Broken Crown

[Hazel Scheler]

"That's a good way to put it," the woman gave a light chuckle, "I'd only been radiant for a few short years of my life..." back when she had the love and devotion of a man named Samson. A man she hadn't quite managed to let go of even though all the signs pointed to his departure long before she ever awoke.

If nothing else, she maintained his last name out of a sign of respect, or so she told herself at night. Not like anyone would know any better, all records on any name she'd ever been connected to would be long gone. If the Gulag Virus hadn't wiped out that knowledge, time certainly had.

The woman's expression grew somber as she took another sip, eyes flickering up to look at her partner of conversation at his next question.

"Hadn't really thought that far ahead," there came a time when one stopped making short-term plans. Anymore, flying by the seat of her pants had been working pretty well so far.

"What about you?"


Sarge Potteiger:
The man was smiling, that would be certain as he spoke. "Don't be so hard on yourself. Just as whether or not the sun illuminates or blinds depending upon where you stand, so too is beauty and radiance dependent upon point of view."

Laughing quietly, he shakes his head a bit. "It's why we're our own harshest critics, I imagine." She was, probably, the first woman he'd met who was older than him, biologically speaking.

It seemed everyone and their mother was younger than the quarter century mark, and while he wasn't much older than that... being so close to three decades often made you feel pretty old.

"No idea. Where the credits are, I guess. No issue finding jobs, so it's wherever the pay is best."

 

[Hazel Scheler]

"If this," the woman gestured to herself, "is what you call radiant then I'm a bantha's uncle."

She couldn't recall the last time in the past few years she'd felt anything close to radiant. Living in her armor had become routine, and by jove you knew you lived in it when you became aware of your own stench. Luckily, since acquiring her ship from a man who called himself a God at the edge of the galaxy she'd had access to living quarters that would prevent these things.

Another sip, a cough this time as it trickled down the wrong pipe within a chuckle, "Closest thing I've worn to a dress in my life is some mimsy little slip while floating in a bacta tank. And that, my friend, was not radiance I was feeling."

She snorted and smirked into another sip of her drink, grimacing, "Uff - this stuff is awful. I'm glad you're paying for it."



Sarge Potteiger:
"I don't think sand is very radiant." He says dryly, smirking beneath the helmet. It had been more an observation than a come on, but he couldn't deny there was something attractive about women who didn't take their appearance overly serious.

Armor could be every bit as attractive, if not more so, than the most revealing of outfits. "Yeah, knew it would be. It's why I made sure to grab this before leaving my room."

Digging into a pouch, he pulls out a small flask and slides it over to her. "Take some." He never went anywhere without much Whyren's Reserve, but he used it sparingly out here where the supply was harder to come by.

"They usually kept me naked in the tank, probably because they were afraid I'd stow a weapon somewhere. I don't even know, really."

 

[Hazel Scheler]

"Oh-ho," both brows disappeared beneath those haphazard bangs of hers as she took the proffered flask with care and unscrewed the top. "I really aught to invest in new one of these, lost mine back on Myrkyr." Waving it under her nose the woman practically purred at the scent, "Didn't take you for the generous sort and that's kind of you, but I couldn't. I don't think I've earned that much."



Sarge Potteiger:
"A sip or two is all you'll need... and you'll be glowing like a wee littel' girl in no time." The man seemed highly amused, and while Mandalorians were by nature conservative... they were also known to be generous from time to time.

If you'd ever earned their respect, they were the best friend you could ever have. Loyalty may as well be their middle name, across the board.

Still, his words were clear - don't drink all my booze, but some is fine.

 

[Hazel Scheler]

"Hmmm-" Ivy's lips drew thin over a wane smirk as she sealed the flask without taking a drink, "nothing in this galaxy is going to make this one glow like a wee little girl."

Flask now in hand she gave it a curiously engaged stare, glanced to the salt shaker on the table and pulled it over. With a short look around to see just where that pesky service droid had gone, she popped the top of the shaker and poured the contents into a neat pile on the table. Taking the man's flask, Ivy carefully set it on its corner in the pile, gently footling with the thing for a moment until its contents stilled and, with the support of the salt beneath, it balanced there in the pile.

