- Joined
- Dec 19, 2015
- Messages
- 349
- Reaction score
- 411
[ Korriban Airspace : Yankun Market ]
[ Midday : Artificial Weather Conditions ]
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)