Tantooine, the burning light illuminating Mos Ethna at its peak of day was surely a sight few could bare to deliberate long. It was this burning desert settlement that Rethian had stumbled upon, quite literally. The run down figure was doing his best to go somewhere, though from his movements to the casual observer it might well look like the destination was uncertain..

Rethian moved about gingerly, hunched over ungracefully as he walked. The light seemed to dazzle him, he pulled his simple brown hood further down over his eyes, whispering quietly to himself reassuringly. The spaceport wasn’t far now, he didn’t have to make it much further, if only he could hang on a moment more. The undeniable thirst was wrenching through him like a fire sizzling beneath the surface.

He swayed slightly, staggering, though he regained his balance with haste hoping to go unnoticed. The light was burning, driving, though he’d make it he would. Sweat poured from his brow in gushes, fully cloaked the brown figures steps became erratic he fumbled past someone into a wall. It was no good he must drink, must quench the thirst, must find shelter. Too late, his weak voice cried as he fell into a quivering heap, eyes flashing with despair as his presence and train of thought turned violently inward…

(OOC: Open to anyone, feel free to join in, in any capacity. Its my first post here so please excuse grammatical error’s)

The uncontrolled torment shaking his body slowly eased away. As no-one had heeded his display, perhaps he had been fortunate, but as always alone. The cloaked figure shook himself, willing this time, brushing aside the last remaining shreds of doubt.

Though he seemed weakened somehow, you would not notice it if observing his movements, he sprung to his feet quite oddly, yet graceful. Rethian began a brisk walk towards his the spaceport, his body seemed unnaturally buoyant but his eyes betrayed his mind vacant state and something, something else, he seemed diminished somehow despite the actions he portrayed.

Even Tatooine’s beating sun seemed to just glance off him as he reached the southern section of Mos Ethna the energy inside him quite immense, as feeling gradually began to return to his fingers. He seemed to meld away into the crowded spaceport entrance, drifting this way and that occasionally someone would notice something move past them, but few were keen enough to study what that something might have been. The dormant part of his mind tried to regain control and slowly as usual the battle was gradually won, though not with out an assured cost to his sanity.
His hood fell from his head and a small part of him cursed, this busy area was the last place he wanted to be recognised, though he doubted most of this backwaters offworlders would even of heard of his race.

Rethian’s hairless pale features and sunken eyes, were visible but only briefly to those with the presence of mind to look. In his hapless state it took him a moment to recover himself and carry on his light footed pace to what looked to be some sort of gathering place. What was it these offworlders called it, ah yes a cantina… he was sure he might find a ship though he had little left of value.

(OOC I’ll work my way to a ship on my next post unless someone wants to intercept me for good or for ill :) )

As Rethian approached the cantina he glanced around, the crowds seemed to grow more dense. Today the bar and its surroundings were bustling with heightened activity, certainly far more than he was used to. All these offworlders in such close proximity, he just had to hope non had the presence of mind to take the time to notice him. He did relax his telepathic disruption slightly, but he kept just enough interference in those close by to avoid direct, accidental recognition. Though he had to admit all this concentration and focus of mind in his already weakened state was again pulling forth the desire within him, that niggling emptiness that had earned his people’s name, the ‘force eaters’. His however was a cursed existence. He knew not why but always, always he desired for more and it ultimately it was drawn inward, a terrifying affliction, that he could not despite his best efforts counter.

It was unheard throughout his society to not be able to control your own innermost instincts. He had been shunned and shunned to his people, fearful of even the slightest outside influence, was a death sentence. So he had ran far from his homeland carrying his cursed existence onward, half driven by this thirst that he could not release and half driven by the promise of a better existence than his ruined homeworld.

One stranger had given him hope, spoken to him of better places, though all he had found so far were deserts and isolated barren wastelands. Still better to be alone with a tormented soul, than to the brunt of everyone’s disdain or amusement. Outlanders had hunted his people for years, trying to remove their existence from the galaxy. Wherever he had gone he had found no respite in the spite strangers held for him. All the more reason to believe the teachings all Stennes Shifter received at birth. ‘No offworlder is worth your respect, trust or compassion, for they all seek to destroy what little we have left, but know they cannot ever take your spirit.’

Spirit, Rethian chuckled, what spirit was left in him. This hollowed out shell, only the desire to reach the one place left to him of any consequence, Naboo….
He would reach this last desire in his heart, even if meant breaking every obstacle in his path.

Filled with a renewed sense of purpose Rethian listened around him, carefully blocking out the conversations that held no interest to the Shifter. After a few moments careful listening and balanced concealment of his identity he came across a pilot concluding a trading deal.

Rethian approached the small huddle carefully, one of many about the bustling room. He found his most agreeable tone speaking clearly with purpose to the pilot whom he seemed to have completely surprised.

“Offworlder I seek passage to Naboo, I will pay whatever you wish upon landing, but I must leave tonight…”


(OOC Again anyone feel free to intercede, as anyone in the room or even the pilot if you wish)

The pilot looked up from the customer he had just finished speaking with to Rethian. He was a square-jawed man, with sparkling blues eyes and a sort of dashing roughness about him, that many smugglers, pilots and vagrants had down to an art. He had a blaster strapped to his thigh, and a glitterstim pinched between his thumb and index finger. Taking a long drag on the stick, he looked the man up and down before turning his head back to his table and stubbing the stim lightly against the already half-full ashtray.

