https://discord.darkjedibrotherhood.com/rp-sessions/DB3.html
Two coins and a thorn [Envoy Corps]
Azler Wilder
Tahiri Thorn Morte Tarentae
Mako Henymory
https://discord.darkjedibrotherhood.com/rp-sessions/DB3.html
Two coins and a thorn [Envoy Corps]
Azler Wilder
Tahiri Thorn Morte Tarentae
Mako Henymory
https://discord.darkjedibrotherhood.com/rp-sessions/DB3.html
Two coins and a thorn [Envoy Corps]
Azler Wilder
Tahiri Thorn Morte Tarentae
Mako Henymory
Hector Von Ricmore
Gozanti Listener Ship: Midnight Mynock
Designated Rendezvous, Wild Space
The situation was problematic to say the least. Hector Von Ricmore was many things; an alchemist, scholar, Force wielding combatant. But he liked to consider himself a professional. Which made the current...
Submission Text
Hector Von Ricmore
Gozanti Listener Ship: Midnight Mynock
Designated Rendezvous, Wild Space
The situation was problematic to say the least. Hector Von Ricmore was many things; an alchemist, scholar, Force wielding combatant. But he liked to consider himself a professional. Which made the current situation all the more troublesome.
The hybrid stood in front of his transparisteel view port, helmet stashed on a console beside him and a frown visible upon his face.
“Run that by me again if you please.”
“Of course sir. Scans aren’t picking up any sign of other hyperspace capable craft in the vicinity. Cargo loaders and the space station are the only things visible on scope.”
“Navigation. You are certain that this is the agreed upon meeting place?”
“Triple checked the charts. We are where we need to be.”
A vexing situation indeed. Hector sat himself down in his command chair and began to ponder. A shipment large enough to require a dedicated transport did not just vanish into the void. There was a reason for it.
He closed his eyes and imagined himself sinking down into a cold, dark, river. He could feel the currents of the Force flowing around him, eager to guide him towards yet another conflict.
With sight beyond sight he began to travel the path laid for him by the Force.
Metallic walls surrounded him. Crates and boxes of various merchandise filled a large cavernous room. An open crate was visible in the center of the room, a variety of blaster weaponry contained within. A variety of creatures could be seen moving the items within. They would pick up and spend time checking over the weapons, then proceed to place the item within a separate crate.
Upon this box was etched a familiar sigil. A W like shape overlapped a circle and I like symbol. The Brotherhood knew this symbol well. The calling card of the Tenixir Revenants.
Hector was pulled back to the present with a gasp. The Force had showed him the group responsible for the theft but further investigation was needed to find where the group had gone. It should not have come as a surprise that they were the group responsible. The Revenants were remnants of a prison riot, whom held the Principate accountable for their sentencing and suffering. They held a deep hatred for the group and would be more than willing to take action against them. Furthermore, the Revenants had been weakened by Brotherhood actions. Seeking weapons and equipment to rearm would be a desirable goal for the former prisoners.
They had the motive to pull this off. And certainly the skills to do it. But how had they accomplished this task?
Hector would have to travel to the station to investigate.
They arrived at the Antei Armaments station without any issues. A momentary pause to show and verify Brotherhood credentials followed by a standard docking procedure. The Stationmaster was not happy to have additional investigators running about, but resolving the issue with the inventory would be worth it.
The Kiffar was ushered to the hangar where the merchandise had been stored. Nothing seemed out of place. No disturbed boxes, no extra ships, no sign of forced entry. The thieves had been professionals. But even professionals left a signature in the Force, and if the stepped into the hangar, Hector could track them.
He placed his hand upon the ground and focused. Worldly distractions were put aside as he allowed the pull of the Force to guide him. Ghostly apparitions appeared in front of him. The Revenants. Dressed as Antei workers they loaded the shipment onto what appeared to be a regular cargo ship. But the Force showed him otherwise. It took him farther back. The Revenants had painted over the ship and falsified its records. A fake name and fake identification. But that did not fool the Force.
Burning Vengeance.
