The Spider and the Storm

For the first week, Tarkin endured.

By the time he reached the front doors of his home, his mind had settled into a familiar stillness. It came sometimes: this cold, empty feeling that let Tarkin know he was rebooting, so to speak. Everything tucked away neat and tidy in his many boxes--ready to be called on if needed, but only if he said so.
He hadn't felt it since the first loss of his son, the death rather than the betrayal, and it came as a comfort now. It would make the news easier to deliver.

Thalassa didn't take it well. She was slow to anger--always had been--and slower still to cry. She did neither during Tarkin's long and measured explanation. The only sound she made, in fact, was a small catch in her throat when he mentioned the pregnancy.
After that she was quiet, and Tarkin was quiet, and after a few minutes she got up and left the room.

Zee Suna arrived two days after that with a few shuttles and that too-wide grin of hers. She helped Thalassa pack her belongings, saw to it everything was squared away, and then the two of them departed together. Tarkin couldn't find it in himself to care, and that out of everything struck him as strange. He might not see Thalassa again.
But that was fine, he thought. He'd make do. They had been apart for so long; perhaps it was time that frayed thread was cut.

It was around the fourth week that Tarkin let himself think again. Slammed with deadlines and back on the Executrix with its wide gray hallways and low ceilings, he had managed to go on as if Garoche had never existed. Then came the meeting with Vader, and the box had sprung a leak.
His friend had asked after Sirejj of course, and Tarkin had responded truthfully that his employment had been terminated. He trusted, correctly it seemed, that Vader would make assumptions about his word choice.
It was odd; seeing Vader made him feel tight and strange inside. Something pulled at the pit of his stomach, and he did his best to hide his unease. He ought to be grateful, after all. He was grateful! A traitor had been rooted out. It was just that Vader and Palpatine should have trusted him. Why had they not told him?
The meeting was blessedly short, and when Vader swept out of the room Tarkin was left with a feeling of dizziness. He returned to Eriadu two days later and made straight for the Carrion.

Jova was no help, for once in his long life. He listened in silence just as Thalassa had, chewing a hunk of maiwort as they sat on the floor of his one-room cabin. It was a terrible habit, that--Tarkin had watched the substance turn the old man's lips gray over the years.
At the end, he spat on the floor and asked why his nephew was here.
Tarkin found that he didn't have an answer.

"You should kill them all," Jova snapped. "Kill every one of them for what they did and what they let that mad dog do. What are you sitting here floundering for?"

Tarkin, sitting with his back against the wall, ran a hand through his thinning hair. He was hungry and tired; his uncle had caught no food during the rainy season and he himself had forgotten to eat a few times in a row.
"They're not the ones in the wrong here," he said slowly. "As I explained, Garoche was at fault. He made a mistake. Vader corrected it."

"Then why are you here?" his uncle asked again. "Your mind is made up, yet here you sit waiting for me to tell you what to think. Again."

"You're simplifying things."

"Oh, excuse me." Jova sat up a bit straighter, his gnarled back cracking loudly. "Am I misreading the situation, Governor Tarkin? Are there politics behind your decision to blame your own son--traitor though he may be--rather than to take his side against foreign powers?"

"Foreign--" Tarkin exhaled sharply. "This is our government."

"That's your family." Jova jabbed a finger at him. "That's your boy, your responsibility. So what if he took up with a xeno? So what if he sired a half-breed? That can be dealt with. But Garoche was one of us. You stood by and believed their lies. You let yourself believe you hadn't set an animal loose on your child."

"I didn't come here for a lecture!"

"It seems like that's exactly what you came for!"

It went on like this for an hour and a half. Tarkin had forgotten how little Jova cared about governmental affairs--his entire world was the Tarkin family. He wanted them to succeed, and damn everybody else. They parted from each other in anger, and Tarkin couldn't find it in himself to stay on the Carrion more than another day.

Even so, Jova's words stuck in his mind. Tarkin trusted him too much not to hear him, whether he wanted to listen or not. The box remained open, and despite his best efforts to close it, it remained so.

