Star Wars Roleplay: Chaos

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Private In the wake of empires

Some days allowed for dignity. Others required you to trudge sweating down a country road, towing a cart full of gently used stormtrooper armor. Kasmion's water bottle was out. He'd taken to refilling it from the helmets' small reservoirs despite the smell of stormtrooper. He had mud halfway to the knee and his clothes were likely ruined.

All that and it was barely noon.

One of the benefits of telepathy was, hopefully, the ability to mind trick yourself. "You don't need to rest," he told himself, dragging the cart implacable around a gently wooded bend and past a tempting pond. "You don't need to rest."

Aielyn Veralas Aielyn Veralas
 
Aielyn had been watching him struggle long enough to feel secondhand exhaustion. The armor, the mud, the sheer stubborn refusal to stop. Either he was desperate, stupid, or just too far gone to care.

She adjusted her hood, stepping into his path with deliberate ease—not blocking, just giving him a reason to look up.

"You're going to break before that cart does." Her voice was even, almost bored, but her gaze was sharp. She let the silence hang a moment, watching for his reaction.

Then, tilting her head, she added, "How much of that effort is profit, and how much is pride?"

Kasmion Duum Kasmion Duum
 
"I do not break," said Kasmion Duum. He stopped - because he could see no clear way around and wasn't ready to run her over yet -and let the cart sink back on its haunches. He couldn't place her species, not with those oddly marbled eyes. Some kind of Arkanian offshoot, possibly. She looked like she'd seen good days but not recently, and he knew that feeling. His irritation plateaued out of a measured amount of sympathy.

"I have made a life from nothing," he said, "with pride and profit as my tools. Why would pride be beneath you? Do you have any of your own?"

Aielyn Veralas Aielyn Veralas
 
Aielyn smirked—pride. Of all things. A word that clung to her like a stubborn thread of silk, even here, even now.

She blinked, stepping aside without thinking, only then realizing she'd been standing in his way. Not to help. Not to hinder. Just…there.

The realization struck like a dull blow to the ribs. Pride. It had always been beneath her actions, so woven into the fabric of her life that she had never questioned it. Why should she? Back home, it was a given. A luxury she never had to earn.

But here—out on the fringes, stripped of everything familiar—pride had no place. And yet, there it was, holding her still, making her hesitate.

She didn't reply, didn't argue. Just stood there, expression caught between irritation and a quiet, unsettling truth.

Kasmion Duum Kasmion Duum
 
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When Aielyn Veralas Aielyn Veralas stepped aside, wordless, Kasmion started pushing again. The cart lurched ahead in a clatter of stormtrooper armour.

"Difficult times," he said by way of invitation to walk and talk. "But opportunities abound when empires collapse. What brought you to-" Gods, what world was this anyway, out of all the territories of the recently departed Empire of the Lost? "-Danuta."

A brownish, hardscrabble, deeply rural world, a pit-stop off the Mara Corridor. It had seen horrific violence here at the edge of the so-called Scar Worlds when he was a boy.
 
Aielyn watched him with muted curiosity, listening as he spoke, his words grounding her in the moment—something she sorely needed. When he motioned for her to walk with him, she fell into step, boots sinking into the mud with each squelching footfall. Unpleasant, but manageable.

A piece of armor tumbled free from the cart, landing in the grime with a dull clunk. She bent down, retrieving it, tapping the surface with gloved fingers, now dusted in dirt.

"Well…" she exhaled, following his gaze over the bleak surroundings before offering a small, resigned shrug. "I was left here. Someone I hired to take me to the Core Worlds decided I wasn't worth the fuel."

She didn't know where here was, not really. The name of this world meant nothing to her. Beyond Valisca Prime, there had only been the stars—a hollow, endless stretch of nothing she barely understood. Despite all their advancements, her people rarely spoke of anywhere but Coruscant, as if the rest of the galaxy existed only in theory.

The realization gnawed at her.

To the greater galaxy, her home wasn't important. Not big enough to matter. Not on a major hyperspace route. A forgotten world on the fringes, tucked away in blissful irrelevance.

