The Night Buzzard drops from hyperspace, a beast of durasteel and cortosis, its hull gleaming like a blade fresh from a kill. The jolt is light, barely nudging the nerf-leather seat cradling my bones, but it stirs a wound in my chest, raw and nameless. Nar Shaddaa sprawls beyond the viewport, a pockmarked mess of neon and smog, its towers stabbing the haze like vibro-knives in a brawl. I lean forward, phrik armor clanking against the seat, crimson rune on my chest catching the cockpit's purple-red glow. My mask, dented from Kylo's betrayal, weighs heavy, obsidian inlays flashing like eyes in the dark. My dark brown gaze, sharp as a reaper's claw, drinks in the moon's chaos, but I'm not here to harvest screams. A vision grips my throat, a girl's shadowed face, her cry ripping through my blood, a ghost from the Temple of the Ancients that drives me to chase something I can't grasp. "Astra," I growl, voice raw, scraping my throat like a gutted beast. "Status on our vector?"
The Virtual Intelligence hums, its tone crisp as a blaster bolt but lagging a tick, like it's chewing data. "Hyperspace exit complete, Sentinel. Nar Shaddaa orbit stable. GEMINI sensors active." Holo-displays flare, kyber-powered, blazing purple-red, projecting a tangle of freighters and patrol ships clogging the orbit. The screens dance across wroshyr wood paneling, polished so slick a Hutt would weep credits. This ship's a kriffin' throne, top-tier, every inch screaming Je'daii authority. Nerf-leather creaks under my weight, soft as a smuggler's bribe, and kyber-lit sconces glow warm, their crystals humming like a heart I'd carve out. Automated refreshers hiss in the cabin, ready to spray spice-mist, and a holo-suite, dark now, promises star charts or sabacc at a grunt. Zakuulan thrusters purr low, eager to roar. The Je'daii Order forged this beauty, but it's mine by right, a reaper's blade hunting a dream.
I grip the controls, gloves scraping durasteel, and the ship moves like it bleeds for me, smooth as my scythe through a mark's ribs. Nar Shaddaa's a cesspool below: towers piled like a gambler's bad debts, neon signs spitting Huttese curses and Rodese lies, speeders darting through smog thick as a spice den's haze. The air down there must stink of coolant and rot, a pulse that once sang in my veins. I carved my name here in my Knight of Ren days, gutting fools for Ren's creed, taking what I kriffin' wanted. Freedom, he called it, his rasp burning my skull. Now I'm Sentinel of Fire, chained to Revan's vision: "There is only the Force." Freedom ain't what I'm after. It's something else, a wound I can't name. The vision claws me again, a girl's face, shadowed, her cry a vibro-blade in my gut. Her eyes, tied to my blood, screamed through me, fueling a dark side rage I barely leashed. No rage now, just a pull, quiet, like a vein I can't cut. Hope, maybe, though the word tastes like ash, too weak for a reaper's bones. I mutter, "There is no dark side, nor a light side," the Je'daii code sharp in my throat, true but scalding. I need to be worthy of this, whatever it is. The girl, if she's real, deserves a man who balances the flame, not just reaps lives. My fingers twitch, craving the scythe's haft, but I clench the controls, the cockpit's hum filling the quiet. Astra cuts in, "Orbital traffic dense, Sentinel. Descent to sector 47-C, landing port 12 recommended. Path projected." The holo-display shifts, a neon grid of Nar Shaddaa's sprawl, a red dot pulsing at the port. I grunt, mask tilting, and growl, "Lock it in, Astra. Get me planetside."
The Night Buzzard dives, Zakuulan thrusters roaring like a rancor's bellow, vibrating through the deck. The viewport flares, speeder lights streaking past like blaster bolts, splashing green and violet on the wroshyr wood. The ship weaves through traffic, Astra's numbers tight, though a flicker in the holo-display betrays her prototype circuits. Kriffin' tech, but sharper than any flesh co-pilot, a nod to Shepard's influence, wherever he's gone. The smog thickens, a gray shroud swallowing the towers, and the air filters hum, catching the spice-stink creeping in. My armor clanks as I shift, crimson rune glowing faint. The scythe rests in the armory, a reaper's noose I carry alone tonight. No Knights, no Chosen, no kriffin' Zeht at my back. Just me, this ship, and a vision bleeding me dry. The girl's face burns in my skull, her cry a raw wound, like blood pooling in Krynnar's sands. I raged in that temple, scythe raised, Revan's voice—"My Fire, stand your ground!"—cutting through the dark. The gate's runes blazed, my fear aura spilling out, a harvester's hunger feeding on her cry, like my own veins split open. I didn't grasp it then, still don't, but it's carved in my bones, a scar that won't heal. Is she mine? A daughter, a lie, a dark side blade twisting my gut? The thought churns my insides, not fear but something softer, a longing I'm not built to carry. I've reaped lives, harvested screams, but this is different. It's a thread, thin as a kyber shard, and I'm chasing it blind, hoping the gray keeps me from kriffing it up.