Months passed. Tarkin threw himself into work, taking comfort in the bureaucratic rhythm of the day-to-day. So long as he was up and moving and fueled by coffee, he was fine. It was only when he sat idle that reminders began to creep to the front of his thoughts: the long meetings with Vader and the Emperor, the bombings he ordered in insurgent sectors, the crescent scars on his left hand.
Those were more present than ever before in his mind. He lay awake at night staring at them, turning his hand over and flexing his fingers to watch the little marks dance across his ever-more prominent metacarpals. Garoche had been tiny. Too tiny, maybe–he’d been born a couple weeks early. Tarkin could fit him in the crook of one arm, and he did while Thalassa recovered from labor.
He’d never have thought such a wide-eyed, curious baby could hold so much potential for failure.

Time became indistinguishable, given meaning only by Tarkin’s calendar. Sleep fled from him, and when he did manage to catch it all it brought him were strange and disturbing dreams: Garoche’s body bleeding out in front of him, thousands of heartbeats where there should only have been one. A pack of veermoks tearing apart one of their own. A Citadel warden torturing him, face hidden in shadow until Tarkin turned and there would be Sirejj, Thalassa, Jova, Garoche, the Atoan priestess, or even Anakin Skywalker. Countless faces attached themselves to that dream, and it startled him awake each time with the smell of blood and molten rock in his nostrils. He took more and more cups of coffee with each passing day; so long as he was awake, he was fine. He promised himself this each time he looked in the mirror and saw his haggard features. People had always said he looked almost corpselike with his narrow face and hollow cheeks, but he was truly, truly sickly now. Most of his hair had turned gray in the span of this short year, leaving a few wisps of auburn clinging stubbornly at the top of his head.

Even so, he carried himself with dignity and grace. No one could ever say that Tarkin didn’t show up to meetings on time, that he wasn’t prepared. Perhaps he looked a little worse for wear, which those closest to him—Colonel Yularen and Admiral Tenant were especially sympathetic—attributed to the abandonment by his dear wife. They had always appeared affectionate in public, or at the very least friendly with each other. Her sudden departure had stirred up rumors that Tarkin attempted half-heartedly to put to rest, and some of his rivals murmured that it hadn’t been him behind his legendary political maneuvers at all–that it was Thalassa behind the scenes.

Tarkin couldn’t have that. He wouldn’t stand for it—this was slander. But he had so many more things to do, so much to worry about. Uprisings sprouted in unexpected places, there were mutterings about the Treacle planning something big (he’d have to finally reach out to Thalassa about that) and Vader was meeting him in person more and more often. Rumors died out. People would get bored of them eventually—what he needed now was rest.

As of 1:00 PM (about five minutes past), Tarkin was on his seventy-third hour with no sleep. Not necessarily a record overall—at the Citadel he had been kept awake for ninety hours straight—but in terms of voluntary deprivation it was certainly a first. He had dragged himself through a few meetings, made some decisions that he couldn’t remember, and was now forcing down yet another high-caffeine beverage as he reviewed the budget for Project Stardust. Grand Admiral Thrawn’s TIE Defender project was pulling funds, and Krennic was getting antsy. He couldn’t openly show his support for Krennic, obviously, but Thrawn was proving to be a thorn in his side.
It would be a good distraction to speak with them both, Tarkin thought, but the more pressing issue of the day was a message from Lord Vader. He had requested a visit again, this time of a personal nature.

Tarkin didn’t have the time or the energy for it. He was fighting sleep as it was, limbs jittery from the coffee while the rest of him slumped in his office chair, but one didn’t simply say no to Lord Vader. They had known each other a long time, after all. A very long time.

Spoiler

@ChieTheWriter

It had been a year to the day that Sirejj had encountered the Inquisitors on Atoa. A year to the day since he’d met Wilhuff Tarkin. A year to the day since he’d peeled back the very first layer of a mystery would supposedly change the fate of many.

At this point, he did not believe it would.

Part of him did at first, when he had dwelt in the depths of the Atoan caves beneath the ancient waterfalls, under the tutelage of their last remaining Gifted. The words of Lady Tris had been seared into his mind like welds of steel: “There will be changes in the galaxy brought by what you learn here--for better or for worse”. And for a time, burdened by so many to reveal both truth and lie, he believed it, but after that burden had been lifted and he’d seen the cold look of acceptance on Tarkin’s face, that belief dissipated almost immediately.

Sirejj had done his best to forget he’d ever met the man. To see him witness the carnage brought about by his own hands and the hands of his allies and then to see him justify it- no, even assent to it, was beyond his comprehension. In his past, Sirejj had known a scarce few which he’d have considered risking life and limb for; those he might consider family. They were gone now, but if he had seen them fall…seen them cut down by the machines as they trampled and burned and slaughtered…he would have certainly done more than simply shrug his shoulders.

