Wilting Away (Part 6)

On most occasions, the pair of them would have agreed that guard duty wasn't a particularly interesting prospect. Sure, at first it was something different, something horrifying. Staring into the proverbial abyss, what with all the screaming and pain. But eventually, much like most things, one became numb to it.

Such was the case for them. Staring straight ahead at the thick wooden door they were meant to guard, the pair were as stoic as was expected of them. The only times they moved was when they were relieved, or when they were set to escort a prisoner from one place to the other. For years the latter had been a rare occurrence. On account of how few prisoners ever got to leave any of the cells of Suramar City.

In more recent weeks, things had changed. People were brought and people left. New people, old people. People who were of species they could never begin to classify. Elves like themselves, of varying heights and skin pigments, were sometimes captured and brought here, as was the case with their current prisoner assignment. Others were things they couldn't begin to describe. Small green things, large blue ones. Wolf men and beings that looked like a cross between goats and something dredged up out of the ocean's depths.

Granted, most of that was heresay. Outside of the variation of elf, the pair had not been witness to any so exotic as that. Few people had, apparently. Mostly because few of them seemed to ever get captured. In fact, far as they had ever heard via a few grapevines, their current guest had practically turned herself in.

Which was only the start of the strangeness of their elven prisoner. Her aloof ways were obvious whenever they tried tossing in a meager meal, which they had given up on doing. By the third day they had discovered that all that they had given her had been piled up in the corner, and was already molding. The mold itself had seemed odd, given that while the dungeon was poorly lit and rather damp, it had only been a day or two.

Other oddities included the smell. Most of the time, the cell housing the elf was completely neutral in its odor. At other points, it reeked of rot as though a pile of corpses sat inside. On several separate occasions though, it had smelled specifically of some sort of flower. Likely a variation that they hadn't been exposed to for thousands of years.

Their current speculation was that it was linked to the woman's muttering. Muttering that never seemed to cease. At all hours of the day she would mutter to herself, incomprehensible phrases in several languages, none of which made sense, even when they could understand the words being said. There would be moments where she was almost reasonable. But as soon as it would leave, madness would creep back into her cell, and they might as well have bid farewell to their more sane guest.

For the first few days the pair of guards had suspected that she was trying to toy with them. Her short mutterings had loud outbursts which would prompt them to charge in to calm her down, yet by the time they arrived she had already switched so far down in tone that such outbursts seemed almost impossible to have ever occurred. On a few evening watches, they had caught her staring at them through the small barred window at the top of the door, blue eyes the only thing visible on her face due to the void of blackness that was her hood. Occasionally they heard whispering that when traced, seemed to originate from the cell, but never seemed verifiable in its source. The words would echo about the hall as though they could have come from any particular direction, but there was no other source for them.

Worst of all still was the effect the woman had on their superiors. The two ladies who continued to attend to the prisoner for regular bouts of interrogation and the rare bit of torture were certainly hitting their own set of walls and mysteries. They did their best to keep their conversations on the topic light when entering and departing the cell, and the guards knew full well that any particular investigation into this matter was the women's alone, yet that didn't stop them from catching snippets.

Details they could produce included things like how the woman seemed to be immune to most forms of pain. How any slices they made at her failed to really phase her. How the scars from such wounds would have disappeared by the time they returned the next day, seemingly healed. Yet the woman was obviously no priest. She was no wielder of any sort of the Light. So they could only assume that she had access to a more sinister power, and had yet to place just what the source was. Today's session had ended in much a similar way. With nothing more produced than frustration and anger.

It was this that the two discussed idly as they were relieved by their colleagues. As the other pair settled in their old spots, the two mused on the possibilities of what was bound to happen to the elf, whose mutterings they could still hear halfway down the hall. Given enough push, their two superiors were just as likely to simply kill the poor woman. But if she could barely be kept injured, what's to say she would die so easily?

Wilting Away (Part 5)

The plan they had been told about wasn't much of a plan. As they sat around the small table in one of the deeper hallways of Shal'aran, Redamous was dead certain of that. At best, it was more of a concept. 'Sneak into the city using a few hidden pathways'. It lacked the finer details that usually came with something most people would identify as a 'plan. Steps, contingencies, and every other sense of flesh was missing, and so they were left with nothing more than a skeleton. An entry point, and a vague idea of what to accomplish once they were there.

