Hey all! I'm suffering from a bout of the sithly writer's block on NOC, but I was attacked by a rather persistent plot bunny – which I am now posting as a sort of peace offering. I'm pushing through darth WB and *hopefully* will get the next chapter up tomorrow (or today for all us east coasters) Hope you enjoy this!
Disclaimer: George owns this little playground, I'm just having some fun on the monkey bars. I don't own anything recognizable. I also do not own the Verve Pipe's song "The Freshmen."
**The opening quote will make sense in time.
**Just a note, I don't do romance, so…this will not be one. =)
"I can't be held responsible…
She fell in love in the first place."
"The Freshmen," Verve Pipe
* * *
Poorly muffled laughter vibrated off the stone walls, the sound collecting and magnifying in the half-circled ceiling of the deserted hallway before spilling back down, making the group's number seem far larger than its two. The padded footsteps skidded to a stop and, with a grunt of exertion, a heavy wooden door creaked open – the hinges protesting to centuries of ill-treatment – and the two beings dashed inside, slamming the abused door behind them.
"Careful, Proxa!" A hushed voice warned, "If we get caught, I assure you, I will beat you myself."
"Yes, milady," came the reply, the normally deferential words laced with amusement. "I am certain that – this time – you will carry through if we are discovered."
"Don't push me, Proxa," the other growled as she moved across the darkened room, patting furniture surfaces blindly, "Sith! Did you bring any lighting sticks?"
Proxa sighed, "What would you do without me, Nara?" Reaching into her robe pocket, she pulled out two long-stemmed lighting sticks and handed one to her companion, "Here."
Proxa scraped the stick against the grey stoned wall, the wood hissing and snapping as the tip ignited, flaring briefly before subduing to a modest flame. She held it in front of her face, casting a weak veil of light over her continence, flickering over her pale skin and dulling her long, dark hair. Her eyes, however, drank in the sudden luminosity, allowing the flame to dance within its dark depths and giving the girl an almost ethereal – possessed – visage.
She spoke as she turned to short table beside her, now faintly illuminated and shown to be cluttered with well used yellow wax candles, "Milady, in general, two people working on something tends to make the work end twice as fast."
A moment of silence enveloped the chamber before a second scrape of wood against rock came and the flare which followed was illuminated the second girl. Shadows softened the boundaries of her features, but did little to question her beauty. Her raven hair was pulled up, a few stray strands carefully curled and positioned to hang becomingly in her face. Her brown eyes, in contrast to her companion's, were pleasantly accentuated by the orange flame. The fire seemed to merely lick at them rather than consume them, hinting more at laughter and amicability than need for an exorcism.
In minutes, the entire room was ablaze with fifty-some lit candles – be they atop exquisitely carved dark, wooden tables and desks or fitted in beaten metal candleholders, decorated with delicate, handmade etchings of a language long since forgotten in favor of the universal Basic – along with two larger metal fire bowls, each secured on a elegantly simple, meter-tall metal stand and placed on either side of the worn wooden door. The flickering light revealed a spaciously furnished sitting room, themed in red. The richly upholstered furniture – two high-backed, wooden chairs, each fitted with its own intricately embroidered scarlet cushion, and a matching couch of the same fine make – while spread apart as to give the sitting more than enough personal space, were directed towards a beautifully ornamented fireplace.
Proxa placed some kindling in the mouth of the structure, pulling the dry logs from the gilded firewood holder positioned on the low step separating the bottom of the fireplace and the floor. Gently coaxing the glowing embers with the poker, Proxa finally succeeded in making the wood catch. She stood and brushed her hands off, pausing a moment to watch the flame grow, devouring the proffered scraps, and gave a satisfied smile.
Turning, she hurried to the couch, dismissing the task of raising the hem of her dress – a preemptive strike at a clumsy stumble – as too time consuming. She dropped herself onto the plush cushion, then turned to face Nara as she pulled her legs onto the seat, unconsciously mimicking her already situated companion.
