Private Whispers in the Dunes

[Caelia Lamora]

​

Jaguada​

The elegant ship glided across the horizon, closing in on the distant red speck. Somewhere within the ship, the planet was up on a holodisplay, providing information simultaneously as it underwent new scans. There wasn't much to read. It was a desert world, a lost planet of the Sith, home to ruins and ghosts of the past.

It was a good thing ghosts didn't come equipped with turbolasers, as their ship would have handled that poorly. Sleek, elegant, fast - and not fit for war. It was a ship fit for a princess, or as was the case here, the daughter of a wealthy Duke. It was the way it had to be. Taking a war ship out of the Oroccan navy would've raised eyebrows, and Caelia wanted no one to know what she was up to.

Caelia emerged from her quarters, long, brown hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. For the first time since forever, she was not wearing a dress. Instead she opted for light-colored, loose-fitting pants, tailored to her every move. The encasing fabric felt peculiar against her legs, like rediscovering an old friend who had evolved in subtle ways over the years. Her top, a tight, long-sleeved turtle-neck, clung to her skin, an embrace of the breathable fabric that simultaneously offered comfort and restriction. It was a choice made not in vanity, but in preparation. A holstered blaster pistol adorned her hip, a small and slender thing, coated in silver. It was a silent declaration of the secret, perhaps dangerous mission that awaited her.

"Are we ready?" she asked the leader of the mercenaries about their preparations. She wasn't exactly sure what, if any, were necessary. Caelia had little experience leading military operations, and assumed these men had seen more combat combined than she might in a lifetime. She didn't want to disrespect them by telling them how to do their jobs, but they were here on her asking. Or at least on account of her bank account.

It was tough to say what awaited them down the planet. It had been populated once, now thought abandoned. Whether ancient predators had thrived or died out, she could not say. Hopefully it would be a quiet stop to a sunken temple, long forgotten.

Orson Thorm​

 

[Orson Thorm]

She didn’t dress like the place was dangerous, but Orson supposed she could afford to, she’d hired them after all. Clad head to heel in battered gray combat armor that was held together by impromptu welding and ad hoc repairs, it didn’t do much for his figure. In fact, a few years before, if he’d been wearing a helmet alongside his comrades, Orson would’ve been virtually impossible to pick out of a crowd. Now though, he stood out in his own way.

Bandoliers of ammunition wrapped around his chest and one thigh, a simple holster on the other, and a blade was sheathed on his chest. The armor wasn’t comfortable, it never had been, but he was used to it, and wasn’t inclined to spend what money he made on something new that he couldn’t trust. The Imperials built their gear to last, even if the Empire didn’t.

He regarded his crew with quick glances, Orson’s gray eyes flicking to each member of the ten he’d brought with him. Most were human, all but three had no experience outside of a few merc contracts, one of the three with with combat training was just washed up GA reservist, another was lying about having graduated Stormtrooper training, and the other was insane. They weren’t his usual crew by design, Orson needed to see if the band of misfits were worth the credits they were being paid, or if Thatch was being overly generous again. At least all of these ones had actually been in fights, even if the majority lacked formal military training, the last subjects of Thatch’s altruism had barely known which way to hold a blaster.

Running a gloved hand through his short black hair and donning his best professional smile, he turned to answer Caelia. “Yes ma’am, we’re all set.”

The mercenary slid a charge pack home, and the blaster carbine in his hand winked a green light to confirm a good load. Orson had meant to turn that off, he didn’t need that sort of guidance after all he’d experienced, but rather than solve the problem he silently grumbled to himself about it and moved on.

“Lead the way.” He gave the Caelia a nod, and scooped up the gray helmet he’d left next to his foot, and slid it on without another word.

Caelia Lamora

 

[Caelia Lamora]

​

Next to this rag-tag squad of mercenaries, Caelia didn't look like she could pose much of a threat. The beauty of it was that she was standing next to these mercenaries, which made her quite the intimidating figure after all. Unfortunately, she had never heard of sand that could be intimidated. What was that saying? It was better to have them and not need them, than be found wanting.

Caelia nodded at Orson. Brief, to the point, professional. A man she could work with. The rest of the team she hadn't interacted much with, trusting their displicine, and failing that, that Orson kept them in line.

«Fought much in deserts?» she asked, as a pilot-droid took the ship down to the planet's surface. There was the familiar shake as they broke atmosphere, but it quickly stabilized. It was a Sovereign ship, after all, built for comfort and ease of transportation. «I don't suppose we'll see much trouble. I don't suppose we'll see much of anyone at all, really. If we do, well… We're not here to make friends. So if you think someone is a threat, and it turns out later you were wrong... Well, I won't tell.» The implications, Caelia thought, were clear.

The ramp lowered itself and touched the ground. The arid air crept in the moment a gap was formed. Before them, sandy dunes between random formations of black rocks, protruding up like broken daggers. The young noble led the way, into the unknown

Orson Thorm

 

[Orson Thorm]

“Some, enough to know to avoid it where I can.” Orson answered, giving a slight shrug of his shoulders. Deserts weren’t much good for anything but collapsing from heat exhaustion and finding sand in spots you’d never have expected weeks after you left the places behind. He’d fought in worse locales, but he hadn’t been in a hurry to accept a job on alien sands either.