Which, to be fair, was more than he had had to work with often enough.

If he were to be completely honest, the Knights had wandered into most situations without much of a plan. Given that hadn't exactly worked out most of the time, but thus far no one had died (again). So sneaking into a massive city filled with addicted elves, all of whom were likely to either attack them on sight or report them under similar conditions, probably wasn't the worst thing he'd ever be part of.

So here he was, standing on a platform, while the particular addict that they happened to be cooperating with spoke with an associate of hers. Someone who had a decent enough idea of teleportation to get them from point A to point B with most of their organs in tact. Not that it mattered if their organs remained in tact, since they weren't really using them all that much. The elf though, well. Red didn't exactly want to wind up somewhere with someone whose innards had suddenly become their outtards.

Simmons obviously wasn't taking the idea as well as he was. He was fidgeting muttering about finding another way into the city, and all around irritable. Part of him had the idea of thumping him upside the head, in the hopes that he'd get knocked out long enough to shut up, but that wasn't really smart. Sprawling someone out on one of these teleportation pads probably screwed with something and, again, the lower their chances of failure, the better.

The other death knight managed to shut his gob once the elf finished up with her colleague, joining them on the bad. Red crossed his arms, raising a brow as he looked down at her, but she refused to really acknowledge him in one way or another. If he had to guess, she was just as antsy as Simmons was. It just so happened that her natural state was twitching.

Away from them the other elf, some hooded fellow who muttered to himself with every little action, was fiddling with something. Under his feet he could feel the pad warming up, and soon enough he expected some sort of portal to gobble them up, and spit them out somewhere else. If that's what happened, he never really noticed.

Instead, they just happened to be elsewhere. There was little fanfare, perhaps a slight whooshing noise, and a change in atmosphere, but beyond that, the change in location was just sudden. So sudden that it took him a solid minute to process just what exactly had happened. At least worth portals there was some sense of warning, it was like using a door in many ways. One just had to get used to the concept of how far a span of space they were moving. This was just wrong almost. Instant. Like watching a mage teleport.

Once he managed to regain whatever sense of composure he had, which wasn't much, he turned his head, making sure that he wasn't alone wherever they happened to end up. Thankfully, he wasn't. The elf was standing near a wall, staring at him, having not been phased too much, far as he could tell at least. The same couldn't be said for Simmons, who was in the midst of pressing his helmeted head against the wall, hands laying against it as well, groaning.

"I think I'm gonna be sick," he whined, bending his head closer to his chest to look at the worgen, "Can we still get sick?"

Redamous just shrugged. The thought had never really crossed his mind. Though if he had to pick an answer, he was certainly hoping that the answer was 'no', considering he had no interest in seeing the contents of Simmons's stomach.

Taking some time to take in their surroundings, he eventually turned to the elf, motioning about to the stone, arch-like walls that surrounded them, "Where the hell're we at?"

Xanthe turned, arms crossed, "We should be in the sewers of Suramar City."

"Oh," the worgen muttered, dreading the moment where they crossed into some space that was far less pleasant smelling, "Then we still need to go up."

"We still need to go up, and we still have a few things to acquire before we pass deeper in, yes."

With a sigh, Red wandered over to Simmons, resting a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to pry him away from the wall. With minimal resistance, the man nodded, hands dropping to his stomach. Taking in a few breaths, Simmons nodded, looking to their elven guide, "Well let's get a move on then."

Wilting Away (Part 4)

To say that Jeremy Simmons was a complete and utter wreck was an understatement. No lone thought that passed through his mind brought him a single inch of solace, nor did trying to cease thinking. The former just meant that he continued to consider and reconsider every single dark possibility of what had happened to Elena. Or, even worse, what would happen without Elena. She had never been far from his side for more than a few days since their resurrection, and it wasn't until now that he even came to realize that particular fact.

The latter manner of thinking simply made him feel empty. Hollow. Terrible.

Yet all he could do was sit there on the grass, under a tree he and the worgen had found, and stare at the giant elven city. They had hit a dead end in Elena's trail hours ago, though they still sat here, staring at that city. Far as they could determine, she had ran off into the city. Which meant any number of things.