She leaned down and delicately blew at the salt until, grain by tiny grain, the pile spilled across the table towards Sarge and the flask was left balancing on nothing more than a few pieces. It nearly looked as though it stood on its corner edge all on it's own.

"That's a good trick," leaning back and propping her arms back up on the top of the seat again, she nodded, satisfied.



Sarge Potteiger:
The man cocked his head to the side, faintly angered by the fact that she'd ignored his offering. Mandalorians were a nomadic people, and as such they kept few possessions. That meant it was highly ill-advised to turn down anything they offered you.

It was, in a way, kind of like smacking a rancor.

But not everyone knew custom. And he wasn't legitimately a Mandalorian. Still, it spoke ill of her cultural knowledge. Reaching out, he snagged the flask off the few grains it stood upon, shook the flask once to see how much of the contents were in there... and then pocketed it.

"Tricks are never good." Tricks meant a lack of honesty, and honesty was the hallmark of good character.

 

[Hazel Scheler]

Observing him calmly she thought little of it. Ivy was not a Mandalorian nor did she know much of their people other than their battle prowess. In that regard she had a great deal of respect for them, but on the same ticket a severe lack of the same. Though honorable they may be, theirs was a war-mongering race, and she couldn't abide but those sorts of morals. At least, she couldn't before.

Over time her ability to socialize had become rather rusty. These little nuances of respect and culture filtered away just as easily as the grains of salt in the winds of change and turmoil and chaos till your foundations were not but a fraction of what they once were and it was a miracle you were still standing, balanced. The balance was really the trick here, and she'd felt rather tipsy for quite some time now.

Where was the moral ground she had so firmly planted her feet on?

"You're right, they're not," the woman replied, frowning, "I apologize. I don't always realize when I'm being rude anymore."



Sarge Potteiger:
A sigh escaped his helmet as he leaned forward, folding his forearms across each other in order to prop himself up. Broad shoulders sloped downward beneath a clearly insulated bodysuit made of deep maroon.

"There's little need to apologize, Hazel. I'm just... unused to being turned down when offering something. In some manner, it's akin to ah uh, what's the term..."

The helmet dropped, visor staring at the table as he snapped the fingers on one hand to try and jog his memory. "A pet-peeve. That's it."

"My point stands, however. Tricks aren't exactly the best way to go about things. I pride myself on being an honest person, and trickery is not a way to do that."

He had, in the past, done all kinds of subervise things under the guise of honesty. And, more often than not, these actions were based upon a foundation of truth. Truth stretched to meet a goal, of course, but truth none the less.

It was a past he hoped to distance himself from sometime soon. "I apologize for being a bit terse, however."

 

[Hazel Scheler]

"I'm a terrible liar, always have been, not very good at tricks either," it was her turn to cant her head to one side, though it was not out of anger but simple amusement, "and I value honesty, even if its terse, but -oh hell, who am I kidding," she itched at her scalp, tousling her hair into mess before leaning her head in that hand, "there's lots of things I'm no good at and I have a very strange respect for people who can do those things and do them well."

"Trick me, fool me, whatever, I'll likely hate you when I figure it out but damn I'll respect your ability to do it. Takes effort to lie, probably just as much as it takes to be angry. I know angry, and that's hard work."



Sarge Potteiger:
"Oh yes, I respect those who can lie and lie well... but that doesn't mean there won't be reprucussions for it." He sighed. "Sith lied to me once... once. Shot her two times in the chest."

"She lived. She's a friend now. But she learned that you don't lie to me if you want to remain healthy."

He shrugged. "I do know anger, and self control is something I had to work on as a child because the slightest whiff of anything, stupid or otherwise, would send me into a bloody rage. Sometimes it's just as much work being angry as it is trying not to be..."

A sigh passed his lips. "But hey, we're all there at some point."

 

[Hazel Scheler]

"Not gonna shoot me for my trick are you?" Ivy lofted a brow at the man, "it's the best trick I got but I doubt it's worth a bullet. That and I'm not sure I care to test my armor's resilience at point blank range today," she pulled at the hem of her cloak, exposing the breastplate and adjoining plates of the torso piece. Much like the exposed bracers at her wrists and the plates of her extremities, the armor was white. At least it looked like it used to be white - it had over the years taken on a rather foggy tinge of gray mottled by burn marks and dents, scratches, gouges ... were those claw marks? Oh yes, that one time...

