Yol Lavaas Oblaan's Story

"This city is a monster..." Yol grumbled to himself, his young voice like hot coals on steel, his massive claw rubbing his chin. It was his first time here. First time off of his home planet. Away from his people, his tribe, his Doctrine, and his Song. It was a whole new experience, however the crimson scaled dragonkin expected it all to be much more overwhelming. However...it was to be expected. This place was inefficient. Decedent. Yol could smell the greed and lust in the air, causing his nose slits to almost seal themselves in protest.

The Pilgrim's garb is what he wore. Very basic white, tan, and grey clothing, with mock leather armor. His massive blade was hidden in an impossibly large dufflebag by his side. His almost eight foot frame caused most people to just instinctively avoid the 'giant's' stride. He did his best to ignore their stares. Everything was so...new.

"...You are the first to approach me. This would lead one to believe you possess the courage of the Fire Song. I do not know if this is the case, urti." It was his people's word for a non-aggressive stranger. He did not slow his ride. Yol had to find lodgings and make homage to the Song before the sun began to set. Such was his people's way.

"Since words flow through you like the rivers of old, perhaps you can direct me to a place of food, beverage, company, and rest?"

He did not know what a shower was. He assumed, since singing was involved, it was some sort of holy or religious vessel of commune. "Urti means unknown person of kind intentions. A benign stranger, of sorts. It is what the People of the Song call those we have not met, but bear us no ill will."

The young human seemed excitable, though this did not bother Yol. He himself, amongst his people, would be considered outlandish and peppy. Yet here, he probably came off as stoic as rock. "Does this Canti's serve the burning water? I am of age and have grown fond of the Blissful Stupor it can induce."

...Even with his stride, this Spaceport was massive. And Yol had no idea where he was going...

"You are an energetic sprite. I find that somewhat enjoyable, young one." He did his best to smile, but Yol's smile was nothing more than a slightly upward tilting grimace. "And one supposes that he could accomplish all these things." Such a short name, it led the dragon to assume that it was not the humans full Birth Title. "This one's self is Yol Lavaas Oblaan." He had no idea what he meant by money, and frankly, it was hard for the dragon to keep up with Robin's lightning quick banter. Though, as before, he was enjoying it.

"What..do your people use for currency?"

"Gems this one has, though calling them rare is a stretch. They are merely worth something to my people, and traders who visit the planet, so I believed they would do well here, for bartering and such." He would have to get used to just being referred to as Yol. It was odd for him. Normally, he was called by his full title, then his Doctrine title. However, this culture was already obviously different from his own.

"Can you lead me to this...exchange? I feel this may be an easier course of action than lugging a bag full of stones across an entire city?" Yes...This world was so strange to him.

Darth Xalgan waited in the spaceport. He paced across the hangar like a prowling tiger, steel boots clanging menacingly on the metal grates. A dark cape flowed behind him and flourished as he turned directions.

“Incompetent Terrans…” the Sith hissed through his respirator.

“Cheer up, my lord.” Xalgan’s twi’lek companion replied. “I’m sure the ship will be all fixed up before too long.”

Vette watched Xalgan stew in his irritation. She placed her hands on her hips, fingers drumming on the hilts of her blasters, and kept an eye on the hangar door. Though she trusted his instincts, it wouldn’t do for a threat to sneak up on them while he was distracted.

“We can hardly spare more time here than we already have, Vette.” Xalgan growled, dark side energy churning around him. “We must return to Imperial space with all speed. I have been gone from my station for far too long.”

Admiral Steele was making his way through the spaceport, a very stern look about on his face, as he was flanked on either side by Aschen marines, each wearing their signature black BDU uniforms, with armored gear worn over them.

"Sir, your Condor will be arriving, shortly to take you back to your ship." The Marine sergeant reported. "Command has stared that it is of utmost importance that you return to Imperial space with all due haste." The Sergeant added, as the group rounded a corner.

Rythmic footfalls filled the hangar that Darth Xalgan was pacing about in. The doors opened up in the opposite side of the large bay, and a formation of six soldiers, in clearly identifiable Aschen uniforms could be seen. They clasped their disruptor rifles tightly, as they maintained their formation around a stern looking man, in a dark grey, and blue uniform.

They stopped about a hundred feet away, near an empty landing pad. Each Marine took in the sights all around them, and they fanned out around various crates, and equipment to take defensible positions in the event of a fight. Each soldier moved with the discipline that betrayed years of training, while the older man stared out the hangar into the skyline before him, then he checked his watch.

Shrknar glanced over his shoulder at the self-important Admiral Steele, who was just across the promenade. His nostril slits flared open, accompanied by a hissing exhalation of machine-assisted breath. The denizens of this world were... strange.

He had other things to attend to, however. Not to be dissuaded from his mission, he set out for Gambit's Bar to meet with his Terran contact.

