danguerese was the only one who could steady him without a single word. That was also why a hush settled behind his ribs as he began reading.

Beneath the exterior, a faint tremor rippled through his thigh, a sign of pushing beyond limits too often these days. Meditation, once a ritual, had slipped away lately, leaving him vulnerable to the relentless darkness that seemed to seep into every corner of his being.

Perhaps that was the missing link, the piece needed for true physical healing.

Lysander lifted his gaze just long enough for the Mandalorian to catch it, even adding a purposeful pause so she saw him looking. He even let a sly smile light his face briefly, before deliberately turning his eyes back away. There were, after all, many ways to convey a subtle feth you to someone.

Then, still unfolding from the tension, his fingers began to move, typing into the device.

The blonde knew she wasn’t offering some type of idle comfort; she meant it.

Danger Arceneau
​

Hearing that what I say finds a place with you means more than I can really put into words. If my boots do end up singed again, at least they'll smell of something worth chasing. Right? Thanks for being the only harbor I trust with my reckless pursuits. I promise I'm trying to learn when to pull back, even if it takes a few more charred soles to get there!

I'd like to see you again soon. Maybe we can carve out a day between your corporate battles and my next jump. Let me know when your schedule eases up, and I'll clear a window in my manifest and meet you wherever you choose.

​

​

His index digit hovered over the send button, ready to release the words he had crafted; but in that moment, he paused, caught in the reflection of his own vulnerability, which had become incredibly painful lately.

Ms. Dangeruese’s sincerity was like a hand on his broken heart.

He was all too familiar with loss recently, and the thought of adding her to the list was agonizing.

So with a deep breath, he continued and sent out his final message of the night into the void.

​

It’s late, and I know you’ve got the entire galaxy’s worth of weight on your shoulders.

So.. I just wanted to say I hope you’re taking care of yourself too. You know exactly what I’m referring to.

Because I also worry about you. I hope you’ve got someone watching your back the way you watch mine. If you ever need someone to return the favor, I’d like to be that person.

I don’t say this often, but I miss you.

Goodnight, Mother.

-Lysander

 

[Danger Arceneau]

A few minutes later, the soft hum of her comm broke the quiet again. Danger's lashes lifted, and she tipped her head forward, the faintest twist of amusement tugging at her mouth. She reached for it, cigarillo still balanced between two fingers, and tapped a scattering of ash into the platinum tray beside her datapad.

The black screen brightened under her thumb, revealing another message from the Lysander von Ascania .

Must not be in that much of a bucket of Giju if he could keep sending her messages, the thought coaxed her smile wider, the firelight of her green eyes warming as she read.

Before she could even type a reply, the comm buzzed once more. Another message. That one earned him a low bark of husky laughter. Hell, he'd just told her he was likely knee deep in some fool mess and yet he had the time to worry after her.

The sound faded, leaving her shaking her head, smoke curling from her lips. He had no business sparin' concern for an old woman like her. She had walked through more lifetimes than most, built an empire from desert grit, brought children into the galaxy and laid some to rest, tried to leave what legacy she could in the wake of blood, sweat, and tears. She could carry her own weight.

But then her eyes caught on the words at the end, and her breath stilled.

I don't say this often, but I miss you. Goodnight, Mother.

That chord struck deep, too deep, tugging at places she rarely let anyone touch. Her throat tightened, and she felt the sting of tears rise prick before she forced them back with a hard blink. The boy knew how to pull at heartstrings, once she'd thought long scarred over.

She set the cigarillo down at last, its ember dimming on the tray, and drew the comm close. For a long moment she just looked at the words glowing back at her, letting herself feel the weight of them before she began to type.

You've got a way of catching me off guard with those words of yours. I don't take lightly being called Mother. Truth is, I miss our talks too.

Singed boots or not, I reckon you'll keep finding your feet. But boots can be replaced. You can't. Learning when to pull back is part of the fight, and I believe you're getting there, one step at a time.