The woman knocked at the plate, "I probably aught to invest in a new one of these too, but I have a hard time parting from it. Fairly certain it's now permanently glued to my skin."



Sarge Potteiger:
"Not at all." A smile was definitely behind that voice. "She lied to me to get me to do what she wanted. Information was supposed to exchanged for service, but the information was false."

He wasn't about to admit who said individual was, but Ashin had needed to heal her. Otherwise the Sith would have been dead. "You needn't a new one.", the man says, leaning forward slowly to get a good look at it.

"I know a number of guys who could fix it up, good as new - even keep it grey if you'd prefer." There was no grey quite like the 'this needs cleaned' grey, but sometimes that was the best kind.

It spoke of good, prolonged use, which implied little was left to waste. His armor was still new, so it didn't have the scars to show that it had been well worn. But it would, given time.

And just like that he realized he was on the equivalent of a date, and that baffled him for a moment. Sometimes he was so caught up in what he was doing that he forgot to think things through.

This was one of those times. Awkward.

"Don't think anyone really wants to test their armor at point blank range, but hey... all armor comes off at some point." He shrugs. "I get what you're goin' for though. Truly I do."

 

[Hazel Scheler]

"Yeah, I don't think I would wear new armor even if I had it. Likely it would sit on display on my ship as a very expensive wall ornament. One of those 'hate to scratch the finish' kind of things. Like my ship. It was new for all of six days before-" she made a popping sound with her lips, gesticulating an explosion with her free hand. The ship hadn't exploded, but the one she'd rammed it into nearly had.

"Ala Admiral Bosch," she sighed, closing her eyes for a moment in what appeared to be thinly veiled agitation at the mention of that man's name. Her time spent pandering with the Empire was...well, something she was glad to be done with.

Opening her eyes again, they focused on the man's armor, "Your skins a pretty new addition, isn't it?"



Sarge Potteiger:
"Yeah, yeah it is. Sometimes the old stuff gets so bad you can't do nothin' to fix it. Gotta upgrade then." He gave a firm pat to the breastplate. In Mandalorian tradition, only the most vital areas were covered.

The helmet covered not just his head, but all the way down to the base of his neck. He had a breastplate, which covered the ribcage and heart and the top of the stomach, as well as two small pauldrons to cover the shoulders.

Although she couldn't see it now, there was the thigh guards and the shin guards, plus the boots and a groin protector. The rest was just an insulated bodysuit in a color that meshed well with the rest.

"I vaguely know that name... Empire? Last time I ever dealt with the Empire, well, lets just say Ashin was still in charge."

 

[Hazel Scheler]

"Aye," she nodded, using the hand currently holding her head to rub at her eyes. Dried sand tumbled down her cheeks from her lashes, becoming lost somewhere in the folds of her cloak.

"Not a name I would have signed under on my own buck, but, eh-" she waved that same hand about before brushing it back through her hair and cupping her head once more, "one thing lead to another and I woke up in a bacta tank on his flagship. Spent about a month working off my debt for him, but he fixed me and my ship up and taught me how to fly his TIE Fighters," Ivy gave a derisive snort at this, "like sitting in a mosquito," and gave Sarge a sidelong glance, "not familiar with the name Ashin. I'm a bit... out of the loop."

Understatement of the year.



Sarge Potteiger:
"Former Sith Empress, could count her as a friend. Then again, I could also count Jedi Masters, Protectorate Exarchs and a vast swath of others as 'friends', too. She was the Empress when Mandalore got invaded and she helped broker an uneasy peace between Mandalorians and Sith."

There was, based on his tone, less of a boast to what he'd just said and more a statement of fact. Regardless, it was an even larger understatement to say this man didn't have a host of connections.

"TIE Fighters are rather pissy craft - tiny, deadly to fly and generally cheap. Still, the Imperials pride themselves on cheap, expendable fighters. Can't say I'm familiar with the new line, though. When I last fought 'em they were still flying x-wing copies."

