A Trip to the Old Market

[Soverin]

[ Korriban Airspace : Yankun Market ]
[ Midday : Artificial Weather Conditions ]

​

"I was made to look like a fool, Besef." Mors walked alongside his companion, much more so ranting than shopping. Besef was much more studious as he moved, gracing the aisles and inspecting the produce of the Yankun Market. It had made it's monthly course through Sith airspace. The old and established Yankun family moved their vessel through the Outer Rim as well as Hutt space to carry it's various merchants, meat-mongers, cooks and gluttonous aliens in an endless tour of culinary wonder. The ship, as ancient as the rivalry between light and dark itself, held no prejudice against Sith or Jedi. No creature, good or bad, could survive without nourishment --- and whether they chose robes of beige or black, their credits did not change. All men and women would be served by the Yankun Market.

The tightly packed silver halls of the old ship were painted and decorated by all the colourful merchants who called it home. Neimoidians and Dug and all other manner of aliens and humanoinds pushed and shouted as they scurried about. Merchant's signs poked up through the crowds with jingling bells and noisy rattles that demanded attention. Sharp staccato songs made from loud foreign drums reverberated in the back of the mind, coming from somewhere deep within the bowels of the Market. The air stunk of powerful spices and stripped animals fresh from the slaughter. All shapes and sizes of beasts lay flayed open in every hall, putting on display the succulent meat of their ribs and legs. Ancient fruit of otherworldly flavour could be purchased like any other mundane item. Alien produce glowed and hummed and crackled all around, each being more impractical and outlandish than the last.

The sights, sounds and smells changed often in the old market, as quick as one left one block of merchants to the next.

"And then this," he pushed his shattered arm upward, cradled against his chest in a cocoon of black cloth. "I have this... Pathetic symbol of my failure to bear." The frantic Sith grunted at the thought of his assignment to Agamar; his first real chance to prove his worth. As they walked Mors changed his steps to realign their path, approaching a cart of plump, grubby vegetables. The alien produce caught his eye, starting him searching for something with the right texture. With Mors, food was a matter of consistency as opposed to taste. He ate for amusement; normalcy, perhaps. The only real sustenance he needed was brain matter, the life essence of other creatures, and though the Yankun Market certainly carried all manner of powdered, mashed and dried brains, it wouldn't provide much. Even the bio-shakes he drank daily to suppress his need for constant feeding only supplied a fraction of what a live host would.

But, a good meal always made him feel better. Eating was therapeutic, biting and chewing and swallowing; it was all a ritual. Food, or the preparing of, was recognized between the two as a powerful stress reliever. Cooking a good meal was first and their to-do list when they'd returned from deployment.

"I wonder how these taste." Mors felt awkward with movement of only one arm. Leaving it to hang at his side felt improper, but his usual reserved stances only looked foolish with his handicap.

(@Feather)​

 

[Feather]

The crowded market buzzed with shoppers, and though there were often times when navigating the walkways would be near-impossible without harmless jostling or the brushing of shoulders, these two went untouched as they meandered among the stalls. No matter how close pushy alien merchants or swift, laughing children came to colliding with either of the Sith, there seemed to be an invisible ward that kept the slightest figment of distance around them.

Besef strode alongside his comrade, arms swinging passively at his sides, that ever-present, genial smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. The grin that curled his mouth harshly contrasted the expression on his comrade's sullen face-- in fact, much of their respective demeanors were sharply contradicting. It was visible in the way they walked, in their gestures, in their voices. Where humor and chicanery played about the sharp eyes and relaxed shape of one, uncomfortable fury and contempt radiated from the other. Mors' razor words were dulled and softened by purring, sideways interjections of "That sounds pretty lousy" and "I wouldn't take it personally" and "It could have been worse".

