When he swallows, it's to keep himself steady. Let vagal-centered sensations remind his body that it still thrives, still lingers. Ghostlike, perhaps, and nearly ready to sink sink sink into the ground, into a grave that had been dug for him years ago.
"That's not surprising."
Thexan's smile is too tired to be sad, to be anything aside from what it says it is. No Jedi-borne philosophy or cyclical mantra is quite enough a vivisection. A bit too weak to pull the slivers out of his cells, the building blocks painted in a darkness so ancient that it should have rotted long ago.
He hates immortality so thoroughly, even when it's never graced him.
Rugged. Gruff. Intimidating. And yet, breathtakingly handsome. Silvery salt and pepper hair and dark eyes like gunmetal glinting between the leaves of foliage as it takes aim at a target. Skin weathered finely by age and harrowing experiences, wrinkles and scars tell stories of the many battles he's fought- and won. Freckles and sunspots form constellations that intertwine is cosmic patterns across a body built for power, speed, and resilience. Despite his conventional beauty and the charm of his appearance, he is far from inviting. With a resting face more akin to the hunting stare of a wolf, a stature that easily towers over most, and a frame built broadly to dissuade any would-be challengers to his prowess, he is meant to be admired from afar- assuming he wishes to be seen at all. Lucas may not be the perfect specimen that Ort-Meyer was aiming for. But he is still nothing short of a masterful and terrifying assassin.
WHAT HE SMELLS LIKE:
The burn of gunpowder and metal stings the nostrils. Yet it is not entirely unpleasant. Not when the notes are so muted; tangled and nestled deep within the fibers of his jacket where smoky bourbon and cool aftershave blanket the harsher scents with something slightly more palatable. Mingling with the aromatic spice of dusty sand and fresh petrichor collected on him like dew from his travels, his scent is not for everyone. But to the few who might be able to understand him- connect with him even- it may well be the most soothing scent in the world.
WHAT HE SOUNDS LIKE:
Not the crack of the gunshot, but the roaring echo that follows. The rumble of distant thunder that tails silent lightning before a disastrous storm. The growl of a predator stalking closer and closer to its prey, ready to pounce before it will ever be seen coming. A voice pleasantly deep and spoken with an accent that, on the surface, is British. His Romanian heritage betrays him at times though- the slip of the wolf's paw over the smallest branch, cracking it in half. The only warning of danger his prey receives before he goes for the kill. His speaks low, almost soft. As though that will bring any comfort for when he strikes. For even the serpent's tongue sounded sweet as he lied.
WHAT HE FEELS LIKE:
A bed a little too big. A house for two inhabited by one. A silent garden in the middle of spring. On the surface, he seems like he could be so comforting. But on approach comes the realization that he walks with an aura of death. The chill up the spine when his gaze finds its mark. The deep, primordial urge to turn and run when he parts his lips to reveal gleaming white canines poised to sink into flesh with cold metal. It feels as though that, in another life, Lucas could be someone wonderful. Someone who brings peace, and safety, and love, and kindness in his smile and in his words and in his shape. But in this life, he feels every bit like the monster he was always meant to be. And everyone can see it.
Icarus had been wanting to try something new with Shi'al since he had found out that they were soulmates. He didn't know that this would be a good idea but he had the courage to finally put it into action. Icarus put her over his knee and then pulled up her skirt, running his hand over her ass with a contented hum. He then looked at the back of her head "You've been a bad girl and now i'm going to have to punish you so i need you to tell me what you did wrong and then count for me how many times i swat you on your ass."
“ Due to personal reasons I will be named an enemy of the state. ”
"yeah, i don't think that's a good thing." he says, smile erupting across his face as he listens to Shi'al's words. it amuses him- he couldn't imagine her being an enemy of the state. well, then again, she is part of the rebellion, so he supposes that does sort of make her an enemy of the state. he blinks owlishly at her, grin growing. "mind if i join you ? i think i'd also like to be an enemy of the state." well, he does have the biggest bounty on his head currently . . . he definitely already has that title, all thanks to being part of the rebellion and being the son of the one running the empire. such fun times. he loves it here.
Seril has been away from Coruscant for too long. She's missed it, but she found herself missing her home planet more, and had taken the opportunity to return to Naboo at the request of the queen.
Shi'al's sudden presence in the Lake Country is a surprise, and her words even more so. Seril takes a step closer to her. "Is that why you came here?"
"Oh, good. You're still here!" His voice lifts to an uncomfortable pitch, a certain nervousness he hadn't felt in years threatening to overtake him. Between all the worry and war, it seems he's forgotten how to be a Jedi. It had been a lifetime ago that he stood before the council and plead, threatened, and fought for Anakin to be at his side, barely out of padawanship himself. And now as a seasoned Master of his own right, he's struggling for the words for a question he never thought he would ask. At first because he hadn't thought he would survive to see Anakin knighted, then he'd thought he wouldn't live to see the end of the war, and his latest overcome fear that the counsel would not want him near a youngling again, not after his failures to see the darkness enveloping his own for nearly a decade. But they had asked—not only the council—but Master Yoda himself seemed quite pleased with the thought of Obi-Wan taking Shi'al as his student. There was a balance to it, he supposed, but the thought didn't make it any the less frightening. "The council met earlier to discuss your further training here and we all agreed there is not anymore you can learn as an initiate.
"We believe you are ready for the next step, to be a padawan learner and if you want . . . my padawan." There's a pause. He doesn't breathe before speaking again. "You do not have to answer right away, of course, I will give you time to think."