 

[Hazel Scheler]

Ivy made a thoughtful noise, "Seem to be a lot of people running around with that title," she remarked. One of her jobs before signing on with the Empire had been to deliver a parcel to what she later learned was also a former Sith Emperor. Tyrin Ardik had not been anything she expected - especially an Emperor. Now that she thought about it, the word "expendable" trotted through her thoughts. A curious notion coming upon her that she'd been sent to a man who likely could have spelled her end...or so one might assume when given a title like that.

This either made the Archivist a very uncaring, sadistic man -or- one who understood people a bit more than the average person. Ardik had proven punctual and even something of a gentleman. Not, however, someone she would call a friend.

"Nothing to be too concerned about," she said in regards to his comment on the TIE Fighters, "they're squirrely and that's about it. I made the Admiral very aware of my distaste for flying in them by repainting the interior of his Beta Tester with the meal I had that morning."



Sarge Potteiger:
There was a long, guffawed laugh. "You could say that. High rate of turnover for just about every major position except Lord/Lady Protector of the Omega Protectorate. We've probably had... this last year or two maybe four Sith Emperors and Empresses and perhaps just as many Supreme Chancellors of the Republic."

He shrugged. "Went through maybe... three Mandalores in as many months at one point. Too much political intrigue and stupidity for most to stick around long."

Still, the word 'Protectorate' turned a few heads his direction and the man sat up straight and scanned the crowd, who seemed to go back to what they were doing now that they realized it was just a Mandalorian.

The Protectorate had done little to offend anyone besides look out for themselves, but that had earned them an unkind reputation among most.

He'd never understood it, but it was perhaps just one of those things.

"Still, I bet he didn't take too kindly to having to clean up after you - even though I guarentee he had an underling do it himself."

 

[Hazel Scheler]

Ivy listened to his laughing and looked entertained, baleful smile curling her lips for a short time until his words came. She did not know of these political intrigues. The woman had only been awake to this galaxy for less than a year and most all of that year had been spent far out in wild space. At the time she'd been battling deep depression, so there was a chance that the news of galactic turmoil had reached her - she just hadn't registered it between the sordid attempts to kill herself by taking the riskiest jobs and the binging on alcohol in between.

Ivy hoped she was past all that. Judging by the fact that the glass of whiskey in front of her was only half empty, maybe she was getting there. Remembering it now she picked it up and took another sip, her eyes crossing over heads as her companion paused to take his own look around.

She shrugged, "I wasn't even a day out of a four day bacta soak, so I was liable to lose my lunch most anywhere. Needless to say he didn't let me back in his Beta Tester and I wasn't going to complain about that."



Sarge Potteiger:
"Don't blame you. I can't fly a fighter worth a kark. Putting me in the Beta Tester would have made sure it never flew again." He was, far and away, a 'boots on the ground' sort of guy.

Nevermind the fear of heights he had.

Still, he found himself laughing quietly as he reminisced on a few of the times he wound up in a bacta soak. "This one time... long, long ago, I was apart of a Rebellion. And we're searchin' for this old blaster thing worth millions of credits, right?"

It seemed he almost had a fit of the giggles, as he kept laughing to himself, shoulders shaking with mirth. "And we got this crazy onboard, right? He's killin' some Imperial, bein' noisy, basically not doing what we want him too. So finally we have enough, we decide it's time to deal with him.

Well, ol' crazy decided he didn't much care for that. Throws a grenade into the cockpit. Admiral barely makes it out in time, throwing herself from the cockpit as I throw myself onto the grenade, helmet between me and it. Were I not wearing my tac vest, I'd have died, but I lived.

But that wasn't why I was in the bacta soak for like, three weeks. No, the grenade did just enough damage that, well, the cockpit was basically shot. We crashed into the space station. Ol' crazy gets away... for a little, and I wind up in the hospital."

That is exactly the sort of story you don't laugh at... and there he is, laughing like it's the funniest thing he'd ever heard in his life. Mercenary humor was -dark-.

 

[Hazel Scheler]

Ivy listened to his story and all the while she felt her face do something involuntary. It twitched and pulled and, before she knew it, she wasn't just smiling, she was grinning. Really -grinning-. This was monumental for a woman who was still working on simply being pleasant enough to interact with again - a task she had found relentlessly daunting in face of her decision to not off herself. To try and make do with what fate had thrown her way, even it if had proven to be a miserable heap of steaming shit. She bucked up and did what she thought was impossible: she dealt with society again.

