Well it’s been a while since I’ve done art that I liked as much as I like this piece.
It’s Taveau, from the Star Wars tabletop game. We had a long hiatus but we’re getting back together Sunday! I’m excited. I started this on a plane ride and ended up cramping my arm lol.
Tried to do cleaner lineart, used thicker lines and a lot of the sharp pen brush and... I really like how it turned out. I’ll have to do more in this style now that I’ve got it figured out
Sometimes he walked on the very edge of a precipice for reasons he couldn’t name to himself. Maybe he hoped the proximity to death would spark a zest for life in him. Maybe he hoped he would fall. That day, a rock had been loose and he had. It had been an accident that he fell. It was not an accident that he was standing on the edge.
@trifoyle I’ve been meaning to make you some art now that I sort of know what I’m doing. ...and then this ended up being more of a landscape instead of a character portrait... This moment really jumped out at me, though, and I wanted to illustrate it. Maybe it’s because I grew up around mountain rivers like this, but the place was very clear in my head, which doesn’t always happen as I’m reading. (Also seems like landscapes is what I can draw confidently.)
Anyway, a slightly more detailed Taveau is under the cut. You’re a great writer and I’m happy to call you an internet friend!
WELL IT HAS BEEN A WHILE but we’re getting the group back together tomorrow and so I want to try to catch up on some of the old episodes I never posted! They may be a bit shorter because it’s been so long and I’ve forgotten stuff so I have to rely on my notes, but I hope to hit the highlights. This session in particular was one of my favorites. Basically, our characters make a Walmart run, but instead of Walmart it’s the planet of Naboo.
The DM introduces us to the spectacle of Theed City, capitol of Naboo. It’s temperate in climate, standing majestically on a forested mesa.
We’re contacted by Theed air traffic control.
Me: As usual, Taveau is gonna look to Grif to do the talking.
H: As usual, Rralwarr can’t talk.
ATC: confirm number of passengers and planned duration of stay.
Grif: Uh hey there, we have 3, planning on staying overnight.
ATC: Copy, Blindsider... be prepared to show IDs to customs.
Grif, quietly: oh
(The players all sit back and give each other the :/ face for a minute)
Rralwarr: Well, we don’t need to stop here...
Me out-of-character: can we do a galactic lore roll to see how bad it would be if we landed without IDs? I mean Taveau’s not gonna know what to search for necessarily, he’s not familiar with landing LEGALLY... But maybe someone else who knows more about this?
Grif: hmmm well sounds problematic.
Grif to ATC: OK we don’t have time to stop here bye.
ATC: Copy, please exit Naboo airspace within 5 minutes.
There’s a pause, then:
DM: OK, WELL, I’LL JUST PULL THIS ENTIRE PAGE OF METICULOUS NOTES OUT OF THE BOOK AND EAT IT, NOW.
Everyone: uh
Everyone: do we uh
Everyone: was... were we supposed to land on Naboo....
Everyone: do we not have a session plan now??
DM: MMMMMYEP.
M: oops.... oh, well, we already did that so I guess--
Me, out of character: AAHGHSDFJK. OK HOLD ON ONE SEC--
Taveau: H, hold on, are we... where are we going if we’re not stopping here?
Grif: To meet up with Mij?
Taveau: But we were supposed to meet up with him in a couple of days. We’re going to be there way too early if we stop here.
Rralwarr: We could always just wait there. Maybe scope out the area.
Taveau: Have you looked at the coordinates he gave us? That’s in the middle of Separatist airspace and I don’t want to be just sitting out there for two days!
Grif: Well...
Taveau takes out his datapad, does a thirty-second Space Wikipedia search, and shoves it in Grif’s face--showing that we can easily get tourist visas on the planet.
Grif: OK, you really want to go to this planet don’t you?
(Me out of character: YE)
Grif: Listen, OK, let’s make a deal... We’ll make this stop and I’ll subtract 10% of your pay.
Taveau:
Taveau: What
Taveau: What is my pay?
Grif: ...OK yeah let’s go ahead and establish that.
Taveau: Uh-huh, so what do you think is a good--
Grif: *FAST TALK MODE ENGAGED*
Well listen I feel like we’ve got to find a price that’s reasonable for our means without devaluing the great help you’ve given us. You helped us in battle as well as with flying this ship. You’ve changed the direction of my entire life, and I hope you’ll be there for a lot of it, because you’re a pretty cool guy. However, as far as payment goes, well, I mean you weren’t flying for the whole time you’ve been with us, and a lot of that time the ship was on autopilot anyway--
Taveau, breaking out of his overwhelmed haze: OK but you say this like programming autopilot is EASY. Could you do it?
Grif: ...Probably? I mean I’m guessing there’s a button you press.
Rralwarr: You’re the type who’d push the self-destruct button instead.
Grif, uncomfortable: Thehrhyhe haaa theyyy don’t HAVE self destruct buttons??? do they???
Taveau: *chuckles* .... nah.
