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Farod takes a long drag off the local speciality, shredded dried leaves wrapped in a whole one and packed with some sorta stimulant. Some people sample the alcohol of the galaxy, others the sweets, and others still the meats, but Farod enjoyed the smokes, but here on Erandi a planet that has had five names since the Galactic Empire shattered. Even here the price of that title-change is seen as clear as the single red sun is. The area by the commercial landing pad bears poorly covered up Imperial stars, hastily filed away new Republic fires, and even the death's head over the green hand to show that the triple monarchy had been here. This land was firmly now in the hands of the Sith Kingdom, the people in their de-facto caste system of strength. It doesn't matter, Farod is just here to sell Corellian Cabaret to Darth Bellukoor.

Erandi's midday sun is nicer than most sunsets he's seen, the red sun and thick, black clouds that cover the world give the sky a look of half-cooled lava, the blue smoke from his Kassari leaf contrasting and complementing the view. For once though, Farods fitted black clothing doesn't even look remotely out of place, as even the Sith workers seem to care as much about their appearance as he does, and just like him, they too make no attempt to hide the fact they are armed. It had been far too long since he had been back to the land of his mentor.

A sudden hiss and sound of footsteps has Farod turn not too importantly on his heels towards the sole “customer" entrance to the landing pad. A menacing, burnt-orange kel-dor stands there in a rich coat over battle armor, the man is flanked by two helmeted bodyguards. With every step the sheer power of Bellukoor becomes more intense and one Farod knows well. It feels, at first, as deep unease. With two more steps of the towering sith lord, the wave of intensity, not directed but in everything, Farod always turns his thoughts to the flowers of Dantooine in spring, the usual image of white and violet fields explodes into colors that make a nebula look pale in comparison, the violet and red specs in the plains snapdragons, the subtle changes in the bellringers, an the million shades of violet in the lavenders. Finally the imposition of the sith's personal strength, the crushing weight of fields of charred bodies and drying blood, with two more steps the lone, armored figure, plastered in wounds that will be new scars, standing alone and triumphant. With one final step, the feeling becomes a great elation, a freedom like no other. Not a lack of inhibition, nor some lack of worry, the primal freedom of the tiger in his own domain, a freedom that comes with rulership, with responsibility.

“It is good to see you, Sir Hytherion." Darth Belukoor says in a deep formal tone.

“And as well m'lord" Farod responds in kind with a too-flouring bow.

The two men break out into a hearty laughter.

“It has been too long my friend, how has planetary rulership been treating you?" Farod asks.

“Ogh, its something, some days I've got nothing to do, others it seems like the whole planet is banging down the palace doors, by Vader I swear half these people forget I assigned them my knights to deal with provincial disputes." Belukoor boasts.

“And for you my friend, how goes trade among the other four?" The sith asks.

“It goes to be sure, I had to rent two freighters just last spring as grain from the Empire was a hundred times cheaper than in the republic. Brought to Naboo, and sold the bread on Corellia for three hundred times profit." Farod boasts in turn.

“Very nice, whatever caused the Republic to have that grain crisis last year if you know?" Belukoor asks.

“My sources say the Republic tried to impose a revenue tax on the produce of the Commanderies, so instead of giving the senate their usual tribute they burned every crop outside the core and opened the silos for their own, leaving the core to either reverse the law or go bankrupt in three years time." Farod answers.

“And those sources were?" Belukoor asks.

“A middling member of the banking clan, Johor, General Jasper of Tracian Gulf, and Lord-Senator Frede being the most important." Farod answers casually.

“General Jasper has dealt not only bested the fleet of one of my knights but managed to kill him in doing so, honorable man though it is unfortunate that I never got to face him in battle as a leader of men." The sith recounts.

“He speaks highly of you as well, namely the honor your men hold in trying to emulate you." Farod follows.

“Good, perhaps I'll arrange a meeting between the two of us or send him a gift of some sort." He states.

“On the matter of gifts, I know tomorrow is the tenth anniversary of your coronation, so I got you something nice."

Farod presses a button on his wrist-mounted control device and the ships cargo bay opens and aside the ordered casks of Corellian wine, is a barrel of Weyland Whiskey, three hundred year vintage.