"Descent path clear," Astra says, voice snappy but lagging a tick. "Landing port 12 in two minutes." The Night Buzzard banks, thrusters humming smooth, and the port slides into view: a grimy durasteel slab jutting from a tower's base, littered with rusted crates and flickering neon. Droids skitter through coolant slicks, optics flashing like scavengers, and a Trandoshan hauler squats nearby, its hull scarred like a brawler's hide. The smog's a chokehold, dulling the neon, and the air must reek of spice and piss, Nar Shaddaa's kriffin' handshake. The ship settles, engines whining down, the deck shuddering faint under my boots. Astra hums, "Landing complete. Systems green. Cloaking array deployed." The holo-display fades, purple-red light dimming, leaving the cockpit in the sconces' glow. I stand, armor grinding, grabbing the scythe from its rack, and stalk toward the ramp. The ramp hisses, and Nar Shaddaa slams me like a vibro-axe: air thick with coolant, spice, and the sour stink of bodies packed too close. My boots hit durasteel, the platform slick and pitted, neon signs in Huttese flickering like dying stars. A Rodian hawker barks from a stall, slinging junked blasters, his voice sharp as a snapped credstick. I ignore him, mask hiding my face, dark brown eyes sweeping the port. I'm not here to gut anyone, though the scythe's hum begs for blood. I'm chasing a girl's cry, a vision that's got my insides bleeding. The Je'daii code rumbles in my skull: "I am the wielder of the flame, protector of balance." I grip it, hoping it makes me worth a damn for her, if she exists.
I move through alleys, Nar Shaddaa's guts a maze of blaster-pocked walls and holoboards spitting static. A Twi'lek's laugh slices the noise, sharp as a shiv, and a Weequay stumbles from a spice den, eyes glassy. Hawkers shout, peddling kyber fakes and stolen data, their voices drowning in the moon's pulse, a rhythm I once rode like a reaper's high. The Sinking Star Cantina looms ahead, its neon sign flickering green and violet, durasteel door dented like a brawler's skull. The name fits, a star sunk in this kriffin' slime, a dive where rumors flow like blood from a bad cut. Folks trade secrets here, credits for whispers, and I might need those to track her down. My chest tightens, a hope flickering like a flame in a sandstorm, frail but stubborn. I pause, glove grazing the door, scythe's weight anchoring me. A woman's face cuts through, sharp as a blade, her blaster jammed against my kidney right here, her eyes burning through my mask. I shoved through the dented door, my simpler durasteel armor clanking with each step, the unscarred mask hiding my face. Cardo and Ushar flanked me, their own gear grinding, vibro-axe and vibroblade catching the cantina's flicker. The air stank of sweat and blaster oil, a lawless pulse that sang to my hunger. We were hunting rumors of a ghost, Starkiller, whispered to have cheated Boba Fett's blaster five years back. Kylo's orders burned in my skull: find him, deal with him. The cantina's din, sabacc clinks, slurred Huttese, vague mutters of a spice dens, swallowed our steps, but eyes darted our way, wary of our Knights' shadow.
I scanned the haze, dark brown eyes sharp behind the mask, predatory as a krayt dragon. Patrons hunched over tables, smugglers and hunters trading credits for lies, their whispers a slaughterground of half-truths I'd carve through. My Force sense twitched, sniffing for Starkiller's trail, but the moon's chaos drowned it, a kriffin' maze of greed and rot. Cardo muttered something, his vibro-axe glinting as he leaned toward a Rodian peddling data. Ushar, silent, eyed a Twi'lek informant, his vibroblade's edge catching neon. I ignored them, my focus narrowing on a shadowed booth in the corner, a den of lies lit by flickering holoscreens. A woman sat there, leather jacket patched and worn, hair catching the neon like a spice den's glow. Datapads and ale glasses cluttered her table, marking her as the broker I'd heard of, someone who traded secrets for the right price. My scythe's weight pulled at my shoulder, grounding me as I stalked toward her, the crowd parting like blood from a fresh cut. I loomed over her booth, the air between us thick with spice and tension. Her eyes, cunning as a krayt dragon's, flicked up to meet my mask, no fear in them, just a cool defiance that pricked my gut. Her hand rested on the table, the other hidden beneath, casual but deliberate. I leaned in, voice a raw growl, no modulator to twist it, just me, flesh and menace. "Word is you deal in rumors and secrets, broker. The name Starkiller's trail cross your path?"
