(no subject)
Revan finds the downed ship not far north of the boundary, in the deep of the musty rain forest, surrounded by the burnt foliage it had killed in its descent.
It was a small freighter, easily manned by one and looked of Corellian design. It was nothing but a shell of its former self, stripped just as his father had said, yet broken before that with the plunge it took from space.
He'd checked the smuggler compartments to be certain. Yet he found nothing but a nest already burrowed in and he left the eggs to hatch. He had even tried to salvage the datachip from the navigational computer but the circuits had been too fried and the chip was burnt through.
Nothing left, he steps off the ship with empty hands.
He's not entirely surprised by the outcome. In this galaxy, in the Outer Rims especially, it was take everything, leave nothing, and hope to survive the next few months to actually enjoy the spoils.
He scratches at his too long beard - he'll need to trim it again before going home - and crouches beside the ship, a hand to its charred underbelly. He presses with the Force, the starting of a headache forming already as he tries to trace the course of the ship.
Each image is nothing more than a motion blur. A sick pilot. Loss of controls. Breaking up in the atmosphere. A falling star in the night sky. Heat. Fire. Burning.
Revan hisses, pulling away his hand. His palm is red, burnt from the heat of the ship that had long since died. Sometimes, he really hates psychometry. Especially when nothing comes of it.
He stands surveying the area. There are several tracks. Mostly bipedal. Mostly humans from Wayland Station. He kneels near a smaller print with too many large toes. Myneyrshi. Like his father had said.
Their marks head north, leading away from the medical compound and boundary, disappearing at the base of trees. Climbers. And fantastic hunters and trackers, he remembers. They'll be difficult to track.
He presses his hand against one print, closing his eyes. They carry crates from the ship. Their four arms make it easy to climb and carry. They head east, not north.
Revan follows. He keeps an eye out for tracks, a break in a branch from added weight, anything. He's not sure how long he walks for, the growth denser, the sky darker, but he eventually finds another slip in their covert travels: A series of scattered footprints by the base of one tree.
By the indents in the ground and broken foliage around him, it looks as if something fell from the trees. He finds a piece of plastic from a broken crate. He rubs a thumb over it.
One of them is sick. Like the pilot. Some... Some kind of creature. It multiplies rapidly. It starts to spread through the party. They decide to quicken their pace.
He leaves the plastic in the dirt, taking off at a run, but by the time he finds their encampment they're already dead. All of them.
It was a small freighter, easily manned by one and looked of Corellian design. It was nothing but a shell of its former self, stripped just as his father had said, yet broken before that with the plunge it took from space.
He'd checked the smuggler compartments to be certain. Yet he found nothing but a nest already burrowed in and he left the eggs to hatch. He had even tried to salvage the datachip from the navigational computer but the circuits had been too fried and the chip was burnt through.
Nothing left, he steps off the ship with empty hands.
He's not entirely surprised by the outcome. In this galaxy, in the Outer Rims especially, it was take everything, leave nothing, and hope to survive the next few months to actually enjoy the spoils.
He scratches at his too long beard - he'll need to trim it again before going home - and crouches beside the ship, a hand to its charred underbelly. He presses with the Force, the starting of a headache forming already as he tries to trace the course of the ship.
Each image is nothing more than a motion blur. A sick pilot. Loss of controls. Breaking up in the atmosphere. A falling star in the night sky. Heat. Fire. Burning.
Revan hisses, pulling away his hand. His palm is red, burnt from the heat of the ship that had long since died. Sometimes, he really hates psychometry. Especially when nothing comes of it.
He stands surveying the area. There are several tracks. Mostly bipedal. Mostly humans from Wayland Station. He kneels near a smaller print with too many large toes. Myneyrshi. Like his father had said.
Their marks head north, leading away from the medical compound and boundary, disappearing at the base of trees. Climbers. And fantastic hunters and trackers, he remembers. They'll be difficult to track.
He presses his hand against one print, closing his eyes. They carry crates from the ship. Their four arms make it easy to climb and carry. They head east, not north.
Revan follows. He keeps an eye out for tracks, a break in a branch from added weight, anything. He's not sure how long he walks for, the growth denser, the sky darker, but he eventually finds another slip in their covert travels: A series of scattered footprints by the base of one tree.
By the indents in the ground and broken foliage around him, it looks as if something fell from the trees. He finds a piece of plastic from a broken crate. He rubs a thumb over it.
One of them is sick. Like the pilot. Some... Some kind of creature. It multiplies rapidly. It starts to spread through the party. They decide to quicken their pace.
He leaves the plastic in the dirt, taking off at a run, but by the time he finds their encampment they're already dead. All of them.