He thought about them once in a while, the few he’d once called friends. There was a Nightsister who had been present when Sirejj was first brought before the Mothers as a child, when the leader of his clan had discovered his abilities. She had not been too many years older than him. A rebel herself, constantly dodging the wrath of her elders for meddling in unknown magicks or tormenting the more traditional sisters with her unorthodox ways, she’d understood why Sirejj had left his clan at the mere age of thirteen. She’d seen the Sisters drift away from the Path and begin to deal with outsiders, sending away many of their skilled warriors to serve foreign powers. She’d taught Sirejj the very beginnings of what he’d known of Dathomiri magicks, violating the rules the Sisters had set in place by teaching a male their ways.

There was a brother of his, though not related by blood, who’d warned him when the outsiders were coming to survey the clans and pick their champions; those lucky few who were carted off and never heard from again. From a young age, Sirejj had sensed the loyalty and honesty in his hearts and trusted him above any of the other Nightbrothers. He’d moved up in the ranks, bearing many scars from both beasts and members of his clan. He’d led the charge when the droids had come to their sector of the planet.

He’d see their bodies sometimes, in his deep meditations or dreams. Their bones still lay where they’d fallen, as far as he knew. He’d been seeing more of them recently. Occasionally he would see Atoa again as well, but those faces stood for something different. He’d brought them peace. Saved them, in a way. The faces on Dathomir were only a reminder to him their cries had gone unheard. He’d only returned to their ashes. There was little he could do there in terms of redemption.

Perhaps that was why the burden of Garoche’s story had laid so heavily on his shoulders. Both in the winding caves and the crystal pillars of the cathedral, Sirejj had seen flickers of himself that lay far beneath his dark tattoos and battle scars. He remembered what it was like to be afraid of losing what was in his grasp. What it was like to run blindly into the darkness hoping the ground didn’t fall out from under him. The difference was that he’d found his foothold and managed to keep it so far. Garoche had been crippled early on, and eventually, he fell.

The fact that Tarkin, as twisted as he was, could turn heel on his son so quickly, had irked Sirejj from the beginning. It still irritated him now if he allowed himself to think about it.

After commandeering an abandoned mining shuttle on Atoa (one that barely made it to the next spaceport in one piece), Sirejj had all but disappeared. He suspected Tarkin, once he got his wits about him, would send someone to come kill him or perhaps even tell Vader himself where he’d left him. After all, he seemed to agree with his old friend that killing his son was the correct choice. Sirejj’s life mattered not at all to them.

Disappearing was one thing he was good at. Whether it was hiding his signature within the depths of the planets and stars or seeming to vanish into the shadows, he’d perfected the art of moving unseen throughout the galaxy. Destitute of credits and owning little more than the clothes on his back, he’d spent much time recuperating his losses by running a few jobs guarding precious shipments of very illegal product or procuring information for lords of the underground trying to gain the upper hand on their enemies. Fools work, in his mind, but it had given him the chance to move around the galaxy again and to restart his search for hidden places and hidden magicks. But work was scarce for one who wasn’t willing to be seen in Imperial cities. Sirejj had made it abundantly clear that he did not intend to raise his head above the crowd and become a target. And that had cost him many an employer.

However, every step he took seemed to pull him back to the conflict with the Empire.

It had started when he’d seen an Inquisitor again while lurking in one of the dark cities in the Morlani system, and his heart had dropped into his boots. ”They’ve found me,” he’d thought.

He’d tracked him for some time to ensure he wasn’t looking for him. He’d watched as the Inquisitor tracked and found his own quarry. Before Sirejj’s encounter with Vader, he might have meddled in the Inquisitor’s business for the simple fun of it. He’d defeated them before in single duels, and he felt he could easily do it again if he had to. But these hounds were only lapdogs compared to the wolves that sent them. He had no wish to anger the den.

He continued to see more. The Empire expanded its hand across the galaxy, crushing anything that resisted it. He noticed it more than ever now, seeing reflections of shattered worlds wherever he went. More fighting had begun to arise as small groups of rebels pushed back, but most of their battles were short lived. Like Atoa and Dathomir, they fell, they bled, they died, and were forgotten. He narrowly avoided discovery several times, the Inquisitors seeming to pick up on the scent of his apprehension. Sirejj hated himself for this. For the life of him he fought to control the chills that ran up his spine when he felt them nearby. He could not rest if he knew they were close, so many many tanks of fuel were spent moving systems if he knew the Inquisitors were hunting. Those nights were sleepless, as he would seem to wake to a black-gloved hand extending out from the darkness, reaching in and taking his thoughts and sometimes the very wind from his lungs. If it weren’t for those infrequent reminders, he might could overcome that twinge of panic he felt each time he spotted one of Vader’s hounds.