And now, so was she.

Kasmion Duum Kasmion Duum
 
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'One foot ahead of the other' was a cliche but a useful one. Kasmion kept going. The path looped around a bend and angled gently down. In the next valley over was his vessel, an old expeditionary frigate called the Nightshift undergoing maintenance at a fuel depot. He paused at the top of the gentle slope to catch his breath and feel his satisfaction.

"I can't promise to take you anywhere interesting or any closer to the Core," he said, "but your lift mass is negligible. You're welcome to hitchhike to our next port of call down the Mara."

Aielyn Veralas Aielyn Veralas
 
Aielyn had kept pace with him, though the incline had done her no favors. The muscles in her legs ached from the steady movement, but she refused to let it show beyond a measured breath as she took in the view ahead. The valley stretched below, rugged and quiet save for the faint glint of a vessel in the distance—the Nightshift, she presumed. It wasn't much, but it was more than she had a moment ago.

She glanced toward Kasmion as he spoke, his offer casual, practical. There was no grand overture of hospitality, no embellishment, just the simple truth of what he was willing to give. And for now, that was enough.

Aielyn rolled her shoulders, loosening the residual strain of their trek. "Closer to the Core or not, it's a direction," she murmured, eyes fixed on the ship below. Her voice was even, but there was an undercurrent of consideration there—calculation masked as acceptance.

A beat of silence stretched between them, the wind kicking up dust at their feet. Then, she exhaled lightly, turning toward him with a faint, knowing smirk. "Besides, I doubt interesting is something you have to promise. It tends to find people like us whether we want it to or not."

With that, she started forward again, the slope before them offering little choice but to keep moving.

Kasmion Duum Kasmion Duum
 
The cart's weight shoved at him, but resisting it on this incline used different muscles than the trudge along the mostly-level path. Kasmion knotted his jaw and led the cart through a controlled descent into the small valley, down to the frigate's landing gear.

The ship had a small crew and worker droids. Help came to unload. A Togorian quartermaster passed him a drink bulb and Kasmion sat on the edge of a loading ramp and drank. "One for her too if she wants it," he said, "and get her a code to one of the empty cabins. She's riding along as far as Chalacta."

A bit of a ways down the Mara Corridor, across the Mandalorian border, in the fringes of Mando space. It had seen a rapid but contained invasion some time ago. Not the safest space, but nowhere was.

"I'm Kasmion Duum," he said belatedly. "This is Meslek."

Aielyn Veralas Aielyn Veralas
 
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Aielyn stood at the edge of the loading ramp, fingers idly tracing the smooth curve of the drink bulb as she glanced toward the ship. It wasn't pristine, but it was sturdy—functional. She had little experience with ships, but this one seemed… real, in a way that mattered.

She took a sip, letting the cool liquid settle as Kasmion spoke. Chalacta. The name meant nothing to her, but then again, neither had most places before she stepped foot in them. The stars stretched vast before her, their names mapped by others but unfamiliar to her own tongue.

"Aielyn Veralas," she offered at last, her accent giving the Basic a softer lilt. "Vah'ren esai, arith velan."

She hesitated a moment, then let her gaze drift back toward Kasmion.

"I don't know Chalacta," she admitted, expression thoughtful rather than uncertain. "Is it dangerous?"

Her knowledge of the galaxy was growing, piece by piece, but she was still learning which places came with warning signs—and which only seemed that way from a distance.

"Or just… far?"

She took another sip, letting the question hang between them, a quiet curiosity behind her words.

Kasmion Duum Kasmion Duum
 
"Chalacta's peaceful," he said between drinks, "but I doubt it always was. There's a religion there whose adepts have the ability to shrug off torture. I can't imagine they developed that in isolation. Maybe they're putting it to use now that the Mandalorians rule their sector."

He tucked the empty bulb away to feed back into the matter recyclers.

