Gorhis-3.

A dusty brown ball of nothing on the fringes of the Mid-Rim, a place of vast and unending flatness with the near-sole exception of the moisture farms that dotted tiny, square-shaped plots of land all equidistant and equally isolated from each other.

This was where Captain Beris —

She missed them, every last member of Hatchet Squadron that gave their lives for freedom they would never know.
They would never get to feel that clutch in their chests let go, that roiling anxiety in their bellies finally fade away.

She would carry them with her until the end.

— seemed to doing much the same to her several times now. Clearly not a local, even less likely to be Imperial, and even less likely than that to be trouble.
Still, something seemed…Off about the stranger. She didn’t fit, not here anyway.

— had dulled over time.
The black-and-white R8-series astromech droid at her side shot a series of frustrated bleeps and blats at the Zabrak captain as her gloved right hand pointed to the troublesome bolt on the landing gear.

Her golden eyes had slyly run over the white-cloaked Togruta that —

— and freighters that were only slightly illegal flying beneath the New Republic’s noses.
They tended to look the other way when one of their many heroes made her living how she pleased.

“No, no. It’s the third C-bolt, there. See?”
The Zabrak’s voice was deeply smooth with a commanding edge that —

There were few people on this mostly-forgotten rock, fewer still that would look twice at a starship captain planet-hopping as she haggled for fuel. A common enough sight in the post-Empire galaxy with trade lanes being disrupted, smuggler’s networks becoming legitimized, —

- on board, y'know? Not too many long hauls for me these days. What's the going rate for a chef now?"
Her droid quietly beeped a warning beside her.
"Getting closer," was all it said.

- her heavy hand clapped the man on the shoulder before wrapping around both, leading him nonchalantly in the direction of her ship. Now it was her turn to play a role.
The volume of her voice increased. Not too much, not too little, just right.
"It's been a minute since I've had a chef -

- Her black lips spread into a toothy smile as she nudged her astromech's leg with the heel of her boot.
"Keep an eye on 'em, Six," She murmered out of the corner of her mouth as her eyes stayed locked on the increasingly desperate man in front of her.
"Play along" was all she said before -

- thigh.
She had seen these thugs' type too many times to count. Walking fast but not too fast, weaving their way through the crowds but not pushing or shoving, all their eyes trained on the man in front of her. Every attempt to make themselves seem innocent only to her suspicions. -

Her perceptive eyes followed the strange man's as they shot pointedly towards a small group of men trudging in their direction.
Something faintly whirred and clicked mechanically as her right hand floated lazily down towards the grip of the DL-18 that sat snugly in the holster strapped to her -

— as eating, you big lunk.”
She gave the droid a gentle metallic thunk on its dome with her gloved right hand.
Her attention turned back to the stranger, her intense golden-eyed gaze narrowing in curiosity.
“Strange way to ask for a job I never said I was offering.”

“I…” The Zabrak captain began, imitating his gesture towards the slender nose of her aging ship, “…Don’t need a chef.”

The black-and-white R9-series astromech huddled next to her leg gave a short blast of beeps and chortles that rang of frustration.
“I do eat. Caf and noodles count —

||: May The Fourth? No, happy Revenge of The Fifth from your local Mos Eisley police officer.

Three chirps, a whistle, two beeps.

“You said it, Six. Next time we land at a legal spaceport, you’re getting an oil bath and I’m spending all our credits on a spa.”

D6 retorted with an unamused electronic raspberry followed by two beeps.

“Fine. And we’ll fix up your paint too.”

⧏ 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘷𝘪𝘦𝘸 𝘪𝘴 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨
- 𝘐𝘧 𝘸𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘫𝘶𝘥𝘨𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘢 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘷𝘪𝘦𝘸 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘥 ⧐
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۞ 𝙸𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝙾𝙲
۞ 𝚂𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜/𝙱𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛/𝙲𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔
۞ 𝟷𝟾+ 𝙼𝚞𝚗
۞ 𝚂𝙵𝚆
____________________________________

𝚁𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚜/𝙸𝚗𝚏𝚘 ⇣
↻ & ♡?

⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄

‧₊˚✧ Aᴇʟʟᴀ "Eʟsɪᴇ" Eʟᴅʀɪᴛᴄʜ / Iɴᴅɪᴇ Sᴛᴀʀ Wᴀʀs OC
✧˚₊‧ Pᴀᴛʜғɪɴᴇʀ / Aʟʟʏ / Rᴇᴅsʜɪʀᴛ Cʀᴇᴡᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀ
‧₊˚✧ 18+ Mᴜɴ / SFWRP / Mᴀᴛᴄʜᴇs Sᴛʏʟᴇ
✧˚₊‧ Mᴀɪɴ: @aellaeldritch.bsky.social

⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁

‧͙⁺˚*･༓ ↻ & ♡? ༓･*˚⁺‧͙
˚*･༓ I̦͇͎ɴ͎̺̙ғ͎͔̘ᴏ̫̝͕/̺̞̻R̪̙̟ᴜ̘͇̪ʟ̦͕̘ᴇ͇͉̟s̪̟͜ ⇣ ༓･*˚

"...Wʜʏ ɪs ᴀɴʏ ᴏʙᴊᴇᴄᴛ ᴡᴇ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀsᴛᴀɴᴅ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏs ᴄᴀʟʟᴇᴅ ᴀ ᴛʜɪɴɢ?!"
____________________________________

⊚ 𝙸𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝙾𝙲
⊚ 𝚂𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜/𝙱𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛/𝙲𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔
⊚ 𝟷𝟾+ 𝙼𝚞𝚗
⊚ 𝚂𝙵𝚆
____________________________________

𝚁𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚜/𝙸𝚗𝚏𝚘 ⇣
↻ & ♡?

— Iscandar had unfortunately found herself—out of fuel and entirely out of options.

#OpenRP

Gorhis-3.

A dusty brown ball of nothing on the fringes of the Mid-Rim, a place of vast and unending flatness with the near-sole exception of the moisture farms that dotted tiny, square-shaped plots of land all equidistant and equally isolated from each other.

This was where Captain Beris —

“Pull up! All craft pull up!”

The warning from Calrissian had come not a moment too soon.
The comm channel for Hatchet Squadron exploded into confused, horrified, desperate noise.
They were hooked fish, wriggling at the end of the Empire’s irresistible lure.

This was the end of all things.

“Captain Beris Iscandar of The Renegade Dawn, former wing leader of Hatchet Squadron. Is that enough titles for you or do y’need me to make up a few more?”

• #SWRP #StarWarsRP
• Detailed, descriptive
• Galactic Civil War-Post Civil War era. (Flexible)

(Art by Rasmus Poulsen)