Grif: Ah, good, great. So how much do you want?
Taveau, who has no idea what a reasonable price actually is, just kind of bluescreens for a few seconds and then goes “.....10,000?”
Grif: OK, sure. I’ll get that to you as soon as possible. ...You really wanna go to Naboo?
Taveau: Do you have a better idea??
Grif: ... ...well... no... but...? ...OK but let’s go to the other side of the planet, I don’t wanna talk to that guy again, he seemed grumpy.
(DM: Ooh...
H: I know what his punishment for us is gonna be.
DM: The Gungans have also been making a killing off of tourism, and have built a spaceport outside of Theed to allow access to the underwater city. Yes, THIS IS WHAT YOU GET for making me eat my notes.)
Grif, researching the area, notices the Gungan city, and goes: Ooh, an underwater city! Now, that I could get behind.
Taveau: OK? Glad to see you excited about something.
Grif, reading from his datapad: ooh they took out an entire orbital dropship, they must be great warriors!
Taveau: Huh. Interesting.
DM: So you fly in to Gungan Space and you get a uhh.. a new buzzer on the commlink... it appears to be Gungan traffic control.
ATC: HEDOOOH! YoU-sA wAnT lAnD iN GunGAn cItY??
HEDOOOH! You-sa want land in Gungan City?
(Players: oh...
DM: THIS IS YOUR PUNISHMENT.)
ATC: wE-SAAAA be hApPy to WelCOmE YoU! YoUUu-sa, be lAnDiN iNNnn, ah... DoCkInG bAy 36!
Grif: All right, sounds great!
ATC: ThAnK yOuS!
Grif: he sounds friendly.
Taveau: yeah, they sound pretty chill.
Grif: they must have a very interesting and deep rich culture if their speech is so hard for us to understand... I think it’ll be a very interesting experience.
DM: You land, and are greeted by Gungan Customs, which seems to work on a different organizational scheme than Nubian customs.
Gungan Customs Officer: Hello-sa!
Grif: Hi! :D
GCO: Welcome to Naboo, we-sa very happy to have you here! But-ah, there is una small matter! The landing fee is 500 Republic credits!
Grif: OK, uh, shoot! Well, I can cover that one. (M: I’ll swipe my cardy-boii)
We get our visas and ride down towards the underwater city in a small sub shuttle. Rralwarr is not happy about being crammed into a small space, or about being underwater in general, but it’s otherwise a very nice ship. The pilots points out interesting features of the area as we glide downwards.
Taveau: Huh... I’m starting to enjoy myself.
Grif, staring at the pilot’s eye-stalks: .....huh.
The water grows darker, but ahead is a dim glow of light which slowly becomes many different points of light, coming from a system of oddly bulbous pods linked together: the underwater city of Otoh-Gunga.
Grif: Wow! This is impresive!
Pilot: It is very nice, yes? We-sa like it here.
Grif: So, like, how do you get in without, like, letting water in?
Pilot: Ooh, we-sa have membranes! It keep the water out, but the ships go through!
Grif: Amazing! But isn’t that a security risk? Can any ships go through, or only yours?
Pilot: Oh, we-sa don’t worry about that. We-sa very peaceful, no have soldiers here since the invasion.
Grif: Oh, good, I always like a peaceful planet. I come from one myself, it’s called Alderaan.
Pilot: Does it have oceans?
Grif: Oh, yeah, lots of oceans! But I don’t think there are any underwater cities. \
Pilot: Sound lovely. Maybe we visit sometime.
We arrive in the city, and Rralwarr immediately runs to the most open space in the area and takes a slightly panicky breath of air.
Taveau: Doing OK Rralwarr?
Rralwarr: *tiny Wookie noise* underwater....
Grif: OK, let’s figure out how we’re gonna do this! Rralwarr, I know you want medpacs. Taveau, what about you?
Taveau: Booze.
Grif: ..That’s all? You made us come down here for booze? Alright, fine, I’ll get you some booze.
Taveau: You’re paying? I wasn’t aware that was part of the arrangement.
Grif: Oh, sure, yeah. I’ll get you whatever you need on this trip, it comes out of your pay, is all.
Taveau: I can buy my own groceries. But I will let you buy me a bottle of rum.
The party splits: Rralwarr goes off to buy medpacs, and Grif and Taveau head to a liquor store. DM asks what I’m looking for. I say just a cheap rum.
DM: Just... complete rotgut? You’re looking for the Star Wars equivalent of Everclear.
Me, ooc: not QUITE that bad.
DM: So, space Jim Beam.
Me: Yeah.
DM: OK, you find that.
The DM introduces the cashier lady, the store, and an impressive array of space booze to choose from: a number of Mon Cal grades, one which is 1000 credits (Taveau: oof. that’s unnecessary), samples of imports from other planets--the cashier notes that a few are becoming hard to get, thanks to the Separatists taking over the planets of origin.