Smiles didn't follow. Kind words were hard to come by but even harder to form. She'd spent the better part of six months being a shut-in queen insofar as she didn't talk unless it was necessary. She didn't make friends and she didn't socialize. Ivy was living her life one perilous job at a time and she hadn't laughed, hadn't smiled.

Now she was grinning.

And it felt great.

"That's a good laugh you got there," she said when he finished, "good story, too."



Sarge Potteiger:
She was grinning and he was laughing, in fact it was hard to imagine tears not streaming down whatever passed for his face. Still, he managed to calm himself down with a deep, deep breath and a slow exhale.

"Thank you. I ain't the best story teller, but sometimes I can't help myself. Don't think anyone's ever said anything about my laugh before, for good or ill, so I'm especially thankful for that."

Sometimes it was the small things that highlighted a day.

Still, he tilted his head a little. "Not much of a drinker I take it?" It wasn't an accusation, far from it. But he'd yet to meet a merc who couldn't down whiskey like water, so it was only natural that he'd be curious.

"I don't much mean to offend, as you obviously accepted the offer... but I think you're the first to ever drink slow that I can remember."

 

[Hazel Scheler]

"Mm," the glass swilled in her hand, pale umber liquid trailing across the sides, "I do my best drinking when I'm alone. And I've been alone quite a bit this past year," she didn't sound resentful or even as though she were searching for pity, Ivy spoke as though it were a simple fact. Her head now tilted to the other side as she watched her drink, unsmiling, "been a while since I've had a good talk with someone that I didn't immediately want to punch."

There was a pause as she considered what she was saying and looked momentarily unimpressed with herself. With any luck she wasn't coming across as some woe-begotten beat up broad fallen on hard times, even if that was closer to the truth than she'd care to admit. Hard times had just been her life, so it was difficult to separate a challenging lifestyle from anything that might actually require the attention of another.

"Don't let me keep you though, if you've got somewhere to be or want to turn in. I know we Mercs like to keep tough, but that sun out there is hot as hell and I won't think less of anyone wanting to get out of it."



Sarge Potteiger:
He gave a slow nod, leaning forward again intently. "Trust me, I know all too well the troubles of drinking alone." It was a sad confession, one that only one other had ever known about.

Drinking himself into a near coma had been a bit of a wake up call, even if a coma was not supposed to be something you woke up from generally speaking. "It isn't pleasant, and it takes a strong will to get away from."

A sigh escaped him that was laden with sorrow, eliciting a shake of his head. "If you hadn't noticed, Haze, we are out of the sun." He laughed politely, head motioning to the rest of the cantina that was so dim as to be near nighttime. Most of the light actually came from the open door through which spilled geysers of white from outside.

"I've never been one to retreat from good company, crappy cantina or otherwise."

 

[Hazel Scheler]

Sarge rendered himself a glance from the woman that was likely the most intense look she'd given him since meeting out in the wastes. A look that spoke a hundred dark and miserable things at once. One that seemed to hold that whole long story right behind those flecks of green and rods of gold. One that wavered over his mask, almost wishing for a face to look at if for nothing else than to simply make eye contact.

It tore away shortly after, returning to that glass and all the ugly truths of the galaxy that sat glistening dully inside.

She sipped again and returned to what others might call brooding. For Ivy it was simply grim silent reflection. She snapped out of it quickly enough upon hearing her nickname. The woman looked up, seemingly startled by this news, and looked around, "Well feth, you know, it's that shiny new armor of yours - its so darn bright," she smirked.


Sarge Potteiger:
There was a long pause as visor locked on Ivy, and the man seemed to almost stiffen at the gaze she leveled at him. It was the sort of haunted look one would find on him, time and time again, were one to see him just after he turned out the lights to go to bed.

Still, he laughed quietly. "I could take it off if you wanted, but I don't think anyone here would appreciate that." She might not either, what did he know. But a joke was a joke, even if it was a partial come-on.

Standard merc fare, really. "Besides, something tells me that you, like anyone else, would prefer I not always have a helmet on."

 

[Hazel Scheler]

She smirked into another sip of her glass, the sour taste going down a bit slower now which made her realize, rather abruptly, that she no longer suffered from the sickly sweet aftertaste of bacta. Seemed like she'd gone an entire month not being able to properly enjoy her food.