It meant that they didn't have a very reliable method of tracking her, for one. Dirt and tracks were one thing, but eventually she would practically disappear into the city, for any number of reasons. Based on what Red had told him, the place was massive, and he was unfamiliar with the lay of the land. On top of that, they now had to deal with the much higher likelihood that she had gotten captured. Her being captured could mean that she was just dead now, or was being kept somewhere far out of their reach. He couldn't tell which one was worse.

Far worse even still was that tracking Wiltmend in the first place meant trying to process the thoughts of some scatterbrained elf. A scatterbrained elf, who had actually managed to maintain some composure more recently. She had seemed rather lucid when she requested that their next stop be in the Broken Isles. That first of all should have been a point where he just said no, but he had relented. So they had ended up in the middle of a war zone that he was unfamiliar with.

He turned to glance at Redamous, who for some time had been staring Suramar City down. As though he could just will the city to cough up the woman they sought. But despite any forceful glares, the city hadn't relented, and they were still sitting here with nothing. Letting out a sigh, he began turning his head to resume his own staring, before he saw the worgen's ear twitch. Red's nose made a similar motion, lifting into the air somewhat.

The beast slowly rose from the ground, and Simmons just watched. First he turned towards a nearby bush, staring at it for a long time. Simmons noted that unlike the way he stared at the city, this was with more of a wary nature. As though something was hiding in the bush, ready to pounce.

Oh.

When the fact that someone was probably skulking about in the bushes hit him, he was quickly on his feet, sword drawn, feeling like an idiot. Like an idiot for being in this situation to begin with, as well as the fact that he had been so zoned out as to allow someone to sneak up on them like this. Perhaps somewhat foolish for bringing a worgen who was weaponless, but that was lower on the list than anything else.

They stood there for a solid minute, staring at the bush. The flora didn't so much as rustle in that time. Eventually Red sighed, raising his voice, "Just get the hell out here already."

Simmons blinked at him, but kept his sword raised as there was finally motion. From the bush emerged a pale blue elf, who looked at the minimum half starved. He almost wagered that she was probably closer to three-quarters starved, or perhaps even four-fifths starved, but he wasn't that familiar with starved elves, so he settled on half.

The elf's face was mostly hidden behind a leather mask, which was attached to her leather hood, which appeared to be attached to the leather cloak that coated the rest of her figure, sickly thin limbs included. Her fingers twitched in a manner he almost found familiar, as though she were the near-dead version of the very same elf they sought. Except she wasn't. The first clue of which being that when she spoke, it was in clear common and made complete sense.

"You'll have to forgive me, Redamous," even her words shook, as though she were standing on a different planet entirely. One whose state was constant earthquakes. "I just saw you sitting there and didn't want to interrupt your...Longing stares."

Redamous frowned, looking the elf over. Simmons could only assume they knew each other, but given the worgen's usual disposition when ever they actually had the time to catch up he assumed that such a relationship was rather strenuous. Given, they hadn't caught up in years, but one's feelings towards elves rarely changed, especially among many members of the dead and damned.

Eventually the elf broke the silence, since Red refused to do so. She stepped forward somewhat, "I couldn't help but overhear, that you wished to enter the city."

It was Simmons's turn to frown, a gesture which he turned firmly at the worgen, seeking an explanation. He didn't really get one, with Redamous letting out little more than a grunt at the man. Turning back to the elf, Simmons nodded, "We do. We need to find a woman. Now."

The elf's twitching fingers curled around her chin as she considered the prospect, eyes narrowing as she processed it. Yet with little more detail than that, she nodded, "I wish to do the same. I have a plan for doing so, as well. We could," her voice hitched and shook, "Cooperate."

Once more Simmons turned to Red, waiting for some sort of input. Eventually the worgen relented, nodding slowly, gaze drifting between the human and the elf. Letting out another sigh, he looked back to the elf, "Then let's sit down an' hash this out quick, 'cause we sure as hell don't got long to work out the finer details."

Ghosts (Part 13)

Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was steady. She was knelt in front of the starship, meditating. Nearby, the others were talking about some nonsensical sport played for amusement. Despite her objections, they could not leave, because apparently Imperials would kill them all should they attempt to flee. When she stated that she would like to see them try, Gwynara was swiftly laughed down.

Apparently the Imperials were so advanced with their weapons that they could even strike such large crafts out of the sky.