DM: There’s also a novelty bottle of bright green alcohol that comes in a bottle shaped like Yoda’s head. You’re pretty sure this was not authorized by the Jedi. 75 credits. The label reads “Feel good you will, hmmmm.”
Grif: !!!
Taveau: I’m not sure I trust this, but OK?? We can share it, it’ll be interesting.
We get the novelty Yoda booze and 1 bottle of 95-credit (fairly cheap but almost respectable) Mon Calamari black rum for Taveau’s personal use.
As they leave, Taveau takes the rum out of his bag, takes a swig straight out the bottle, and then puts it back in his bag.
DM: That’s very white trash of him.
Me, OOC: You assume Taveau is white? He’s just... space trash.
(DM argues that I showed him some pictures I found on pinterest as references and they looked like white trash. And OK they fit the general aesthetic and appearance which is why I sent them, but they don’t supersede the character description that’s on my sheet.)
DM: So you continue walking along, noticing the tourists and the Gungans looking out across the city. It’s so pretty, you think you have to take another drink of rum to appreciate it, so you do. (Minor irritation from me having my character played for me, but it is, in fact, extremely in character, so I roll with it) Grif, you crack open that Yoda head. It is very sweet and very fruity, with a bit of citrus. It’s basically 170-proof Mountain Dew. Some of your nervousness about being underwater slips away. You decide to give Rralwarr some when you get back.
Taveau: How’s that?
Grif: Weird! It’s sweet, try it?
Taveau: ...ooh. I like that more than I thought I would.
DM: Taveau, you find yourself feeling like you’re almost ready to talk to people. It’s weird, and you’re not quite sure how you feel about it.
Next, we head to Otoh Gunga Metalworks. Naboo, being so peaceful, does not permit the (legal) sale of weapons for anything other than decoration, but Taveau wants to add to his knife collection. He’s planning to collect a knife from every planet he visits.
We enter, and the Gungan asks what we’re looking for. Taveau, being Taveau, just goes “Knives.” The Gungan chuckles.
Cashier Gungan: Who-sa you want to stab?
Taveau: Depends on the day.
CG: Me-sa kidding! We-sa no sell sharp blades, but we-sa do have good collection pieces.
Grif: Well, that would be perfect *elbow jab* sINCE YOU’RE A COLLECTOR, Taveau!
Taveau: Yep.
There are, actually, a wide variety of knives, mostly elaborately wrought decoration pieces, but down in the “historical section” are knives and hunting tools, replicas of the distant past. They have dull edges and are made of the same dark metal of the city-bubbles’ frames. There are spears, slings, and some small, almost stiletto-like knives.
Grif: Wow, it’s so tiny!
The Gungan chuckles: You-sa must be delicate, thesa not be for gooberfish. ...We-sa have spears for those.
Taveau picks up one of the small knives and examines it. It’s a bit heavier than he would expect for the size and is made of one piece of metal, with the hilt wrapped in a tough green leather of unidentifiable source. It’s a stiff, non-flexible blade, very slender, the balance point towards the hilt.
Taveau buys two of the plainer ones.
Next, I want to find a vox box, a device which (I had learned from the manual) is readily available across the galaxy and speaks a range of phrases in Basic, and, with a good computer skill, can also be customized.
All we can find, the DM tells us, is a novelty vox box that speaks in a Gungan accent.
(Me: Is this really the only one?? I was gonna give it to Rralwarr as a gift, I thought it was a good idea...
DM: That’s the only one.
Me: I’m a little angry.
DM: SO AM I)
Grif thinks the box is hilarious and encourages Taveau, who was wavering, to buy it anyway. Taveau figures they can always try customizing it to be less annoying later. And then--
Grif: Bookstore! Do you like books? I like books.
Taveau: Uh. Sure
Grif looks through the selections on galactic cultures, trying to find something on Mandalore. There are very few mentions of it, aside from a sort of cheesy fiction book title “Tales of the Mandalorian Raiders,” a story about the Old Republic. The cover shows a black-and-red-helmeted mando in old-fashioned armor--it’s more square, and the T-visor is contoured differently--stabbing his sword through a Jedi’s heart, with the wreckage of a city overrun by armies of battling Jedi and Mandalorians in the background.
Grif seriously considers buying this book. Taveau picks it up and flips through it. It claims to be written in Mando’a blank verse, a claim which doesn’t make a hell of a lot of sense, but whatever. There are a few words of Mando’a flung in for flavor. They’re hilariously misspelled. It tells the story of an ancient Mandalore who once allied with the Sith. He’s portrayed in a fairly unflattering light, and the book focused on his creative ways of slaughtering people.
Taveau cackles at this a bit.
Grif: ....Had enough to drink?
Taveau: Yeah yeah. *shakes the book* is this what you do in your free time?
Grif: It is now.
Taveau: Why??
