WELL HELLO GOOD MORNING.
Quiet Me - Alyrian and Karcen
Slooowly working my way through my prompts, comissions and all other things TOR related.
Hlokk flicked what remained of her last cig-stick onto the puddle laced city street. The show wasn’t as good as she hoped but it was enough of a distraction. She already knew where on her ship she’d slap the band’s logo. She had to admit, “Nerf Fuckers” had a certain ring to it.
She could sense them a mile away. She didn’t show it. She was pumped from the music and in a way hoped they would try something. As the three humans stopped and crowded around her she wondered if it was her birthday. She hid her lightsaber inside her jacket not wanting to give away the game.
“Hey there cutie.” The tallest one called out in his best attempt at suave. One stood behind him, the other slowly worked his way behind her. She backed up against the wall and looked downward in an attempt to look frightened.
“Please… please don’t hurt me…”
Even she was surprised at how cute and timid her voice managed to sound.
oh my god, hlokk
Occasionally, the apple does fall far from the tree.
If I scream, scream, scream
about a good man’s life
would you ever stop and listen?
Would you open up your eyes?
time to make myself sad by reblogging this
He didn’t need a collar to control Foxoe.
[this one isn’t safe for work. hooray!]
What Darak Haraun said did not matter. His voice was a one-ton bell in a cacophony of screaming.
Keythe Misra was not a weak man. He was tall and lean with a swordsman’s build; he was built and bred to be Sith arrogance tempered with power and pride. But they never stopped speaking, never stopped reaching-touching-begging for his attention, for his will. He was not weak, but mortal men were not meant for his task.
It lead him to the same place time and time again. He sat at his desk in his quarters, shoulders hunched and temples in his palms. His whole body shuddered. Do you dream, Keythe Misra? No. I do not dream my own dreams. I dream the thoughts of a hundred-thousand others, their vengeance, their cries, their memories and I am buried can’t-breathe-can’t-sleep-smotheredbleedingiwillmakeyouscreamandtearlifefromtheear—
Keythe’s pale eyes focused again. How long had Haraun been standing there? (He’s always there.) Something deep resonated within him; the world was not silent (never silent), but now there was something louder, stronger, than before.
“You could have come to me,” she said. It was the first time either of the spoke in hours. The snow battered against the entrance of the cave; the little fire Tucio built meant nothing against the harsh winds of Hoth. Neither of them looked at each other. “You should have.”
“But you didn’t,” she went on. “Because of what — because you thought I was an imbalance to the Force?” Alyrian hesitated again when she felt her tone become bitter. It had been years since she even thought about that night, but it still burned her. “I was your Padawan, Tucio. And I was lost.”
The silence weighed on. Tucio said nothing, but when she looked at him, she recognized the look in his face — sad, distant. Always distant. Her lips thinned to a line as she rose to her feet. Dealing with the weather was still better than this heartache.
because bandwagons are cool and i could probably use the brain exercise.
He was long and tall and lean, but he always sat hunched to put him at the same height as the rest of the boys around him. They joked and rough-housed, crude and cruel in their brand new Republic uniforms, but Jack was quiet. He watched them. For the first time in his life, he found himself desperately craving to just fit in and he didn’t understand how.
He spent most of time on the shooting range. Jack leveled the aim of his standard issue blaster; there wasn’t much recoil, but the shot skewed to the left and hit air. He swore hotly under his breath and barely resisted the urge to throw the damn thing at the target instead. He could feel his temper boiling. Why the hell was he even here? Why did he bother trying?
“Never shot one of those, huh.”
Jack whipped around. Sergeant Malikie leaned against the frame of the durasteel wall, his arms crossed over his chest. Jack wasn’t sure how long he’d been watching; his neck felt hot. “Yeah I have,” he said, suddenly defensive. He didn’t sneer at his sergeant, but there was something in the boy’s face all the same. “My dad taught me.”
Tuhor didn’t smile. He watched Jack with a critical eye, one that immediately disregarded his bravado. “I worked with your father,” he said eventually. “Long time.”
Jack’s jaw went tight. He wasn’t sure if his throat feeling thick stopped him from speaking, or if it was the inexplicable ember of anger burning in his chest. He flexed his fingers into his palm.
Sergeant Malikie leaned away from the post. “The Colonel likes his antiques. Doesn’t keep real blasters like this around.” He walked toward the weapons locker, picking through the meager arsenal. He skipped past the blasters and the semi-autos, wrapping his hand around the barrel of a barely used sniper rifle.
“I know you can shoot, Cody.” The Sergeant looked at him. It felt different from before, somehow. “But no Private of mine is leaving Basic without learning to shoot right.”
When he tossed the rifle at Jack, the boy didn’t skip a beat in catching it. He felt — something — churn in his gut. The little ember of hate died away.