The woman’s understanding of, and perhaps even appreciation for, pragmatic decision-making wasn’t something he’d expected. In his experience, more regal clients often squirmed over the messy details of things, either out of fear of consequence or because of their oh-so-sacred morals. Caelia’s attitude was a welcome surprise, making the job more bearable.

“Understood ma’am, if there’s a problem, we’ll solve it.” Life and death were subject to Orson’s discretion then, just the way he liked it. Mentally he ran a final check on his own equipment as the luxury craft came down through the atmosphere, finishing it as the ramp lowered to greet them with the strange mixture of roots and sand. Beneath his helmet, the mercenary raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as he followed after the noblewoman without a word.

As they stepped onto the sand, he lifted a hand and flashed a series of quick gestures, signaling the mercenaries that filed out after them to spread out and survey the area. Thankfully, they all compiled without issue, proving that this batch had at least paid attention to the brief course they’d been put through after being hired. All was going well so far, but they’d only just stepped onto the planet.

Things usually fell apart a little later, but he wouldn’t mind being wrong for once.

“Anything you’d like us to be on the lookout for, ma’am?” Sometimes clients had them do half the spelunking for them, which, in Orson's case, meant ordering his subordinates to do it. It caught them a few extra credits at the end of things, which never hurt.

Caelia Lamora

 

[Caelia Lamora]

​

Not even a full minute spent out on the sands, and the harsh sun was already drawing beads of sweat from her pores. Caelia did her best to seem unaffected, and maintain a calm poise, like spear of ice refusing to melt, despite all evidence to the contrary.

She found Orson Thorm 's question a tricky one to answer. What was she looking for exactly? And how might she convey that in a way that made sense, when she barely garsped it herself? "I'm not sure what exactly. I don't know what to expect, but anything that looks antique and of value." she doubted they had scanners to pick up on items connected to the Force. Through her own sheltered upbringing, she assumed the Force was not something non-Jedi or Sith were well acquainted with either.

"You know, the thing a Jedi might be interested in. Have you dealt much with Jedi?" she asked, realizing only when it was too late how much of a loaded question that might possibly be. "No judgement, you understand. I'm neutral, as it were" she added quickly, trying to cover her basis. Maybe his best friend was a Jedi. Maybe he had killed one. It wasn't Caelia's business, and she certainly wouldn't judge.

Her focus drifted to the side, where she saw a large, circular depression in the sand. It was a curious thing. The sand shifted under her feet, but it didn't drag. Down the center there was a peculiar looking black rock. She stared at it, taking a step closer. "Captain- do I call you captain?" she asked, realizing she had no idea, and it made her question how she had addressed him in the past. Perhaps she had simply danced around it all, anyway, "What do you think that-" the sands began to shift, slowly at first then rapidly. Her feet which had been once steadily planted now lost their footing, and she tumbled over to her back, finding herself dragged towards the center. Desperately she clawed and tried to crawl her way back up.

It was a good thing she had turned her back. It meant she didn't have to look as the creature emerged up from its hole. The black rock revealed itself to be the carapace shell of a massive scorpion. Someone shouted, pointed, and she rolled to the side, just in time to watch the large, sharp tail dig intself into the sand where her body had been moments before.

This wasn't good.

 

[Orson Thorm]

Ancient was good, but sometimes ancient was bad, it was the paradox at the heart of jobs like these. Sometimes the ruins were just old stones, and clients wanted nothing more than gold baubles left on cracked altars, other times they were built from volcanic rock and every other step triggered an even worse way to die. So he still had no idea how much this job would cost him in terms of manpower

“Jedi?” He scoffed, images of flashing sabers over trampled snow playing back through his memory. “Yeah, I’ve had my share of dealings with them. Real pretentious, real dangerous.” He was professional enough to mask the majority of his spite, so the words sounded like something a little short of open contempt. Caelia claimed she was neutral, but he’d seen which way neutral broke when the Empire fell.

Not that he mourned the loss, if was just an important thing to keep in mind.

“Just Orson’s fine ma'am.” He'd never been an officer, in truth he'd barely been an NCO, the titles and fancy insignia's had always been more an annoyance than a goal for him. Still, he supposed he appreciated her attempt at professional respect. Then the damned ground moved, and Orson's concerns about the mission multiplied a hundredfold. The mercenary stumbled back, throwing a hand out to catch himself, and jolting back upright.

Orson swept the horizon, then the pit, and by the time he found his client, she was already reaching for something as the stinger rose out of the sand, all black chitin as hard as battleplate.

"Move, move!" He shouted at her, snapping up his blaster and joining three of his men in launching the opening salvo, red bolts zipping through the air in quick succession as he moved forward, trying to close in on Caelia so that he could pull her out of whatever monster's striking distance was. He shuffled forward as he fired, and reached down to try and yank her up by her shoulder. Orson needed her alive, money aside, he wasn't sure if they'd be able to get the ship to take off without her.

Caelia Lamora