"You know, Proxa, I was just thinking – what if our little hideaway was discovered? What if my mother just walked in her, right now, and pulled me out by the hair?" Nara twirled her finger through a stray strand of hair. "If my mother knew that I was spending my nights gossiping with my handmaiden…"
Proxa sighed, "You know very well that your mother would not risk damaging that lovely hair of yours. She wouldn't mind damaging your eardrums, mind you, but no one can see those," the girl rolled her eyes. "Her Majesty would not object to you gossiping to your slave girl in private, as long as no one of importance saw you, she'd just be furious that you're taking the horrible risk of waking with bags under your eyes in the morrow." Proxa's voice had taken on a sneeringly sarcastic tone, though no feature – save those eyes – reflected the emotion.
"Proxa, you know you're not my slave. You've ne-"
But the girl cut her mistress off with a wave of her hand, "I am merely playing, milady. I know that you have always considered me your equal – an equal who tends to your every whim, but still, an equal. For that, I thank you." She abruptly shifted so her body was leaning more comfortably, more relaxed, against the soft backrest, "Now, enough of that; onto what we came in here to discuss."
A devilish grin was shared by the two, accompanied by stifled fit of laughter which echoed slightly in the commodious room. Recovering herself, Proxa prompted, "Well? Was I right?"
Nara flung herself back, over the armrest, "Ohhh, you were *so* right. The Jedi have the most delicious beings among their ranks. I only wish they would leave some of that perfection for the rest of us."
Proxa sighed, "Yes, he was gorgeous, wasn't he? That spiked ginger hair, the cute little dimpled chin, and I even didn't mind the braid – What?" Nara was staring at her, an eyebrow raised. "What?"
"That's the apprentice," she stated flatly, as if her meaning was the most obvious thing on all of Remula.
"So?"
"He's just a boy. Not even a Jedi yet." The incredulous look left her face as she continued, "Now, the tall one, with the long hair, he – *he* – is a Jedi."
The handmaiden laughed uncertainly, but quickly sobered as it became clear her mistress was quite serious, "He's, like, sixty,"
Nara brushed off the comment, "He's distinguished. Besides, the other looks as if he's five years old."
Proxa bristled, "He's nineteen, a year older than we, milady."
Standing, Nara straightened her simple, yet costly dress, "Yes, well, be that as it may, I believe that I prefer the long-haired master to his scrawny padawan. But to each her own, right Proxa?" Nara waited for her companion to nod, "Fine, from a certain perspective, it's better this way. I can have what I want, and you – can have what you want."
The girl walked over towards the heavy door, resting her hand on the golden handle, "Be a dear and blow out the candles. I must get to sleep – wouldn't want the circles under my eyes to give us away, now would we? " She smiled and pulled open the door, walking out into the hall, her slippered feet padding softly on the stone floor.
"Yes, milady," Proxa muttered after her departed mistress, "he is mine."
* * *
"The Force hates us."
Qui-Gon Jinn barely suppressed a smile, "Padawan, the Force does *not* hate us. The Council does."
The Jedi master absently glanced at the mirror checking – more out of habit than need, for years of practice had virtually eliminated the necessity – to be sure his hair had been pulled back flawlessly – which it had – before continuing. "If the Force hated us, you can be assured we would be doing something *far* more painful than mediating a planet's initiation into the Republic. Cleaning Master Yoda's quarters comes to mind."
Qui-Gon exited the small 'fresher and walked to the emerald green cushioned set of chairs – one of which currently occupied by a certain good-naturedly brooding padawan – and sat in the chair opposite. Picking up the mug left standing since the master had finally gotten his turn in the refresher, he sipped it – grimacing at the taste of the sugary syrup which settled out as the once steaming tea had cooled – before replacing the cup and turning back to the boy – if he could still be called such – sitting across from him. "This will be an excellent learning experience. Not all missions need require us to revise our final will and testament."
"But those are the most fun ones," Obi-Wan responded, smiling slightly, his eyes sparkling with amusement, "Every time I have a new tunic or pair of boots to decide who to leave to. You should see how the other padawans treat me when they hear I've received a new assignment – or a new datapad."
Qui-Gon rose, walked past his apprentice – ruffling the ginger spikes, still damp from the boy's shower, "Brat."
The master grabbed his robe from the twisted gold stand – measuring a few meters tall – next to the entrance to the chambers. As he shrugged it on, he called to his apprentice, "Come, Padawan. We can't be late for our meeting with Her Majesty. Royals – and many others, come to think of it – are not fond of being kept waiting."
He plucked Obi-Wan's robe from the pole, holding it out for the padawan to take. Sighing, Obi-Wan heaved himself out of the lush seat, walked over to his master, accepting his robe with a thanking smile, and followed the elder out of the room.
