The Spider and the Storm

"Stay off the ground," Zee warned. "You're hardy, but Eriadu's nothing to sniff at. If he shoots you down over the woods, you're done. Aim for a city or town--even some rural farm."

The Inquisitor fired thrice more.

"Might not have a choice!" Sirejj had more faith in himself than Zee apparently did. The ship shook again and keeled to the port side as one engine spluttered and died. His stabilizers were mangled. He fought with the controls to regain some semblance of stability but his ship was mortally damaged.

"I'm going down, broadcasting my coordinates!" He let out a frustrated snarl. "When I get my hands on-" The comm cut out.

He focused all of his attention at bringing the nose of the ship upwards. This descent was far from controlled. If he could manage not to nosedive into the ground, he might survive.

The Inquisitor sat forward in the cockpit, watching the descent and then swooping after it. "He's hit," he said into the comm. "Alive, but hit. He's gone down in Grid 15G. Should I retrieve him?"

"Negative." The thin voice of Governor Tarkin snapped through the system like a whip, but the Inquisitor could hear surprised pleasure in his voice. "See to it the ship cannot be repaired, then retreat. I'll retrieve him myself--we'll be there very shortly."

"As you wish, Governor." He readied the guns again.

The ship struck the ground and Sirejj would have been thrown through the windshield if not for the straps holding him into his seat. The controls were jerked from his hands and all he could do was brace until the ship skidded to a stop.

He wasted no time escaping the seatbelt. He was forced to cut himself free the clasp was jammed. He scrambled into the back of the smoking ship and grabbed his jacket, staff, and the medical pack from the wall. Coughing from the dust and leaking gasses he went back to the remaining computers and pulled the navigation chip from the dash. He had a map reader in his pack, the same one that had held the location of the Atoan caves a year ago, that should be able to read the information.

His scalp prickled. He quickly stumbled through the doors, pried them open, and got away from the ship as quickly as possible.

The Inquisitor fired twice at the engines. The ship crunched against the ground as it tilted, made a popping sound, and then promptly exploded into flames. "It's done," he said. "He's all yours, Governor."

"Magnificent." As he spoke, the Executrix blipped into existence above Eriadu. Tarkin was already aboard his personal shuttle; he'd make a pit stop at the mansion for some supplies and then--then he'd head to the Carrion.

In his mind he was already sorting through the various means of hunting Sirejj, of trapping and killing him. He remembered that slugthrowers were more effective against Force-sensitives from when he'd hunted Vader four years ago; he'd pack a rifle and pistol, then. Perhaps a knife as well. Most of it, he guessed, would be a waiting game.

Sirejj crouched in the tall grasses as the ship burned and watched the dim shadow of the star destroyer from high, high above. He spat curses in his native tongue, cursing all the ill luck he could think of onto Tarkin.

Sirejj might not have known Tarkin for as long as Zee or the others, but he knew exactly what his plan was. That was evident from the fact the Inquisitor did not land and pursue him. It was all a game to that man. He would attempt to hunt Sirejj like an animal and mount his head on a wall. The thought of that angered Sirejj beyond anything.

But he was alive now. Sirejj growled, a deep growl that came from his chest and his sharp canine teeth showed. If the Governor Tarkin wanted to hunt a Zabrak, then that's exactly what would happen. He would find out just as the Inquisitor had- Zabraks were not so easy to kill. He had grown up in the brutal wilderness of Dathomir. Eriadu was not so different.

Let the old man come. Zee would owe him a drink on Corellia when it was all said and done.

Tarkin counted the minutes as he descended in the shuttle toward his forest compound--five. Six to walk from the hangar up to his bedroom. He counted as he took out his old pack and slid a poncho, fresh fatigues, and a lighter into its pockets--another five. Two to get dressed in sturdy boots and baggy canvas clothes that hung off his gaunt frame more than they ever had before. Five seconds to grab his favorite hunting knife. Two minutes to reach the armory and choose a sleek slugthrower he had put together back when he was seventeen years old--well made and still in pristine condition after all these years, with a butt that curved comfortably to fit against his shoulder. Strapping a pistol to his hip, Tarkin strode out of the compound toward his waiting speeder feeling more energized than he had in months. He'd thought Atoa was the end of it, but clearly his torment wouldn't cease until the memory thief was dealt with as well. He had no qualms about dealing with him, of course...quite the opposite.

