OOC: Open to any and all!
Taskeed.
In an independent colony where slaves are born to bleed.
That is where this woman was born.
That is from where she spread her wings.
She had never left her world before.
No matter—A woman is Deucalian.
At least, she was supposed to be.
Oshima Station.
Space station out in space.
Out between the stars, in the space in between.
It spins, it rotates, makes its own gravity, that metal rock of a machine.
The station flanked the Triellus Trade Route.
A commercial hub, a global market and a market globe.
Station sold helmets, cigarettes, monk cloaks and women's boots.
Catch her day and night—Oshima—and watch her pretty lights glow.
Over there is a viewscreen: a spaceport board of star systems lit in green and red.
And the colors in between in that map of the galaxy.
There's Oshima, that red circle center-left, like a heartbeat.
Surrounded on all sides, our lioness.
Sith Empire and Free Worlds Alliance.
ISC and the Mandalorians.
Five Syndicates—lions, tigers and bears playing chess.
Come right to and back down to the station floor now.
There she goes, moves along, here she comes.
Where she goes? No one knows.
But ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone—and here a man struts.
“Sorry,” he offers.
“No problem,” she says as his shoulder parts from hers.
She didn’t want it, she needed it.
Not the man, not his jacket—what was beneath it.
Thanks.
She offers, silently.
And sorry.
The credits would go a good way for someone in need.
For now she would spend them at the bar with a drink.
It was more of an open space ‘spaceport bar’ than an everyday cantina.
Sat at the bar, turning beer on the counter, a woman watches a holo called Argentina.
She gazes, she waits, at nothing, for no one.
Sigurn had spread her wings to this galaxy for the first time.
Right now, though, the bird is not sure where to fly.
@Evan @Charles
In an independent colony where slaves are born to bleed.
That is where this woman was born.
That is from where she spread her wings.
She had never left her world before.
No matter—A woman is Deucalian.
At least, she was supposed to be.
Oshima Station.
Space station out in space.
Out between the stars, in the space in between.
It spins, it rotates, makes its own gravity, that metal rock of a machine.
The station flanked the Triellus Trade Route.
A commercial hub, a global market and a market globe.
Station sold helmets, cigarettes, monk cloaks and women's boots.
Catch her day and night—Oshima—and watch her pretty lights glow.
Over there is a viewscreen: a spaceport board of star systems lit in green and red.
And the colors in between in that map of the galaxy.
There's Oshima, that red circle center-left, like a heartbeat.
Surrounded on all sides, our lioness.
Sith Empire and Free Worlds Alliance.
ISC and the Mandalorians.
Five Syndicates—lions, tigers and bears playing chess.
Come right to and back down to the station floor now.
There she goes, moves along, here she comes.
Where she goes? No one knows.
But ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone—and here a man struts.
“Sorry,” he offers.
“No problem,” she says as his shoulder parts from hers.
She didn’t want it, she needed it.
Not the man, not his jacket—what was beneath it.
Thanks.
She offers, silently.
And sorry.
The credits would go a good way for someone in need.
For now she would spend them at the bar with a drink.
It was more of an open space ‘spaceport bar’ than an everyday cantina.
Sat at the bar, turning beer on the counter, a woman watches a holo called Argentina.
She gazes, she waits, at nothing, for no one.
Sigurn had spread her wings to this galaxy for the first time.
Right now, though, the bird is not sure where to fly.
@Evan @Charles
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