Grif: Well--okay, here’s the thing, I just... My life has been changing a lot lately, and I’m not really sure where I stand, you know? And I want to believe that Mij and his people are the good guys, you know, and I really think it’s so cool what they stand for, the--the freedom, and honor, and stuff, and fighting Death Watch, but I just... I’m new to this, and I don’t know them very well, and if I’m going to become a part of this I want to be sure I’m doing the right thing. So, I guess I just want to understand more about the culture because I hope it’ll help me understand Mij.
Taveau: ..*chokes* hgnsf. Huh, OK. Well, I don’t think a book about the far past is going to tell you anything about Mij, but I think I get what you’re saying... *suppressed chuckle* Huh, well, how about this. Would you like me to cook for you? You said you wanted to learn about Mandalorian culture, hm? *Cackling* I mean--you’ve got me, I’m right here. You, uh, don’t need. *dismissive shake of the book* ...This.
Grif is enthusiastic about this, despite the fact that Taveau is still cackling devilishly. They go grocery shopping. There’s a lot of fish, some seaweed-type wraps, and “a rather interesting sauce”: the sando-aquamonster hot sauce, with a label reading “there is no bigger fish.”
Taveau grumbles about the lack of spices, but buys the ingredients to make a fish wrap of some sort, along with that very interesting hot sauce. Grif follows everything eagerly. He does not protest the purchase of the hottest sauce in the store. We go back to the ship and reunite with Rralwarr. There’s a smallish cooking area in the ship, basically just a counter and a space microwave. Taveau tastes the sauce while he’s making the wraps.
Me, OOC: So how spicy is it?
DM: To YOU? Not very spicy, but you think it’s pretty good for an aruetiise approximation.
Let me pause here to share with you, my dear readers, some fun trivia I learned in my study of Mando’a. Mandalorian culture is full of very spicy foods. They have a special word (hetikles) for the “noseburn” you get from really really spicy foods, the ones that basically just set your entire sinus system on fire--it’s a prized sensation. Taveau was, of course, raised to have a healthy appreciation of hellishly fiery foods. Grif was not, and Taveau kinda suspects this.
Now, Taveau (fortunately for Grif) does not have access to real Mandalorian spices, but this sauce comes close enough to earn his respect.
He makes some fish wraps and sticks them in the space microwave for a minute so they’re warm, then drenches them in hot sauce. Grif is excited.
Taveau: Chill, this isn’t anything like authentic, I used what I could find.. it’s just some space-microwaved fish wrap with hot sauce on it... the sauce is pretty good, though.
Grif: Oh, awesome, cool, great! Is there, like, a traditional way to eat this or
Taveau: Just. eat it
Grif: OK!
M: Grif takes a big forkful and stuffs it in his mouth.
DM: CON SAVE!
M: (6)
DM: You would let loose with every foul word that you know, except that your mouth hurts too much and you can only get out an incomprehensible sound of pain.
Grif: WREEEEEEEEEEEEEE
Taveau, at this point, is on the floor, just choking with laughter.
DM: Grif, you scramble for the closest liquid--which is the bottle of Yoda liquor. It cuts the burn a bit but you do not feel well and you run off to the refresher to rethink your life. Taveau meanwhile is just losing it with laughter and calls after Grif “Kandosii!”
Rralwarr: What did you give him?!
Taveau: Just hot sauce. Try it!
DM: CON SAVE! (high pass) Yeah, you’re fine. It’s good sauce. You think Grif is just kind of a wimp.
Grif still hasn’t come back. Taveau feels a tiny bit bad but also he’s still laughing. Rralwarr pretends to feel bad. He is also laughing. We eat two of the hot-sauced wraps and Taveau puts one plain, not at all hot one aside for Grif, when he feels better enough to eat. Taveau also gives Rralwarr the vox box which speaks in a Gungan accent.
Rralwarr: ...This was Grif’s idea wasn’t it.
Meanwhile, Grif is lying spread-eagled on the tiles in the refresher, trying to absorb all the coldness from the floor. He feels like he’s on fire and his stomach probably won’t settle down for a while.
Taveau spends the next couple of hours sharpening the two knives he bought. He tapes one to the underside of his pilot seat so that it’s hidden but easy to whip out if needed. He’s completely finished sharpening both by the time Grif stumbles out of the refresher.
Taveau: Hey, Grif! I left one of those wraps plain for you. It’s in the kitchen.
Grif: hhhghhthanks uhhh I’m not really hungry right now but thanks tho
Taveau: Are you okay?
Grif: *sniff* hhghhhhyes ‘m fine just uhhhhghh. gonna uhh. go to bed now I think. g’night Taveau.
Taveau: I, uh. Didn’t realize it would be quite that rough on you.
Grif: huhhh nno it’sss fineeee m just a lil tired that’s all just. yea. ‘m totally fine don’t worry about it. g’night
Taveau: Oh, hey, before you go. This is for you. I sharpened it.
He gives Grif the other knife he’d bought on the planet, the slightly nicer one, now razor sharp, and tries to show Grif some grips he can use to fight with it.
Grif: uhhh that’s nice but uhh maybe show me this when I’m more awake maybe. tthank you.
