Zandra Tal'verda
Lady Luck
Mandalore
Zandra didn't miss the planet anymore when she was gone. She didn't feel homesick, simply because this wasn't home. Not anymore. Home was where he was. And he was gone. Dead. No body was found, but after so many years of denial, searching the Galaxy for a ghost, asking every person she ran into 'have you seen this man?', she was starting to realize that she'd been stupid to deny it. Nine long years and she was finally starting to wake up.
The echani stepped off of her ship. She didn't know exactly where she was, but she was absolutely on Mandalore. Somewhere. And they probably had somewhere to get a drink or two. Who knew? Maybe she'd find a good spice dealer. Then she could get ol' Zax The Beautiful the repairs she needed. Pirating was hard on the old freighter. She was ancient, falling apart. In fact, as she walked down, part of the guard rail snapped off. The old pirate woman bit her lip, shrugged, and tossed the rushed chunk of metal onto the cold ground. Oh well. Not a necessary part of the ship anyways.
She shivered. It must be winter here. She didn't pay attention to the seasons on the planets anymore. Stupid of her, really. She was dressed like a street walker. Tiny shorts, torn up tanktop, dirty white thigh-highs. But at least she had a jacket. Always with that old jacket. Nine years she'd carried it. His jacket. It was like a security blanket now. She took it with her everywhere, patched it when the old leather got holes in it, re-sewed buttons that fell off. Now it was like a monster from a bad holo, revived from the dead so many times, a decaying corpse, a patchwork of old clothing, mismatched, fraying. But it had been his. That was important.
The old Echani stuffed her hands into the jacket pocket, fishing out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She lit up with shaking hands. Withdrawal was rough. She was trying to quit, trying to handle her spice addiction, but when she didn't get it she got.... cranky. Smoking sometimes helped. Sometimes.
She stopped in front of a somewhat familiar looking cantina. Had she been here before? Probably. She was everywhere. Went everywhere. A pirate. No boarders. It was the greatest freedom someone could have. But it was lonely. She sat down at a table. The place was dead. She supposed drinking this early in the morning was not a normal thing to do. The bar tender didn't even look up at her. Silence. She was used to silence now.
Without a word, a drink was set in front of her. She frowned at the bright blue liquid, confused. How did he know what she wanted? She must have been here before. Actually, now that she really looked, that burn on the table looked familiar too. And that crack in the wall.
"Been a while since I've been here..."
Zandra didn't miss the planet anymore when she was gone. She didn't feel homesick, simply because this wasn't home. Not anymore. Home was where he was. And he was gone. Dead. No body was found, but after so many years of denial, searching the Galaxy for a ghost, asking every person she ran into 'have you seen this man?', she was starting to realize that she'd been stupid to deny it. Nine long years and she was finally starting to wake up.
The echani stepped off of her ship. She didn't know exactly where she was, but she was absolutely on Mandalore. Somewhere. And they probably had somewhere to get a drink or two. Who knew? Maybe she'd find a good spice dealer. Then she could get ol' Zax The Beautiful the repairs she needed. Pirating was hard on the old freighter. She was ancient, falling apart. In fact, as she walked down, part of the guard rail snapped off. The old pirate woman bit her lip, shrugged, and tossed the rushed chunk of metal onto the cold ground. Oh well. Not a necessary part of the ship anyways.
She shivered. It must be winter here. She didn't pay attention to the seasons on the planets anymore. Stupid of her, really. She was dressed like a street walker. Tiny shorts, torn up tanktop, dirty white thigh-highs. But at least she had a jacket. Always with that old jacket. Nine years she'd carried it. His jacket. It was like a security blanket now. She took it with her everywhere, patched it when the old leather got holes in it, re-sewed buttons that fell off. Now it was like a monster from a bad holo, revived from the dead so many times, a decaying corpse, a patchwork of old clothing, mismatched, fraying. But it had been his. That was important.
The old Echani stuffed her hands into the jacket pocket, fishing out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She lit up with shaking hands. Withdrawal was rough. She was trying to quit, trying to handle her spice addiction, but when she didn't get it she got.... cranky. Smoking sometimes helped. Sometimes.
She stopped in front of a somewhat familiar looking cantina. Had she been here before? Probably. She was everywhere. Went everywhere. A pirate. No boarders. It was the greatest freedom someone could have. But it was lonely. She sat down at a table. The place was dead. She supposed drinking this early in the morning was not a normal thing to do. The bar tender didn't even look up at her. Silence. She was used to silence now.
Without a word, a drink was set in front of her. She frowned at the bright blue liquid, confused. How did he know what she wanted? She must have been here before. Actually, now that she really looked, that burn on the table looked familiar too. And that crack in the wall.
"Been a while since I've been here..."
