#spcre-sith

[nightbrcther]

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ There is always work to do. Whether it's a young initiate moving miniscule amounts of spice product on the streets of his neighborhood or an experienced gangster quashing territorial disputes at the end of his blaster, the Pyke Syndicate will have its foot soldiers working around the clock to maintain profits and ensure its throttlehold on the galaxy. Bolgan finds that as he ages into his twenties and climbs the ranks he is entrusted with responsibility at higher stakes. One day it was roughing people up and collecting their debts, and now his new marching orders give him the ability to kill at his discretion. Every Zabrak he crosses paths with is side-eyed and scrutinized. Their facial patterns, their skintones -- because in this case, distinction matters. An Iridonian Zabrak is not deemed a threat to the Pyke Syndicate the way a Dathomirian Zabrak is. Why that is, he's not so certain, but he suspects it leads back to a crime lord named Maul and a webbing of multi-layered gang politics that at his rank Bolgan can't say he's too privy to.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ His black eyes are on the crowd of foot traffic as he sits here at a food stall in Janix. His acute cleanliness sensibilities mean he won't be enjoying any of the street food prepared in front of him, but it's at least a place to sit while he awaits further instruction. These streets are reminiscent of Coruscant's lower levels; the locals are diverse enough to make people-watching interesting to him. // @spcre-sith

[mayxthexforce-moved]

MOVED FROM HERE

@spcre-sith:

he is not hostile. he is approaching. calmly. this is less a dare and more a...initiation. The Bounty Hunters demand he take on his task, they knew the background enough to understand the...bad blood that might be festering. But this is - was - a Nightsister, far from her people. If he's lucky, she's no longer affiliated.

Even so, old habits die hard, on both ends. He keeps the fidgeting to flexing one hand. He schools his face blank when he speaks, even when bile rises in his throat. The force is like a buzz in his ears.

"They say you have...specific. Information."

He speaks as if he hasn't just waltzed up to this woman, with these tattoos, and this look to him, so blatantly obvious as a Nightbrother. Feral hopes his funeral has more subtly.

People don't like it when someone is 'friends' with a Jedi. But most people are wise to ignore that fact about Ros Lai now that they knew she doesn't need to get all that close to make them writhe on the ground, clutching at their throats while choking on darkened blood. So, repercussions in Hutt Space aren't something she worries about. Because of her own abilities and because Ziro the Hutt had owed her a favor when she was finally let out of prison, and that means she is to be left alone by thugs and smugglers alike.

This man doesn't look like neither a thug nor a smuggler.

Maroon eyes turned away from her glass and towards him, peeking at him curiously through strands of curly, bright red hair that managed to free themselves from the confines of her purple cloak's hood. A Nightbrother. No doubt about that. So far away from Dathomir.

Then again, so is she.

She takes a deep breath, almost like she's breathing him in. Though it isn't necessary to do so to know exactly what branch of the witches she comes from, the tattoos and the way he speaks to her —with underlying hesitation, like he thinks he shouldn't— give it away. One of Mother Talzin's men.

Even Ros Lai —as isolated as she'd been— had known about how Mother Talzin and her witches liked to keep their men. It was, as far as she'd heard, not something her own mother and sisters had agreed with. Not because of any appreciation for their more sturdy counterparts, but because to Mother Zalem, men just hadn't been allowed to be a part of their tribe. The sisters left and returned bearing child. If it was a girl, she would become a witch; if it was a boy, he would be sold or traded with the other clans– sometimes even adopted, as from what she remembered at least one clan did regard the men as equal. If it was like Ros Lai, it would be left to die in the jungle.

Dathomir life is tough. It's why it isn't common to see others from her world around the galaxy. A witch and a Nightbrother walk into a cantina. The butt of the joke is out there, somewhere.

"Depends on who asks, and what they want to know." she shifted to face him fully. "And what they have to offer in exchange."

