Malachor V: Day of the Free Festival (Open to All)

[Otho Rendoro]

As the freighter noisily made the descent into the atmosphere, Otho had felt it. A horrible feeling of dread and anticipation had welled up within him, that made the wide and cavernous mouths on either side of his face involuntarily fill with bitter saliva. He had felt a horrid pressure in his guts that made him feel pent up, like an anxious Ronto desperate for a cool drink of water. The dimensions of the ship had not been engineered with Otho Rendoro in mind and as the fractious gravity of the planet took hold, the Ithorian had felt like a beast in a trap and the snares were tightening around his leg.

The XO had told him that he had reached his destination: a formerly barren world called Malachor V, that had been struck by an ancient superweapon and was being recolonized and hailed as the Smuggler’s Moon of the Outer Rim. The name had registered dimly in Otho’s mind but his understanding of history was substandard at best; if he had devoted more time to it, perhaps he would have known of the wounds of Malachor. Unfortunately, he did not have the luxury of choosing his destination after escaping from Taris and to dispose of their “expensive cargo”, the old space captain chose to deposit Otho on a new frontier.

Otho was slowly bathed in dull crimson as the ramp descended from the belly of the cargo ship. A hiss of pneumatic mechanisms shivered into the open space and Otho started forward, a simple pack of green canvas strapped on his back. Both arms were tucked into the short black jacket that was pulled just over the hump on his back – there were pockets available on both sides and he had taken to concealing his aching left arm as much as he could. While the ships’ medical droid at scoured the burnt stump of his arm and prevented infection from setting in as the wound closed, Otho had no opportunity to procure a prosthesis.

As Otho descended the ramp, he heard a barking voice from inside the ship behind him.

“Wait!” it said, raspy from the dry air of the ship’s recycled atmosphere. Otho turned his head and exposed one narrowed eye to the aged captain. Otho has seen him drink hard every night of their voyage, and earlier this morning he refused to set down in Firewall because he said you never can trust a masterless droid, that dealing with a masterless droid was like juggling with live thermal detonators.

“Listen if you can make a few thousand in a couple days we can talk about getting you off this rock.” Of course the old geezer wanted more money – kick the critter while he was down. “You might want to head over to a place called the Blight Lounge and keep your ear to the ground. Once you get out of this dump, make for the Citadel and walk until you get to the Lounge.”

Otho raised his hand and grumbled thanks out of his right mouth. Otho’s heavy, measured footfalls plodded down the ramp. He raised his head toward the tall structures casting the low light that seemed to be one of the only major light sources in the city. He inhaled mightily and let out a gurgling sigh from his throats. There had been no day or night on Nar Shaddaa, either. At least Taris still rotated on its axis.

Otho stepped onto the street and made a concerned noise at the contrast. While the spaceport was well-kept and relatively orderly, even the streets upon which excited revelers trod seemed marked with paint, with fume and alcohol-fueled singers belting out songs of courage and rebellion. Crowds of people and their friends parted as Otho passed them; he cut a swath through any number of people even when he bent his knees. His peripheral vision caught the occasional stare from many of the humans, so small and wiry and mobile compared to his bulk. The Ithorian was used to their stares and in this part of the city, most of those around him seemed to be human. Be that as it may, Otho spotted every variety of human and near-human under the dim red lights of the battered city. He passed multiple murals that depicted the same human girl-child. “No chains for the unchained!” read a slogan underneath one. “Our planet, our way!” proclaimed another. These people did not see their chains, did not see that violence and wont and desire were their masters. The smell of it was everywhere and it stung Otho as he trudged. The citadel, he had been told on the freighter, dominated the skyline of the Tainted City and looked completely different from everything around it. For a moment when his eye fell upon it, Otho was staggered by a pulling on him, like all the gravity in the world was centered around whatever lay beyond it. It was like the rumble of thunder with no cloud, or the promise of sensual and sensory delights just out of reach.