Suddenly the whiskey really wasn't that bad at all.

"Hn, you keep it on if it suits you. Kind of works with this whole notion I have going that I actually dropped somewhere out in the sands and this is all just a rather elaborate hallucination." Without a face or a name to remember, she could go to sleep tonight and wake up in the morning believing just that. Though having that droid she bought in the sandcrawler would probably dampen it.



Sarge Potteiger:
"Well, how best can I ruin that notion?" He gives a snort. "I rather like being remembered, even if it is just a fuzzy after-image of something you aren't quite sure."

That was, for centuries, how he'd always been remembered. Something that existed just enough to question whether or not it truly did. It was, in a way, his calling card.

Was he? Or wasn't he?

It brought a smile to his face. "Do I have to give you my card?" He didn't have one. It was a joke. Still, it did remind him that he'd not given her any name. Maybe she'd ask, maybe not. If not, oh well.

 

[Hazel Scheler]

"/Weeeeeh-/" she said, leaning her own elbows on the table and holding her glass aloft in both hands, "you don't have a card." She didn't know this, but the wiry smirk she gave him told him it was a jib, "you gave me a grin, and that's something I'll definitely remember. Haven't had one of those in a long time."



Sarge Potteiger:
That first noise had to be the most bizarre he'd heard in awhile, although he knew what word it was leading into. "Not much for smiles these days...?", he asks with a quiet voice, almost sounding concerned.

Smiling was something everyone should do, and while in private there was little he found to be smiling about... in public he did. Even if part of it was a show, it still lifted your spirits.

 

[Hazel Scheler]

"No," she shook her head, "no not really. I don't have much of anything left to smile about anymore."



Sarge Potteiger:
"Well, if there's any way I can rectify that, let me know. There are few I believe deserve to be unhappy, and I can count those people on one hand." It took a lot to earn his scorn, but there were a handful who had earned it.

Jak was one, and Circe was another. There were more, of course, but not many, and they were ones he'd decline to name.

Still, he cared, and it sometimes hurt to show.

 

[Hazel Scheler]

Ivy watched him over her glass, finding it curiously odd to be offered smiles by a man in armor who really aught to be selling services of protection, or his skills in battle, or his ability to bring death.

"Thank you," she said in return, "as soon as I know of a way that you can you'll be the first to know." She didn't want to know who deserved to be unhappy. Being unhappy wasn't a fate she wished on anyone. Not even the man who stole her own happiness from her and crushed her heart, rend her soul, and shattered her moral grounds in the process. For him she only wish cold, absolute death.



Sarge Potteiger:
He gave a faint bit of a nod, reaching out to give a surprisingly gentle pat on her forearm. "I'm always willing to help when I can. Provided, of course, that such help is within my power to give."

Pausing momentarily, he tilted his head to the side. "If you'd be willing to come with me to my room, I can give you the name of an armorer who would be able to at least fortify your armor to preserve its integrity while keeping it scarred."

There was another pause before he quickly added, "Unless you'd rather wait here, or something." It was clear he was afraid he'd breached some sort of decorum, but what that may be, who could say.

 

[Hazel Scheler]

The pat to her arm made her drink slosh, though there wasn't, by this time, enough left to spill. The sentiment was appreciated no matter the case.

"No, that's fine, I'll go with you. Feeling a bit antsy here to be honest. Not a place I care to get too comfortable in. Cheers," with a salute of her glass she downed the last of it, enough to have filled a shotglass. Ivy was far too old to be put off by an invitation to a man's room. You wouldn't find her blushing or giggling or glancing awkwardly about - those days had passed long, long ago.



Sarge Potteiger:
Part of him knew she'd not take offense, but the part of him that had been raised to treat women with respect still wished to take care with what he said. Pulling out some credits, he set them on the table and pushed himself from the booth. Pausing momentarily before heading back out and into the blistering sunlight.

Despite it nearly being nightfall, the twin suns still bore down oppressively on his armor and suit, drawing beads of sweat to his skin immediately. In order to keep up the appearance of a Mandalorian, he'd done away with climate control.

No Mandalorian would be caught being afraid of the elements. They would take caution in extremes like this, however, to keep plenty of water on hand. "It's just down the way, outside the starport."