Well? What you think? You know the drill, be a good lil Jedi and review!
Disclaimer: George owns this little playground, I'm just having some fun on the monkey bars. I don't own anything recognizable. I also do not own the Verve Pipe's song "The Freshmen."
**The opening quote will make sense in time.
**Just a note, I don't do romance, so…this will not be one. =)
"I can't be held responsible…
She fell in love in the first place."
"The Freshmen," Verve Pipe
* * *
Poorly muffled laughter vibrated off the stone walls, the sound collecting and magnifying in the half-circled ceiling of the deserted hallway before spilling back down, making the group's number seem far larger than its two. The padded footsteps skidded to a stop and, with a grunt of exertion, a heavy wooden door creaked open – the hinges protesting to centuries of ill-treatment – and the two beings dashed inside, slamming the abused door behind them.
"Careful, Proxa!" A hushed voice warned, "If we get caught, I assure you, I will beat you myself."
"Yes, milady," came the reply, the normally deferential words laced with amusement. "I am certain that – this time – you will carry through if we are discovered."
"Don't push me, Proxa," the other growled as she moved across the darkened room, patting furniture surfaces blindly, "Sith! Did you bring any lighting sticks?"
Proxa sighed, "What would you do without me, Nara?" Reaching into her robe pocket, she pulled out two long-stemmed lighting sticks and handed one to her companion, "Here."
Proxa scraped the stick against the grey stoned wall, the wood hissing and snapping as the tip ignited, flaring briefly before subduing to a modest flame. She held it in front of her face, casting a weak veil of light over her continence, flickering over her pale skin and dulling her long, dark hair. Her eyes, however, drank in the sudden luminosity, allowing the flame to dance within its dark depths and giving the girl an almost ethereal – possessed – visage.
She spoke as she turned to short table beside her, now faintly illuminated and shown to be cluttered with well used yellow wax candles, "Milady, in general, two people working on something tends to make the work end twice as fast."
A moment of silence enveloped the chamber before a second scrape of wood against rock came and the flare which followed was illuminated the second girl. Shadows softened the boundaries of her features, but did little to question her beauty. Her raven hair was pulled up, a few stray strands carefully curled and positioned to hang becomingly in her face. Her brown eyes, in contrast to her companion's, were pleasantly accentuated by the orange flame. The fire seemed to merely lick at them rather than consume them, hinting more at laughter and amicability than need for an exorcism.
In minutes, the entire room was ablaze with fifty-some lit candles – be they atop exquisitely carved dark, wooden tables and desks or fitted in beaten metal candleholders, decorated with delicate, handmade etchings of a language long since forgotten in favor of the universal Basic – along with two larger metal fire bowls, each secured on a elegantly simple, meter-tall metal stand and placed on either side of the worn wooden door. The flickering light revealed a spaciously furnished sitting room, themed in red. The richly upholstered furniture – two high-backed, wooden chairs, each fitted with its own intricately embroidered scarlet cushion, and a matching couch of the same fine make – while spread apart as to give the sitting more than enough personal space, were directed towards a beautifully ornamented fireplace.
Proxa placed some kindling in the mouth of the structure, pulling the dry logs from the gilded firewood holder positioned on the low step separating the bottom of the fireplace and the floor. Gently coaxing the glowing embers with the poker, Proxa finally succeeded in making the wood catch. She stood and brushed her hands off, pausing a moment to watch the flame grow, devouring the proffered scraps, and gave a satisfied smile.
Turning, she hurried to the couch, dismissing the task of raising the hem of her dress – a preemptive strike at a clumsy stumble – as too time consuming. She dropped herself onto the plush cushion, then turned to face Nara as she pulled her legs onto the seat, unconsciously mimicking her already situated companion.
"You know, Proxa, I was just thinking – what if our little hideaway was discovered? What if my mother just walked in her, right now, and pulled me out by the hair?" Nara twirled her finger through a stray strand of hair. "If my mother knew that I was spending my nights gossiping with my handmaiden…"
Proxa sighed, "You know very well that your mother would not risk damaging that lovely hair of yours. She wouldn't mind damaging your eardrums, mind you, but no one can see those," the girl rolled her eyes. "Her Majesty would not object to you gossiping to your slave girl in private, as long as no one of importance saw you, she'd just be furious that you're taking the horrible risk of waking with bags under your eyes in the morrow." Proxa's voice had taken on a sneeringly sarcastic tone, though no feature – save those eyes – reflected the emotion.