"We've got company, my lord." Vette said, hand resting on her blaster and eyes trained on the soldiers.

"Calm yourself, Vette." Xalgan hissed, respirator sighing. "They're only Aschen, and if they were looking for a fight... they would have brought more men."

The twi'lek nodded, but she remained vigilant. Xalgan likewise ceased his mad pacing, straightened his back, and calmed his breath. Control. He thought. I am a Sith, not a wild animal. Strength, yet peace. Power, yet wisdom.

Xalgan watched the aschen soldiers through the dark lenses of his helmet. Though he doubted any malice on their part, he had heard the rumors, and so he opened himself to the ebb and flow in the Force to read their intentions. He was confident he could wipe out the entire unit in the space of six seconds if he needed to, but he would not be caught unawares.

Senseless violence was also unbecoming of a Darth.

The Admiral kept his eyes on his surroundings, and his Marines followed suit. Several eyes were on the Twi’ilek, and several shrill whines emanated from the Aschen group, as thumbs flicked across power switches, and several holographic sights, that weren’t there previously had flickered to life. Several Aschen soldiers powered their disruptor rifles, and Admiral Steele quickly took notice.

“Sergeant.” Steele said calmly. “We’re not here for a firefight.”

The Marine sergeant nodded, but cast his second nod in the direction of the Darth and his accomplice.

“They’re watching us, the Xeno has her hand on her weapon.” The Marine whispered.

Their intent was clouded by their hatred of this place, their Xenophobia, but nothing malevolent surfaced, the Admiral kept his own thoughts closely guarded, but he seemed to be waiting for something.

Darth Xalgan sneered beneath his helmet.

"Vette..." He said, loud enough for the marines to hear him. "I do believe that these aschen are afraid of you. How quaint. I can feel their hate... their disdain. They would be wise to keep their guards up. Few have seen a Darth firsthand and lived to tell the tale. I am not without mercy, however, and I find the wasted lives of perfectly good soldiers to be distasteful."

"Gee..." Vette rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "How kind of you. You are, by far, the nicest evil guy I know."

The gathered Aschen soldiers watched Darth Xalgan closely, his words did not fall on deaf ears, though, and more than one Marine had their eyes affixed to him.

The Marine sergeant closest to Steele slowly leaned over, and began to whisper.

"Et Xeno contumeliam nobis."

"Ego animadvertit" Steele replied.

He looked back out to the landing pad, as the shrill whine of an Aschen Empire Condor VTOL troop transport began to fill the inside, a moment later, the angular, imposing form of the Aschen transport craft could be seen as it carefully maneuvered into the hangar bay, touching down delicately on the landing pad.

Steam hissed from release vents near the landing gear, and the rear deployment ramp opened as the engines began to die down.

Two Adepts of war emerged, clad in a deep black armor, towering at nearly ten feet in height. Their boots made a dull thuink against the metal plates of the landing pad, and they cradled their weapons, twenty-two millimeter heavy magnetron rifles, an Aschen designed coilgun designed to accelerate a hyper-dense projectile at high velocities.

Steele simply cast a sidelong glance at Xalgan, and spoke to his sergeant loud enough to hear.

"We have nothing to fear, Sergeant, these... Sith would be foolish to challenge us." Steele said, huffing. "Afterall, the last Sith lord to challenge the might of the Aschen Empire paid for it dearly, as we massacred her armies, and set fire to her planets."

"Ad Victoriam." The Adept of war called out, saluting Steele briskly.

"Afterall, our military might is without equal. Have you seen a Star Destroyer go up against a Reverence, Sergeant? It was a... short battle." Steele added, starting towards the ramp.

In a fitting moment of dramatic irony, another ship pulled into the hangar and touched down several meters from Darth Xalgan. A Fury-class Interceptor lowered its ramp, and a dark-clad robed figure stepped out onto the hangar. A fully enclosed helmet, much like a fencing mask, and a crimson hood shrouded their face.

"It is natural for the predator to quell the weakest of the flock." Xalgan replied as the figure approached him. "And so the herd is made stronger for it. The wolves should be wary, however, of challenging the alpha. They have ascended to their station for a reason, whether through guile or strength, and so would be a more... fitting adversary."

"Master," the figure knelt - a woman by her voice. "Your ship has been repaired and refueled. Are these people troubling you? Do you require me to dispose of them?"

"No, Lady Wilsaam." Xalgan placed a hand on her shoulder. "That will not be necessary. Come, let us return to the Gravestone. I am sure the rest of the Alliance must be fraught with worry over my absence."

Chondra Balencio had enough of this planet, and longed for the quiet solace of home. Now to begin the journey back. The hem of her white robes brushed the ground as she maneuvered through security and towards the terminal where the shuttle waited. Anyone short enough would notice her feet didn't touch the ground, but it wasn't enough to draw an unusual amount of attention to her. If there was one thing she learned here, it was to expect the unexpected. Always.