He stumbles off, and Taveau settles down in his pilot seat with his knife collection. For now, it’s quiet in the ship.
Well it’s been a while and we lost a wookie (that player apparently had friendship drama with the other player and the DM and doesn’t want to be involved anymore) but tonight we finally had another Star Wars RPG meeting and it was great. Had everything you’d expect: Mij cursing, Grif charisma-ing, Taveau getting injured.
If you’re reading the session episodes, I’d recommend reading 5 before this. While the episodes are just edited versions of our hijinks during actual game sessions and largely in the style of scripts, this is a prose short story I wrote about my own character because the idea screamed to be written.
Warnings for, as per heckin’ usual these days, a suicidal character. And also a lot of murder. And some parental issues.
The ground was steadily approaching, a faint shimmer below him as his night vision struggled to pick up something other than the walls speeding past. Taveau estimated he was about ten meters above when he switched on his jetpack, trailing a fiery blast down the face of the rock wall for a few fractions of a second before he switched it off, dropping down gently in darkness to the stone pavement of the courtyard. The kickback had slowed his descent so that he made almost no sound, and his night vision showed him two guards, staring blankly upwards towards where the trail of fire had appeared. The first one was still staring as Taveau’s vibroblade ripped into skin just below the tilted-back helmet. The second had time to hear the first choking on his blood, turn towards the sound and scream as Taveau crashed into him, knocking the half-raised blaster aside and silencing him with another flick of the wrist. He fell, and Taveau paused to check that both guards were properly dead. They were, and he could see the rest of the courtyard from where he was standing: it was empty, no further resistance between him and the simple metal door set into the opposite wall.
Somewhere above was the sky, so dark with clouds that it was hard to see where the walls ended and the sky began. The fortress had lights, but they had flickered out a few moments before he’d started his descent down the wall, thanks to interference that the Vaal’ik family would hopefully attribute to the storm. The fortress was built into a natural crevice in the rock, and so the walls of the courtyard were unevenly shaped. It was, in fact, just a wider area in a snaky crevice running through perhaps half a kilometer of stone before it reached open ground. The steep, narrow passageway was lined with armored droid lookouts. It was well-defended, assuming, of course, that an assault was coming from that direction. Somehow no one ever expected trouble to come from above.
Taveau reached for the control panel on the wall and brought the siege gate up with a grinding crunch. Now there was about half a meter of solid alloy between him and the droid lookouts: another precaution which would have been useful, had an assault been coming from that direction.
“Courtyard is clear,” he said, and heard a scratchy confirmation over comms.
Immediately after he’d said it he heard something thump down behind him. The sound was followed, so quickly that he didn’t have time to turn, with the screech of a blaster rifle discharging into his back at point-blank range. He spun, striking at his assailant’s arms, and the rifle clattered to the ground: they had an amateur’s grip. They snatched for something at their belt and he saw them, him, briefly, close enough to touch: a young male human, about his own age; with a patterned poncho draped from his upper arms, the cowl hiding his face almost to the eyes, which were wide and sparkling in the night.
The bolt from Taveau’s blaster pistol caught him under the chin and exited at the top of his skull, spattering brain matter against the alloy of the seige gate. He dropped silently against Taveau’s boots, and Taveau stepped away from the limp weight, moving his torso carefully. He’d bruised his ribs, and it felt like he might have a few burns from the bolt spattering below the chestplate, but he’d be alright. Looking up, he saw something he hadn’t seen before: narrow handholds cut into the rock, leading up to a natural indentation of some sort. Of course, the kid had been hiding up there. Stupid. He’d made exactly the same mistake the guards had made.
“Taveau. We heard blasters. Report.”
“Ah, kriff—I was wrong, courtyard wasn’t clear. It is now. Some kid was hiding up in a cave in the rock and jumped down on me.”
“You’re certain it’s clear now?”
“Unless there are more of them up there.”
“Check it. We’re heading down now.”
“Copy that.”
He started up the wall, hearing first one, then two, three, four jetpacks firing somewhere to his left.
He paused, getting his balance, just below the level of the opening in the rock, then came up over the edge blaster first. He was facing a smooth wall, close enough to touch if he leaned forwards. There was nothing else in the space but a half-empty bottle of some kind of fizzy and a dusty blanket.
“This is Taveau, we’re clear in front.”
“Copy. Stay outside and guard the door.”
“Copy.”
By leaning forward a little, he could see the whole courtyard. He watched the rest of his team blow the hinges off the door and charge inside, disappearing into a dark passageway. The lights still hadn’t come back on. They must have done a good job.
Taveau settled into a comfortable crouch, relaxed but ready to move if necessary. The hollow made an excellent lookout point.
He wondered what the kid had been doing up here. Did he not trust the guards to stay awake on their own? Or was he friends with them? Did he just enjoy sitting up here? Maybe some combination.
A couple minutes passed. Taveau wondered what flavor the half-finished fizzy was. He shouldn’t risk taking his helmet off in the middle of enemy territory, but there wasn’t much going on.