One hour to the Carrion, up the cliff (two hours) and then to wherever Sirejj was. A matter of days, he expected. Maybe weeks--the Carrion and the jungle around it were enormous.

Sirejj stood up when he was confident he wasn't going to be shot down and gathered his wits. He put the nav chip into the reader and was able to pull up a map. He frowned. There was nothing but wilderness for a long, long ways in any direction. He was in the center of the plateau. No direction would take him anywhere quickly, especially on foot.

His original objective was far to the east. A good bit of travelling on the flatlands and then down through very rocky territory, and then jungle. The nearest civilization was westward, a city that looked to have a spaceport. It was close to the edge of the jungle, and most of the journey was through the dense woodlands. He mulled over his options. None were ideal. Especially if Thalassa sent anyone looking for him, they'd never find him in there. But he couldn't wait around for Tarkin to show up.

The jungle was going to be difficult to traverse. He'd grown up in dense forests, but this was far thicker underbrush than most of Dathomir. He could travel above ground though, and he had more cover. Out in the open, it would take but a moment to catch him on a speeder or ship and there would be little he could do to escape. Plus, the way through the wastes would be barren. Little food and less water. The jungle would provide a better chance at both of those things.

Westward it was, he eventually decided. He wrapped up his jacket tightly and tied it around his waist and made sure all of the smaller items were secured in his pockets or to his belt. He took one last look at the burning ship and headed into the woods, still boiling internally and wondering how long it would be before he could strangle the Governor Tarkin.

The jungle sang around him, harmony and cacophony all at once as birds, insects, primates, and all manner of creature chattered away in the trees and underbrush.

It was an overwhelmingly green place made all the brighter by the recent rain--evidenced by dewdrops and moist earth. Moss covered every inch of the trees here and the leaves draped down into heavy curtains that intertwined with vines and flowers. Massive fronded plants jutted like upturned umbrellas from the ground and stiff, forked poles grew in fencelike formations across the landscape.

The terrain was all steep hills and streams in this part of the Carrion--little creeks with burbling waterfalls tumbled over the landscape and trees grew almost parallel to the ground as they reached up toward the sun. Beady eyes stared down at Sirejj from the trees, which grew closer the further downhill one traveled until they blotted out the sun.

Despite his irritation, Sirejj couldn't help but look up. It was wild here, wild and free, though far back in the depths of the jungles he sensed much larger things lurked there. A new sensation trickled into his veins and he took a deep breath, taking in the scent of the humid air and the jungle around him. His senses, dampened by his anger and the stress of the crash, began to settle. This was real land. Tarkin had spoken of this place with great admiration and reverence, and Sirejj started to understand why. It was untouched, with not a sentient being for miles.

If he'd not been on the run, he'd have stopped to investigate further, but now was not the time for sightseeing. He pulled out a water flask at one of the nearby streams and filled it from where it bubbled over the rocks. The water was clear, and a taste satisfied him that it most likely wasn't tainted. Even so, he'd consumed far worse during his less fortunate times.

Once he'd drank from the stream and filled his flask, he moved forward, navigating a zig-zagged path through the wilderness. It was not too hard to travel now, but he may take to the trees later if he wouldn't have to fight too many primates doing so. He would catch food that night and save the stored rations for an emergency. So far, he felt the odds favored him. He sensed no one nearby, and so long as he was wary and covered his scent and his tracks he could worry less about the wild creatures.

He was no stranger to this sort of existence. He sorted Tarkin to the back of his mind and instead focused on the task of navigation. He reached into the veil of Eriadu itself, and found that her signature was very different here than it had been back in Tarkin's home. Still, there were the memories that lurked there, hiding behind rocks and stones, of battles that spanned the centuries. There was much he had to learn of this place.