She tilted her head, a smirk curling her lips, sharp as a blade. "Those kind of rumors don't come cheap, stranger. You got nothin' I want even it was something you could afford." Her voice was low, edged with Nar Shaddaa's grit, like she'd clawed her way through these streets same as me. The jab stung, but it lit something in me, something completely foreign to me. My Force sense probed her, sniffing for lies, but all I got was steel, her mind a locked vault, her defiance a wall I couldn't crack. The booth felt smaller, the neon's glow tighter, like a noose drawing close around my throat. Cardo shifted behind me, his vibro-axe scraping his armor, but I waved him off with a grunt and a hand wave. "You know who I am," I said, leaning closer, my shadow swallowing her table. "Knights of Ren don't ask twice." The words were a blade, meant to cut deep, but she didn't flinch. Her smirk widened, and her visible hand tapped a datapad, casual, like I was just another thug looking to muscle in on her trade. The cantina's din, jizz-wailers wailing, glasses clinking, faded to a dull roar, my focus narrowing to her eyes, her scent. Starship fuel and spice clung to her, a mix that burned my throat, raw and alive. I wanted her secrets, Starkiller's trail, but kriff if I didn't want to know what made this woman tick.
"Knights, huh?" she said, voice mocking, her gaze flicking over my armor like it was cheap durasteel. "Just another pack of dogs sniffing for scraps. I don't deal with strays." The insult hit like a vibro-axe, bold and clean. Cardo growled low as if continuing to eavesdrop, but I shot him a look, my blood humming with something hotter than anger. She was no mark, no prey to gut and toss aside. She was something else, and I was too kriffin' stunned in that moment to notice. I surged Force fear, a cold sickle slicing through the air, meant to crack her resolve. The cantina seemed to dim around us, patrons hunching instinctively, their whispers faltering. Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't buckle. Instead, I felt it: a sharp, icy press against my kidney, right through the armor's gap. Her hidden hand had moved, quick as a blaster bolt, and now her DL-44's muzzle dug into me, out of sight under the table. My breath caught, not from fear but from the sheer kriffin' nerve of it. I hadn't seen it coming, hadn't sensed the move, and that alone carved a mark in my bones. No woman I'd met, not in the Unknown Regions or anywhere in this galaxy, had ever pulled a play like that on me.
"Try that Force kriff again," she hissed, her voice low, deadly, "and you'll bleed out before your dogs come calling." Her eyes locked on my mask, unyielding, tattoos glinting on her arm, kyber-like swirls, Nar Shaddaa gang sigils, stories of a life as scarred as mine. The blaster's chill seeped into me, but it was her fire that burned hotter, a vibro-shiv twisting in my gut. My reaper's blood screamed to carve her, to harvest her defiance, but something else stirred, stronger: respect, sharp and unfamiliar. She wasn't just different; she was a storm I couldn't predict, and kriff if that didn't hook me deep. I eased back, letting the Force fear fade, the cantina's din swelling again, speeders whining outside, a Twi'lek laughing sharp. "You're good, broker," I growled, voice raw, a taunt laced with something softer. "But I need that ghost's shadow or my boss won't be very happy." The words hung heavy, not just about Starkiller anymore. Her blaster didn't waver, but her gaze flicked over me, searching, like she saw past the mask to the man beneath. My pulse thrummed, not from the hunt but from her, this feeling that started to feel like kindling.
She tilted her head, the smirk softening, just a fraction. "You got a name, knight boy, or just that ominous title?" The question caught me off guard, a jab I didn't expect. Names were nothing in the Knights' creed, Ren taught us to be shadows, not men, but her asking felt like a challenge, a dare to be more than death's collector of debts. I hesitated, my scythe's weight heavy as it leaned against me, the cantina's haze thick in my throat. She'd earned it, this piece of me, with that look and the fire in her gaze. "Vicrul," I said, low, the word strange on my tongue, like spilling blood I didn't mean to. Her eyes flickered, not with fear but with something else, curiosity, maybe, or recognition. She leaned forward, the blaster easing just enough to let me breathe, though its threat lingered.
"Lysara," she offered, her voice softer now, but still edged, like a blade half-sheathed. "Don't make me regret it, Vicrul." The way she said my name, sharp and deliberate, shook my bones, a wound I didn't want to stitch. Her tattoos caught the neon again, vivid, like kyber veins pulsing with secrets. The standoff held, a fragile balance, neither of us yielding but both of us caught in something bigger than the hunt. I stepped back, scythe clanking as I stood up from the table, but my eyes didn't leave her. "I'll be back, Lysara," I said, the words a vow, not a threat. Her smirk returned, faint but real, and she holstered the blaster under the table, her hand visible again, empty but no less dangerous. The cantina's pulse roared back, jizz-wailers, whispers, the clink of credits, but her fire drowned it all, a spark that lit my blood. I turned, armor grinding, and stalked toward Cardo and Ushar, their glares heavy with questions about our bounty. Her booth lingered in my mind as I moved through the cantina. Kriff, she was different.