As for worrying after me, I'll allow it -- but don't you go shouldering my burdens. I've carried mine longer than you've been breathing. Still, it does my heart good to know you'd stand watch if I ever needed it. That means more than you know.

We'll find that day to sit down proper, just you and me. 'Till then, you keep steady. And remember, harbor's still here, no matter how far you roam.

Goodnight, Lysander. Sleep well.

~ Danger

​

​

 

[Skye Mertaal]

TAG: Lysander von Ascania

Skye snorted in his direction, the sound short and sharp through her vocoder. She didn't miss the subtle feth you by looking at her and then going back to his screen. Fine by her. Let him brood and tap away.

Didn't change the fact that he was still on her ship. It just meant she'd have to deal with him sooner or later.

For now, though, business came first. She moved past him without a word, boots striking steady against durasteel, and slid into the seat at her small dataconsole. Her hands weren't as steady as she would've liked, fingers twitching with a faint tremor as she dug into her pocket. Nausea tugged at her gut, and a dull ache was beginning to coil behind her eyes.

Withdrawal was gnawing at her patience, scraping her nerves raw, but she forced her motions to stay deliberate as she pressed the illuminated keys.

The Rodian's datacube clinked as she slotted it into the reader. Her visor flicked over the scrolling diagnostics, narrowing against the way her vision threatened to blur at the edges.

Traps. Viruses. Backdoors. Last thing she needed was some Rodian's sloppy slice tearing through her systems.

The scans came back clean. The slicing probe did its trick. Good, she thought, swallowig hard as she felt the sweat beading hot at her temple only to slide slowly along the line of her jaw. Although, as she scanned the files, seemed the Rodian had been pretty busy. A few more clicks and the more she saw the more she realized a common theme.

Thul. Glitterstim mines. That's where her credits went. To buy fethin' glitterstim.

The Rodian was a karkin' Glit-biter. The irony that it was another addict who'd taken her credits did not slip from her. Gorram it.

A grunt of dry amusement slipped out anyway. Figures.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Tag: Skye Mertaal
​

Soon Lysander sat cross legged on the edge of the crate, the datapad balanced in one hand. The snort that escaped through the vocoder didn't go unnoticed. Pausing mid scroll, he glanced back up to look at her. For a moment, the usual Lothcat smirk softened into something quieter. When his gaze finally dropped back to his device, a message from Danger blinked into view. The genuine smile that suddenly graced his face may have even been suspicious to those who knew him, for it was too soft, too real.

Danger Arceneau ​

Danger,

I lied. Guess I’m not ready to sleep yet.

So.. Brosi happened. Shoengen’s still standing, and so am I! The Sith didn’t just defend the planet, they carved their name into it. I’ll be making my mark soon. Thinking of setting up shop there.

Permanent-ish.

After one last reckless detour, of course.

Also don’t laugh, but I’ve been sketching out some business ideas. Smokables. Not quite like your cigarillos though. Something a little more.. ritualistic. Yours kind of bite. Mine whisper. Might be niche, but I think there’s a market for it with the Black Sun Syndicate. Especially with the kind of clientele who like their vices poetic. There's probably a few romantics down in the underbelly blowing credits on a twerking Twi'leks like it's a love language. Hips and heartbreak. Everyone's got a need, I guess.

One last thing. I really need your exert opinion on something very serious. If you had to choose between a glitterstim fueled Rodian or a sentient cactus, who would you trust with your credits?

(May or may not be hypothetical.)

Just vibing,
Lysander

​

After hitting the send button, he leaned back, settling into the moment, tracking her movements with a tilted; it suggested boredom.

But that didn't mean disinterest.

He followed the dance of her fingers over the datacube, the reflection in her visor. There was something off about her touch.

"How to put it.." he began, voice low. "I bet that cube's cleaner than your nervous system. We gotta run a diagnostic on you."