His other senses were constantly rocked by noise; drums and strings banged and pluck, voices melding with their melodies. He passed a group of pale, bald humans working silently and in tandem amidst the flashes of welding torches and the sparks and screeches of grinding metal. Moving like a well-oiled machine, they were assembling a sculpture as Otho passed. He heard booming music as a human and his trio of escorts disappeared into a cavern of bass, cries of revelry and laser light. He smelled exotic spices covering up unspeakable meats being devoured in steamed buns.

The noise of it all was so tasking. It made his left arm throb and he felt a twitch, a muscle trying to flex a hand that no longer existed. His jaws tightened, pursing his lips as he lowered his head and plodded on towards the Blight Lounge with determination, the fortified and gleaming citadel teasing his perceptions the whole way.

 

[Klesta]

"Transfer Essence? That's out of my league, I'm afraid"

Truth to be told, Yula wasn't a whole lot more advanced than [member="Darth Manah"] as a Force-user. Sure she knew Force-fear, Drain Knowledge or other dark-sided Force-powers, but she was far away from being a full-fledged Sith Lord or Dark Jedi Master. As they flew south, on a course that led them directly towards the Tainted City, Yula could sense that she would be forced to land because something would end up feeding off her dark side energy, even though after she lands, she feels as if she will be forced to use the dark side of the Force to actually face the opposition she is to face down in the Tainted City itself and get the upper hand. As they are just a few kilometers away from the Tainted City itself, she finally takes her time to refute the statement Lord Manah appeared to be making, and also making fun at her expense. Then again, to Yula there was no honor among thieves so she feels free to kill other bandits if necessary to steal from them. Like those bandits smuggling orbalisks!

"Force-fear, Force-lightning, Force-cloak and Drain Knowledge are likely to be nothing new to you, but these are the most advanced things I know"

 

[Manah]

" ahh [member="Yula Knezevic"] how can i explain it? " Mana asked rhetoricaly.
" ii had a lot of skills a lot that i can not now aces. the skills are all there in my mind but it is blocked. "
she explained.
" Think of it as a loss of.. muscle memory. it will be like re learning to walk again. "

 

[Klesta]

"We have arrived at the Tainted City"

But, as they arrive closer to the Tainted City, she feels drawn to that someone or something that attempts to feed on her dark side energy; while the travel advisory warned them from traveling to the red light district, she feels that she has to deal with that entity that can somehow feed on her dark side energy as well as [member="Darth Manah"]'s - and that something is right in the red light district. Probably some bandit gang that funds itself using smuggling or kidnappings as a basis, she thought. And she is marveled at the craftsmanship behind those graffiti and urban art, even in the Urban District: this is graffiti as high art. But once the craft has landed, a few suspiciously shady figures close in on the pair of Sith, with perhaps some of them perceiving Yula as a juicy target for rape. Before they could close in, the forward bandit received a Force-lightning bolt from Yula's off-hand, with Yula drawing one lightsaber from her main hand.

"They warned us about the red light district being host to a gang of rapists, gang-raping unsuspecting dark-sider females... it looks that they are coming our way! Draw your lightsabers!" she yelled in Darth Manah's direction.

 

[Ras'kala'han]

Antherion stepped - well, stumbled - back from his work. It was the girl, more specifically The Girl: The rallying banner that Malachor had taken in its fight against facism, irrespective of whether or not it currently churned in the outstretched palm of a Dark Lord of the Sith, arguably an embodiment of facism. But who would he be to judge?

A Sith. So he smiled softly at the folly of the people of Malachor, who will never be truly free.