Lysara's smirk, the icy bite of her DL-44, fades like spice smoke in the cantina's haze. I blink, and the Sinking Star's dim neon, sputtering glow, jars my bones. My phrik armor clanks, heavy with the crimson rune, as I lean against the bar, my scythe propped beside me. This kriffin' dive's still a grave. Rust streaks the durasteel walls, once pocked with blaster burns, now crumbling like my own scars. Green and violet neon flickers, half-dead, casting shadows that mock me. Jizz-wailers drone, their sound a dying engine's rasp, and sabacc tables hum with thin credits. Smugglers, grayed by time, and young hunters mutter of Hutt deals and kyber scams, their eyes dodging my dented mask. The bar's sticky surface grounds me, reeking of stale ale, coolant, and regret, choking my throat. Her ghost claws every corner, but it's her booth, Lysara's old den, that pulls me hardest. A Gran peddler squats there now, his junk, datapads, spice vials, sprawling where her holoscreens once glowed. I growl to the Twi'lek bartender, voice raw, "Lysara Voon, an information broker, held that booth years back. She still cut through this rot?" He shrugs, wiping a glass, eyes evasive. "Names fade, stranger. Check the Red Veil, maybe. Ain't my business it sounds like." My glove tightens on the scythe's haft, hope a frail spark in a sandstorm. The Je'daii code burns in my skull: "I am the wielder of the flame, protector of balance." It urges me to be worthy of the child's vision, of Lysara's fire. No answers come, just whispers, vague as Nar Shaddaa's smog. I push off the bar, armor grinding, and stalk toward her booth. The Gran's optics flicker, wary, but I ignore him. Standing here, her scent, starship fuel, spice, flares in my mind. Her name's a wound, tied to a cry I ain't worthy of, pulling me back to that third night of our hunt for Galen.
Spice smoke choked the air, thick with sweat and lies, while jizz-wailers screeched off-key, clawing at my skull. Sabacc tables hummed, credits clinking as smugglers and hunters whispered of ghosts in spice dens and Hutt betrayals. The vibro-scythe slung across my back tugged like a reaper's noose, eager for blood. My unscarred mask hid my face, its raw growl. Cardo and Ushar lingered at a table, muttering about a Rodian's kyber scam. We were Knights of Ren, still hunting Starkiller's shadow on Kylo's orders, but my eyes drifted back to Lysara's booth, a den of secrets where she sat, leather jacket patched, hair glowing like a spice den's lure. Our first meeting, two nights ago, had left its mark. Now, she leaned close across her table, datapads and ale glasses cluttering the space, her scent, starship fuel and spice, burning my throat. Her cunning eyes locked on mine through the mask, a vibro-shiv in my gut. "Got something on your bounty, knight boy, but it's just for your ears only. Your dogs'll kriff it up." Her voice was low, edged with Nar Shaddaa's grit, daring me to bite. My Force sense probed for deceit, but all I got was her fire, a heat that stirred my blood beyond the hunt for Starkiller. Cardo shifted, eyeing us, but I waved him off, my focus narrowing to her smirk.
"Sure, this better be worth it. I can be quick to collect on debts that need to be rendered'." I growled, standing, scythe humming faintly. She rose, fluid as a shadow, and beckoned me toward the cantina's rear, her jacket creaking. The din, jizz-wailers, slurred Huttese, faded as we moved, patrons' eyes darting away from my mask. She led me to the back, a grimy hole with cracked tiles and a flickering light that buzzed like a dying droid. Rust streaked the walls, the air sour with piss and coolant. She knelt, fingers prying a rusted panel loose, revealing a hidden exit: a narrow slit to the underground. Her smirk flashed, daring, and she slipped through. I followed, the frame scraping my shoulders, the cantina's pulse swallowed by Nar Shaddaa's darker heartbeat. The underground streets hit like a vibro-axe, alleys tight with rusted durasteel walls, coolant puddles reflecting neon holoboards that screamed spice den ads. Speeders whined overhead, their hum a rancor's growl, while hawkers barked, peddling kyber fakes and stolen data. The air reeked of decay and fuel, a rot that clung to my throat. Lysara moved like she owned these shadows, her steps sure, tattoos, kyber swirls, gang sigils, vivid under the flickering lights. I expected a spice den, an informant's lair, my scythe ready for Starkiller's blood, but her pace was deliberate, her glances back sparking something else. "You armor sounds louder than a Hutt's laugh, reaper man." she tossed over her shoulder, voice mocking but warm. "And you're too kriffin' quick for being just a dealer in secrets." I shot back, my growl softer than I meant.
A Weequay pickpocket lunged from an alley, vibro-knife glinting. Lysara twisted, disarming him with a flick of her wrist, her DL-44 out before he hit the ground. My scythe flashed, its hum singing death, pinning the bastard's sleeve where he lay. He squealed, scrambling off as I yanked the blade free. Our gloves grazed as we stepped back, a quiet thrill jolting my blood. Her laugh cut the din, sharp as a shiv, and for a moment, the hunt faded, Starkiller, Kylo, the Knights, swallowed by her fire. The streets' pulse pounded, neon splashing her face, and I saw her, not as a broker, but as Lysara, a storm I didn't want shelter from. She led me deeper, alleys narrowing until we reached a derelict building, its rusted durasteel door creaking under her push. Inside, the air was stale, heavy with old perfume and rot: an abandoned whore house, its faded velvet curtains torn, shattered chandeliers dangling like broken bones. A cracked skylight let neon bleed in, casting shadows over splintered furniture and dusty mirrors that threw back our warped reflections. Erotic holos flickered faintly, their images cracked, a ghost of Nar Shaddaa's lust. My boots crunched on glass, scythe ready, but Lysara turned, her DL-44 drawn, eyes hard. "Not here to give you anything, reaper. Just questions and you'll give me answers. Why're you huntin' Starkiller? What's Kylo want with a washed up drunk?" Her voice was a blade, cutting through the stale air.