"Naboo," he stifled a laugh, as though sharing some private joke with himself.

"You're in luck kid. That's just where we're headed."

With a wave of his hand across the table, the pilot gestured towards the man who he had been previously speaking to, as a form of introduction. He looked worn by time, his brown beard flecked with grey. Hair pulled back in a loose tie, the wrinkles on his face were more than evident. He had solid white eyes and wore a wry smile that was characteristic of the wizened old man archetype. Clad in brown robes and with a staff of some kind laid across his lap, he almost looked like a Jedi.

Raising a brow, he nodded to Rethian. "Have a seat, lad. We have a short while before we depart," he explained, speaking in heavily accented rough Basic.

Rethian studied the offworlder carefully, though no more carefully than his manner ever was, for the only trust he had ever known was distrust. The shifter noted the strange black stick sticking out of the offworlders fingers, perhaps some form of medication, he put aside his curiosity as the man spoke.

Rethian smiled to the first speaker, though to be honest unconvincingly, a smile was very far from his current emotional state and slowly, perhaps too slowly uttered the words.

“Thank you.”

In fact all he wanted to do was burst out with relief, but that would centre attention he would rather not have right now. Besides which he would probably of doubled over with fatigue.

He nodded even more thankful at being offer the chance to rest with the strangers, though he was hesitant, for the last time such an offer was made it was done in deception and the results were most unpleasant. Rethian lost his train of thought in the memory for a moment, losing his telepathic focus.

The Stennes Shifter quickly concentrated inwardly building up that subtle blur. Though a very specific one, for all he wanted was uncertainty as to his race, no more, as the more confusion, the more questions. Questions that he certainly did not want raised.

Rethian proceeded to sit down, initially quite gingerly, relaxing overly backwards into the seat and noting the elderly man with a careful nod. The man seemed to be dressed much as he was, though something felt comforting in his presence. Comforted by no means his looks or manner, but more the ever present hunger inside Rethian felt lightened, only by a tiny amount, but that was so much to an ever present burden.

The shifter was still not accustomed to how elderly some offworlders become, mere adults from his homeland were considered old, the saddening Darwin·ist nature of his planet ever prevalent in the back of his mind.

“What must I give in return?”

The Shifter finally spoke to the initial pilot, slightly ashamed that he had at first been over zealous in his offerings for the trip, but he would not portray that to those present, at least he hoped he would not.


(OOC thanks a lot for joining :) , was my post a bit long or okay?)

"You're lucky you came when you did. Old man Van-Derveld here is headed for Naboo too, so you can split the costs between you. That'll mean 6,000 credits a piece," the spacer replied, some how managing to swagger while sitting down.

'Old man' Van-Derveld frowned slightly. As if in negotiation, he brought his hands onto the table top and parted them diplomatically. They were, if any, the mark of his species – three fingers, each ending in a claw.

"Six thousand is rather steep, don't you think?" he asked, stoic.

"Yeah, I do, but you aren't going to get there any sooner or faster than you will with me," the pilot blurted.

"Perhaps that is the case," Vega replied, sitting back slightly, as though defeated. His lips were still moving once the sound ceased, quite oddly, as though he was muttering something to himself.

"But," he continued, "It will do."

Cutting his eyes towards Rethian, he asked, "Do you have the means to pay?"

"He better have, otherwise your fee is doubled, old man."

(OOC: Your posts have been great!)

Rethian studied both men closely, at first he thought them together but was soon quickly corrected, the Stennes Shifter altered his posture to one more of inclusion than relaxation.

He noticed how the two men spoke and wondered what form of bartering goods credits were exactly. Pondering to himself Rethian scratched his chin for a moment in thought, quickly withdrawing his hand in pain. He’d picked up that habbit from sitting next to a very strange offworlder suffering from a terrible skin disorder a… ookie, he thought someone had said, yes 'don’t cut the ookie' he’d been told as frantically as he’d tried to help the pour soul with a pair of cutting tools.
Well it was all well and good if you’re an offerworld with an ookie problem, though with Rethian’s hairless features it only stung.

The whole conversation had left him lost in thought more than concentration he was so fatigued. Quickly snapping out of it, his spirits equally quickly falling when the question of price was raised to him. He sighed inwardly, why had he himself brought it up before the trip, why did he still have the same conscience when dealing with offworlders.

The shifter sighed again.

“I… I don’t have anything of value.”

Though oddly he opened up his coat carefully displaying two worn heavy blasters pistols. Patting himself down he began what he was sure was an embarrassment to anyone watching but what could he do, but appeal to a feint hope of charity.

"All I have on me are these plastic sticks.”

He handed three cred sticks totalling a rather nice amount of credits and two personal draw cards, quite obviously non of which belonged to Rethian but he smiled naively handing them all over.

“I also have these lumps of metal but I have no idea what value these might be to you.”