“Oh, something nice doesn't begin to cover that." Belukoor murmurs.

“Aside from your pay, I also got you a gift that will arrive with your departure. I will 'insist' as much as I can, but I assure you, the insistence comes from others." Belukoor raises.

“You knew my birthday was the day after next?" Farod asks with a raised brow.

The yellow sith eyes of the Kel Dor grow larger their sockets. “Yes…" He states. “Anyways, I have affairs to tend to here, in three days time there will be celebrations at my palace in Kaftir, I will be regrettably busy until then my friend." Belukoor states.

“MEN! LOAD UP THE GOODS, KNIGHTS! KEEP AN EYE ON THAT WHISKEY" He bellows with a far too loud voice.

With that, the liberating feeling of being close to a sith leaves, first with the chilling loss of their strength, then the world losing its color, finally, the unease leaves, and the world returns to its stability, and Farod is once again sure the sun will rise. Farod reaches into his holster, draws his pistol, pulls the trigger until it hits half-lock, the glowing dandelion yellow ball of energy stabilizes at the edge of the barrel, the magnetic lock keeping the superheated tabana gas in. At the edge of war and peace, Farod lowers his burnt out cigarette into the ball of plasma. Alight anew, Farod lowers the rest of his cargo out of his ship and into the sale yard one cart at a time.

As night falls Farod coughs up fifty seven Sith Thrones for a nice room at a nice hotel and three hundred at the end of a long night of playing Pazzak, though its not like the money meant much to Farod. With the coming of the sun, Farod stayed asleep, as the sun reaches its peak, Farod finally woke up to the smell of roasting meat and the cheering of people. Farod checks his holodisk, a picture of Darth Vader in a green and blue color scheme “HAPPY PURGE DAY!!!" the projection reads before giving him the time. The callousness of it perturbed greatly and amused Farod to a small degree, he had seen the Days of Mourning at the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, it was a humbling sight to see even the most flamboyant senators adorned in simple robes and veils leaving a single flower or coin on the great steps of the Jedi Temple. With the press of a button on the side of his bed the windows open, and “ORDER -66% OFF SPECIAL" and “BUY ONE GET A CLONE FREE" on the billboards assail his eyes. The streets are alive in people wearing costumes iconic of the Fall of the Jedi, clone trooper masks and perhaps some genuine helmets, Vader and Palpetine costumes, and the legions of red robed party-goers clog the streets. Dressing in is more casual wear, dark blue denim cut with a red stripe, simple brown shirt and a black vest cut with a red sash down the right half of the chest.

Looking in the standing mirror Farod sees the telling signs of his fading youth, the fire of a young merchant willing to trade anything for anything has long passed him, he's not quite the cool, friendly look of his mentor, but he sees a tempered flame in this rare moment of self reflection. Tearing himself away from facing the music of mortality he raises last night's Malastare Schnapps to his lips and drinks deeply. As the burning feeling of strong alcohol washes down his throat he steps out and down to the hotel restaurant where he orders some sort of sandwich loaded with meats, cheese, and roasted peppers. Taking to the streets he find the Sith adept running amok among the crowds, the police just trying to keep order to the celebration, the people dancing, singing, listening to songs about the fall of the Jedi, the children with clone trooper masks painted over their faces and fathers chasing them around dressed as Vader. The colors and smells of street vendors making “trooper head" cookies, or “Je-Die pies" and all manner of themed goodies.

As Farod makes his way to the trading hall he finds the Sith Commerce Exchange closed for the holiday as are all the other major exchanges private or otherwise, even the Serene Securities Exchange as the staff are out partying. Disgruntled, Farod finds the nearest hawker and purchases himself three cookies, each lightsaber shaped and colored. The blue ones are something that is something close to that of vanilla creme and the orange one like apricots. The rest of the day Farod spends himself socializing with the well-to-do around the palatial hotel, fellow Merchants, Navy Captains and Squadron leaders, Sith Counts and Countesses, the lower end of the elite them all. Most of the time he spends talking shop with his fellow merchants and getting new feels of the currents of Sith politics and diplomacy, the sort not told to the press. Though, unfortunately for Farod, the winds of trade were slow in these parts, but the diplomatic game was tantalizing, rumored affairs and elopings, impassioned meetings of jedi and sith beneath both the sith and jedi crests. Sith Ancient's and Sector-Senators meeting behind closed doors, the names write themselves in Farod's long list of tabs. Supposedly the Senator from Anaxes has a collection of “maids" given him by a notable Sith with the aid of some Mandolorian Exiles and Trandoshans.