I snarled, scythe rising, its durasteel haft cold in my grip. "You're playin' with death, Lysara." The words were meant to bite, but my blood hummed, not with rage but with her nerve. She dodged into the shadows, quick as a specter. Her blaster spat, bolts grazing my shoulder, searing the air. I swung the scythe, its arc splintering a rotted table, wood shards flying like blood spray. She rolled, firing again, her shots precise, forcing me back. "Thought you would be sharper, Knight. Or is that fancy scythe work all you got?" she taunted, her smirk flashing in the neon. I lunged, scythe humming, carving a curtain to ribbons, but she was always a step ahead, a flame dancing through the rot. Her fire burning holes in my reaper's creed, making me want more of whatever this was. The brothel's confines tightened the air, our breaths ragged, the skylight's glow painting her tattoos like kyber veins. I caught her arm, twisting her blaster aside, but she spun, her free hand snapping to my mask. In a sweep, she ripped it off, the durasteel clattering to the floor. My face, scarred, weathered, dark brown eyes raw, met hers under the neon's haze. Her breath caught, not from victory but from my gaze, unguarded, human. I froze, expecting rage to boil up, my reaper's blood screaming for control, but her eyes, cunning, now soft, locked with mine, disarming me like nothing ever could before.
The brothel faded, Nar Shaddaa's din, speeders, shouts, the underground's pulse, gone. Her tattoos glinted, my scythe forgotten, the air electric with something I couldn't name. We weren't knight and broker, but Vicrul and Lysara, caught in a moment few ever feel. Her hair, spice-scented, brushed close, her lower-back scar catching the light as her jacket shifted. My heart, a reaper's stone, cracked, and I saw it in her eyes: she felt it too, a connection profound, a wound we'd both carry. No words, just silence, heavy as a saber's hum, our gazes saying what our throats couldn't. She stepped back, shaken, her hand twitching. A smoke pellet hit the floor, gray haze exploding, swallowing her shadow. I coughed, lungs burning, groping for my mask, its durasteel cold against the splintered wood. "Kriff, Lysara…" I muttered, voice raw, questions swallowing me. Why'd she run? What was that look? My reaper's creed, harvest, consume, crumbled under her fire, leaving me raw.
The cantina's neon snapped me back, its sputtering glow jarring my skull. I stand in the Sinking Star looking upon that booth, my crimson rune catching the dim light. The Gran's junk, spice vials, cracked datapads, mocking me. Rust streaks the walls, jizz-wailers drone, and the air's thick with regret. Her scent, starship fuel and spice, lingers in my mind. I turn from the cluttered stand where Lysara once held business, the Gran's trinkets, vials, battered datapads, mocking my ache. The Sinking Star Cantina's decay gnaws at me, its walls marred with blaster dents, dim green-violet glows stuttering. Jizz-wailers wail, a grating lament, while sabacc tables buzz with meager bets. My vibro-scythe, slung across my back, weighs like a vow unkept, urging me toward the spiral staircase curling upward.
The staircase groans beneath my tread, its corroded railings tacky with filth. Shattered vials snap underfoot, faint hololights wavering, painting patterns across my phrik armor, its crimson rune pulsing softly. A Zabrak, reeking of debt and despair, lurches by, avoiding my scarred mask. The air thickens, sour with mildew and loss, Nar Shaddaa's drone seeping through durasteel. Each step carves a fresh pang, hope a brittle thread in a maelstrom. The corridor yawns, tight, its flaking panels and sputtering light-tubes casting a sickly sheen. A human maid brushes past debris, eyes downcast. The door, pitted durasteel, keypad corroded, faint kyber-like graffiti mirroring Lysara's tattoos, stands like a relic. My glove pauses, scythe a heavy burden, her essence, fuel, dusk, swelling in my thoughts. The Je'daii code anchors me, but her warmth draws me back to our night.