"It's hundreds of light-years away, but it's down the Mara Corridor, which is a super-hyperlane like the Hydian or the Perlemian, the first new one in thousands of years. The trip should only take, depending on complications, hours or days. We have errands on Chalacta but it's only a port of call along the way."

What language she'd spoken just then was unknown to him, but he'd picked up the vague and general sentiment of greeting, telepath that he was.

Aielyn Veralas Aielyn Veralas
 
Aielyn listened in measured silence, her fingers idly pressing against the table's edge. The name Chalacta was unfamiliar to her, but the weight behind his words was not.

"Peace rarely comes without a cost," she murmured, her voice carrying that same fluid grace, vowels elongated, consonants softened. "If they have learned to endure suffering, it is because suffering once taught them well."

Her gaze flickered downward, as if tracing unseen lines upon the surface before her. The idea of a people mastering pain, enduring it without surrender—it was something that stirred unease within her. A lesson learned so deeply that it had become a part of their existence.

She exhaled softly, the distant hum of the ship's systems threading through the quiet. "A super-hyperlane," she echoed, though the term meant little to her. Navigation was not her realm of expertise, but the sheer speed implied was unsettling. Distances that should be vast, compressed into mere hours.

Her eyes lifted, studying him. "Your errands," she said slowly, tilting her head, "are they truly on Chalacta… or merely beyond it?"

She had traveled long enough to know that destinations were rarely as simple as they seemed.

Kasmion Duum Kasmion Duum
 
Still seated on the ramp, rubbing his knees, Kasmion watched the Togorian quartermaster wrap up their business here - cargo loaded and unloaded, fuel conduits unlatched and hauled away. Kasmion got up.

"This ship keeps moving," he said. "There's no end destination until the day we run out of fuel. Our home ports - lets head in - are several."

He headed up the ramp alongside a pit droid that carried armor by the armful.

Inside, the old starship was shabby, hard-edged, dignified, and somewhat spacious. It had been designed as a long-range multi-mission vessel, and handwritten wayfinding signs covered indicators of advanced systems this ship no longer had.

There were, Aielyn Veralas Aielyn Veralas would notice, many weapons around.
 
Aielyn stepped inside, her gaze flickering over the interior with quiet calculation. The ship had the air of something worn but resilient, a vessel that had seen more than its fair share of time in the void. Its bones were old, but they still held together—patched, repurposed, stripped of what once made it whole yet still standing. She could respect that.

Her steps were slow but steady, absorbing details without making it obvious. Handwritten signs marked systems no longer in place, a patchwork of necessity over lost precision. A ship like this had history, and history was rarely without cost.

Then there were the weapons. Not concealed, not tucked away, but present. Functional. Kept close enough to suggest habit, not paranoia. A precaution, or a way of life? She wasn't certain yet.

Her fingers brushed lightly against the edge of a bulkhead as she walked, feeling the faint hum of the ship's systems beneath her touch. "No end destination," she echoed, more to herself than anyone else. "A fitting way to live, I suppose."

A pause, measured but not hesitant. "How often does this ship stop?" A question wrapped in casual curiosity—because a vessel like this didn't drift without purpose, even if it had no final port in mind.

Kasmion Duum Kasmion Duum
 
"We land or dock every few days or weeks. We have no regular route."

Kasmion scraped mud off his boots at a bolted-down boot-scraper near the top of the ramp. There was a sitting area nearby where people could wait or play dejarik or just catch their breath. He put his empty drink bulb into its matter reclamator port and sat down at a long table. Down at the other end, deckhands were settling down to pass the time. The ship trembled. It was getting ready to lift off.

"I have business and humanitarian interests. Right now our cargo includes seedlings, ova, and weapons for the Ithorian Foreign Legion, for example."

Aielyn Veralas Aielyn Veralas
 
Aielyn moved without urgency, but with intent.

She had felt the faint tremor beneath her feet—the subtle shift of a vessel preparing to leave port, the quiet promise of forward motion. Always moving, never lingering. A familiar rhythm.

