For Vahliri, the mission to Thule had started out decent as far as crashing go. It didn't last. Separated from her companion and avoiding the native's xenophobic patrols wasn't exactly easy going. It'd take a mix of skill and sheer dumb good luck to get where she was trying to be. Was Vahliri lucky? No, not really.
As the half-Annfyn rounded a rocky outcoming she'd find herself making solid eye contact with a scouting patrolman barely ten feet away, visible even in the dead of night. There she was, aching from the crash, as the scout's mouth opened to shout, "HEY, stop right there! Who are you!?" with absolute authority, a nasty-looking blaster pistol leveling toward her. His other hand raised toward his ear comm. And into that comm he barked,
"Chicken pickle black hat wobble rancor!!" followed immediately by a look of total, abject bewilderment. A strange glint flashed behind the man's eyes and his limbs began to shake and shiver, convulsing as if suddenly possessed by some malicious spirit. He took a step back and slipped, unsteady, falling to the ground as the shaking worsened. The man foamed at the mouth, choking, unfocused eyes rolling into his head. Leather and cloth scuffed against the arid ground somewhere off to Vahliri's left.
From over some stones had silently climbed a young man, skin mostly covered in wrapped cloth, mouth concealed behind a breath mask. Now he sat down on the stone, glaring down at the patrolman. "No shouting. Don't you know what time it is?" the young man grumbled. From the dark circles around his eyes and the weary rumble in his voice, it was clear he'd been asleep a few moments prior. The patrolman gurgled weakly in reply, now just twitching pathetically in the dirt.
Amber-gold eyes lazily rotated toward the half-Annfyn. The young man's presence in the Force was unsubtle; he'd caused the patrolman's current condition. He gave her a look like he was waiting for something. Or maybe Nakoa was just tired, it was hard to tell.