Jizz-wailers wailed off-key, their screech scraping my skull, while sabacc tables buzzed, credits clinking as smugglers and hunters muttered about spice dens and Hutt schemes. My vibro-scythe, slung across my back, tugged like a noose, its durasteel haft itching for blood. The unscarred mask hid my face, my voice a raw growl, no modulator to twist it. Cardo and Ushar trailed me, their weapons glinting under the cantina's dim green-violet glows. That kriffin' gaze from the brothel two nights ago had hooked deep in my chest, a tether I couldn't snap. I scanned the chaos, dark brown eyes sharp behind the mask, my Force sense probing for her. The crowd parted like prey, their whispers a tangle of lies I'd carve through if needed. Patrons hunched over tables, trading credits for half-truths, their fear a sweet tang I could taste. My focus snapped to Lysara's booth, expecting her leather jacket and spice-scented hair, but she was already moving, fast, a shadow slipping through the throng, dodging our notice. Her silhouette darted past a sabacc table, her steps silent as a specter's. My blood surged, not with the hunt's thrill but with a need to reach her, to feel that gaze again.
I pushed forward, boots pounding the sticky floor, scythe swaying. "She's makin' a run," I growled to Cardo, voice rough. "Keep on her, don't let her slip out the back," he snapped, vibro-axe ready as he followed close. Ushar broke off, flanking her through the crowd, his vibroblade a faint gleam. Lysara's jacket vanished behind a cluster of gamblers, her pace a taunt, daring me to chase. The cantina's clamor, jizz-wailers, slurred Huttese, swelled, but my world narrowed to her trail, my Force sense locking on her like prey. She was no mark, though: kriff, she was something else, a hurricane I wanted to plunge into head first. Cardo reached her first, his hand reaching for her arm in a tight alcove between two sabacc tables, the space cramped with spilled ale and flickering holos. Lysara pivoted, her body a blur, using the alcove's durasteel wall to brace her spin. Her wrist flicked, a concealed stun baton tapping Cardo's forearm, sending his vibro-axe skidding under a table, masked by a patron's drunken laugh. The crowd didn't blink, oblivious to her move. Ushar lunged from a shadowed corner near the jizz-wailer's stage, vibroblade arcing, but Lysara ducked under a low-hanging hololight, her foot hooking a stool to trip him. Her baton grazed his wrist, a precise jolt dropping him to a knee, his grunt lost in the cantina's roar. Her movements were surgical, like a blaster shot in a crowded room, unseen but lethal. My pulse raced, her skill a kriffin' marvel, a flame that burned hotter than any fight I'd carved through.
I quickened my stride, scythe bouncing, weaving past a Rodian spilling ale in a narrow aisle flanked by booths. Lysara darted toward the VIP area, a raised platform behind a velvet cord, its two Gamorrean guards stirring, their vibro-axes glinting in the dim glow. She didn't slow. Slipping into a gap between a sabacc table and a durasteel pillar, she flicked a dart from her sleeve, catching one guard's neck; he slumped against the pillar, silent, eyes rolling back. Her boot snapped out, a low kick to the second guard's knee, using the platform's edge to topple him, his bulk hitting the floor like a dropped crate, unnoticed in the chaos. The crowd kept muttering, jizz-wailers wailing, as she slipped past the cord. I pushed through, heart pounding, her deftness a blade slicing through my creed. The VIP area's sultry glow enveloped me, dim hololights casting a veil over plush booths, a sharp shift from the main floor's chaos. The air carried traces of perfume and ale, Nar Shaddaa's drone softened through cracked viewports lining the platform's edge. Lysara stood in a booth tucked against the far wall, her DL-44 lowered, her eyes, cunning, fierce, locking onto my mask. No words, just that gaze from two nights ago, raw and unguarded, a tether I ached to follow. The space between us, barely ten paces across the raised platform, felt like a chasm and a magnet all at once.
Her stare held me, hypnotic, pulling at something deep in my bones. My fingers moved, slow and deliberate, as if caught in a trance, lifting the unscarred mask from my face. The durasteel grazed my skin, its weight falling away with a soft clink as I set it on a nearby booth's edge, my dark brown eyes bared to her. The act was a surrender, a kriffin' vow to meet her as Vicrul, not the Knight. My vibro-scythe slipped from my grip, its durasteel haft thudding against the platform, the sound echoing like a heartbeat. Her blaster dropped, a quiet clatter on the booth's cushioned seat, forgotten. We moved, our steps a choreographed dance, precise as a duel in the cantina's tight confines. I crossed the platform, skirting a low table littered with ale glasses, my boots silent on the plush carpet. She stepped forward, her leather jacket catching the hololight, tattoos, kyber swirls, gang sigils, glinting like stars. The booth's curved wall framed her, the viewport behind casting a smoggy haze that haloed her spice-scented hair. We stopped, inches apart, her breath a warm whisper against my lips, her presence an ocean I wanted to drown in. Our hands hovered, hers grazing my jaw, mine brushing her arm, each touch deliberate, mapping the space between us with reverence.