There were, despite the clear wildness of this place, signs of former sentient habitation here and there. Overgrown ruins painted with petroglyphs and stamped with four-fingered hands and, more recently but still years old, signs of traps such as deadfalls. Here and there, one could see the imprint of what once would have been footpaths, though to see those would require considerable attention to the way the foliage was growing. Some of the trees were marked with letters and dashes not belonging to Aurebesh but to something else entirely.

That reminded him. Tarkin had mentioned something about one of his older relatives who roamed these woods. Sirejj had no idea where he could be, but was reminded to be cautious. These were their hunting grounds. There may be traps, new or old, that he may run across. Few things would be as humiliating as getting caught in someone's old trap, and he made up his mind that would not happen.

He pushed further in, for now going slowly until he better understood what he was up against. He sifted through the old images that were most apparent to him for anything that might help him on his way. Paths, locations of caches, secure areas to bed down. He was already thinking of taking to the trees for the nights, but he would have to worry about the territorial primates. One of them was no trouble. A troop could be.

He slowly began to mimic how the forest moved, his striped tattoos acting as brilliant camouflage to break up his figure. Depending on the temperatures, he may lose the light-colored shirt entirely. He stood out wearing it. He would wait and see. He moved almost silently, but was able to keep a steady walking pace. He held his staff, both for defense and because on his back it caught every low hanging branch and vine. It was a slightly cumbersome weapon for this kind of travel.

This was a portion of the Carrion that had been well-trodden once, but the memories Sirejj pulled up were decades old. Men--and only men--walked as shadows through the brush in groups of five and six. A small pack, a group of hunters. They were quiet and tense; something big was stalking them.

There was another shadow, or rather pair of shadows, that stood apart from them in both space and time, a man and a boy watching Sirejj rather than Sirejj watching them.

For all its beauty, the Carrion was still wrought with the memories of both horror and victory. He had an eerie sense that he was being watched, but when he looked over his shoulder, the feeling vanished. It waxed and waned as he reached deeper into the heart of the forest and as he saw more of what had happened here. This led him to believe what he felt was either a memory or a prediction, as the second he focused on the present moment, it faded.

Sirejj leaped atop a huge branch that had over the years sagged downwards and now touched the ground. He crouched for a moment and touched the mossy wood with his hand. The history of this place was intriguing. His curiosity would have sidetracked him if he wasn't under pressure to keep moving. Tarkin's entire existence revolved around these woodlands. This was who he was- his beginning. As much as Sirejj despised him, there was a shred of respect he had for the strength and determination it took to not only survive, but conquer this place.

Still, in the back of his mind there was the odd sense that the memories here were still very present, as if they'd never left. He sensed many had come through here and not returned and had fallen in their excursion. He would learn much of Tarkin here, he sensed. Perhaps it would give him more ammunition to use against him in the coming days.

On the other side of the Carrion, Tarkin was traveling without a map through the undergrowth. He moved at a leisurely pace now that he was on the prowl; there was no need to hurry. As things currently stood, Sirejj would be going nowhere fast. He could be injured, too--that would certainly make things easier. Tarkin's current plan was to get to high ground so he could survey for smoke or crash-scars. That would give him a direction to aim for.

This part of the planet did not vary heavily in its seasons; rather than winter and spring, there was monsoon season and non-monsoon season. By the weight of the air against Tarkin's skin (and simply by knowing what month it was on Eriadu), he was certain that the recent rain had been the precursor to the monsoons. It would be miserable here in the next two or three weeks. He would have to prepare by gathering plants and nuts to sustain him--he could eat certain animals here raw but he didn't like to push his luck if he didn't have to. His stomach was already terribly sensitive from the sorts of food his uncle had made him eat, and it had remained so for decades after the fact. Best to eat something that was cooked, but when the rains came he would be unable to make a fire.