His jobs began to vanish. The few who would still hire him had gotten tight with their goods and their people and wanted nothing to do with outsiders. As the Empire reached its creeping fingers deep into the underworlds, the crime lords were suspicious of anyone and everyone. One never knew who was truly scum, or who was an ISB spy. Sirejj, being an outsider, found himself not knowing where his next meal would come from.

That is why, after spending a hungry night aboard his half-fueled miserable excuse for a ship, he made up his mind. He’d risen early that morning and set a course for a planet he’d never visited to call in a favor he wasn't sure would be honored.

She had stepped in and saved him once before. While he expected that bridge to be smoldering, perhaps it was not all the way burned. He had much to offer in terms of service, especially to a powerful leader such as herself. Her husband was the only loose end, but Sirejj’s intuition told him that he most likely would not even be in the picture.

If Sirejj hadn’t been able to forgive Tarkin’s brittle tolerance of his son’s murder, he knew Thalassa Tarkin’s response would've been far from favorable.

Spoiler

Phelarion was made canon as of July 2024!!!

Phelarion, nestled a few planets over from Eriadu, was set in stark contrast to the cloudy and mountainous planet where Wilhuff Tarkin had gotten his start. The first thing one saw from orbit was a wide oceanic expanse with four great swaths of land dividing it. It was green, declaratively and proudly covered in deciduous forests, jungles, taiga, all manner of tree and plant one could possibly think of. The oceans were warm and wild, and storms often passed over in short, devastatingly strong bursts. The coastal towns were fortified thus, with sturdy little buildings that danced away from tidal waves on mechanical legs.

At the heart of the continent Fadros, far from the storms and waves, lay a still, clear lake small enough not to have any semblance of lake effect but large enough to have a very avid boating and fishing community.

It was here, perched on top of a hill overlooking the crystal-blue waters, that the Motti compound had been built.

The compound was deceptively beautiful; the architect, or perhaps the people paying the architect, had clearly cared very much about the presentation of the sprawling building. Its many columns and arches, gilded and covered in bas reliefs depicting ancient Fadrosian legends spoke of unfathomable wealth. The megonite moss business was lucrative, to be sure, but there were hints to the close observer that there was perhaps something else pouring money into the Motti coffers.

There were more guards than was perhaps strictly necessary for owners of a legitimate corporation. Some of them wore plainclothes, but there was a way they carried themselves that suggested military and martial arts training--their eyes were everywhere at once.
Sensors were on every corner, as well, and cameras were hidden in unexpected places. Two little squares on some of the entrances indicated concealed turrets. The Motti compound was a thing of beauty, then, but also a dangerous place on which to trespass. The locals looked at it askance, but many of them lined their pockets with credits in exchange for keeping an eye out for any strangers in town.

Spoiler

eeyyyy

Sirejj had not left for Phelarion unprepared.

He had spent time researching the homeworld of Thalassa Tarkin well before making up his mind to travel there. What little he had learned of her when they had met on Eriadu told him that she was a woman of extreme influence and power and that, if she decided to label him as an enemy, he'd have more trouble avoiding her wrath than the wrath of the Empire itself.

As he entered the system, he prepared to pass through the checkpoints. He sifted through his deck of "borrowed" identification codes, choosing the desired one and entering it into the ship's computer. He didn't expect much trouble as he'd grown savvy to the behaviors of checkpoint operators and knew how to avoid conflict.

The plan was to enter the atmosphere then tuck his ship away somewhere and approach the compound on foot. From there he would assess the security, perhaps spending a day in the city surrounding or the forests surrounding it, forming an escape plan in case he found the company unpleasant.

He'd considered sneaking into the compound itself, but that provided its own set of risks and in the end, they outweighed any potential benefit. Thalassa was a reasonable person, or at least that was his impression of her. It would paint him in an ill light to walk in with a chip of distrust on his shoulder. That would predispose him to betrayal. He would have to place his bets that she still carried some gratitude towards him for uncovering the fate of her son.

He was still owed for that job, technically.