He failed to listen to his wiser voice, and removed his helmet with a quiet hiss of decompressing air. He looked up into darkness, now unbroken by the green shimmer of night vision; the only sound a tired whisper of wind over rock and the now-distant comms chatter from his helmet. A breath of the cool night breeze ran its fingers through his hair and brushed his cheeks. He breathed it in, tasting the bitter-salt smoke of the explosives in the air, and lifted the bottle to his lips.
It was a flavor he couldn’t identify—some kind of fruit. He liked it. He took another drink, and just then he heard the siege gate start to move.
It took him a few precious seconds to set the bottle down and jam his helmet back on. Night vision eclipsed the yellowish glare that had appeared in his peripheral vision, and he saw the shapes of four humans with a lantern, followed by the three droid lookouts from the path. They had opened the gate from the other side. Apparently they had an override. And a secret exit. But why had they come back here? Were they trying to launch a counterattack?
He updated the rest of the team in a low voice, without moving. The newcomers didn’t appear to have noticed him yet.
“Davi!”
It was the tall man in the front. It was difficult from this angle, but Taveau thought he could identify him as Vaal’ik senior. Exactly the man they’d come to kill. He didn’t seem to be concerned with caution, at any rate.
There was a sudden blast from the dark entryway of the fortress. Taveau heard it twice, crackling over comms and thudding through the air around him, followed by swearing from his teammates. It sounded like they’d been ambushed by another party of droids. Vaal’ik had a small army, it would seem.
“Davi!” the man shouted again, and darted forward into the courtyard, dropping to his knees beside the dead kid. One of the humans shouted for him to come back, and he ignored them, gently lifting the limp body into his lap. “Davi, boy, it’s OK, I’m right here.”
Taveau felt strangely sickened. Was the man insane? Could he not see that the kid was missing the back of his skull?
“Sir!” One of the humans shouted, noticing Taveau. Instantly six blasters were aimed up at him. Taveau silently adjusted his position so they could more clearly see his own blaster, pointed at the man directly below him. Vaal’ik was still focused on the kid and appeared to be feeling for a pulse. Then, slowly, he realized the tense silence of his allies, and looked up at Taveau.
“You.” he said, quietly.
Taveau didn’t see any reason to respond.
The man put the body down—Taveau was surprised at the relief he felt—and stood, never taking his eyes off Taveau.
“Get down here.”
“Why?” said Taveau, and the man froze for a moment, face changed at the sound of his voice. He got over it quickly, whatever it was that had bothered him.
Perhaps he’d had exactly this discussion with the kid not long before.
“Come down here and fight me.”
“With what?”
He drew and activated a force pike, the tip sparking against the night, emitting a low hum of sonic power.
“You know I have a gun, right?” said Taveau with some humor. He’d probably die as soon as he shot Vaal’ik, but Vaal’ik should know he wasn’t afraid. He’d known that he might die tonight when he left. If not tonight, maybe tomorrow.
“Are you that much of a coward?” prodded Vaal’ik.
Taveau shrugged the shoulder of his off hand, careful not to let it affect his aim.
“Yeah, probably.” He didn’t bother pointing out that, if he did shoot Vaal’ik, one against six was hardly fair stakes either.
“Sir?” said one of Vaal’ik’s allies, and he gestured impatiently at them.
“Stand down. Let me fight him.”
“Sir, this is madness, we need to get out of here.”
“I said stand down. You.” he pointed the force pike at Taveau. “Fight me.”
Taveau sighed, holstered his blaster and drew his vibroblades.
“Step back.”
He could never decide, later, why he came down. Maybe it was just instinct, telling him that he’d be less of a target on the ground, especially if he could get Vaal’ik between him and the others. Maybe it was a sick sense of pity, or curiosity.
He dropped lightly to the stone pavement of the courtyard and dodged an overhead swipe from the force pike. It parted the air with an audible whirr. A couple solid hits from it would break through even this armor. The man was panting, wide-eyed, teeth bared like a rabid animal, but he fought with an intense focus. Taveau stayed on the defense, waiting for him to overextend, but even in his rage Vaal’ik was smarter than that.
Whatever emotion was sustaining him, Taveau didn’t have it; finally he misinterpreted, tried to dodge in the wrong direction and then to correct and, failing to do either in time, caught the blow directly across his thigh plate, and he heard something snap. But the impact had slowed Vaal’ik for a moment; he seemed almost surprised the hit had landed, and Taveau took the opportunity to close the distance between them while Vaal’ik was struggling to control the larger weapon. Vaal’ik dodged, but not quickly enough to completely escape a slash from Taveau’s vibroblade which opened the side of his throat. Blood spattered quickly onto his robes, but it wasn’t enough to stop him moving, and Taveau had to block another strike from the force pike with his arm. Again that snapping sound, and his arm went numb, but he grabbed Vaalik’s wrist with his other hand and spun so that he was holding Vaal’ik’s weapon arm in front of him, punching his elbow into Vaal’ik’s stomach. Blood spattered from over his shoulder. He lashed out again with his numbed arm and opened a wound on Vaal’ik’s arm; after another cut the force pike dropped from his hand and Taveau spun again, pulling Vaal’ik between him and his six allies, and held him in place with an arm around his waist. Two of the humans shot at him, but the others hesitated. Of the two shots fired, one hit just above the visor on his helmet and one went wide.
