[SWTOR] Works in progress

[wallwalker]

I have not been writing as much as I used to. Writing feels odd after coding for a long period of time. But I have a few things, mostly from Star Wars: The Old Republic, so I figured I'd post a few things here... haven't done that in a while.



SWTOR, untitled: Get-together fic about my canon Outlander-to-be (large green Sorcerer) and his two main advisors, because I played Nathema Conspiracy and knew I had to.

“I know why you did this. Truly, I do.” His hands were calloused and scarred, cut across the palms. The scars were remnants of blood rituals that he'd performed during his rise to power, she’d heard; she remembered asking as an acolyte for the reason that ritualists didn't draw blood from locations that were less painful, and being told in no uncertain terms that she had been missing the point. Still, with as many cuts as he'd made it was amazing he hadn’t severed any nerves. “But it can’t happen again; we need to be able to trust each other. Promise me.”

SWTOR, also untitled: Backstory for said large green Sorcerer. This bit is specifically about him being found as a Force-sensitive slave.

“The Force is strong with you, alien. I wonder where it is you came from.”

Baar looked up at the unfamiliar voice, recognizing the tall woman they'd noticed on the other side of the field, the one they’d called Darth Vorgia. Reddish light reflected from elaborate golden jewelry as she stared at him, studying him as if he was a Bormu roaming through a blasted field. He wanted to say something, anything, but he couldn’t quite make his mouth work. He was exhausted, covered in dirt and blood and other things he didn’t want to think about. His clothes were mere tatters on his massive frame, while this woman looked as collected as she had the first time he had caught a glimpse of her.

“A mistake, no doubt.” She frowned sharply as he met her gaze. “Some fool couldn’t find a better place to slake their passions than in their slave pens. We keep excellent genealogy records, of course... but your type doesn’t belong there. An intelligent Sith would’ve drowned such a child at birth.”

SWTOR, I think - I was typing up a bunch of story ideas for the keyword "Mirror" and these were the ones that amused me the most. I am honestly not sure what the context was for these. Maybe at some point I'll go back to them.

One:

“I’m hallucinating,” he says. “That’s the only explanation. I’ve gotten myself high on spice without even knowing it and I’m high and I’m seeing things. Hearing things. I’m definitely... I’m definitely not staring at a copy of myself. That would just be ridiculous.”

The man who looked and sounded just like him finally sighed. “Shut up, already.”

Two:

She stared at the two of them in the mirror behind the bar. Sometimes it helped to give her a different perspective on things. But she saw the same thing that she saw in the flesh: two people from very different backgrounds, disgraced, exhausted, with only each other to lean on. His head was heavy on her shoulder, and she imagined that she could feel a sort of electrical tingle on her skin, possibly from the cybernetics in his head. It was a strange feeling, but not unpleasant.

Three:

What sort of punishment could they inflict upon him that was worse than he’d already endured? He looked at his scars in the mirror, and could count every single one of them. He knew where each one had been inflicted – this one while he was working on Balmorra, cleaning up corrosive waste. That one during training on Korriban, the first time he’d managed to best an opponent and impress one of the Overseers. That one from a beast he’d utterly failed to tame on Dromund Kaas...
But if there was one thing that the Sith were good at, it was overly-creative punishments. They’d think of something. They always did.