Shifting his weight, one shoulder would roll back as his hand slid into a pocket. Fingers brushed past several credits, until he found the prize. A rolled joint tucked away, slightly bent but fortunately for him, still intact. He placed it between thumb and forefinger, inspecting it like some ancient Sith relic. A satisfied hum rumbled from the teen's chest, a smug declaration, one that he hoped she would hear too.

Lysander glanced back to the Rodian first, then the other bounty hunter. "No response. Surprising.. almost predictable."

Next, he patted his other pocket, then another, before eventually sliding a hand along the inside of his tunic.

No lighter.

The smirk faded for the briefest instant, replaced by a squint of betrayal.

Of course.

His eyes flicked toward the astromech droid nearby, narrowing with suspicion.

"Lady," his voice dripped mischief, calling to her, "do you perchance have a lighter on you? Or shall I ask, perhaps for a firestarter? Some spark to share, to bring warmth to this cold, miserable place? Forgive me, for I would truly relish a flame over here."

 

[Danger Arceneau]

Interacting with: Lysander von Ascania

The constant messaging was reminding Danger so much of a younger Makai. Her lips quirked in amusement and after a second, she tapped back her reply:

​

Brosi? That's a world I ain't heard of but by the way you are describing it i'm more than a mite bit concerned regarding what exactly happened there.

Should I be looking at some holonews reports on what occurred?

Either way, just make sure 'permanentish' doesn't chain you to something you'll regret later. A shop's only as strong as the ground it's built on.

As for your little venture, don't sell it short.

There ain't nothing wrong with my cigarillos but reckon poetics have their own niche market. Folk will pay more for a feeling than they ever will for a flame. If you want my eye on it proper, send me your sketches when you're ready.

And to answer your very serious dilemma…glitterstim burns out quick, cactus endures. I'll trust the cactus with my credits. At least it knows how to hold onto what it's given.

Now get your rest.

~ Danger

​

The comm dimmed again, leaving the message out in the void where he would catch it. Danger let the weight of her hand linger on the device before she set it down.

She leaned back in her chair, eyes half lidded, the ember of her cigarillo glowing a faint star in the gloom of her office. Brosi. Sith carving their mark deeper. The boy was planting himself right where she least wanted him. A home in the shadow of the Dark.

A sigh slipped free, smoke curling like a veil. He was reckless, but he was reaching for something more than survival now. A shop. A scheme. A future that wasn't just blood and blades. That thought tugged at the corners of her lips in a faint, quiet smile.

It was something.

Danger stubbed out the cigarillo, its ember dying with a sharp hiss against the tray.

"Stay standin', boy," she murmured into the quiet, that husky drawl floating into the ‘verse almost a prayer.

 

[Skye Mertaal]

TAG: Lysander von Ascania

The kid was going to be a walking trigger to her migraines.

Skye’s jaw flexed under her helm, the bright red ocular of her eyepatch almost flaring with irritation that matched the grey eye on the left. Her pupils were dilated and that wave of nausea came rolling up with that acidic bile that she had to swallow back.

She didn’t bother answering, ticking away to figure out where on Thul they’d have to go - - at least until the kid started squawking like a Kowakian monkey lizard about a blasted light.

It was then that her gloved fingers froze mid strike. She then gave a slow, steady swivel of her helm, until that T-visor bore its black tinted gaze upon Lysander.

[ Rule one. No smoking on my ship. ] came the modulated gruff voice of the Huntress.

[ Rule number Two: You pick up after yourself. Do not go poking about my ship. And you follow my orders to the letter. ]

A pause then she added.

[ Do you understand? ]

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Tag: Skye Mertaal ​

Something about the tinted, unreadable visor locking onto him was annoying. Lyander could feel the air between them tighten. It wasn’t a surprise though, for this was a storm he’d scented on the wind earlier, one that was inevitable. Each word that filtered through the vocoder felt like a door slamming shut in his face. She was, after all, the type who struck him as one to always deliver disappointment in one form or another.

The joint rested between his thumb and forefinger, and he began rolling it idly. He turned it end over end, then back again, and as if weighing its worth against this current moment. The motion was unhurried, one of many small rituals of defiance.

