Like the Devil’s Got Your Hand ( Vaelre/Caroc | Korriban | 3954 )
— content warning: murder
@carocofiego
Shrouded in both the Force and the fabrics pressed upon him, Caroc almost passes as human. It's enough to keep him from being bothered, at any rate. Not many seek interaction with the tall one that follows at Luro's heels like a shadow.
As time drifts on, though, the comfort of solitude begins to wear at him. On Iego one was never truly alone, surrounded by the many living things that dotted the surface. Plants, animals-- even the earth beneath his feet had felt alive when Caroc closed his eyes. Now, he is discovering a distaste for Sith architecture. The walls seem bland and the corridors cold, artificially constructed rather than carved into the earth. There are no birds to watch in this empty space.
But there are other sentients, and Caroc's eyes track them as they walk past his post. It's not that Luro requested he wait outside while dealing with 'business', so much as it is that Caroc has no other ideas on where to go. He suspects that if he wanders, he will only find more similar hallways.
The humans that avert their attention and shuffle past him cloaked in anxiety make his lips quirk, but his favorites are the ones that hold his gaze as they go by.
@vaelredetris
Vaelre hands off the datapad after the encryption timer went off and the message vanished letter by letter.
They release a breath of relief. If only every assignment is as easy as this. The clicks of their boots' heels echos down the halls like the seconds counting down. The sound of glass breaking smothers the sound of their steps. The holding room's door flies open and crashes against the wall. The captive walks out backwards. His hand grasps around a shard of glass; its edge presses against the guard's neck.
"Stay back!" The captive shouts. The guard's pupils are rimmed with white fear.
The clicks fill the air around the three of them. The captive pulls the guard with him as he tries to put more space between him and Vaelre.
"Stop right there or I'll kill her!"
It's cute when people get bold like this. They shrug and gesture with an outstretched hand for him to go ahead. This traitor has worked with more than half the guards on staff today. He doesn't have it in him and Vaelre knows it.
He shoves the guard forward and takes off, rounding the nearest corner. Vaelre laughs heartily in vindication as they chase after him. The heavy footsteps and pants leave a trail for them to follow. They continue to laugh, just to give their prey an indication of how close behind they are.
The captive jumps over the railing of a staircase and Vaelre mirrors it exactly. —The landing though... Not quite as graceful. Their heel snaps, causing them a few moments of delay to throw off their boots completely. They run down the hallway and into the next. There's a familiar figure towards the end of it.
"Stop that man," they instruct the tall silhouette at the top of their lungs as they look straight at him. They point right at the captive heading his way. "He's a defector!"
@carocofiego
Notes of discord echo off the walls long before the mayhem reaches Caroc. Conflict always has such an interesting sound, such a complex flavor, songs jarring against each other and refusing to harmonize (excepting, of course, those rare times when conflict becomes an intricate dance).
Before the shouts have begun, and before anyone has rounded the corner, Caroc is already standing straighter, interest piqued. As the sounds get closer and settle thick on his tongue, he can pick out their familiarity-- one passing, a face in the crowd, the other... Finding it's home in those hazy half-blurred memories he does his best to forget. The earlier days that he doesn't, can't, dwell upon. And those more recent, more pleasant times he's seen them.
A rumble starts up deep in his chest as the first order is given, swelling in concert with the end of it. Though he no longer slumps against the wall, Caroc doesn't make any physical moves towards the defector either. His song first grows, until it fills the space between them, and then focuses down until it's all that his quarry can hear, and his quarry is the only one to hear it.
Finding the man's song is simple, it is staccato and screeching with fear, standing out harshly among the rest. From there it is simple. Caroc's song mingles with his, half rising to match and half dragging the man along, until both songs are as one. A single, harmonizing melody. A lullaby.
The man's pulse slows as his steps do, until he's barely stumbling in Caroc's direction. By the time Caroc can reach out and touch him, the man's eyes have begun to droop and he's barely remaining standing. Like a benevolent protector, Caroc catches him by the shoulders and embraces him.
Then, slowly, he turns the man to face his pursuer.
"Is this a present for me?" Caroc makes eye contact with the one across the way, his song's effects continuing past the end of the harmony, "How generous."
Vaelre continues stroking Vogel along his spine. “Of course not,” they respond. The varactyl shifts around even in his state of slumber. “Power distances those who have it and those who don’t. When you’re that above others, you don’t have to sympathize with them. Your reasoning and actions are in a language that won’t translate to them.”
A small bug crawls between Vogel’s feathers. Vaelre reaches out. Their index finger and thumb closes in around the bug and squishes it. “Sometimes I wonder why the lamb would insist on expecting the wolf to reject its true nature.”
It’s a subject that Caroc thinks about more than he would care to admit, one that has come up in his life often. The crux of any number of issues. For the most part he simply parrots what he’s been taught by his clan, and since then the sith he’s spent time around.
But here, now, relaxed by the presence of Vogel and the rare friendly nature of this relationship, he lets himself explore it.
“All true. But,” He rumbles quietly, struggling to put his thoughts into words, “Why not? When a wolf can as easily save a lamb as eat it, shouldn’t there be questions? Which nature is the truest?” He strokes Vogel’s side in a steady, soothing rhythm, pondering.
“What is the nature of power, that it exists so nebulously and yet controls so much of our existence? Is it a truth, something that exists independently of observation, or does it only exist inside the minds of sentients as a way to explain the ways that we treat each other and navigate societies?” He doesn’t seem to realize how much more verbal he’s being than usual, words flowing easily as his mind chases a familiar series of thoughts.