Words that might have come off as insensitive and uncaring to others were just the opposite in this case; the firrerreo was listening, and taking in each syllable as though he would be quizzed on details later. But there were other distractions that had caught his eye, and he was giving each of them their due attention. Choice cuts of meat, colorful jewelry and swaths of fine fabric; it all appealed to him, and if he could have managed it, every last scrap would have been his.

Besef was a glutton, in the basest of terms.

He would never see himself as greedy, envious, or selfish. Generosity he had in plenty, and would gladly hand what he had to those he deemed deserving. And he would never desire something that someone else had to the point of jealousy, that was petty in his eyes. A waste of time, a waste of energy. But he would admit to taking the nicest things for himself. If it looked nice, it would belong to him. If it felt nice, if it tasted nice, it would belong to him. All of it, no matter how much. It had to. There was no other option. The only exception to this was if it wasn't practical, which was often the case. And Besef absolutely loathed that restriction. His duty always came first, and that often meant that what he wanted and what he received were two very different things. But he didn't throw tantrums, and he didn't complain. Often. He'd move along, perhaps casting a longing thought or a wistful look towards the object of his desire until either duty or something comparably distracting tugged his attention away.

"If you're that upset about it," came that silk-laced voice, bubbling up from somewhere within his chest, "I'm sure you could hop the next suicide mission and kindly ask them to fix your arm. They might even patch up your wounded pride, while they're at it." He leaned in to inspect the fruit Mors indicated, giving a cursory sniff before he turned his gaze to a nearby rack of various skinned creatures.

 

[Soverin]

"I tried. I'm forced to commit twenty-seven days to meditation and healing." He breathed a sharp sigh. Where ever Besef went he was always a step behind, looking at the quality of every fruit his companion laid eyes on. He was far better suited for picking out ingredients, and Mors' untrained eye was no match. Food was food ; the opinion of a culinary novice. He usually rode the coat tails when he and Besef went shopping. If his Firrerreo friend picked something, Mors would give it a thorough inspection to decide if he agreed.

As Besef went about inspecting one cart, Mors turned his eye on an alien child. The Sith rested his hip against a tall crate of carrot-like fruits. The alien child fiddled with a holopad, never taking a moment to blink as his gaze bore into Mors' own. He returned a powerful, competitive glare, not allowing the child to walk away victorious from their staring match. Mors flicked his wrist upward, causing the holopad to pop a few inches into the air. The child flinched and frantically reached out to keep hold of his precious device before making a snide gesture at the Sith and running off. Victorious, Mors returned to the task of shopping, relishing every little victory he could achieve.

"I'll take my meditation time with pleasure." He seemed restless, constantly moving and shifting. "I have a lot to think about."

 

[Feather]

Words took shape on Besef's lips. All it would take to weave life into his next sounds would be half a breath, the press of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Yet at the last moment he drew his bottom lip between smiling teeth and bit, stifling his reply in exchange for the sideways tilt of his head. His eyes didn't leave the fruit display until his chin all but rested on his shoulder. They flicked to Mors. He stared for a moment, incredulous, like he couldn't believe what he had seen or heard. Those eyes skimmed over him, sized him up, shone bright with good-natured mockery. Then he spoke.

"I'll take my meditation time with pleasure. I have a lot to think about." The impression was crude and inaccurate, and Besef's overexaggerated pout was nothing if not comical. His brows drew together and his lower lip pouted. "My name is Mors and my arm is broken and I'm going to brood about it until my shipmates shove me out the kriffing airlock." Chuckling, the firrerreo reached for the last fruit he'd been inspecting and tossed it with an easy flick towards his companion. "Here, lemme know what you think of that, you grouch. Spongy enough for you?"

 

[Soverin]

Mors fumbled with the fruit, juggling it between his hands before finally securing a grip upon it. In his firm grasp he pressed tight against it's flesh, almost bending the shape of it with his impractical inspection. After a moment he decided it was satisfactory, taking one last curious sniff of it's delicate odor. "I'm serious, Besef." Mors tossed the fruit into his crate, deeming it worthy of consumption.

