((The RP XP with MJ #25))
Yulel slowly lifted her head and tried to open her eyes, but something was wrapped tightly around her eyes and pinching her lekku to the back of her head. A blindfold.
She didn’t remember much beyond running and gunning. That damn Gand pilot had dropped her right in the middle of a separatist hot zone and she paid the price…
By running into a tree when she was firing back over her shoulder.
Well, at least they didn’t kill me, the young Twi’lek smuggler smirked to herself.
Her eyes useless, she tried her other senses. She heard the low hum of a generator behind her, the high-pitched whine of a repulsorlift on a speeder hovering just outside the room where she was held. The echo of the speeder through the wall gave her the impression that she was inside a garage of some sort, possibly a side office.
The air smelled of sea spray and engine oil with a slight tang of electrical ozone from separatist forcefields. “Mannett Point,” she smirked again. “Figures.”
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((The RP XP with MJ #24))
The Zabrak Padawan lay cradling his dead master as the two Sith approached, their crimson blades vibrating the air as he looked helplessly up at them.
Tarik knew this was it. He had always wondered how his end would come and actually hoped it would be in combat against Sith side-by-side with his master. Of course Tarik never saw the Sith slowly stalking him after slaying his master from a distance in any of his wishful visions, not giving either of them a chance to defend themselves.
“Get it over with!” He yelled at them, his eyes welling with tears though he tried to suppress his emotions.
Most of them.
The Rattataki girl spoke first after giving her saber a threatening twirl. “He seems angry, my lord. Perhaps we can turn him.”
Darth Tagious never took his yellow eyes off the Padawan. He merely said, “He’s yours, Veetha. Play with him awhile. I will meet you at the Works.”
“Of course, my master,” Veetha’s smile was as sly as a vine cat’s.
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((The RP XP with MJ #20))
The ruddy-skinned Twi’lek looked up at the Jedi temple and squinted against the bright sunlight. When she looked back down she noticed she was the center of attention.
The young Jedi Zabrak with her said, “There’s a Twi’lek village near here, but we don’t get many your color, Yulel.”
Yulel ignored him and started down the steps toward the taxi launch.
“Wait. Where are you going?”
“I’m not staying here, Tarik. I hate you guys.”
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((The RP XP with MJ #15))
This is what some RPers do in beta before trying out a Flashpoint.
Veetha stood as she was commanded, in the rain and darkness of Dromund Kaas while her master went inside to report to a representative of the Dark Council.
The platform on which she waited was a circular speeder taxi pad a few hundred feet in the air above the rain washed streets of the Imperial Capitol. There were no guard rails, only the speeder taxi she and Lord Tagious brought here. Veetha stood soaked, in the middle of the pad, her shoulders hunched and her fists clenched. A squat maintenance droid and its human handler stood nearby, the droid buzzing and squawking as it worked over some inane droid task. The human leaned against a short stack of crates he had yet to move inside where it was dry. He stared at her from under the dripping bill of his cap.
Veetha felt his eyes upon her, felt his hatred of her alien presence, but also felt his lust at her female form made prominent by the rain pressing her robe down against her body. She didn’t look in his direction, didn’t acknowledge him. She only waited, still, her eyes locked on the distant door.
“Whatsa matter, Rattataki?” The human shouted to her through the downpour. Distant thunder echoed his question. “Afraid of a little rain?”
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The Twi’lek smuggler looks up from her drink and smiles toward the man in the robes and armor.
The Jedi Knight catches her eye and nods a polite greeting before turning his attention to the row of bottles behind the bar.
Taking her drink, the smuggler moves closer to him, her eyes casually taking in the bar, the colorful crowd, careful not to linger on the Jedi. She stops close to him, close enough to be heard in a whisper but not overheard by anyone else. She faces the dance floor and leans back on the bar with her elbows. “You’re Kendris?”
The Jedi purses his lips and studies his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. “You’re sloppy,” he says just above a whisper.
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