He released the air that filled his lungs slowly, tilting his chin just enough to look down the bridge of his nose at her.

Perhaps, another challenge.

“You’ll have to write them down for me. My memory can be.. selective.”

Lysander leaned his weight back against the crate like he had all the time in the galaxy. The joint twirled once more, and he let the smirk linger as if there was some private joke being shared. Then it deepened, becoming sharper. The hum of the ship filled the pause between them, but it only made everything feel heavier.

Sure, the Sith may have been the epitome of malevolence, intentions so often drenched in the blood of their enemies, with no pretense of morality. But at least they were honest in their own right, unapologetically so, their darkness unmasked and unashamed.

Mandalorians, though.. they wrapped themselves in creed and beskar, hiding behind little oaths as if that made the lies cleaner.

It was a farce that Lysander had grown to despise, ever since his first encounter with them on Theed. The first life he had ever taken had worn the same faceless visor as the one before him now.

But there was another part of that memory, one that always cut deep, reopening a wound he knew would never heal. The pain was just as sharp now as it had been the first time.

Now, he was pissed that he had to sit with that again.

“Mandalorians," he sneered, the words dripping with disdain, "All armor, no trust. Guess it’s easy to preach strength when no one can see your eyes.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Funny thing is, you can’t face your enemies without a layer of beskar between you.”

A slow molten swell began deep in his chest, working its way up, coiling tightly in the ribs. It wasn’t the loud kind that came in shouts, but quieter, turning pale irises into something colder, more dangerous.

He didn’t move, not the single twitch of a jaw. Something truer slipped then: the shadow of the faction he’d bled for twice already, making it known where his loyalty lied. “Most in this region of the galaxy wear masks to strike fear. You wear yours so no one can see you.. there’s a big difference.” He just let the words roll forth, venom and all. “Sure, some Sith keep their faces hidden, but they still have the spine to meet you. Your kind, on the other hand, makes certain no one ever sees the truth behind that visor.”

A vibration ghosted through his palm, so subtle he nearly missed it. He knew who the sender was before ever looking down.

Danger.

A tilt followed, and he skimmed the message without truly reading it, catching a few fragments. Whether it was from the little he took in or simply the fact that it was her, the spark in his eyes thinned.

Maybe it was a distraction. Maybe it was just the reminder of a different anchor, one that pulled in a direction far from the cargo bay and the chaos threatening to consume him. He wasn't sure, and Lysander didn't care to examine it much more either.

But he also didn't want to lose himself more than he already had.

Before his scattered thoughts could drag him deeper, his thumbs moved to craft a final, harmless message.

Danger Arceneau

<3

Sent.

However, the indifference wasn’t gone, and in truth, he didn’t carry a single hint of care for however this was going to go next.

 

[Skye Mertaal]

TAG: Lysander von Ascania

The migraine had been crawling at the edges of her skull since the concert, but the boy's voice sharpened it into a spike. Skye's gloved hand twitched at her side, tremors faint but persistent, the ache in her gut threatening to double her over. Withdrawal was a mean tenacious Rancor, one that gnawed patience down to nothing. And he -- this blond brat -- buzzed in her ear like a karking nerf fly.

For one ugly heartbeat, she imagined tossing him out the airlock. Clean, simple, silent.

But guilt stabbed her just as quickly. She wasn't that cold hearted. Not at her most wretched. Not anymore.

None the less, his sneers struck at her, some cutting deeper than she'd admit, others sliding harmlessly against the beskar shell she wore. She didn't follow the Resol'nare, didn't care for the rituals. Who she really was had been buried in the past and the cocktail of Force-Suppression pills she only cared making enough credits for. The helm was just a mask, one she could shed or wear at will.

A tool to blend, to hide, to bury pieces of herself she didn't dare face. Pieces that still whispered of Jonathon Patches , savior and betrayer in both.

Where was he now?

The boy's voice dragged her back. More arrogance, more bluster, more Sith praise.