He lacked steady hands now - to do anything with, honestly. He could hardly pilot his shuttle, so painting was out of the question. Still, with the Force, he was able to make a small something - a work in mostly flat colors, the proportions exaggeratedly geometric. The girl was there, but the fire in her eyes was now a literal, burning fire. Her right hand was missing, an empty stump. Behind her was a simple, black-and-red pyramid. Plain text underneath read:

"Once our world - always our world!" A slogan of rebellion? Yes. But it was more than that - it was a message. The girl was no girl in this picture, but an aspect of Typhojem, the left-handed god of the ancient Sith. A subtle note to anyone 'in the know', so to speak. This world still belongs to the Sith. He nodded, somewhat taken by his own cleverness, as Antherion always was.

Then, he remembered why he was here. Not just to assert his own superiority, that came as naturally to him as breathing did. Rather, it was also to get a 'feel' for Malachor, to swim in the petri dish and get a picture smaller and more telling than any microscopic glance. Also, in all honesty, he was hungry. Such rituals as eating seemed disgustingly mortal to him, horribly mundane, but he wasn't yet to the point where it was convenient to sustain himself entirely on stolen life energy.

So he swam. He was crippled, thin, limping - yet he still had a fluid grace in his motions, a smooth calmness in his demeanor. He was determined to let his dignity not be extinguished by this.

He pursed his lips, the thrumming of the crowd, the flashing of the lights, the intensity of the music all growing only stronger as he pressed forwards. This sensation was, at the very least, exquisite. People lived their lives with such desperate intensity in this day and age compared to so many years ago, as though they had finally learned that theirs could end on another's whim.

He pressed forwards. 'Blight Lounge', the sign said. Interesting indeed.

| [member="Darth Abyss"] | [member="Otho Rendoro"] | [member="Yula Knezevic"] | [member="Darth Manah"] |

 

[Otho Rendoro]

The labyrinthine streets of the Tainted City defied order. Everywhere, Otho saw machines and metal that had been cruelly chopped apart and reassembled to the owners’ whims and the Ithorian grimaced with a mixture of displeasure and wonder. The few who were tame by comparison to others were buried amidst hordes of sentients. As the ramshackle recycled city closed around him, side streets bled off in every dimension from the main thoroughfare.

Otho stopped for a moment when out of his right eye he saw it. A lot off the side of the street was slightly fenced and a group of humanoids were packed as tight as crystallized ant-flies. There was no unity among their dress, only their answer and Otho grumbled curiously as he listened to their chant. They all faced the same way, to a blurry and amorphous holographic image, swirled cloak. As they stood, he could hear their voices lifted in unison: “He will not unite us. He will not unite us. He will NOT unite us!” It rose and fell with their voices, sometimes high and strident, sometimes low and conspiratorial.

The fools had already been united. Otho kept moving with a burble of discontent, digging his arms further into his coat as the wind howled, carrying the reek of humans and a sickly-sweet smell from the east, drowning out the voices of the chanters. Human and alien bodies pressed up against him on all sides but none of them seemed focused on him, as his cautious eyes peered carefully on their stalks. Sweat and smoke and drink muddled into a heady cocktail of desperate abandon as the crowd thickened and the through-ways narrowed. On the steps of makeshift buildings were voices lifted to the solidarity of all people and revolution. A blonde human woman had cut her hair to look like the child from the murals and had a crowd whipped into a fever pitch as Otho shifted to his side.

“All beings in the galaxy have but one right!” she called, her voice clear and lusty with emotion. “That right, brothers and sisters, is to live without their rights abridged!” The crowd cheered wildly.

“We here in the City of the Unchained threw back the remnants of the broken Empire!” An exclamation point of cheers, fists raised to the tortured skies of Malachor V. “We need no ailing democratic institutions. We do not need an Alliance or a Republic!” Again, raucous cheers. “In this place, we can be free!” This time, the crowd cheered and stamped their feet. This was not for Malachor, this was a rally for themselves; their lives were devoid of direction and outbursts like this helped to reduce criminality and built some shared sense of morale.

“The free association of peoples will never be abridged, like the Empire of old would have it! All beings can be free, together!” Otho glanced around quickly.

Fantastic. She was referring to him.