Once they had decided that one 'team' was going to do particularly well this year, the men departed into the ship, leaving her with the woman. Nadia. Without opening her eyes, she could sense Nadia stand and approach her. Her arms were crossed, and there was a somewhat curious look on her face. Gwynara had to give her credit. She seemed to have a vague grasp on her people, enough knowledge to understand her methods somewhat. But this was still all foreign to her. Though honestly, magic seemed to be unfamiliar to anyone beyond Dathomir.

At one point someone had told her to not come near them with her "Force hocus pocus." Any further questions into the matter simply resulted in talk of a nonsense religion. But her abilities were not nonsense, they were not false. She had grown with them, learned from them. The things that could be achieved with them were incredible.

"Are you going to sit there all day?"

Letting out a sigh, Gwynara finally opened her eyes. Her head swiveled until she was looking at Nadia, "I am attempting to recover."

Nadia couldn't help but shake her head, "I suppose you've earned as much."

"A rest is the swiftest way to move onto another task with full strength," Gwynara said, taking in another long breath, "And perhaps the best way to celebrate victory."

A snort escaped Nadia's lips as she lowered herself to Gwynara's level, attempting to mimic her position. She took in a few short breaths in the same manner, "I feel as though I could celebrate victory in a few better ways."

Gwynara shook her head, "This is the easiest way to commune with the spirits. To thank them for their assistance."

The Imperial woman's lips pursed at that, "Ah, yes. Those spirits."

The Dathomirian nodded, "We must appreciate them for their help. For they assist us with their strength in blessing. At present I am trying to thank the spirit that you called for." Her eyes closed once more, as though to illustrate that point.

Coughing into her hand, Nadia shook her head. Gwynara frowned, one eye cracking open to stare at her with a piercing yellow eye. Wringing her hands, Nadia simply shrugged, "I don't believe there is any spirit to contact, Gwynara."

"Why." A semblance of venom was dripping from her voice.

"Well," Nadia frowned, shaking her head, "He's not dead."

A voice echoed across the hangar, prompting both of them to stand as fast as possible. In a flash both of them had drawn weapons, Nadia wielding a blaster, Gwynara a staff. The latter's eyes narrowed as they saw the quartet approaching. A uniformed man, their leader obviously, took the center, his blonde hair kept neatly under a gray cap. Behind him were three stormtroopers, their white armor stained with dust.

The man kept his voice raised as he repeated himself, even as he drew slowly closer, "He might as well be, Nadia."

The pale woman visibly stiffened, head slowly turning to stare at Nadia. She made note of the numerous beads of sweat that slowly dribbled down the woman's face, as well as how she visibly gulped. Still, she put on a cocky smile, and a similar tone, "Long time no see, Gideon."

A dark look crossed the man's face, something between searing hatred and terrible agony. With a raise of his hand, the troops behind him raised their weapons, ready to fire. The Dathomirian dropped into a lower stance, prepared to strike if attack, but did not move. The man's left hand came up to rub his lower jaw as he considered Nadia, right hand remaining firmly on his blaster.

"This is where you ran off to?" he finally said, letting the left hand drop, "To scuttle about with these terrorists."

Nadia ignored the question, "Gideon, dear, why don't you put the weapons down and go home, before you do something you regret?"

If looks could kill, his would have burnt her alive. "I can't leave, because I have a sense of honor, and duty," he spat at her, left hand coming up to point at her accusingly, "As mother and father raised us on." She opened her mouth to interrupt, but he continued on, "Not gallivanting around the galaxy terrorizing the populace. Not committing acts of terrorism. Not betraying one's own people, and especially not betraying one's own flesh and blood."

Gwynara's eyes narrowed as she turned to look at Nadia, not saying a word. Nadia only offered her a shrug, as though the situation explained itself. Looking back to Gideon, she kept her smile on, "I didn't know you were here."

"Would you not have come if you did know?"

Nadia bit her lip, slowly shaking her head, "No. I suppose I would still have come."

With a flick of Gideon's wrist, the troops advanced, weapons raised, following his short command, "Arrest them, for treason against the Empire, and the act of murder."

