O B E D I E N C E
Queen of Darkness
Z O R Y A
In the balmy embrace of an Onderon mid-day, Zorya wandered the labyrinthine alleys of Malgan Market, the ever-bustling nexus of commerce and gossip. An amalgam of scents – both beguiling and nauseating – filled her nostrils: the pungent musk of exotic animal pelts, the tantalizing sweetness of freshly fried mandaloun pastries, and the indescribable metallic odor unique to droids being repaired.
Her footsteps, almost inaudible amidst the cacophony of market dealings, led her past stalls arrayed with a cornucopia of wares: starship parts glistening in the sun, antique blasters from bygone eras, and shimmering bolts of fabric, each radiating with the exuberance of a thousand colors. Through the din, Zorya's astute mind constantly weighed the ebb and flow of the Force, discerning genuine emotions from the pretense of street merchants.
The need to communicate, and the void left by O'bog's conspicuous absence, gnawed at her. The silver strands of her dreads caught the light as she made her way to a droid vendor. The days of O'bog echoing her thoughts with roguish jest were missed, but she sought obedience now, not jests.
A stooped Rodian merchant, sensing an opportunity, presented an array of protocol droids. "Finest in the galaxy!" he croaked, gesturing at the gleaming machines.
Three models caught Zorya's discerning eye.
The first, a statuesque silver-plated 3PO unit, bore a veneer of polish and haughty professionalism. Its eyes, an unerring shade of yellow, hinted at countless intergalactic languages stored within, yet the droid's insufferable etiquette might prove a burden.
Beside it stood an older model, its rustic bronze surface speaking of antiquity. Likely an antique from the Clone Wars era, its auditory sensors seemed tuned more to the resonances of a grand hall than the chatter of a market.
Lastly, a sleek, ebony model caught her attention. Its design was unfamiliar, suggesting it hailed from the fringes of the galaxy. The dark droid's optics, a deep shade of cobalt, held a mysterious allure. It promised efficiency and discretion – exactly what a Sith in exile would require.
@Lord Kyle
.
Her footsteps, almost inaudible amidst the cacophony of market dealings, led her past stalls arrayed with a cornucopia of wares: starship parts glistening in the sun, antique blasters from bygone eras, and shimmering bolts of fabric, each radiating with the exuberance of a thousand colors. Through the din, Zorya's astute mind constantly weighed the ebb and flow of the Force, discerning genuine emotions from the pretense of street merchants.
The need to communicate, and the void left by O'bog's conspicuous absence, gnawed at her. The silver strands of her dreads caught the light as she made her way to a droid vendor. The days of O'bog echoing her thoughts with roguish jest were missed, but she sought obedience now, not jests.
A stooped Rodian merchant, sensing an opportunity, presented an array of protocol droids. "Finest in the galaxy!" he croaked, gesturing at the gleaming machines.
Three models caught Zorya's discerning eye.
The first, a statuesque silver-plated 3PO unit, bore a veneer of polish and haughty professionalism. Its eyes, an unerring shade of yellow, hinted at countless intergalactic languages stored within, yet the droid's insufferable etiquette might prove a burden.
Beside it stood an older model, its rustic bronze surface speaking of antiquity. Likely an antique from the Clone Wars era, its auditory sensors seemed tuned more to the resonances of a grand hall than the chatter of a market.
Lastly, a sleek, ebony model caught her attention. Its design was unfamiliar, suggesting it hailed from the fringes of the galaxy. The dark droid's optics, a deep shade of cobalt, held a mysterious allure. It promised efficiency and discretion – exactly what a Sith in exile would require.
@Lord Kyle
.