“Tell the crowd, Ithorian!” she began in a quavering voice that hushed the crowd. Eighty sets of eyes fell upon him. “Are we not all one free people?”

For a moment, Otho remained still. He withdrew his good arm and pointed at his chest inquisitively, sweeping his head from side to side as if to search the area. His eyes afforded him considerable peripheral vision and so it was for them that he did this.

“Y…yes, you!”

His gaze remained blank and neutral. And then, his contribution to the din of the Tainted City came alive. He felt a giddy tickle in one of his throats as he belted out a quick sound. A harsh laugh, quickly and fleeting in stereo, followed up by a bubbling cackle. The crowd looked at him, many of them stunned. Others, he could almost feel their anger seething like a prickle of rage on his skull.

“Lady,” he said brusquely, his voice rumbling from two mouths in an assertive basso. “I couldn’t give a swiving bantha choobie about what you think freedom is. You work all day for someone who don’t live in scrap – that ain't freedom.” He turned and took several lumbering steps, pushing aside members of the dumbstruck crowd.

“You traded one master for another.”

As he made his way past the scowling faces, Otho let out another self-satisfied guffaw.

“Freedom, ha!”

The laser-blasted lounge couldn't be far now. Otho sighed heavily and his eyes darted nervously, touching upon the east once again.

 

[Manah]

" As if this constitutes a threat. " mana sneered as she gestured making a cliched fist gesture ripping the blasters from there hands.
have the Force users of this age become so weak that sa mear swoop gang begone a threat,?
" this is nothing compaired to the Infanit empire. watch this." this was going to be fun.
she pointed to one a random female chiss. " this one had a heavy lunch. " sue reached out relaxing the woman's organs and sphincter then forced her bowels and stomach to violently empty.
" that i created as a child" she grinned looking over to [member="Yula Knezevic"]

Spoiler

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GGS6lK9D5iU

 

[Klesta]

"To be fair, I'm a little new to the whole business of the dark side"

The female Chiss has been incapacitated by virtue of her organs and sphincter being relaxed by one [member="Darth Manah"], but that was just one of the swoop gangs. With Force-lightning, Yula was able to kill the weakened female Chiss, while simultaneously deflecting the shots fired by the surprised swoop gang members in a dank alleyway, not realizing that she can pierce into the soul of one of them, a Graug thug, and it was even easier to induce fear by piercing into the soul while passing on her own fears onto the Graug. Even easier than doing it to Daisy or Pixie. By now the Graug thugs should be fleeing the scene, horrified by what two Sith acolytes could do to the swoop gang; yet, with nowhere to go, it was possible that the gang was eating their own shots, especially the Graug thugs, who accidentally cracked open a crate in their escape. The contents of the crate cracked open by the frightened Graug thugs in their escape began crawling up to Yula's body, drawn to her for some reason. These are parasites but one of the remaining swoop gang members, a male Pantoran, ate the deflected shot, getting injured in the process.

 

[Otho Rendoro]

He had to applaud the vivacity of these people. In the spite of wreckage and want, there were dancing bodies and smiles in rictus grins of glee in every direction and Otho could feel palpable exhilaration in mounting with every step forward he took, the looming tower in the distance piercing the skies of the marred planet. Whenever his gaze fell upon it, Otho felt the skin of their revelry peeled back, the rottenness of men’s hearts laid bare as their frivolity was paraded in full. The sickening hollowness of his stomach did nothing to improve his mood, the density of the people and the low light of the city impairing his navigation.

Luckily for him, street artists of all sorts had put up signs and tags with the word BLIGHT in large letters: some were dripping spray paint hastily yet artfully affixed to a cannibalized hull or a rare piece of battered wood, an alien thing in this land of fabricated things, with scenes of debauchery and mayhem lovingly displayed upon it. His hunger frustrated his conscious mind but sharpened other parts of his awareness, leaving the Ithorian feeling testy and unsteady as he proceeded in his lumbering gait.