Farod found slavery both too politically and morally contentious to ever engage in, but the former always settled the latter for him, if the Republic, Empire, and Serene said its wrong, and the Vong having no grasp on the concept of morality, then, his pocketbook and mind said it was wrong. Though how an entire outfit of “maids" was smuggled into the Republic and given to a senator either speaks to the republic returning to its old ways or of new and legally distinct ways of totally not slavery, a very republic problem honestly. Either way, Farod just processes the new information in the back of his mind while he goes about the grand social at the 2nd floor restaurant and bar. The Purge Day theme is far less obvious here, just the bar snacks, the garnishes for the drinks and a few speciality menu items. Farod finds himself soon on the backfoot of a flirting war with a middle-aged chiss woman, her dark blue skin and scarlet red eyes on an otherwise human body, her dark gray skin tight dress showing off the typically well shaped and toned body of the Sith population, but as the evening drags on, she's distracted as a half-drunk Sith Adept pulls her attention long enough for him to discreetly, but politely slink back to his room.

Farod returns to his room, orders a wake up call to be made, and takes a tab of Mimbanese trench-sleeping aid, in minutes he's in a deep, dreamless sleep.

A knock on the door wakes him up, and in a hasty reply to the hotel worker, they depart, finishing their duty. Farod makes a quick call to Darth Belukoor which he miraculously picks up to clear landing space and a valet for the grand celebration. In speeds that only the most diehard of speederbike racers are accustomed to, Farod dresses in his finest Sith formalwear, and paying his tabs flies off to the Palace of Sabers.

The flight across the land reveals the transition from the Old Sith ways to the new ones, the dreary black and red buildings now a wider range of natural hues and other warm colors. Each time Farod visits the kingdom it seems to look less and less like a force cult and more and more like a properly developed society and culture. The monolithic statues contrast like day and night to the vast mechanized farms. Quarries going about their artisanal trade, and the mines going about their modern industry. The strangest thing that Farod noticed in his own, relatively short life is just how much more important planetary economies have become. It used to be that certain planets were known for one or two things, but now a merchant can find his holds full of a diverse set of goods from one planet alone. Either way, the flight to Lord Belukoor's estates are not long, perhaps only a half hour at a cool 500 kmph, basically idling for a vessel like his own.

His ship secured by the black armored sith warriors of his retinue, Farod is welcomed by Lord Belukoor personally and on his personal skiff. The journey to the palace, through the gardens and some of the estate's finer points is enjoyed with both locals, and the Corellian wines Farod has sold to the sith. Farod breaks out one of his finest smokes, a Nar Shadda Black-Label Cigar. Farod offers one to his friend, and the Sith never known to smoke, takes up the offer. The two laugh and relax along the way, drinking and enjoying the smooth, subtly sweet smoke of the cigars, the smoke being whisked away by the motion of the skiff. In this rare moment Farod felt like he was one of the true elite of the galaxy, the lack of any problem in the galaxy, that wall was, and will be right, and the luxury to boot. How Belukoor, once simply named Kus Velt, had risen so high, and how Farod himself became wealthy seemed almost comical, like a poorly written story.

The doors, gates really, to Darth Belukoor's palace were perhaps three stories high, and adorned with cast obsidian statues to the patron ancients of the planet, Malgus and Malek stood, both jawless and the sith code spanned the doors. Aside from this there were enough details to make a man lose himself in the shining exterior. The rest of the palace was in the old sith fashion as well,black and red in the usual angular, pyramidal shape. The interior of the palace was exceedingly new style, adorned still with black and red as the key colors but more crept in, red carpets, cedar furniture, and a range of paintings, ornaments, and nooks in vivid variety of new colors, oranges, beiges, and even as bright as lavender, but nothing blue or white, the usual colors of the jedi. Overall, Belukoor had turned this once hostile place of the old “Despot of the Dark Fortress" and made it a palace, his own power and legions being the walls of his domain. As the skill continued to glide gracefully down the main hall and to the interior skiff docks.