The Dathomirian wasn't going to allow that to happen. The moment the soldiers began their advance, she began that low, native chanting Nadia had heard her do mostly to herself before. At first Nadia brought her hands up to her ears, as though something may come over her, but whatever the pale woman was doing seemed to only strike at the Imperials. They all froze, slowly looking around as if they didn't recognize where they were. The soldiers slowly began aiming at each other, fingers resting on the trigger of their rifles.

Nadia's eyes went wide, and she grabbed Gwynara by the arm, doing her best to interrupt her. The Dathomirian turned, glaring at the woman, waiting for an explanation.

"Let's just," her words caught as she tried to come up with an excuse, finding nothing, "Let's just leave. Make them let us leave."

The stare lasted just a bit longer, before Gwynara began muttering something else. Once she was finished, she turned, making her way up the ramp. In his dazed state, Gideon slowly picked up his commlink, and began whispering something into it about a ship departure being cleared. Absolutely mortified, Nadia turned, making her way up the ramp, not looking back.

Ghosts (Part 12)

His dinner reservations were off. For at least the next month. At a minimum. In all likelihood, his dinner plans were off for the next few years. If he was lucky. Other possibilities were that he may never have dinner again, soon. Perhaps he would get dinner, from the bad side of a jail cell. Which, given the other things that could happen to him, didn't seem all that bad. There was the chance that, if things turned out bad enough, he could just be executed.

These thoughts were what ran through his head as he vaguely listened to his superior. Back stiff, and arms folded behind it, he was doing his best to nod at all the right moments, and apologize where it was appropriate. The entire conversation had probably been going on for nearly half an hour now, and Gideon wasn't entirely sure that he was going to hear the end of it.

Of course, had their positions been reversed, he would have been doing the same to the Moff. Individuals of such power were entitled to such moments of shaming, especially with a mistake so large as this. A Hutt dying was one thing, a thing that was bound to send the region into chaos for at least a few weeks while the cartels settled everything. But one being killed in such a way that shifted blame onto the Galactic Empire, while said Empire was trying to make a deal with them no less, was much worse.

It made their operations less safe, less efficient, and was bound to slow their supply lines until the Hutts were appeased again. So now he was going to be read the riot act until his superior was pleased. After that, depending on how poorly this shook out, he might be lucky to see the Core Worlds again. If anything, he best get used to these slums.

"And all crew and soldiers in the area have been properly vetted," the Moff was asking.

He nodded, making a motion with his hands to produce the files documenting such on her end of the line, "All accounted for, and none considered to be forming falsehoods. It is obviously an attempt at slandering the Empire, sir."

The Moff scoffed, "It was no 'attempt', Captain. This was a rather successful pursuit." He brought a hand up, forcing a number of filed complaints onto Gideon's screen. As though Gideon hadn't read them all five times by this point.

"We have the spaceport locked down, sir. Our investigation will need time to see if we cannot work something out," he muttered blandly, staring blankly through the flickering hologram.

"I expect to hear reports within the next few days then, Captain," the Moff said flatly, "If I do not, then I assure you the consequences will be dire."

"Of course sir."

With another small wave, the Moff ended the call, and Gideon let out a sigh of relief, dropping from his stiff position into a more slouched one. His search for a chair ended quickly, and he soon was slumped back, staring up at the ceiling, trying to determine if he could burn a hole into it. He couldn't. Spinning the chair around, he stared about the ship, letting out a long sigh as the once glistening panels had lost their sheen. Due in part to the fact that those assigned to clean them had been forced into helping with their search. A search that thus far had turned up nothing.

Off to his left a door opened, and a soldier dressed in the usual white armor approached. First they stopped, standing stiff to salute, before offering a datapad to him. He swiped the thing in one quick motion, slowly skimming through it, before looking up at the soldier, waiting for an explanation.

"Our assessment of the spaceport's recent landings, sir," she stared, "At present nothing appears to match the description of the killers."

He nodded idly, slowly skimming the pictures. She wasn't lying. Based on their assessment of those present, the one's responsible were two rather bulky, but agile, men, who wore all dark clothing. Which was none of these. Going through the security came footage revealed rather the exact opposite. One ship appeared to contain a crew full of jawas. Another was filled to the brim with rodians. And this one...