The entrance was marked not only by signage but by an unconscious recognition of his own kind milling about: not aliens, although there was a small increase in that proportion as well. Most of the revelers in the city had a manic and unfocused way about them. They were carefree in a way that professional criminals weren’t when they were working and as he entered the Blight Lounge, he was greeted to a scene of unbridled wheeling and dealing. A low scoff of grudging admiration escape his throats as he pushed his way through crowds of milling beings. He needed to get to the terminal at the end of the bar and see if someone other than himself was even capable of getting something done right.

The terminal was battered and unoccupied, tucked into the corner and badly maintained. The case at the rear of the computer was raked with scratches and covered in crude stickers and paint. Working awkwardly with his right hand, he shuffled into a seat and was greeted with technicolor, peeling stickers arrayed around a credit chip slot and a coin slot.

The balding humanoid behind the bar flicked their wrist and a coaster spun in front of Otho. The being scratched its beard and in an androgynous alto inquired as to his drink order.

“One water and one whi-“

Otho stopped himself abruptly, his words bubbling in his throat as he looked down somberly. He used to order two drinks and direct them to either mouth to enjoy libations and hydration but now it might not be so easy until he solved his current problem.

“Just whiskey,” he grumbled, his thick brown fingers slamming a credit coin into the computer. The bartender scurried off, one of Otho’s eyes following it for a moment as the other focused on the computer screen. It was proceeding in a sludgy manner, the internal components of the machine whining even among the din of the Blight Lounge. By the time the surly being returned with his drink, Otho’s temper was rising quickly between the clumsiness of his nondominant hand and the machine’s refusal to respond to his ministrations.

“What the hell is wrong with this sodding piece of filth?” His grumble was low but punctuated, like the angry yet inquisitive bark of a beast.

“Beats me,” the bartender replied. “Hasn’t been working well for weeks. You’re welcome to have a look if you want smarty-pants, everybody else does.” The being waited pointedly for a moment and Otho grunted before throwing more coins down on the bar. It put a hand on its curvy hip, squaring its round yet broad shoulders.

“What about my tip? It’s all I get paid!”

Otho broke his attention from the screen and leaned forward and down, his long neck extending over the bar.

“I’ve got a tip for you,” he said, his voice velvet and challenging.

“Get a better job!” he exclaimed from both mouths, his Basic echoing before he howled in infectious laughter. A peal of mirth leapt up as several of the other patrons around him burst out laughing and Otho scornfully threw a coin on the floor at the bartender’s feet, working carefully before turning the rear of the terminal towards him and setting to work upon it.

|[member="Antherion"]|

 

[Manah]

Honoko sneared at [member="Yula Knezevic"] " For pity's sake . " shr gestured lifting the beast by the neck and snapped it.
" Pitty is for the weak. a living enemy if a future enemy. " she sad as she unclasp her hand doping the corps.
" So do we have any more idiots willing to die buy our hands? or can we move unimpeded? " she reached out in to the force and added a touch of fear in to the air making all those susceptible with the emotion,

 

[Klesta]

"You will open the bomb bay" she told the remaining NFU bandit with a mind trick.

"I will open the bomb bay"

"You will load these orbalisks onto the bomb bay"

"I will load these orbalisks onto the bomb bay"

The mind-tricked NFU bandit, whose blaster was broken down in the commotion that led to the Graug smashing open the orbalisk crate in their panicked flight, began loading the contents of the smashed orbalisk crates into the bomb bay of Yula's craft, which meant that she will have to return on Ziost on the double with her being unable to draw upon the Force, not even to relieve the orbalisk-induced pain. My dark-side energy is being drained, and faster than I can use it. If I survive this, I will dispose of this idiot once these orbalisks are loaded, she thought, while these orbalisks contained in the crates latched on her skin, feeding off her dark-side energy, making it all the more painful for each additional orbalisk that finds a spot on her body. Meanwhile, other orbalisks also began crawling towards [member="Darth Manah"] once Yula's body was completely covered in orbalisks: that idiot has to be quick before the orbalisks have actually deployed their adhesives upon Yula's skin. For what she knew, she dismantled a swoop gang that smuggled orbalisks...