Our lips met, fierce yet tender, a kiss that surged like a saber's clash. I angled my head, deepening it, her fingers threading through my hair, pulling me closer. She pressed against me, her body shifting to align with mine, the booth's edge at her back steadying us. The cantina's roar, jizz-wailers, credits clinking, faded, the galaxy's weight dissolving in that moment. It was us, Vicrul and Lysara, bound in a connection few could fathom, our kiss a vow carved in silence. The galaxy blurred, and we stumbled into this hotel room above, its thin durasteel walls trembling with Nar Shaddaa's restless hum. A creaking bed crouched against the left wall, its frame scarred, tattered curtains fluttering beneath a lone viewport where smog choked the violet-green glow. A battered table by the door held Lysara's relics, stun baton, darts, a dented DL-44, scattered like offerings to a forgotten creed. Empty ale bottles glinted, catching flickers of neon that danced across the room's decay. The air hung heavy with spice and the sour tang of regret, a weight that settled in my lungs like a reaper's shroud.
Lysara moved first, her leather jacket sliding off with a soft creak, baring arms where tattoos, kyber-like swirls, Nar Shaddaa gang sigils, shifted under the viewport's haze. A scar, jagged and pale, curved across her lower back, a silent story etched in flesh that called to my hands. I hesitated, my reaper's blood whispering I'd snuff her light. She turned, eyes blazing, pinning mine. Her spice-scented hair fell like a shadow tide, daring me to step beyond the abyss of my title. My boots scraped the gritty floor, armor clanking as I closed the distance. My mask lay abandoned among the clutter, its durasteel staring blankly beside my vibro-scythe, its haft resting heavy on the floor. All piled next to Lysara's, our gear a graveyard of defenses we shed in the neon's glow. I fumbled at a pauldron's buckle, the durasteel clinking as it dropped to the table, a surrender to her pull. My scarred hands, rough from harvests reaped, hovered over her shoulders, trembling at the thought of touching a flame so fierce. She stepped into me, her fingers brushing my jaw, tracing the stubble and scars of a man unmade. Her touch ignited my veins, a surge like kyber sparking a blade, burning through the cold I'd worn too long.
Our steps wove a silent duel, navigating the room's chaos. Her hip grazed the table's edge, a bottle wobbling but holding, as she drew me toward the bed. My Force sense thrummed, tasting the storm of her desire, a mirror to the chaos clawing within me. Still, I resisted, fearing the reaper's shadow would devour her light. Her hand pressed my chest, fingers spreading over my half-armored chest. Her heat sliced through me, a vibroblade to my core. The bed's frame groaned as we reached it, its shadow pooling like spilled blood under the neon's pulse. Nar Shaddaa's drone synced with the rhythm pounding in my skull. We stopped, her breath a warm ghost against my lips, her gaze a dare to leap the divide between knight and man. I let my armor fall, piece by piece, each clank a chain broken, a step toward the man she saw beneath the reaper. Her hands moved with a smuggler's skill, unfastening straps and clasps, her touch lingering like a vow carved in silence. When the last piece hit the floor, I stood bare. Her eyes roamed my scars, each a mark of battles won and souls taken, yet she saw no monster, only a darkness her fire could hold.
She shed her shirt, adding it to the pile, her tattooed skin bared to the neon's caress. The kyber-like swirls glowed faintly, a map of her wars and wanderings. My fingers followed the lines, tracing her history in ink and flesh, committing it to memory like a creed of my own. The heat between us thickened, a force pulling us closer. My hands gripped her waist, drawing her against me, her softness clashing with the hardness of my frame. Her breath faltered, a sound that struck me like a blaster bolt to the gut. We sank to the bed, its creak a protest beneath us. The curtains twitched, casting shadows over our tangled forms. The neon bathed her in violet and green, a vision rising from Nar Shaddaa's rot. My lips claimed hers, a collision of fire and shadow, fierce yet fragile. Her hands clawed my back, nails carving trails I'd wear like trophies. I traced kisses down her neck, tasting the spice and sweat that coated her, each press of my lips a spark feeding the tempest inside.
Our bodies sank deeper into the hotel room's stale heat, each motion a slow, relentless pulse, a rhythm forged from raw hunger and the surrender I never thought I'd yield. The bed's frame creaked in protest, its splintered wood bearing the weight of our collision, while a cracked viewport frame let Nar Shaddaa's sickly light spill across us, glinting off the grit-strewn floor. The city's drone buzzed through the walls, a low growl that thrummed in my bones, urging me to lose myself in her. Her lips grazed my neck, a fleeting press that sparked like an ember in my blood, her breath warm and quick, carrying the faint salt of her skin. My scarred hands, calloused from a thousand kills, mapped the arc of her hips, each touch a vow to hold her without breaking her. I faltered, my reaper's shadow whispering I'd drown her light, but she moved with a smuggler's nerve, shifting to straddle me, her thighs anchoring my waist. Her strength, a maelstrom to my chaos, commanded the rhythm, her fingers locking with mine, guiding them to her shoulders, where those tattoos shimmered under the flickering hololight's dying glow.