The skiffs deposited the pair at the most Sith thing the ruling elite openly practiced, bloodsports. The old punitive area still stood as grim as it ever did, now with a betting stand and no more a slave pit but a prisoner pit. Sith justice always loved a show of strength from the condemned.

“This evening, my peers have decided to bring their planet's condemned to join my own in the largest judicial games of the year, though I don't expect you to show, I've arranged other entertainment for you." Darth Belukoor states cooly.

“Is this that gift you were giving me?" Farod asks wryly.

The sith lord looks puzzled for a moment, but seems to recall something. “I had planned to do that now, though… No I shall do it now and you can enjoy it later as I planned." THe Sith states.

“Come Farod, I think this gift will surprise you as much as yours did me, my wife chose it for you." Belukoor states offhandedly.

“When did you get married?" Farod asks.

“You remember Lady Enk, with that wondrous pale orange skin and well shaped head?" the Sith Inquires.

“No, I can't say I've ever met a Lady Enk." Farod flatly states.

“We'll she's another Kel Dor like me we had been meeting discreetly for years." The sith states.

“So what made you tie the knot?" Farod asks.

The sith flashes a little red. “He discovered our love, and tried to kill me for the perceived insult." The sith continues.

“And?!" Farod asks eagerly awaiting the next part of the story.

“I severed the weakling's head from his shoulders, mounted it as well as his arms on a droid and had the droid walk my eager bride down the aisle before his entire clan which I had swear to never raise an arm against me. All that declined I incinerated with the power of the dark side." The Sith relishes.

“Quite a fantastic ceremony if I do say so myself, we had three of the nine members of the Council of Ancients there." He finishes as if he had not detailed something that would cause women to faint in fairer courts.

“Sounds like she really loves you, I'm happy for you." Farod states with a contented smile.

“Oh yes, the two of us are already working on starting our own dynasty." The sith cheers following it with a hearty laugh.

The pair stroll leisurely through the place and down into the sizable once-dungeon. The conversation shifts to the winds of galactic trade and geopolitics, with the contrasting views of a planetary ruler and a galactic merchant having radically, though not opposed, views of economics, politics, and diplomacy. Offhanded job offers given, some as advisors, some for a dozen sith acolytes both as 90% jokes. The dungeon itself has changed little from when Farod had been made to work in the place when he had been under the tutelage of his mentor. The cells are mostly now the prison-pattern rather than the market-pattern. At the end of this cell block a humanoid figure in slightly shining clothing can be made out against the matte-black walls.

“Honey I'm home" bellows the Sith Lord.

Faster than Farod can register, the shape at the end of the hall is in Belukoor's arms. In a moment of observation he sees that the figure is not only a she but being princess carried by the menacing sith.

“Darling, this is my friend Farod" The sith states, the woman in his arms raising her head to look at the trader. “Farod, this is my wife, Lady Enk".

Farod makes a polite walking bow and the Lady in a feat of acrobatics manages to propel herself out of her husband's arms and manages to twirl in such a fashion that she lands right by his arm on the side opposite mine, which she takes.

“It is a pleasure to meet you Farod." She states in a cheerfully reserved manner.

“As is to you Lady Enk, I hope you can come to like me as much as Lord Belukoor does." Farod says politely.

“A friend of my husband may as well be a friend of mine." The lady says casually.

“Well then, where is our friend's birthday present?" the lord asks.

“Third cell from the right." The lady says.

With that statement Farod's heart sinks. His mind begins to race. “Oh heavens I can't own slaves, I'll be killed in Serene territory, I can't say no to a sith's gift as that's a point of honor among them, can I fabricate employment paperwork? No they won't have account numbers with the banking clan. Dammit Belukoor, why slaves?" His conscious rails within his mind. He forces a smile as his some more emotional part of him rails against the immorality of it all.

A heavy latch opens, and within are two obvious females.