Two heavy blaster pistols were summarily dumped on the table quite haphazardly, how they did not go off was quite a feat.

He looked up cautiously, pretty sure he should get up and leave now before they began to torment him…

(OOC Edited for spacing)

The pilot picked up one of the blasters and, gritting his stim between his teeth, trained it on a far wall. With a furrowed brow, he mouthed a 'bang' – you could almost see the shootout scene playing out in his mind. A grin and he spun the blaster by the trigger on his finger, before slapping it back down against the counter again. Van-Derveld, on the other hand, inspected the chits and cards. He lifted them up to the light, watching the holographic ID photographs shimmer and shift from portrait to profile – they were blurred, and looked nothing more than a vaguely humanoid shaped head.

"Alright. I'll tell you what. I'll take these, and we'll call it even," the pilot said, snatching the cards out of the Arkanian's hands.

"Oh really?" Vega asked, quirking a brow, challenging the pilot confess his deception.

"Really, and you know what? I think the ship will be ready right about now."

"But you said-"

The man sprung to his feet, and holstered both of the blaster pistols in the bandolier around his waist, "No time to loose!" he chirped, stuffing the chits into his pockets and waving for the pair to follow him as he headed for the exit. As instructed, Vega got to his feet, gathering his robes and pushing down on his staff to steady himself. It was odd – despite his age and apparently fatigue, there was a strength about him, like a coiled spring waiting to unfurl.

"Pleasant chap, hm?" he said with a smirk, looking to Rethian as they followed in tow of their guide. This sallow man whom he now walked with didn't seem the talkative type. The Arkanian wondered if he was exhausted or simply stupid.

"I'm Vega Van-Derveld, by the way… and you are?"

Rethian looked at the pilot, he was puzzled, what value were there in these cold lumps of metal. Food, blankets medical supplies now there was value. He watched the pilot pick up the object and point it about. Hmm it must be a relic or perhaps a gesture of goodwill, though more likely a trick, he mused.

The Shifter’s mood lightened somewhat at the thankful acceptance of these odd gifts, though this constant telepathic blocking was wearing him down. He began to let the telepathy drop off gradually. His mind easing back into normality, not completely willingly but his instinct told him he could not risk his affliction taking him again yet and it took so much strength to maintain this guise. Perhaps later when he was alone he would submit again to the torment, but not now, here before the path to his destination.

Still it was odd they accepted these offerings. Many such relics littered the surface of his planet though his people, rarely ventured their any more. Endless bombardments, booby traps, crazed outcasts who had been exposed to the harsh climate too long, all littered the landscape. The first thing you learnt, on literal pain of death, was not to venture upward and questionable minds were better left hidden.

Rethian likewise got to his feet and turned to the one who had called himself Vega.

“It seems strange he would take such objects, but i..we must not question it, perhaps it is just good fortune.”

“I..I,” He was actually about to stutter a nervous answer on the request for his name but the xenophobic upbringing took the words straight from his mouth.

“Why would you ask my name, surely I am of no consequence.”
Rethian did not say this in a mocking tone, but an honest one. He knew his place in life and it was not one of equality to an offworlder.

He sighed as they walked further towards the ship, stopping briefly and turning to Vega.

“I am sorry, I have the feeling you mean well, but please understand this journey we take it.. it has not been easy. This would not be the first time my name had been used against me.”

Rethian was completely sincere though he was not sure why. He felt, he didn’t know what he felt. The voice of his people’s warnings seemed drowned out for some reason some part of him wanted to break out of this mentality and for some reason he felt he could confide. Perhaps he had truly lost his mind in that last disturbing episode.

(OOC: Do you want to rp this out as a normal flight like we are doing now or should I bring in someone subtly pursing us, up to you I am enjoying this either way.)

"If you do not wish to give it to me, that is acceptable. I understand the need for privacy and anonymity in these uncertain times."

Walking through the spaceports bustling crowds, Vega barely noticed the other creatures. He had, over time, developed the ability to simply block out what he did not wish to see. It was like a blind spot for the whole world, which even extended into his hearing. Up ahead, the pilot was pausing every second to talk to someone, spinning on his heel to continue walking only to bump into another contact. For this reason, primarily, the journey to the ship took longer than expected.

As they walked, however, the Arkanian couldn't help but feel as though not everyone watching them was doing so out of innocent curiosity. A few glances lingered too long, even for the hated scowls of a xenophobe.

"Here we are," the pilot turned off the corridor into one of the bays, where a YT-model ship lay waiting. It was gunmetal gray, and looked in surprisingly good shape, "the Teslacoil. Ain't she a beauty?"

Vega nodded slightly, looking the craft over. It was nothing special. Not compared to the things he had seen. A little of his Arkanian arrogance showed in a momentary lock of gazes between Rethian - he sneered. Looking back to the ship, its ramp had lowered and the pilot was ducking inside. As they boarded, he showed his passengers to the seating area – there were no safety restraints, Vega noted, but there was a defunct gun turret on one wall.

"Alright, sit tight and I'll have this baby off the ground in no time."

With that said, the pilot disappeared into the cockpit.

(OOC: Either or. If you can think of something, throw it in!)