His eyes narrowed as he stopped, slowly scrolling back up. Tapping the image to zoom it in, he slowly panned through it, peering at the faces it held. On the far right were three men, muscly, but not bulky enough to match their killers. Some grey faced woman was to the far left. Yet straight in the middle, in some worn out brown jacket, was a pale, blonde woman.

Turning the pad around, he held it up to the soldier, voice terse, "What are the registered names of this crew?"

She blinked, taking the device to find them, "We have an unnamed passenger, one Martin Breen, Floyd Garth, Prelen Nek, and Verna Allerson."

Gideon nodded slowly, fingers tapping against the arm of his chair, "Verna."

The soldier nodded, "Y-Yes sir."

He slowly stood, turning to stare at the soldier, "I want two more soldiers, including yourself. You will meet me in front of that hangar. It is not to leave."

"Is there a problem, Captain Grell?" there was a small amount of panic in her voice.

"There will be," he said, pushing past the soldier to go fetch his pistol.

Ghosts (Part 11)

This was no simple matter of faith. Regardless of what any of these 'rebels' wanted to believe, her skill should never be attributed purely to 'faith'. She was no lucky individual. Her survival was not a matter of the cards turning in proper succession, through sheer chance. 

Instead it was a matter of careful preparation. Of scouting, and of subtlety. When they had landed, she had taken her time to examine the Hutt's little 'palace' from afar. Potential entry points were decided upon, and the guard patrols were prioritized. Those that could be avoided, those that could be overtaken. All of it was a puzzle to be solved, and her mind continued to process the possibilities even as she crept through the night.

After she knew her mark's domain, she retreated to the ship, and ordered everyone else to disembark. Once they had left, she took to marking off the remainder of her tasks. The first matter was the making of a strong concoction. A recipe passed on by her mother, it was a quick mixture of herbs, crushed gently. But there was more to its creation. It needed to be worked upon by the spirits, which required the use of various magicks to call upon them. This was the longest dedicated amount of her time, as the ritual was intended to have multiple participants. A long chant later, and her potion was prepared. 

Tucking that into her belt, she left the ship for a second time, and returned back to a rooftop adjacent to the Hutt's palace. She neglected to acknowledge the disparaging looks of her 'crewmates' she passed as they moved back up the ship's ramp, muttering to themselves about the smell.

To them she was some native. Someone who lived in the woods, with little education. But in this particular matter, she was an expert. If anything, this was what she had been raised to do. The wars long ago had left her sisters' predecessors as a fearsome set of assassins, and such traits had carried forth. Now it was time to show such. 

Taking a knee on the edge of the room, she produced the potion, tipping her head back to down it in one quick gulp. Soon after she disappeared, invisible to any happenstance onlooker. She drew her black and red hood upward. Taking in a breath, she closed her eyes, centering. This was her moment. The time to take the stage. To strike at her foe from the shadows. They had numbers. But she had skills, and the will of the spirits.

With a strong press of her right leg, she flung herself from the air, arms spreading out to guide her to the distant ledge that was the roof of the palace. Turning forward in midair she struck the ledge with her back, rolling forward and coming to a stop on her feet. Her stance fell low as she crept towards a door inside. She bobbed and weaved through the patrols she had seen outside, giving them a wide breadth where able, and drawing into the shadows when they were too close to keep such a distance. 

Inside she was operating more blindly, but there were enough clues about for her to determine her direction. The position of the guard, the way they moved, where they moved from. All of it gave her a better idea of where the Hutt was. Once she had determined that they were all circling one large chamber, she found her way to the second floor, determining that there was small balcony from which to work from there. 

Much to her surprise, the Hutt's chamber was filled with life. Life of all kinds, all shaking and moving. The floor itself felt alive as the masses below shifted along to some terrible beat, swaying in dance, or stumbling due to being intoxicated. Bright neon lights filled the room, flashing on and off in such a way as to make one ill. 

From where she stood on the balcony, identifying the Hutt was no challenge. The slug sat in a corner of the room, on a raised platform, looking over their domain with an amused smile on their face. Every now and then whoever was in charge of the music would make an announcement about the Hutt's generosity, which would prompt the audience to turn and cheer. After which they swiftly returned to ignoring the slug. 

She had to wait some fifteen minutes for this to happen again, but once it had, she took her time to strike. Maneuvering over a short outcropping of the wall, she inched closer to the slug, until it was directly under her. Taking in a breath, she drew the blade she had been given, and dropped straight down. 