Lady Enk begins to speak. “These two are our gifts to you, one from each of us. A Togorian and Gungan, both female."

Lord Belukoor looks at me and with a whisper or with some sort of force power conveys. “Do not worry, they are technically level 0 prisoners, if that sates the titanic conflict within you."

“That isn't the problem my friend" I mummer.

“I told you dear, slaves would do this to him." Belukoor laments to his wife.

“They're not slaves, technically." Lady Enk retorts.

“In the Serene Confederacy and Empire, they have something called “in the spirit of" clauses, whereby new names for old things are punished as they would be. I can make them employees, it will just take time and one unbothered trip to Mygeeto. Legality aside, it's just… I dunno." Farod confesses.

The sith couple stand there in awkward silence and the only human writhes in both moral quandary and bureaucratic anxiety.

“Farod, this gift is not entirely for you." Lady Enk speaks.

“These two came into this circumstance as their parents were smugglers, the deal is their head or the children's freedom in Sith courts-" Belukoor continues.

“Don't lie to me, I know the Sith punishment for standard smuggling, it's a warning if it's obviously unintentional, a fee the second time, and asset forfeiture the third. The only maritime crimes that warrant that punishment are privateering, narcotics smuggling, and theft and sale of state assets. I know maritime law better than anyone on this planet, so tell me the truth. Lying is a weakness, you say that yourself." Farod barks.

“The Gungan was the only daughter of a well-known pirate Threk Steeljaw, and was spared the blade." Lady Enk says.

Farod turns to the Gungan. “What planet did you grow up on, lie now and I'll know it."

“Hyt." She states proudly.

“And proud of it no less." Farod proclaims bitterly. “And the Togorian?" He follows.

“Her clan rebelled against the King, as Belukoor put it down he had to punish the chief." Lady Enk follows.

“So he killed him and took the daughter to deny him allies." Farod interrupts.

“No, I didn't kill the chief, just denied him all future allies. Though I did take his right arm and left eye." Belukoor explains.

“So why are you giving me your prizes?" Farod demands.

“Because I can't let them go free, because I don't think they're happy here, because I think you need company, and because we think you can give them a life worth living." Darth Belukoor explains.

“This is Sith mercy." Lady Enk follows.

Biting down his anger and trying to force reason again to the forefront of his mind Farod Hytherion makes a decision in which both options hurt. “Fine…" he whispers bitterly.

“...I'll take them. I'll find regular work from them to do, I've needed a secretary for years now." Farod states aloud.

He looks over to the two women that are now his and feels little more than disgust for himself in his mind despite their obvious beauty.

“Really only secretary work?" Darth Belukoor asks impatiently.

“What else would I need help with?" Farod asks inquisitive.

Lady Enk rears her head in confusion. “Did you think we chose two of our best shaped prizes for no reason?"

“I figured all the other ones are too dangerous for one man to keep." Farod candidly answers.

“No, we wanted you to have company that could function at your level and complement your skillset." the pair answer as one.

“What?" Farod demands.

“The Gungan is a skilled cook and apt observer, keeping you sharp of mind with proper nutrition and covering your blindspots at social events. The Togorian is small for her race, but as technically gifted as any other of her kind as well as great with numbers. Both are shapely and were kept from men so you can shape them as you will in that regard." Lady Enk explains.

“I'm not going to force myself onto slaves, I'll be having them do worthy work and paying them accordingly." Farod protests.

Darth Belukoor snorts. “Trust me old friend, these volunteered to be a young, single, merchant's traveling companions, we wouldn't send you off with those that don't want to leave. What kind of friend would give that as a gift?" Belukoor explains.

Farod glares at his friend with enough anger in him that he surely feels it in the “dark side" or however the wizards do their force nonsense. “I'll be the judge of that!" Farod barks looking to his “gifts".

“Pirate princess, did you volunteer for this?" Farod demands.

While Farod had never interacted much with Gungan, the look and body language screamed “duh". “A chance to leave a dreary, dry palace, see some of the sights of the galaxy and have a chance at some fun and maybe a humidifier. Nooo I wouldn't want that alllll-" She so plainly states no lie could've fit underneath the wall of sarcasm.