That was the true name of the vessel. And he could see a series of numbers flash by his view. The vessel’s chain code. With those two things the ship could be tracked by the Brotherhood. Hector relayed the information to the Inquisitorious. They would send a team to deal with the matter. His part in this was done, for now.
The market is alive in the way only places of vice and barter can be. It stinks of desperation, opportunity, and sweat, all wrapped in the perfume of roasted meats and spilled spice. The bodies around me shift, brushing past one another in a constant tide of movement—buyers, sellers, pickpockets,...
Submission Text
The market is alive in the way only places of vice and barter can be. It stinks of desperation, opportunity, and sweat, all wrapped in the perfume of roasted meats and spilled spice. The bodies around me shift, brushing past one another in a constant tide of movement—buyers, sellers, pickpockets, and predators alike.
I’ve learned to move with them, to let the flow carry me while keeping my own direction. You survive longer that way.
And then I feel him.
He stands too still in a place where no one is still. That alone is enough to mark him. But it’s more than that. He’s watching. Tracking. Not just glancing at wares or picking a target to steal from—he’s observing patterns. Watching the way people move, the space they leave between one another, the moments they hesitate before making a deal.
I don’t like it.
I slow my steps just slightly, feigning interest in a crate of dried fruits while I take him in. Human, Core-born, maybe Mid Rim at the furthest. Pale skin, clean-shaven, and dressed too finely for a place like this. He’s careful about it—his jacket isn’t flashy, but the material is too smooth, too tailored. Someone who knows how to blend but still doesn’t quite belong.
His boots are polished. That tells me more than anything else. A man with no dust on his boots hasn’t been walking through streets like these for long.
And then there’s his stance.
It’s subtle, but I know it because I’ve lived it. His hands rest at his sides, but his fingers are just slightly curled, his weight balanced over the balls of his feet. It’s a stance of control, of expectation. A man waiting for something to happen and ready to react when it does.
I start moving again, shifting through the market’s crowd in a lazy arc toward him.
His eyes flicker to my lekku first, as most do, but they don’t linger. That’s rare. Most humans let their attention get caught there. Instead, his gaze tracks the scars on my forearms, the ink winding across my skin. He notices details. I file that away.
When I step closer, he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react with hostility or invitation. He just watches. Calculating.
That makes two of us.
I let the silence stretch between us, long enough that most men would try to fill it. He doesn’t. Another mark in his favor. I’m the one who breaks it first, because I want to see what he does when prompted.
"Enjoying the market?"
His lips twitch—not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. "More than I expected."
A smooth answer. A cautious one.
I don’t trust him.
But I want to know why he’s here.
Jovian Grey moves differently than the others.
Most of the people in the market are either searching for something or avoiding something. He does neither. He lets the current of the crowd carry him, but there is an undeniable control to his movements. He gives the illusion of being relaxed, blending in with the shifting masses, but he’s watching everything. Calculating.
That’s what the reports failed to capture.
The files painted him as a former captive, a runaway who carved his own escape. The scars on his skin tell that story, but his posture tells another. This is not a man who fled. This is a man who was forged.
He’s lean but strong, with a dancer’s balance—fluid, but deliberate. He does not waste motion. His lekku shift as he moves, but it is controlled. Even the way they sway is calculated, almost like a lure, something meant to misdirect.
And then there are his eyes.
Red, sharp, and watching.
The way he looks at me reminds me of how a predator watches something that it isn’t sure is prey yet. That look, more than anything, is what confirms my suspicions.
He’s assessing me the same way I am assessing him.
I deliberately remain still, giving him time to make his approach first. He doesn’t disappoint. He circles in a casual arc, never moving directly toward me but always drifting closer. A lesser man would mistake it for curiosity, but I know better.
He’s testing.
The moment he closes the distance, I notice his scent—subtle, muted. Not the sweat and desperation of the market, but something clean beneath the layers of dust and smoke. A sign of someone who maintains control over his environment, no matter how chaotic.
Then, the final test.
He speaks first. "Enjoying the market?"
His voice is smooth, measured. No wasted breath, no inflection to suggest he cares about the answer.
I give him the barest twitch of my lips. "More than I expected."
That’s when I know.
The files were right about one thing—Jovian Grey is dangerous.