Then there was silence.
Taveau realized that he was breathing, and his heart was racing. He counted the bodies with his still-hot blaster. One of the droids was still sparking and fizzling angrily. He steadied his hand and put it down for good with a direct shot to the eye. Then he released Vaal’ik.
The man fell to his hands and knees, leaving a hot trail of blood down the front of Taveau’s chestplate. He still wasn’t quite dead. Taveau aimed for his head. He was moving, but not for the force pike, or any of the weapons scattered around. He was moving towards the body of the kid in the poncho, who was almost within reach.
“Why’d you do it?” asked Taveau suddenly, startling himself a little. He didn’t expect an answer. But it was a good question. Their plan had obviously worked; Taveau’s teammates were still trapped inside. The man and his allies could have been off the planet by now. Perhaps some of them were, he was pretty sure there had been more family than this. But these ones had come back.
Vaal’ik dragged himself towards the body, visibly fighting to stay conscious, and gripped the boy’s sleeve with slick fingers. A tremor shook his body. He kept himself propped up on his arms long enough for two breaths to lift his back, then all at once he collapsed, landing with his head pillowed on the boy’s stomach. A silent spring of blood began to spread on the ground beneath him.
Taveau kept the blaster raised for a few moments, then slowly lowered it. He walked closer—stopping, as the muscles seized in his leg, to examine his wounds; the plates of his armor had warped and the gauntlet had cracked, but he wasn’t bleeding, though he didn’t think he’d be able to walk without pain for a while. Carefully he limped closer. Yes, they were both dead. Why did it make him feel so strange? And why did he keep looking at them?
He remembered a river from the mountains, bitingly cold and foaming with the released energy of long-silent snow. He remembered a force too great to fight pushing him down into that whiteness, until there was no sense of light or direction, only the cold rush of the river, and he felt that he’d grown as cold and blinded as it was. Then somehow he woke to his father slapping him viciously in the face. He struggled up, choked, and twisted to vomit up cold water. Slowly the roar of the river faded from his body and he could hear other sounds. Birdsong. His own gasping breaths.
“—can’t believe you DI’KUT I SAID be careful around the river you could have been KILLED or’dinii are you BRAIN DEAD do you HAVE two brain cells to rub together, laandur, ni'duraa—” his father trailed off into increasingly colorful swears as Taveau lay on his stomach shivering and trying to force up the last traces of water from his burning lungs. His cheek stung. His father seized him by the back of his light training breastplate, hauled him up to his knees and shook him. “That was stupid. I expect you to do better in the future.”
“..Uh...hhhuh..”
“Excuse me, did you say something?”
“Yes sir.”
His father slapped him across the shoulders, stood, and disappeared into the trees. Taveau, who’d been preoccupied until now, barely saw him at all; turning to look after him he saw him glittering in the light as if he’d been dipped in jewels, just before he passed into the shadows.
“On your feet, ad.”
He was gone, and Taveau let himself sag.
He’d called him ad. Son. Of course, he’d called him a lot of other things too, so he didn’t put much store by it. Still, it wasn’t a term he heard often, and it stuck in his mind. It was unusual. It didn’t fit. Neither did the sparkle he’d seen. His father had been wet, and there was a trail of water across the rocks leading from Taveau’s boots to the edge of the river, and Taveau knew that he hadn’t pulled himself out. But he was surpised his father would step in after he’d disgraced himself with such a foolish mistake. And yet, he had been there. Taveau hadn’t even known that he was watching him. It made him uncomfortable.
The roar of the river continued, and he forced himself up just to get away from it. His legs trembled under him. He dragged himself back to the camoflaged lean-to he’d constructed and collapsed there, too tired to hunt. Foraging was one of the things he could let slide in survival training: his father would check the construction of his shelter, the condition of his armor and weapons; food wasn’t as much of an issue, as long as he remained strong enough to move around in his armor.
He saw the texture of the branches in front of him moving slowly, as if he was watching them through waves. He stared at them for what felt like a long time until suddenly taken by sleep.
It wasn’t entirely by accident that he’d fallen into the river, though it hadn’t been intentional either. Sometimes he walked on the very edge of a precipice for reasons he couldn’t name to himself. Maybe he hoped the proximity to death would spark a zest for life in him. Maybe he hoped he would fall. That day, a rock had been loose and he had. It had been an accident that he fell. It was not an accident that he was standing on the edge. It was not an accident that, a few years later, he walked in front of an active blaster cannon rather than behind, an incident that solidified his reputation in Death Watch as a complete dumbshit. And yet he’d lived, and still he’d lived, and tonight he was inexplicably the only one standing in the courtyard, and he thought maybe the strange feeling was a realization that he was closer than he’d ever been to something he couldn’t understand. Something that showed itself in rage and grief and sometimes inexplicable actions.