She watched as he scraped the mud from his boots, a small act that spoke volumes. Practical. Unceremonious. A man accustomed to travel, to impermanence.

Her steps carried her toward the table, though she did not immediately sit. Instead, her fingers traced along the edge of a seat, the briefest pause before lowering herself into it.

"No regular route." The words left her lips with a quiet finality, more observation than question.

She glanced toward the deckhands at the far end of the table before returning her focus to him.

"And yet, somehow, you always seem to have a destination."

Her tone was not sharp, nor was it accusatory—merely contemplative. A statement of fact laced with something unreadable.

His mention of humanitarian interests did not go unnoticed, nor did the balance of his cargo. Seedlings. Life. Weapons. Death.

A quiet contradiction, carried without hesitation.

"A noble cause," she said at last, studying him. "Or a practical one?"

Because at the end of the day, she knew—every act of generosity came at a price. The only question was who would be paying it.

Kasmion Duum Kasmion Duum
 
"A false dichotomy," he said instantly, "and I'll tell you why."

He weighed and leashed the urge to disclose in detail. He was passionate about these things and holding back was an effort when he was so tired.

"Most causes and ideologies are worthless and self-indulgent. Any cause worth your time is grounded in the practical necessity of carving out safety and dignity."

The Ithorian diaspora faced demands his people knew well, and doing this kind of work for them benefitted his people too, what was left of them after the Draelvasier burned Kesh.

Aielyn Veralas Aielyn Veralas
 
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Aielyn studied him for a moment, silent save for the quiet hum of the ship beneath them. There was no judgment in her expression—only curiosity, tempered by the weight of understanding. His words resonated, not because she agreed entirely, but because they carried something she had heard before.

"Safety and dignity." The words left her lips like an observation rather than an agreement. "You speak of necessity, but tell me—how often does necessity ask permission?"

Her gaze flickered, distant for a moment. She had once believed duty was enough. That if one carried the burden long enough, if they held their ground against the tide, they could shape the world into what it was meant to be.

She had been wrong.

"The causes we serve, the choices we make—practicality does not absolve us of consequence." She exhaled, slow, deliberate, before meeting his gaze again. "Survival is an instinct, but survival alone is not purpose."

Her fingers tapped lightly against the surface of the table, a quiet rhythm as she tilted her head. "So tell me—do you carve out safety because you must, or because you still believe in something greater?"

Kasmion Duum Kasmion Duum
 
He knew when he flinched at that comment — necessity asking permission — but there was no helping it. Truth be told he'd done at least his share of harm.

"I carve it out because it's that or death. I'm Keshiri. My world burned when I was a boy. I grew up in camps and interstices, my whole generation did. Nothing you're speaking of is hypothetical. I made choices with consequences daily, Aielyn, while Senators and Jedi shared their deep concern and took their publicity shots. Democracy, faith, light, virtue — everything that claimed it's worth believing in had no interest in my people. Show me something that actually is and I'll consider it. It would be nice to believe in something."

Aielyn Veralas Aielyn Veralas
 
Aielyn's gaze didn't waver, but something in her expression shifted—not quite sympathy, not quite understanding, but the quiet weight of someone who had felt the edges of that same disillusionment. He spoke of choices, of consequences. She had lived under duty's weight long before she understood its cost, but never like this.

"And yet, you're still here." Her voice was even, not dismissive but measured, as if weighing his words with the same care he had. "Still making choices. Still carving out something."

Her fingers tapped absently against the table, the rhythm slow, deliberate. "I won't offer you faith, or virtue, or any of the things that abandoned your people when it mattered most. I won't ask you to believe in banners or orders that hold no weight beyond the credits they bring in." A pause. A long breath. "But if necessity is all that's left, then tell me this—when is it enough?"

She leaned forward slightly, studying him. "When do you stop carving and say this is it? When do you stop surviving and start building something that no longer needs to be fought for?"

Her jaw tightened for the briefest moment before she forced the tension away.
"I ask because I don't know the answer myself."

Kasmion Duum Kasmion Duum
 

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