As he exited hyperspace, his ship creaked as the hyperdrive powered down and the main engines kicked in. He frowned and got up from his seat, stepping over to the engine's control panel. The ship was in desperate need of retirement, but it was the best he had. His least favorite feature was the lack of firepower. While it did have shields and a few defense canons, it was worth nothing in a firefight. The same could not be said for her pilot.

Sirejj's appearance hadn't changed much over the past year, except for a few new lines across his brow. He'd grown a little thinner, but his body was still lithe and well muscled. His clothes were hardly fit for a meeting with a lady of Thalassa's status. He still wore the same boots that had crossed the Atoan sands a year ago, but the soles were nearly worn through. His trousers were loose and dark colored with a few pockets to hold tools or provisions. He wore a plain white (or had once been white) long sleeved canvas shirt that he tucked into his belt. The shirt, the cleanest of the two he currently owned, was still stained with sweat and dirt he'd been unable to remove. He despised the feeling of the scratchy canvas on his arms, but it made him less conspicuous and threatening when travelling in populated areas to have as much of his tattoed body covered as possible.

He looked more like a mechanic than a hunter. He even had a pair of gloves in his back pocket to cover his hands. But he still carried his staff wherever he went, even moreso now that he suspected trouble at every turn. He wore two knives that were hidden in his boots, and typically had a blaster tucked into his belt when wearing a jacket that would cover it.

It was far from the appearance of the warrior he was, but simple clothes had fit his budget of bad luck and were less likely to single him out when travelling through the city. They were a little less suited to travelling through the forests, but they at least fit loose enough to allow free movement of all his limbs.

His staff was the most conspicuous thing about him, but he felt exposed and unarmed without it.

He heard static over the ship's comms as the communications tower attempted to make contact with him. He stepped over and gave the dash above the comms panel a solid thunk with his fist. They began working almost instantly.

"Idle engines and transmit identification codes."

He did so, and waited. He pulled his gloves out of his back pocket and put them on, and then reached for the patched brown jacket that rested over the co-pilot's seat. It took them uncomfortably long to run the codes.

"Clearance granted for atmosphere entry."

He sighed and kicked the engines on. They struggled, but finally stabilized. He would have to pass more checkpoints if he wished to dock in one of the ports. Good thing he didn't plan on landing anywhere near controlled civilization. The ship was small enough and old enough not to attract much attention. He moved into the atmosphere.

"Again."

The impact of an open hand on bare flesh reverberated off the high walls of the dining room, and Thalassa lifted the wine glass to her lips.

"We're on the third course, Senator Thamer. You've gotten very quiet." She took a measured sip. "I can't have you falling asleep on me when we haven't even reached dessert--it's rude."

"What..." The shirtless man bound to the chair across from her tried to raise his head. "...What can I say to you? What more do you want?"

Thalassa raised an eyebrow. "There's not really much you can say at this point, Senator. As I said when you came here, this is more a....hm, what did I call it last time we had an incident, Zee?"

"Disciplinary action," the Nautolan in the tank top replied from where she stood beside the Senator. She was tall and as blue as the sky, with rings of green spotting face and arms, and looked to be in her mid fifties. Her hands were tightly wrapped in bandages, which had a couple spots of blood on the knuckles. She had a permanent expression of amusement on her face. An expensively cut black coat was draped over another chair.

"Disciplinary action." Thalassa snapped her fingers and set the wine down. "That's exactly it. This is disciplinary action, Thamer. You didn't do your part, you buckled under pressure. And instead of coming to me for help, what did you do? Again, Zee."

Zee closed her fist and punched Thamer solidly in the stomach, leaving him doubled over and coughing.

"You took money that wasn't yours and tried to make your problems go away. More food, F2." The service droid toddled over to her and filled her plate up. The long dining table was filled with extravagant and exotic foods: rare fruits, savory pies, sweet vegetables, everything someone like Thalassa could ever want--and Thalassa had notoriously expensive tastes. Only one plate was set out, and that sat in front of her. "You got caught with your hand in the cookie jar, dear. It was a lapse of judgement--no one can fault you for that. People make mistakes! But you behaved like a child when we did catch you. You tried to pass the buck. Do you know what happens to naughty children?"

All she received in response was a low moan.

"Wake him up, Zee."

Zee reached for a pitcher of ice water on the table and emptied it on Thamer's balding head. The man shot upright in the chair, gasping and spluttering.