"I've been..." The Sith halted his inspection of the fruit, looking around before reaching out to grab Besef's arm so he could bring him closer and speak low: "I've been feeling it lately." There was some deeper intention in his words; even lingering in his eyes as they flickered back and forth. "The light." He venomously spat the words to the floor, as any Sith would. But there was also self-doubt in his inflection, backed up by doubt and fear of what was to come. Mors had always, in truth, been on a shaky boundary between light and dark. One could argue that his fear of the Sith was what compelled him to join their ranks. Even his superiors sensed that he was conflicted, a trait which was kept closely monitored throughout his training. Now, a warrior of his own devices, he was without such monitoring. His crippling self-doubt had begun to take over.

"I'm weak for even having such thoughts. I'm sick." But, Besef was not Mors' superior. He knew the Sith in a way others did not. He'd done the impossible and managed to gain the right to be considered a friend of the isolated Anzat. Besef knew that when Mors did his daily self loathing it was never based upon his doubt in the dark side, but rather his doubt in himself. Something was different.

 

[Feather]

Satisfied with Mors' acceptance of the fruit, Besef turned his back on him for a moment and scooped no less than seven more of the odd, lumpy produce into their crate. At the raucous protesting of the merchant, those sharp hazel eyes rolled in annoyance and a credit chit was produced, flicked lazily in the alien's direction before the gold-skinned boy continued on his way. At least, that's what he would have done, had Mors not snagged him by the sleeve. Ever the one to humor his companion, Besef spun in a flourish that was a bit much for the situation, one leg flying out for balance before coming to halt in a hunched-shoulder lean, listening intently to Mors' words.

I've been... I've been feeling it lately.

His gaze had set on the pots and pans of a stall opposite them, illuminated by the synthetic sunlight and coated with a fine layer of dust. They gleamed invitingly. He liked that. They'd look nice in the corner of his personal quarters, maybe holding some exotic plants, or hanging from the ceiling as hollow decorations. Maybe he'd even buy one to send to the Farghul bounty hunter Mors thought so highly of. As a water bowl, or something.

...The Light.

Only the keenest of eyes would have noticed the sudden tension in the firrerro's posture. The tiniest furrows formed along his brow, his eyes widened no more than a hairsbreadth. His thoughts of ornamental metals clattered noisily into nothingness, leaving behind a quiet, cautious, almost curious murmur. "...Mmh? That's... unlike you. Sure you didn't crack your skull on Agamar, as well?" By no means did his eyes match the light jesting of his voice; his gaze was sharp and scrutinizing above the friendly curled lips. Was it a jest? It wasn't like Mors to jest. Mors did not jest. It was Besef's opinion that he carried more humor in his small toe than Mors did in his entire being... So a comment such as this carried weight, and was not to be taken lightly. "It'll pass," he ventured. "Or we'll visit Korriban for a bit. It'll pass."

 

[Soverin]

"It'll pass." Mors echoed on Besef's words, abruptly retreating a step back from him. "Of course it'll pass." He dismissed the thought with a taut-lipped sneer. There was a fleeting moment of awkward tension before he finally resumed his inspection of the stall they'd stopped beside. An alien peddler's culinary wares, sparkling dull glimmers of metal within those decrepit halls. "I'm conflicted. Maybe I need to meditate more than I thought."

"Besides, despite our failure, the mission to Agamar was a decided success." Who was he fooling, he wasn't inspecting anything. In truth, he was using their trip to the market as less of a break from duty and more of a ranting session. Every attempt at shopping turned into more incessant carping on his part. "Good work." The defeated Sith gave a sharp sigh, raising his eyes to Besef.

Mors could decide whatever he wanted of the call to the light, he heard it, and that petrified him. Between he and his group of friends, one might suspect he was the last person who'd have a just thought. It was a miracle at all that he was capable of thinking for himself; the dark side had a vice grip on his mind.