A bark of laughter tore free, bitter and sharp. Her pale, clammy face twisted under the visor in a sardonic sneer. She rose from her seat then, turning towards Lysander.

"The Sith?" she spat, tone low and edged with scorn.

"Genocidal maniacs, no better than those Jedi Browncoat hypocrites. Two sides of the same blasted karkin coin. You talk big, kid, but you haven't lived through the blood they spill. Taris burning. Kashyyyk razed. Manaan sinking beneath the sea. Every damned empire, every Jedi alliance, every so called protectorate -- different banners, same body piles."

She stepped closer, her shadow stretching long in the glow of the cell.

"At least Mandalorians know what it means to survive when everything's taken. They rise from blood and ash, no lies, no illusions. Sith codes rot with ambition, Jedi codes rot with cowardice. Bastards and black sheep Mandalorians may be, but Mandalore endures."

Her visor tilted, watching him with silent contempt.

"So keep on being played by your cult's lies. Passion, power, rule of two, whatever scrap they feed you. I may be wretched, but at least my choices are mine. Not chained to dogma. Not some pawn on a throne built from the corpses of men, women, and children."

She gave a snort, weary, dismissive, and started toward the cockpit ladder.

"If that's the honor you carry, so be it. Not my concern."

Her gauntleted fingers gripped the ladderwell, and she began to climb.

"We go to Thul."

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Tag: Skye Mertaal ​

Lysander’s gaze, almost without thinking, dipped down to the datapad in his hand. Not because he expected a reply from Danger, he knew better than to cling to that kind of hope, but out of the same bad habit that had him checking it whenever silence threatened to stretch too long. Something that’d started on Korriban.

The screen’s glow painted his fingers in pale light, a small, private little world he could retreat into while the bounty hunter’s modulated voice rolled over him.

Still, he listened. He always listened. The cadence of her disdain, the way she spat Sith like it was a curse, the conviction in her tone when she spoke of Mandalorians enduring. How many times had he heard this gorram word from the Mid-Rim, as if it had become nothing more than a casual phrase, tethered to those two syllables.

True to nature, his body shifted into that familiar posture of dismissal: one shoulder leaning back against the crate, chin tilting just enough to look back down the bridge of his nose at her, a shake of his head that was more about denying her the satisfaction than disagreeing.

It all still came natural to Lysander in moments such as these.

The joint still rolled idly between his fingers, end over end.

Just a small ritual of defiance.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, but it carried a distinct coldness to it. “You talk about surviving like it’s sacred. Like wearing the ashes of your dead somehow makes you stronger. Instead of crawling around, the Sith shape things so they never have to crawl again.”

His verdant stare lingered on her visor, as if hoping for some reaction he hadn’t seen yet.

A deep, heavy breath was drawn, filling his chest, where it was held until it steadied the chaos.

He had a monologue’s worth of words ready, but if there’d been any growth in him, it was in holding them back.. even if only he would ever notice.

Unfortunately, the ones still tumbling through his mind were no kinder, no healthier.

Sith didn’t endure the storm; they became it. They took what they needed to make sure their foe never rose again. Mandalorians were always trying to rebuild the same gorram house every time it burned down. The Sith built something so high, most would be too scared to light the match.

The Sith decide who gets to endure.

But as the woman’s fingers closed around the ladderwell and she started to climb, they instantly lost whatever edge was remaining.

He let them fall away.

No point throwing daggers at someone already walking out the door.

At least, not anymore.

The silence that followed was heavier than before.

He became aware of the astromech droid lingering nearby, its dome angled toward him in a way that felt… watchful. Judging, even. For a second, he stared back, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“What the feth are you looking at,” he murmured under his breath.

It wasn’t loud in a way that so often became a challenge, but just enough to make him feel better.

Oddly, the droid answered with a short, mechanical whirring noise he didn’t understand.

Leaning his head back against the wall, he exhaled. For now, he just reminded himself he was still here, still breathing, still waiting for whatever came next.