"We have two more courses to get through before dessert, Senator," Thalassa said, and her tone had hardened. "I want you awake for all of this, do you understand? I'll ask you one more time. What do we do to naughty children?"

The senator tried to form words, but Thalassa beat him to the punch.

"We punish them." She cut into the steak on her plate with one fluid motion. "I never laid a hand on my son, mind you. Neither did my husband, for all his faults. But Wilhuff's parents and my parents had a very different idea of how to raise a child. You see, they would send us to bed without meals if we misbehaved. My husband was once put to bed at noon without lunch or dinner. He found it to be an effective motivator to be better, and I have to say I agree." She leaned forward. "That said, a physical reprimand goes a long way, too. So here we are. You're made to sit and watch me enjoy this unbelievable food and my second makes sure you'll remember this experience for years to come. And you will remember, Senator. I've seen it time and time again. The men and women who cross me have an aversion to meals of this caliber; they attend parties and suddenly find they've lost their appetite the moment they see the hors d'oeuvres. And do you know the best part? Those bruises blooming so nicely on your arms and chest are going to fade. None of this will leave a permanent mark, isn't that right, Zee?"

"Absolutely." Zee leaned against the Senator's chair, crossing her arms.

"So you'll be able to trick yourself into forgetting for awhile." Thalassa sipped at her wine again. "You'll look in the mirror at your sagging flesh and think, yes, you're alright. But it'll be your mind that scars."

There was a knock, and her lips pursed.

"I'll see to it." Zee went to the door and exchanged a few words with one of the guards, then stepped back into the room. "Thalassa, there appears to be a vagrant on your doorstep. He's asking for you."

"Harkening back to my college days, are we?" Thalassa rolled her eyes. "Tell them to send him back down the hill; I don't have time for charity cases right now."

Zee turned back to the guard, murmured with him a moment more, and then said, "Apparently he's a Zabrak calling himself Sirejj. He says you know him personally."

Thalassa had been about to pick up her wine again, but she stopped as she heard the name. Her eyes narrowed.

"I see. In that case, tell them to send him in."

"To the office, I presume?"

"No. Bring him here yourself. F2, make up another plate. We're having a guest." She paused. "Make sure it's various cuts of meat, rare as can be. He likes it bloody."

Zee retrieved her coat and unwrapped her hands, then slipped out the door. The Senator's head sagged onto his chest.

"Stay awake," Thalassa said sharply. "You aren't done just because we have a third party joining us."

Spoiler

Sirejj spent a night and a day on Phelarion before deciding to approach the compound.

He'd nestled his ship in a small clearing in the dense forests that surrounded the city. He'd taken the few valuables he had on his ship, which was all of a handful of credits and his weapons. Everything else he wore on him. He wasn't one to wear any decorative jewelry, but he did wear have a tiny leather string around his neck. At the end dangled a small, sharp tooth. He'd carefully filed two notches into the side so that the string held it fast.

He still wasn't sure what led him to keep the cat's tooth. It didn't feel right throwing it away. He'd wondered if any bad luck would come to him by continuing to carry it, but so far, nothing ominous had happened that wasn't attributed to something else.

He would say he wasn't one to ascribe to superstitions, but often "superstition" was a word used by the blind to explain the ways of the Force. Items had to be cursed by someone in order to truly be considered cursed. They didn't come about by happenstance

The first thing he did after surveying the land was to hunt. Not having eaten anything but a ration stick for the past three days had put him in an ill mood. It was not long before he procured some food with his spear and allowed himself a moment to have a meal in peace as he listened to the landscape around him.

This is where he felt at home. This world appeared to be far less wild than many he'd visited, but it was invigorating nonetheless. The damp morning grass smelled fresh and clean compared to the stale air of the ships or the smog of the cities. It had been too long since he'd hunted or had good, sustaining food. The thought of a reliable source of food and shelter motivated him even further to earn the favor of Lady Tarkin.

He'd moved into the city after surveying the forests and roamed there till nightfall. The place was crawling with soldiers and guards, many of which were disguised or off duty. He moved inconspicuously and was careful not to stray too close to the compound until dark. Once hidden by the shadows he'd noted each exit to the compound and plotted a few escape routes that would lead him to the forest. There, he would have no trouble losing whoever might be chasing him.