His head hurt. He remembered that he’d been shot and took off his helmet. There was a deep charred dent in the brow, and a crack in the supposedly unbreakable material of the visor. He carefully reached up and brushed his fingers across his forehead. Nothing from the blast, not even a bruise. Unlike his other injuries. What was the setting on that force pike? The feeling was returning to his left hand, but only slowly. He flexed the arm under the shattered gauntlet and wiggled his fingers. Nothing seemed broken.
The blood was still pooling under the man, but slowly. A lot of it had been soaked up in the folds of the boy’s poncho. Taveau suddenly wanted to kneel down and touch them, and he wasn’t sure why. Instead he turned and walked further into the courtyard. The others met him at the door. One of them swatted at him with a hacked-off droid arm. He batted it away irritably.
“You’re still alive.”
“So are you! What happened out here?”
Taveau lifted his helmet, displaying the blast mark, then gestured with it behind him at the bodies. One of his teammates whooped, streaking off to examine the spoils.
“Taveau, seven! I don’t believe this. How’d you do it?”
“The old man let me use him as a shield.”
He laughed, “Classic.”
Taveau didn’t remember the trip back. His next memory was of sitting in the return ship, running a finger up and down the crack in his gauntlet, staring at nothing.
.
.
A/N: Title is a reference to a song that I found because @silverskye13 recced it, which is Bottom of the River by Delta Rae.
Taveau and Davi are similar names, especially if you consider that I got “Taveau” by changing one letter of the name Daveau, which means “of David”, and Davi is yet another form of the name David.
So in the Flannery O’Connor seminar I took last semester, we’d often discuss how, in her stories, characters would be presented with a “moment of grace” which they could either accept or reject.
Taveau rejected this one, but it wasn’t a full rejection. And as long as you’re alive you get more chances.
I’m not sure how well I conveyed all that’s going on here, so I’d appreciate feedback. At the time of this story, Taveau’s almost convinced himself that he’s alright with this, because he doesn’t think he has any other choice. Almost, but not quite. But he’s definitely not at the stage of actual rebellion yet. No, that comes later. It develops slowly. ....it is also helped by the fact that he got frickin betrayed n left to die by his asshole murder bros, like, that was definitely the last straw, but he was having doubts before that.
ANYWAYS. feedback would be appreciated. also do you think this is worth posting on ao3 I don’t think anyone is likely to read it but it’s ~technically~ fanfiction
The “swallow your blood” thing that got mentioned in that taquitos mixup post earlier was something Taveau was taught in his childhood.
Something along the lines of “if there’s blood in your mouth you swallow it. Spitting it out is a sign of weakness. Don’t give your enemies that satisfaction. Also, that stuff belongs in your body, you keep it there. Can’t have you getting dehydrated in the middle of a battle.”
@unexpected-profundity and @timefire25 both commented telling me to go ahead and share the rest of the thing from this post?
Listen when I said it was 1. short and 2. mostly imagery I was telling the truth but HERE YOU GO!! It doesn’t actually get into The Thing(TM) that happened on Geonosis, it’s sort of follow-up; I do plan on explaining The Thing at some point but I’m not sure how, I might write something special? Anyways I’m flattered that you wanna see it, hope you enjoy :D
The dusty daytime colors of Geonosis’ stone formations had darkened to a velvet black against the red glow of the sky. The air had the smell he’d grown used to over the past days—dust, dryness, with a hint of something bitter, but bracing like ozone. He hoped the atmosphere here wasn’t poisonous to humans over long periods of time. This helmet didn’t have an air filter. It was nothing, in fact, but the bare basic shell; one of the low-tech pieces that were passed around younger warriors back at home, eternal hand-me-downs subjected to the worst duty, hunting and spelunking, the simple metal plates used to cook in at the end of the day. At first it had felt wrong—the weight fell in the wrong places, the plates didn’t cover enough of him and the helmet’s visor was silent and blank, no information from the HUD and no distant comms chatter; but now, after a few days wearing it, it felt like home.
The wind was rising as the air cooled for night. Grains of sand clicked against his visor, and the ends of his poncho billowed behind him. Below him in the darkness, the lights of the spaceport appeared to shimmer and dance behind curtains of whipped-up sand. He knelt for a moment, steadying himself in the wind, and checked his gear with his hands. It was all there. He hadn’t really expected otherwise, but it calmed him to feel that it was all in place. He wrapped his fist around the hilt of his vibrodagger. It had come through a lot with him, and now they were here. He tested the consistency of the sand, digging his fingers into it, then stood, letting the sand fall from him. It was growing rapidly darker, and the cold seeped through his armor. He folded his poncho close to him and started downhill.
