Mayagil Checkpoints

[Butler]

BARREN MOONS_ GRID M-18

The simple frigate, an ash aged meteor gray, dropped out of hyperspace into an occupied spacescape of three moons surrounding a dead desert planet, shadowed in two massive orbs cast upon the surface, in the blackness of distant stars and skeletal stations. Lined by rows of silver pegs, length wise in hexagonal shape, there traveled a steady pace of ships passing through the tri-gates of hyperlane checkpoints overlooking Triton. They were no different, settling into one of the four lines; each line filling out the corners of a square shape, a gaping hole between them.

Lucifer tossed his white hair from his temples and inhaled the sense of freedom from this painful seat he would soon feel, feet shuffling in black boots beneath the hung trim of a long white fur coat sown from several wompa. His hands still upon the controls, Lucifer slid a diminutive glance to the man who finally decided to sit next to him.

"I'll align us with the rails. Tell our sleeping beauty that it's time to rise and meet me in the cargo hold, where there's room to move."

A simple task, placing the ship into the governing pace of the checkpoint systems. Though they'd have some time until they reached the badgering indigenous at gate three, where they'd have to put on a good show and garner passage without offending the cultist mentality; as most traders just salute the finger and fly on through, never to be granted sight of the surface first hand. Enough time to prepare for the mission, the only three on the ship weren't exactly the closest. Lucifer, and two others, were to get a job done. That's all that mattered to him.

Lucifer needed to make sure these initiates were ready for the task.

 

[Dawyn]

Lorn inclined his head respectfully toward his strange senior Bogan with his wompa coat, the cowl of his own simple dark woolen cloak shifting slightly as he did so. He preferred not to make flashy fashion statements, both out of what he suspected was a lingering Jedi desire for simplicity and practicality, and of a very real need to keep his presence as unnoticeable as possible. Unlike most of the other Dark Jedi, he had a dependent to take care of-his daughter. She was his greatest source of strength and resolve, but on the other hand, she was his greatest weakness. The fewer people in the galaxy that remembered him or knew his identity, the better-for now. When he became strong enough to strike down anyone who could think to harm her, he could afford himself a little publicitly.

“Yes’sah.” He replied politely, in the pleasant Krantian accent he affected to give off the impression of a simple, pleasant rural man. It was better if people thought he was comparatively harmless-it made killing them considerably easier in the long run.

Rising swiftly from his seat, he made his way to the small, cramped rectangular room that served as his compatriot’s “quarters”. He was still unsure whether or not that was meant to be ironic, given the fact that they were essentially closets with a bed barely crammed in as an afterthought, but that was the quality of life he lived as an initiate in the Bogan, just like the dubiously safe, slowly rotting quarters back on Dagobah. It was one of the reasons he and the woman had signed up for this mission-both of them were tired of getting the worst, of everything from quarters to food to training. They had spent enough time scraping by at the bottom-now they would climb to the top. He pressed the door to her room.

Tara.

He glanced down at the sleeping blonde, who was nestled into her cramped bunk like a comfortable cat in her stylish, if rumpled from the journey, attire. It was a rare, unguarded view of the woman who had agreed to be his partner in their rise to power. She usually tried her damndest to present the image of a cultured, refined, tough woman who none would want to face on any battlefield-whether physical or mental. Seeing her in her slumber, her hair disheveled, her clothes wrinkled, and snoring lightly presented a far different picture, and one he found endearing.

His dead wife’s stunned face flashed across his mind, her sea-blue eyes staring at accusingly as their light began to fade, the last vestiges of her life fading from the galaxy-all because of him.

Gripping the wall to steady himself from the wave of emotion that struck him, he clamped his mental barriers down immediately. He dare not expose himself on that level again. He had let slip at the party-and had been lucky only Tara had picked up his failure. He had a feeling his senior Dark Jedi on the mission would be far less forgiving if he showed even the slightest sign of weakness.

Reaching down and shaking her slightly, he spoke, voice soft.

“Miss Tara, we’re here. Our comrade wants us ta’ meet him in the cargo ‘old.”

After watching her stir slightly, he gave her a brief nod and departed to meet his senior’s instructions, wasting no time. He was not in the Order anymore-he had a feeling if he were late, he would not be treated so leniently.

 

[Tara Bronwyn]

Tara had never found interstellar travel exciting, a bit of annoyance till a person got where they needed to be. Lack of reading material had left her with the challenge of finding something else to pass the time, and she could only stare at walls before so long before that too became dull. As a result she had resorted in napping in what seemed to be a broom clostet.

Not that she had been fond of the idea of napping in random places, truth be told she wasn't really planning to have fallen asleep, but it seemed like a good enough way to pass the time. She did hope that something would change soon, a person could only sleep so much, that and organize the ships supplies by alphabetical order. While that fid take up ones time people tended to stare when one did that.

Unlike either of them, she much preferred leather, it was cold on space after all, and it was more cold when there was little to do but wait. Tara was a back sleeper and more than likely had an arm thrown across her face, not exactly the picture of grace, at least at the moment.