[nightbrcther]

　　　Oba Diah, home of the Pyke Syndicate. They were wise to join the Shadow Collective, but not everyone among their ranks had shared in this wisdom. A foolish move, abandoning the opportunity to aid in the growth of an empire and seize galactic power. And if anyone doesn't take kindly to betrayals it is the two brothers who in their own paths have experienced it; where he could not kill Ventress he vows to eliminate these traitors.

　　　Savage follows the coordinates given to him by Lom's men to the foot of a rocky cliff blanketed in snow. This is one of several locations the renegades could be hiding -- or so he's been told. It's nothing some investigating won't determine.

　　　Along the cliff wall he soon discovers an inset durasteel entryway, not easily noticed by anyone who isn't looking for it. The Pyke hideout. It has to be. But the door is open? Savage looks down at the powder snow that the wind at one point had blown in and then to the damaged access keypad on the wall. Something tells him it has been open for a while.

　　　Cautiously, he steps inside. Would the Pyke traitors be here? Have they gone? He squints as he moves further, surveying each dimly-lit room as he goes. Something shuffles from somewhere deeper inside -- or was it behind him? Savage draws his weapon and ignites one red blade; its low hum fills the otherwise quiet room. This hideout may not be as abandoned as he had started to think.

　　　"Show yourself, traitor." // @spcre-sith

[mayxthexforce-moved]

Learning Curve || Drakka & Feral

Starter for @spcre-sith

Dallenor's dual moons covered the arid landscape before her with a soft shade of blue. If it wasn't for the fact that the wind kept blowing the sand that made up around 90% of the ground on her face —reminding her that it was, in fact, dry and scratchy sand and not something else—, Drakka could have mistaken it for snow.

It WAS cold enough outside right now that it'd have been an understandable misconception.

It'd been a long time since the Jedi council had last sent Jedi to Dallenor and, while Drakka had their blessing to be there, she was not really currently stationed on the planet for the Jedi Order's sake. No, she was here because she owed someone a favor– or more like, her father owed a fellow archeologist of his a favor, and it was being paid in the form of Drakka sitting around, bored out of her mind, keeping an eye out for anything out of ordinary while the archeologist team worked on unearthing what they believed to be the ruins of a Sith temple from the depths of the desert. And she wasn't even allowed to venture in.

Yet, she told herself. Not allowed to venture in YET.

And yet, curiosity was eating at her. Now, as she checked the perimeter while most of the team slept or simply lounged in their tents, she was even more tempted to just take a look. Taking a peek never killed anyone– not anyone she knew, at least.

Her inner conflict was promptly interrupted by SOMETHING. A shift in the wind dragged a scent to her, something that would have been imperceptible for the team and even for most Jedi– but on top of being a Jedi, she also happened to be a Zabrak, graced with a much sharper sense of smell that the average humanoid. She'd been sitting around while these men and women worked in the sun, she knew damn well by now what they smelled like. This scent didn't belong to any of them.

So, she followed it, a determined stride to her step that was surprisingly soundless thanks to the sand, intent on finding the source of it– on finding the INTRUDER.

[nightbrcther]

@spcre-sith [ continued ]

　　　The coin has two sides. One sibling paces, troubled by inner conflict, and the other stands still and observes. Savage is calm, self-assured -- a behavior subconsciously adopted after his brother. His other brother. The one that would never question his presence of hatred, that would instead insist its utility and cultivation. How vastly different, his two kinsmen. And only one of them remains the weakest of the bunch.

　　　Savage looks at the way Feral's knuckles turn white. He is no wise mentor, but he can impart to Feral what he's learned during his own metamorphosis.

　　　"Nostalgia -- it is a cancer. It makes you weak. Keep those memories if this is how you wish to remain, brother. It seems you are best at this," he looks down his nose at Feral. The runt of the pack. "Or embrace change. Cut away the cancer. What you feel right now will make you stronger.. if you let it."