Srina’s eyes flickered up toward where she imagined the speakers might be for the voice that kept making insightful comments. Was it an AI? She didn’t know. The Echani appreciated the matter-of-fact language regardless. “What does he mean?”, she queried the female voice, since apparently, the Slave didn’t plan on elaborating. She hated when everyone felt the need to leave her in the dark. "And what may I call you?"
They could trust her with access to the entirety of a Droid Army and enough defoliators to wipe out a small civilization—but explaining metaphor? Figures of speech? Never.
Her host also refused to simply choose a name. Srina sighed, softly, and proceeded to let it go. She would continue to call him the Slave despite the negative connotation. If that was what he preferred over “John” or any of the others. Her expression remained passive when he mentioned not speaking to his Master anymore. Her head tilted. Was that the norm? “I cannot imagine not speaking to my Master.”, she intoned faintly, though, she remembered the incidents on Haseria. “However, as I understand it, I am an oddity. I have no wish to surpass Darth Metus. I would protect him rather than destroy him.”
“Apparently this is not the way of the true Sith.”
Decency, loyalty, and everything that made up the honorable way she’d been trained all her life meant nothing in order to gain strength in this new world. Srina only wished for just enough. Just, enough, to protect that which she cared for. What was life if not for the people within it? Technology, droids, and even AI could provide succor…But was that really enough? Not to Srina.
Quietly, she watched him make a drink. She was inquisitive as always and accepted it with a gracious murmur. Ever polite, and proper, she held it rather carefully. It was surprisingly cold but the shade made her hesitate. It didn’t look unappealing, however, it didn’t look like something that should be downed swiftly. Bringing it to her lips she took the tiniest sip, like a child, that didn’t trust what they’d been given for dinner. Wintry gray eyes widened just a sliver. “It’s not bad.”
Not too sweet, not too sour, not bitter—just like she’d asked for.
The Slave took a seat himself and the white-haired woman pulled away from the window to join him. It seemed rude to keep facing the wrong direction while they were holding a conversation. The svelte woman, a vision in ivory, moved with grace that was almost achingly painful. It was not deliberate, merely a combination of birth, and stringent upbringing.
Her head tilted at his sigh. Was something wrong? He had thrown what appeared to be a well-enjoyed gathering, that everyone below was enjoying, but here he remained. Alone. His question caused the edges of her lips to tilt upward slightly.
“I do. A few. Music and art are prized on Eshan. Not as much as combat prowess but it is still expected.”
Then again, so was preparing meals, but Srina had never excelled in that. Her attempts at culinary feats were generally an unmitigated disaster and entirely inedible. At best, she could make caf, and slice her own fruit. That was it. She glanced down, feathery eyelashes dusting against pale cheeks, as she took another sip of the drink. Her consumption was deliberately slow. She still felt something different. Something in the air and made her head feel a little foggy. “Do you? Play?”