This wasn't mere want but a forging, a collision that wove our shattered edges, her defiance, my hunger, into a whole stronger than either alone. My Force sense quivered, tasting the pulse of her resolve, a beacon that steadied my dark, binding us in a current no creed could sever. Her heartbeat thrummed against my chest, a counterpoint to the bed's rhythmic groan, as she leaned closer, her scars brushing my own, each mark a wound we shared. My fingers found the scar on her lower back, tracing its path like a pilgrim at a shrine, etching her into the ruins of my soul. The room's decay, the scattered mask and scythe, her blaster and darts strewn like fallen stars, faded to nothing, my boot nudging the scythe's haft as we shifted, a reminder of the defenses we'd cast aside. Nar Shaddaa's buzz was a distant echo, the galaxy's weight dissolving in the heat of her skin. Our rhythm deepened, a dance of ember and shadow, each motion precise as a blade's arc, yet tender, a silent oath to balance our flaws. My heart, a shattered blade, bent to her will, and I let it, consumed by the glow that made us one.
We lay entwined in the hotel room's fading warmth, our bodies a quiet knot against the worn bedframe, its splintered edges softened by the shadows. Nar Shaddaa's hum seeped through the smudged viewport, a faint pulse that barely touched us, the room's cooling unit buzzing like a dying star. Her breath, warm and steady, grazed my chest, a rhythm that anchored my blood, her heartbeat a faint drum against my ribs. The silence wrapped us, a tide of quiet that held more weight than any vow I'd sworn. Her hand rested on my heart, fingers curled against the scars of a reaper's life, steady as if she could tame the chaos beneath. My arm cradled her, fingers threading through her hair, its dark strands soft as the sands of Krynnar, a gentleness I hadn't earned. My Force sense stirred, catching the calm of her soul, a beacon that steadied my void, binding us in a moment no blade could sever. The room's grit, the mask and scythe strewn on the floor, her blaster glinting faintly beside her darts, lay forgotten, relics of a war we'd paused. A faint creak from the durasteel walls marked the city's restless pulse, but we were beyond it, two souls bared in a sacred pause. My gaze traced her face, her scars and strength a mirror to my own, and I saw it: a bond that could outlast my broken creed. Her warmth seeped into me, a tether I'd carry through the galaxy's rot, and for that night, I was no knight, no reaper, just Vicrul, hers in the stillness.
Morning broke, cold and sharp, a frost in my bones that Nar Shaddaa's smog couldn't thaw. The bed beside me lay empty, its sheets chilled, the warmth of Lysara's body a ghost that mocked my reaching hand. The hotel room's decay pressed in, cracked floor tiles glinting under a flickering hololight, the viewport's harsh glare cutting through smudged glass. Nar Shaddaa's drone crept back, a metallic tang in the air, a hollow roar that filled the emptiness she'd left. The table by the door stood bare, her stun baton, darts, and blaster gone, as if she'd never been. Only a flimsi note remained, its edges worn, a relic of her hand. My fingers trembled, scarred and unsteady, as I snatched it, the rough grain biting my skin like a wound no scythe could carve. Her words sliced deeper than Skywalker's saber to my shoulder all those years ago: "Don't come after me, my Knight Reaper. This can't go anywhere, you know that. I've got my trade, and you've got your Knights. You know you must stay with them. —Lysara. P.S. Red Veil spice den. Your Starkiller is there." Each syllable was a vibroblade, her agency a final act of mercy: she'd left to spare me the choice, her lead on Galen a parting gift, sharp as her fire.
The cantina's dim glow flickers, snapping me back, my phrik armor heavy, crimson rune pulsing under the sputtering light. I stand before that kriffin' door, its dented durasteel and faded kyber graffiti a relic of her. I kick the dented door, durasteel splintering inward, hinges shrieking like a gutted beast. The decay hits me: a splintered bed sags against the wall, tattered curtains choke a smudged viewport's violet-green glow, dust buries a table's cracked ale bottles. Her scent, spice, starship fuel, a smuggler's ghost, punches my gut, sharper than a vibro-blade, locking my eyes on a rusted vent above the bed. Nar Shaddaa's hum fades, the Je'daii code steadying my blood. I yank the vent with a Force pull ripping it free, durasteel clattering to the floor. A small cache spills out, a flimsi note, a holo-image glinting in the viewport's haze. My scarred hands tremble, snatching the note, heart hammering like a Zakuulan thruster, hope and dread twisting my insides. The flimsi sears my eyes: "To my Knight Reaper, whose shadow still cuts deep, if you remember me, know this: that night haunts my dreams, a fire I can't douse. I long for you even now, my heart raw from this kriffin' galaxy's grind. Vicrul, we have a daughter, Kalia, fierce as a vibro-blade. Stubborn like you, with your dark brown eyes and my smarts. Our holo-image is here with this note. I ran from your reaper's shadow all those years ago, scared it'd swallow us both, but if you're more than death now, if you've tamed that blood-hungry blade, come find us on Zehara, where we hide from this galaxy's rot. —Lysara" Kalia's name's a spark I'd chase to the end of this galaxy, I let my armor sink into this bed that her and I shared, knowing what I gotta do next.