"Proxa, you know you're not my slave. You've ne-"
But the girl cut her mistress off with a wave of her hand, "I am merely playing, milady. I know that you have always considered me your equal – an equal who tends to your every whim, but still, an equal. For that, I thank you." She abruptly shifted so her body was leaning more comfortably, more relaxed, against the soft backrest, "Now, enough of that; onto what we came in here to discuss."
A devilish grin was shared by the two, accompanied by stifled fit of laughter which echoed slightly in the commodious room. Recovering herself, Proxa prompted, "Well? Was I right?"
Nara flung herself back, over the armrest, "Ohhh, you were *so* right. The Jedi have the most delicious beings among their ranks. I only wish they would leave some of that perfection for the rest of us."
Proxa sighed, "Yes, he was gorgeous, wasn't he? That spiked ginger hair, the cute little dimpled chin, and I even didn't mind the braid – What?" Nara was staring at her, an eyebrow raised. "What?"
"That's the apprentice," she stated flatly, as if her meaning was the most obvious thing on all of Remula.
"So?"
"He's just a boy. Not even a Jedi yet." The incredulous look left her face as she continued, "Now, the tall one, with the long hair, he – *he* – is a Jedi."
The handmaiden laughed uncertainly, but quickly sobered as it became clear her mistress was quite serious, "He's, like, sixty,"
Nara brushed off the comment, "He's distinguished. Besides, the other looks as if he's five years old."
Proxa bristled, "He's nineteen, a year older than we, milady."
Standing, Nara straightened her simple, yet costly dress, "Yes, well, be that as it may, I believe that I prefer the long-haired master to his scrawny padawan. But to each her own, right Proxa?" Nara waited for her companion to nod, "Fine, from a certain perspective, it's better this way. I can have what I want, and you – can have what you want."
The girl walked over towards the heavy door, resting her hand on the golden handle, "Be a dear and blow out the candles. I must get to sleep – wouldn't want the circles under my eyes to give us away, now would we? " She smiled and pulled open the door, walking out into the hall, her slippered feet padding softly on the stone floor.
"Yes, milady," Proxa muttered after her departed mistress, "he is mine."
* * *
"The Force hates us."
Qui-Gon Jinn barely suppressed a smile, "Padawan, the Force does *not* hate us. The Council does."
The Jedi master absently glanced at the mirror checking – more out of habit than need, for years of practice had virtually eliminated the necessity – to be sure his hair had been pulled back flawlessly – which it had – before continuing. "If the Force hated us, you can be assured we would be doing something *far* more painful than mediating a planet's initiation into the Republic. Cleaning Master Yoda's quarters comes to mind."
Qui-Gon exited the small 'fresher and walked to the emerald green cushioned set of chairs – one of which currently occupied by a certain good-naturedly brooding padawan – and sat in the chair opposite. Picking up the mug left standing since the master had finally gotten his turn in the refresher, he sipped it – grimacing at the taste of the sugary syrup which settled out as the once steaming tea had cooled – before replacing the cup and turning back to the boy – if he could still be called such – sitting across from him. "This will be an excellent learning experience. Not all missions need require us to revise our final will and testament."
"But those are the most fun ones," Obi-Wan responded, smiling slightly, his eyes sparkling with amusement, "Every time I have a new tunic or pair of boots to decide who to leave to. You should see how the other padawans treat me when they hear I've received a new assignment – or a new datapad."
Qui-Gon rose, walked past his apprentice – ruffling the ginger spikes, still damp from the boy's shower, "Brat."
The master grabbed his robe from the twisted gold stand – measuring a few meters tall – next to the entrance to the chambers. As he shrugged it on, he called to his apprentice, "Come, Padawan. We can't be late for our meeting with Her Majesty. Royals – and many others, come to think of it – are not fond of being kept waiting."
He plucked Obi-Wan's robe from the pole, holding it out for the padawan to take. Sighing, Obi-Wan heaved himself out of the lush seat, walked over to his master, accepting his robe with a thanking smile, and followed the elder out of the room.
Well? What you think? You know the drill, be a good lil Jedi and review!