The Hutt's head turned toward the noise of her landing, but she didn't give it time to react. Before it could twist its large body around she had jabbed the knife straight in its back. She could feel the guards at the edge of the room turn and begin charging towards the Hutt, who conveniently hid her presence with its girth. Taking in another breath, she began chanting. At first it was just for the Hutt's pleasure, who without even seeing her began screaming of the Imperial worm that was stabbing her. Once his guards drew close enough, they two were going to start seeing an Imperial. In fact they were going to start seeing two of them. 

In their minds they resided in a room in which two Imperial assassins had just struck at the Hutt. They now leaped forward, dashing across the room and making for the doors. She paused, waiting for the sound of the guards leaving before she struck the Hutt again and again, twisting the knife with each strike, until the thing ceased moving. 

Once she could feel the potion's effects taking effect once more, she crawled over the body, and began making for the door for real. She was forced to push her way through the crowd, but they all seemed too stunned to notice the invisible presence among them. Out in the hall she discarded the blade in a potted plant. It was sloppy. But it was supposed to be. 

With that, her task was done. Departing via the roof, she made her way back over to the building she had started on, before continuing off into the night.

Ghosts (Part 10)

He had visited Hoth. Hell, he had been forced to sleep outside on Hoth. On top of that, he had spent years with his ex-wife. Neither of those situations, the coldest he could think of, could be built up to the dead look he was getting from the witch on his ship. 

Giving Grell a glance got him nothing more than a shrug in response. She knew something about this. He knew she knew something about this. But that smug look on her face implied that she was going to let him walk into this minefield alone, and enjoy watching him explode. Absolutely nothing about that was a surprise. Grell was easily one of the most vindictive women he had ever known, and she never passed up on an opportunity to watch him trip.

Some of that might have been his fault. Not that he was ever going to admit that.

"Is there an issue, recruit?" he turned back to the pale woman, whose yellow eyes narrowed on him. When she didn't respond, he prodded at her again, "Because if there is, we should solve it before we go through the briefing."

Gwynara turned, staring at Nadia for a moment. That smug look on her face only grew, and he had the sudden urge to thump her upside the head. An urge that he suppressed. Barely. The other woman eventually spoke, in an almost offended tone, still looking at Nadia rather than him, "You allow the maleling to make your plans?"

His eyes widened and he instinctively clinched his fists. Behind him a few of the other troops they were bringing along for security purposes snickered to themselves. Nadia couldn't have looked more pleased if she tried. She reached over, gently patting the woman on the arm, as though speaking to a child, and gently cooed, "He's in charge of the operation, dear."

She turned, considering the man for a moment. Before nodding slowly, "How quaint." 

Nadia looked to the man, "In her culture, men are generally considered slaves, unless they have saved the life of those above them, Andrews."

Grell had had to have known. He knew she had known. And he had been given no warning of that, and she hadn't bothered to have updated the recruit. Taking in a breath to try and make his blood boil less, he looked to the pale woman again, "We will land in approximately seven hours. You will make your way alone to a Hutt's palace." It was the most he could do. Just ignore what had just been said, and do the brief.

The witch nodded slowly, "And I shall slay the Imperials there."

He blinked, shaking his head, "No." Her eyes narrowed again, and he held up a hand to prevent her from protesting, "You will be killing a Hutt."

Gwynara frowned, shaking her head, "I am not here to slay pathetic slugs."

Andrews shook his head in turn. Pacing to a corner of the room, he took out a box, before walking back and placing it on the table in front of Gwynara. Opening it, he stepped back, allowing her to take in its contents. It held an intricate blade, which held the insignia of the Empire, carved into it and backed by a deep red, "You will kill the Hutt with this. And then sloppily discard it upon your exit."

Staring into the box, the witch reached forward to pluck the knife from its resting place. She ran her hand along the steel gently, as though if she touched the blade for too long or too closely her hand would suddenly catch flame. He could practically see the little gears in her head turning as she processed the idea. Eventually she looked up at him, a hungry look on her face, "And the Imperials shall suffer the blame."

He nodded, "And they lose any sort of deal out here. It hurts them more than just killing one of them would."

Gwynara stared up at him, expression changing to one of extreme certainty, "Then the slug shall die."