He spent the night away from his ship, not at all keen to return to the confining walls. If somehow someone managed to sneak up on him, he'd be trapped in that metal box. He'd slept atop a huge tree, finding a safe spot nestled between the branches where he could afford to shift in his sleep and not fall.

Bright and early the next morning he descended from his tree and, after washing his face and hands in a stream in an attempt to appear as presentable as possible, he took off on foot back through the city and made his way to the gates of the compound.

Compound was a poor word for it. It was nothing like the militaristic simple structures of most crime lords. The light grey walls were carved with intricate images, the columns that stretched skyward were topped with massive arches. As he approached he observed several small droids cleaning away the moss that tried to take hold in the ledges of the carved columns.

It made Sirejj even more painfully aware of his bedraggled appearance. The guards noticed it as well. They appeared quite startled at his bold request for an audience, even amused. Yet, upon mention of the Lady Tarkin's name, one of them had gone back into the compound. The other guard had stood there in awkward silence, their face fixed in a frown. Sirejj stood with his staff in hand, holding idly in an attempt to make it appear as less weapon-like as possible. He'd have to let them take it if he asked, but he didn't trust it not to vanish amongst them. He knew comparatively little of Thalassa, and even littler of her organization. He didn't know what kind of people she might employ and how sticky their fingers might be.

Eventually Zee came to the door. She paused in the doorway, looking Sirejj up and down with a crooked smile on her face.

"Well, well, well," she said. "The notorious Nightbrother has come to call. Welcome!"

Sirejj had no idea who this was, but he assumed she was a close accomplice of Thalassa. Her smile, while denoting a cheerful countenance, did not hide from him the fact that she was a fighter. He could tell it in her stride. Her build. The way she carried herself.

"Notorious am I? I've managed to make a name for myself after all." A slight smile crossed his own face. "Who do I have the honor of addressing?"

"Zee Suna." She held out a hand. "Lady Motti is expecting you in the dining room. I'm sure you're hungry--even if you're not, I highly recommend partaking. She's brought out quite a fine meal!"

He shook her hand. "Sirejj is my name." He took note what he assumed to be Thalassa's family name. "I am grateful of anything she offers. My partakings have been quite humble as of late."

"So it would seem." She nodded at his narrow frame. "Come inside; I'll see you to the dining room. May I ask what brings you here, or is that for Lassa's ears only?" Zee entered the compound and held the door for Sirejj.

The interior was just as grand as the exterior, with bas reliefs, paintings, and tapestries from a myriad of cultures adorning the walls. The floor had heavy rugs stretching all the way down the halls, and there were servants and droids bustling about everywhere. There were several grand staircases in various rooms.

"I've not much to share as of late." He entered, but his senses were tuned in to her every movement. She seemed friendly, but even friends needed watching sometimes. And he'd met her less than a minute ago. "I've come to seek employment. People are close to the vest these days...it's difficult to find work outside of one's circle of friends." He had a few more questions he may ask Thalassa later, but those indeed were for her ears alone, as they involved family matters.

"Employment?" Zee's brows shot up. "Interesting that you think the Motti family is going to be any further from the chest than other prospective employers. I'd argue the careers they offer are some of the most difficult to secure--even with a prior connection to a family member." She led him down a few more hallways. "Lady Motti had a lot to say about you after you left, I'll give you that much. Some good, some bad."

"I expect she did," he mused. He still carried his staff but tapped the ground with it as he walked. He didn't carry it like a weapon.

He began to sneak into the mind of the Nautolan just a little, getting a better idea of her relationship to Thalassa and how much he could tell her that she wouldn't eventually find out anyway. He raised an eyebrow slightly. "The circumstances of our last meeting were... tumultuous." He was sure she caught his meaning.

Sirejj did wonder how much Tarkin had actually told Thalassa. He expected the truth...but then again, the man had been bitter towards what Sirejj had revealed. There was no telling what happened between them. Not yet.

"That's what I understand." She tutted. "Can't say I'm surprised. That was a nasty business from the very beginning."

Zee's mind was an open book. She showed no concern for any Force users poking about--perhaps she wasn't even aware. Whatever the case, it was clear that she was very familiar with the situation of which they were speaking. She was exercising caution when speaking about it in the open, of course, but nothing had been hidden from her.
Most of her thoughts were occupied with what lay ahead: curiosity at Thalassa's reaction to Sirejj, along with confident predictions. She was also somewhat anxious about another person in the dining room, though her mind didn't reveal whom and she put enough trust in Thalassa not to give it too much thought.