 

[Manah]

Manah smiled at [member="Yula Knezevic"] " Ahh Orbalisks i was sure you were trying to betray me with this. i must admit im supprised. " she admitted as she welcomed the orbalisks.
" No offence but i expected them to be extinct. thay were in my day or at least rare as heck. " she asmited

 

[Ras'kala'han]

Antherion had been sitting at a side table as the Ithorian made a scene - again, if he had the right of it, he had overheard some people complaining about a 'loud, angry alien'. He straightened his back ever so slightly, knitting his fingers in front of him on the small, ratty, metallic table as the electric, mutlicolored lights danced off and around them. Many beings had dressed provocatively, or marked themselves with face paints, or dyed hair, shouting and waving colored glow rods. It was a frenzy. Sipping his water - it had an acrid taste to it, but wasn't poisoned - he closed his eyes and looked a touch more closely.

Ah. Here we are.

The emotional landscape laid out before him was complex, rich, and positively delicious. To feel the heat of all this passion against his own cooler mind was electrifying, and this party seemed to brim over with an eruption of conflicting sentiments - the pride of the people of Malachor V, but also a sense of desperation and despair: their world was rife with crime, heavily stratified by class, and largely isolated from the Galaxy as a whole. The rumors of Sith revival punctuated the defiance of the people, who had not in their hearts fully forgotten what could come raining down on them at any moment. This was not overcoming fear. This was forgetting fear, forgetting despair, and losing one's self in a blinding burst of joy — one night to hold back the darkness.

Then, the mirthful other... he paused, wondering if he had it left in him to slip into someone's thoughts undetected. Maybe he would find something interesting lurking in the Ithorian's brain. For a moment, his presence was hovering over the being, like a cold black shadow waiting to descend. Then, as quickly as it came, it vanished. After all, there was no point. It's not like he was anything special - like how, for tonight, Antherion was no one special. Just a frail, willowy stranger, sitting alone and drinking water.

No. He would wait for a moment. Watch for something telling. See if anything merited true, undivided attention. Most likely, nothing would, but if that were the case he could simply sit back and enjoy the thrumming of the music. Opening his eyes, Antherion glanced at his quickly-emptying glass, swimming in the sound.

| [member="Otho Rendoro"] |

 

[Otho Rendoro]

It didn’t take long for the Ithorian to get frustrated enough with his own progress to begin using the tightly bandaged stump that was his left arm for basic maneuvers. He had rooted around in his bag, producing a small kit of precision computer tools, specially made for his overlarge hands. Maybe he could get some built into a new one. If Otho took care to avoid the tender arm, scarred nerves and flesh, he didn’t feel like all the oxygen had been sucked out of his chest via a spear wound, which was welcome. The pain weighed heavily on his mind much of his waking hours but the distraction that came from working on a machine with secrets was enough to work as an analgesic of sorts.

The panel was set next to him on the bar and various parts of the terminal were balanced precariously upon it, and his deliberate and dogged dissection of the machine dragged on. When he succeeded in extracting another part, he would take a moment and fumble for his drink, slurping heavily at the straw without giving it his full attention. Room temperature liquid with little taste to inform the unfortunate soul who sipped it, it burned the inside of Otho’s mouth as it was slurped down his gullet.

His glass banged down on the burnished, paint-tracked metal of the bar as he found the culprit…actually, culprits.