Hearing a voice she managed a mimbled 'wha?' Followed by a muffled hmph as she pulled herself up, running a hand though her hair, in an effort to look presentable. After taking a moment or two to adjust her clothing and find her boots, she too made her way towards the hold.

 

[Butler]

Lucifer's eye twitched, perturbed by the very sound of the man's unintelligent accent; though he reserved his gaze to the instruments before him, under his control. Veering the ship into stasis, the magnetic pull and synch of governance by the rods was slightly jarring. His sight fell to his lap, losing itself into thought, hands releasing the controls. For some reason he felt a strange nostalgia, yet unwilling to look up at his reflection in the glass. The corner of his mouth curled in revel of that neglect, a sparkle in his eye, and he lifted from his seat with a heavy breath. He spun around with the whip of his snow white coat tail and stomped off down the corridor.

Short cut strides carried him towards and into the emptied cargo hold, just two metal crates stacked in the corner next to the embedded safe box. His coat spread open with the stalling catch of heel against the scratched metal floor, exposing black undershirt, and his elbows lifted his hands propped onto his hips as he posed there with the kick of his chin to acknowledge them as the two entered with him.

"Alright you two, let's go," he casually winced with a turning disinterest, a natural twist of the neck. "This all depends on you so let's make sure you can handle it. You're to remain out of sight when we're granted landing rights, sneak out of the ship undetected, find a nice space and a reason to destroy it, and make sure that someone else is blamed when it goes down. Sneak back on, and I'll rejoin you." His finger flexed a point at each of them in turn until he finished.

"So. Show me how you disappear..."

His rhetoric was utterly average, seemingly unwilling to waste his time on them; even as he was unwilling to badger the princess for her lack of presence during the jump. He challenged them to actually be of use to him, to be capable on their own. Though he expected they would need further instruction. Even if they knew certain Stealth techniques, he would see about advancing their skill under scrutiny as well as other necessary forms. So he stood broad and bored down on them his awaiting stare.

 

[Dawyn]

(A bit crappy because I have to go to class and wanted to move this along).

“Show me how you disappear…”

The white-haired man in the wampa coat beckoned, his voice tinged with a hue of superiority, disinterest, and the slightest dash of distaste. Despite having an unsettling feeling that the man wished to see their stealth techniques not only to teach them, but to figure out how to best dispatch them if they should fail him, Lorn acquiesced nonetheless. He did not plan on failing his first mission for the Bogan-or jeopardize the influence it would give him to get his daughter better quarters.

Letting his mind sink into the flowing waters of the Force, Lorn shied away from tapping upon the darkness lurking inside of his soul. The technique would have been far easier to complete with that shortcut. The Dark Side granted its user great, quick strength, but if one used it constantly, it strained one’s connection to the Force just as quickly-Lorn preferred to use it in quick bursts, and only when he needed to.

Carefully setting up a light, body-sized barrier which allowed the light, appearing like nebulous golden fibers in the Force, to flow around him, Lorn took a few paces back, stepping into the darker shadows of the frigate as he did so, his boots echoing softly on the floor as he did so-he was not visible, yet if one watched him carefully enough until he stepped into the shadows, one could see a curious phenomenon-a slight obfuscation of their vision, a man-sized area of the air that did not look quite so clear. An area which disappeared seamlessly into the darkness and could not be found, but an area which had been there nonetheless. Lorn had never practiced his power to move stealthily and silently in broad daylight when he had first mastered it to evade the wandering Sith and Jedi who came to Krant-he had picked a quiet place in the shadows and hid. In the same position after his short trek and imperfect ability to walk in the light now, he appeared entirely invisible.

In the Force, the shimmering, cold presence that was Lorn seemed to dampen, and then disappear as he drew his consciousness and power into himself, only holding a light touch on the concealment shield around him, replaced by that of what would appear to be a small amphibian or rodent-something that would bypass the passive senses of most Jedi or Sith who were not on the lookout for any disturbances or irregularities in the Force. Glancing at Tara from within his concealment, he awaited to see what his partner could do-and what the white-haired man would think of their abilities.

 

[Tara Bronwyn]

She was not a happy woman. She had a feeling, they were brought to the least stealthiest room for a reason. She had a good idea what that was. She pushed aside her annoyance, at this point in time it wouldn't do her any good, she'd brood about that later.

Biting back any comments she might have, she watched the show. It was a good idea Lorne had, however it was a bit flashy for her tastes. She took a look around the room, such as it was. She turned on her heels, and tried to walk not stalk towards the crates, and what little cover she did have.

She looked for the darkest part of the shadow cast by the crates. She back into them, keeping her weight on the balls of her feet. She had chosen to wear boots with a flexible sole, which served to help muffle her footsteps. Once she reached the farthest point from the light she settled herself in. She might not have been a Jedi, but she knew enough to send out a suggestion that would make the average person want look the other way.

She was leary of putting on a demonstration, after all in a place like this, trust issues were one of the things that would keep a person alive. Keeping in mind that anyone might have a plan to kill you was a practical piece of advice.