The wasn't going far, but it was the fastest and safest way to start going home. What was it called again? She stopped in front of a display and read down the lines. Ah, yes, there it is:

The Pharos - 30 MINUTES TO DEPARTURE

THE PHAROS - 20 MINUTES TO DEPARTURE - DESTINATION: BLUE HEAVEN

A voice sounded throughout Wing City Spaceport, "THE PHAROS - 10 MINUTES TO DEPARTURE - FINAL NOTICE TO BOARD"

Irahel arrived from a small flash of light near the terminal for The Pharos. It took her a moment to get her bearings right, but sure enough she knew where she was. Irahel swore under her breath for a solid minute before marching down the terminal towards The Pharos.

After all she had done to get away from this planet, away from her old Master, only to wind up right back here?
No. Nope. Nah. Time to leave.

The Rocketeer stands in the spaceport, wishing he had a ship, then shakes his head. He needs to get onto a ship. There's no chance of him getting one.

James Ward climbs out of his ship's cockpit, which he calls the Thunderbird IV. He had arrived with a package, some computer parts or something like that, and he had heard of a potential employer he was going to try to meet up with. He didn't know the precise details, but he really just needed the money so he could find another job. And then he could use the money from that one to get another one. And another one after that. It was a slightly boring life, but the thrill of the task is usually what payed off. He surveys his surroundings, and then reaches back into his ship and removes his bag, a sort of satchel. Inside it are the parts he's delivering, and the person he's delivering it to might have a job for him. He just hopes it's not going to be too much trouble.

He looks around, trying to see if the person is here.

Xavier sits by himself in the main spaceport lobby, keeping a keen eye on everyone coming through. He wears his green hoodie over his pale face despite it being past dusk, and has his backpack on his lap. The blue lights against the steel structure complemented the coming night, and a nice change from how drastically different the night appeared in the woods. Needless to say, Xavier was ecstatic to have his day out of the Detente. Well fed, too.

He knows through Terra's dark web that he is looking for 'The Courier', but an extensive deep dive through several personal firewalls across the galaxy told Xavier the man's relative age and his first name. James. He had seemed to be dependable enough, and his interactions were admittedly difficult to trace (perhaps because of a lack of experience) which Xavier appreciated. Not as if anyone would have an interest in this transaction, it was harmless enough. It was an idea Xavier had that would require a certain amount of elusiveness.

Immediately Xavier saw the one who would be his 'Courier'. He was wearing a trenchcoat, a fashion choice Xavier had once trialled with the Detente to look more menacing. It was a week of ritual bullying before he decided to return to his own dependable attire. He knew James would be looking for him, which Xavier had made difficult by not revealing any aspect of himself. He did, however, explain in great detail the times and places for the Courier to be to pick up the package and exactly where and when he should be to drop it off. The sum of his reward outvalued the ease of the request, a quarter paid upfront and the rest on delivery.

He produces a small disposable comms unit from the pocket in his hoodie. A device mass produced for business firms, Xavier had bought a bulk pack of 50 the majority of which remained in its box at home. He had tried suggesting the Detente use them, but as with most of his suggestions they had been ignored. No longer. A message is sent to The Courier's own communicator.

"GREEN HOODIE. BACKPACK. BY THE CURRENCY EXCHANGE. - X"

James Ward looks down at his wrist as his Comms gives him a notification. GREEN HOODIE. BACKPACK. BY THE CURRENCY EXCHANGE. -X.X, as in his employer, which he didn't know much about. He's suspicious of it at first, but he isn't one to question his employer's abilities. So he throws his satchel over his shoulder, looks around, and then closes up his ship. He starts to walk towards the currency exchange, and, seeing the man in the description, approaches him and holds out the satchel to him, dropping it into his lap. "Here's your stuff."

“Excellent.” Xavier said.

His voice exuded a childish sort of obnoxiousness, although his intonation seemed to imply he was at least trying to be intimidating. It wouldn’t be so bad if this man wasn’t so physically imposing. Of course, he didn’t know about Xavier’s enhanced biology.

“I’ve sent the rest of your pay wirelessly, as promised. You’ve done well. Much faster than Escargo Express. Here’s hoping the manufacturers have done their job as well.”

Xavier examined the package for any damage or signs of scuffing. It looked well enough and had obviously not been opened. Xavier put the package into his backpack, mostly empty beside his laptop for this situation. He smiled.

“You didn’t tamper with the package. You don’t seem to be too concerned with legality. Tell me, James, how flexible is your morality when compared to your wallet?”

The term ‘wallet’ was hyperbolic, of course. Very few carried around physical currency. And mentioning his name? Well, that was Xavier showing off.