Some enterprising individuals had broken into this terminal. It wasn’t unfamiliar work to Otho – if you wanted to bug someone’s ‘net access you needed to go physical. However, true to the nature of Malachor V, there wasn’t one module sliced in to monitor traffic and steal information. That would be too straightforward. Subsequent entrepreneurs had simply added their modules on in series, forming what was no doubt a confused and contradictory web of permissions. The first two modules he extracted were much like the Tainted City: repurposed material no doubt damaged and refurbished. The third was very much different and as his fingertips brushed the burnished metal Otho was instantly reminded of the Citadel, looming over his every thought. What could be locked up in that swiving tower that cowed him so? This module had been originally manufactured later than the others, the metal smooth and very out of place in the Blight Lounge.

For a moment, he felt a prickle on his neck, like someone looking over his shoulders, or a mercenary with a blaster rifle pressed against his neck. Otho felt an unnatural writhing in his chest, something like the atmosphere of Malachor and yet localized; while the planet had a malevolent will this was more discrete, more urgent. He felt the desire to hide, to get away. Otho thinned his lips as he chastised himself. Distracted from his work, his eyes swept the room. The scene was perhaps more raucous and for the most part Otho saw people making fools of themselves. Tucked into a corner was a group having a serious discussion – probably contracts, giving the nodding of one, the swagger of another. And sat at a side table was a willow wand of a human, all pale on pale and emaciated to the point of starvation. Otho grumbled and shifted his work slightly – a scrawny thing looking like roadkill on Malachor had a trick up its sleeve.

He considered reassembling the machine as he turned the gunmetal silver module over and over in his good hand, but he dug deeper into its guts, setting the module down to bring another tool to his hand. A moment of search proved fruitful and Otho let out a low chuckle. Another entrepreneur had struck the chip reader with a snooper that was no doubt peeling 10 credits here or there from the bar’s patrons. The module yielded easily if a bit sluggishly under the touch of his right hand and it landed with a dull toll on the bar. Reassembly came easily, wiring and hardware taking shape once more. With a bang, he affixed the panel to the back and spun the terminal around. With a touch of his finger, the terminal came to life and informed him that the operating system’s data needed to be restored due to corruption.

He waved the bartender over, pointing to his glass with the stump.

"Tuber crisps?" he asked with no overture. The being nodded and turned to get his order. Maybe if everything panned out in a moment he'd leave the pathetic wretch some money. Maybe.

|[member="Antherion"]|

 

[Klesta]

"The swoop gang we just fought off were... poaching orbalisks" she tells Darth Manah while the orbalisk handler is getting poisoned by the orbalisks he had to handle.

So the swoop gang was dealing in... poaching too? I can see a tentative story of the Malachor edition: an orbalisk poaching ring has been dismantled, she thought. While her whole body was still covered in orbalisks, still feeding off her Force-sensitivity as well as [member="Darth Manah"]'s, Yula was a little concerned. She'd probably need some painkillers once she has arrived on Ziost. But the orbalisk venom got to the person that had to handle the orbalisks: the handler absorbed many orbalisk stings due to the sheer number of orbalisks that were in those crates. Admittedly she knew that, while orbalisks were legal on Ziost or Malachor V, on most worlds it would be a legal nightmare to possess, and certainly in quantities that the swoop gang hoarded. She reluctantly boarded back on the craft's pilot seat, knowing that it will feel uncomfortable when one's body is covered in orbalisks. And more than just a little difficult to pilot, but that's what Instinctive Astrogation is for.

 

[Manah]

Manah laughs as she allowed the force to trickle out and attract one to her.
" a little and notorious creature. immune to so many things. practically immortal. with a decent food source they can live for centuries. " She said scooping one in to a container.
" i need 2 one for me and one for a .. associate. " she admitted with a smile.
the symbiotes or rather parasites made for excellent armor offering a few major advantages mood altering drugs and a huge adrenaline reserves.
still it did have the burn you to death drawback and the pain.
the pain she could handle. being torn in half and dying kind of made pain a non issue.
pain she could handle. still it offered a good few upsides.
[member="Yula Knezevic"]