That was about the only place one could find lodging around here, as the rest of the settlement was businesses for the most part. Still, he waited for her at the door before heading down the busy street.

 

[Hazel Scheler]

After hoisting her bag back over her head and setting the strap over the opposite shoulder she followed out after him, pulling her goggles on and the wrap of her cloak back over her face as she stepped back out into the sunlight.

Staying sharply at his 5 'o clock, Ivy glanced around, eyes keen on the curiously different manner of bustle filling the walkways. The inhabitants of the town seemed to be in a hurry, bracing themselves against a sharp wind that had picked up from the south. The sting of sand against exposed flesh was quite profound. Ivy reached back to pull the hood of her cloak up, letting the heavy material fall just enough over the top of her head to shelter her against the gale.

She couldn't understand the warble of words around her, not for the winds and not for the language, but it didn't take a genius to figure out that a storm was on the approach.

A woman crashed into her from behind and her instinctive reaction was instant - a gloved hand lashed out to grab her arm, swinging her around nearly off her feet while the other hand moved to grab the woman at that painfully tender pressure point between the shoulder and neck. There was a momentary scuffle of frantic movements from the offender before recognition kicked in - it was no one of concern, just a girl trying to get home. Ivy released her death grip on that pressure point much to the girl's relief and gently but firmly pushed her off and on her way.

"Sandstorms must get pretty nasty around here..." the Merc commented, watching the girl disappear around a bend between carved dwellings, her voice muffled.



Sarge Potteiger:
The man looked to and fro, noting how the suns seemed darker than normal on the horizon, the blood red more of a ruddy brown. Unlike her, however, he knew most of these languages.

A storm was coming.

And apparently it's name was Hazel.

Turning, finding her hoisting a panicked looking girl, he reached out with a hand Ivy wouldn't see and plucked something from her grasp. It was something that caused a glare from her, but she was off and running in a hope that she'd not have to deal with the crazy woman in goggles again.

Turning around, he lifted his hand to wave his prize at Ivy over his shoulder as he began walking... a bit more quickly this time. It was one of her credit chits. "You're welcome...", he says sarcastically.

He'd lower his arm once she took it and there, just ahead, lay the gaping maw of the spaceport entrance. Off to it's side was a small speeder kiosk with long, winding lines that sent travelers to all sorts of destinations across the deserts.

Unlike her and he, these people didn't have their own ships, let alone their own speeders, so they paid droid pilots to drive them to their destination in a taxi.

It boosted the economy, and that was about it. Half the time the rides were stupidly expensive. Still, it beat walking across the wastes.

Walking around the back of the taxi depot, he lead her down and into one of the upiquitous Tattooine bubble homes. However, as they descended the steps, they were greeted by a small desk with a protocol droid behind.

The droid didn't greet him, it knew better. But, the desk was at the meeting point of two long hallways set up in a V shape. Outside, behind them, he could already hear the wind picking up by the faint screeching that came from the stairway.

Heading down the left hall, he stopped outside his door, seemingly in thought. Placing a hand on the pistol at his hip, he pulled out a small card and slid it into the door handle.

A beep was followed by the door sliding open, and he raised his pistol before walking in slowly.

Something was either off, or he did this regularly. "Statement: I see my travel startled you, Master."

There was a grumble as the man held the door open for her to come in. "Get out, HK, and go help the protocol droid watch the desk."

This time, the droid spoke in a manner decidedly un-droid like, giving a heavy sigh followed by a "Fiiiiiiiiiiiiine."

Rolling his eyes under his helmet, he watched as the HK droid plodded its way out of the room and down the hallway. "Take a seat, if you wish. Sorry it's not more lavish."

The room was what you'd expect from a backwater; small, sparsely furnished. His blaster rifle was propped against the wall by the bedroom door, and the only bathroom was attached to the bedroom itself rather than in what passed for the small hallway that was the 'common room'.

The only seat, incidentally, was the bed. Unless she chose the floor. Without much thought, he moved to the desk and pulled out a datapad, setting himself, back to her, as he began fiddling with it.

Pausing, he pulled off the helmet and set it aside, a crop of shaggy brown hair visible from the back as he sat tapping away at the pad.