“And what of you Togorian?" Farod more normally asks.

She turns away but does speak. “Yes." She murmurs.

“Why?" Farod demands.

“Because I think seeing something new would be nice." She states a tad more confidently.

“Well enough." Farod says to the slave girl before he turns back to the Sith couple. “I suppose I have no quandary other than the fair amount of financial fraud I'll have to commit beyond the risk of my head being taken clean off my shoulders. Should I be killed for this, I demand you designate the planet of my execution to the Ancient Nihil." Farod states.

“A planet to Nihil, you know your history." Lady Enk congratulates.

“I was trained to be Belukoor's right hand, but he rose through the ranks of the Sith faster than I could be, so Gregor gave me lessons on trade rather than the sharper side of diplomacy." Farod recalls.

“I suppose my rise to power was something spectacular." Belukoor scoffs.

“It was from the holonet." Farod details.

“I am glad you accepted our gift Farod regardless." cheers Darth Belukoor

“I have a stressful few weeks ahead of me and will need to make some calls." Farod bemoans.

This seems to draw Lady Enk's attention. “Ah, yes, calls, I need to get a wardrobe ready for the girls, some dresses, some normal wear, and some lace and silk. Come girls, Jizzuns will have a ball making you clothes."

Following Lady Enk, the two simply dressed women rise in good order and follow their former lady in a organized fashion, and the moment they're maybe ten paces from the two men, the three begin to gossip in the way only women can.

“So, what was that bit about financial fraud?" The Sith asks nonchalantly.

For Farod this was a wondrous moment to figure out how much planetary leaders know about galactic finance, and for the Sith how the banks can make a person exist on paper, regardless of their actual existence, purely for tax purposes. The pair leave the dungeon the conversation having switched to the prices and variety of new heavy capacitors for a modern warfleet. For Farod the prices seemed enormous, to the lord of an entire planet, they must be reasonable for an extra volley from the turbolasers every minute. They continue to walk, with Belukoor showing Farod to his room in the guest wing for as long as he wishes to stay.

Farod takes the opportunity for privacy to arrange a few contracts, talk to a few business friends at Mygeeto, and overall, just ensure his enterprises run smoother than a new Kuat drive engine. He washes, and is delivered a courtesy lunch of local fish, smoked with sauces and bits of toast. Not enough to feel full on, but enough to not go raiding the kitchen. Aside from business Farod just thinks about how low he's sure to have fallen in his mother's eyes, a slave owner, damnation. Though he hasn't been on speaking terms with his family since he agreed to Sith tutelage.

Eventually one of the servants or slaves of the estate informs him that the games are soon to begin. The servant offers to show him to his own entertainment for the time on the express offer of the Lord of Lightning, one of Belukoor's many titles. The servant navigates the confusing maze of hallways and chambers effortlessly until they come to one of the unrenovated sections of the palace, a black door bearing the symbol of the ancient sith. The Duros servant opens the door but does not enter, and once inside, the servant begins to walk off, leaving Farod alone in the exceedingly dim room lit by a single, wax candle in the center. As he gets closer two light to his immediate three and nine o'clock. A wind fills the room, the flames from the first catching more and more unseen candles alight until room is a warm, dim light at the edge two braisers catch light and unveil a stage. Farod finds a single chair, a simple wooden construction with the thick, woolen fur of some beast laid over it; on its plainly adorned arms, two cups of an amber beverage await him. Getting comfortable an almost inaudible music begins, slowly rising in volume and tempo until it matches his heartbeat. Suddenly, two dancers emerge from unseen entrances, flowing silk and lace twirl like flags in a hurricane. Farod takes a moment to look a the dancers themselves, a female gungan with her hailu tied back like a long braid, a reddish brown backside contrasting with an almost white front her body loosely in scarlet silks, veils, and laces. The other, a togorian, a spotted pattern of black dots on an orange body, a band of white running from her chin down her torso and surely farther still. Their movements are for their dress, strangely clumsy, the gungan trying to spin on her toes not her heel, and the togorian not knowing how to keep the lace strands flowing, for a moment he's puzzled out. He wonders why Belukoor would send clumsy dancers. These aren't Belukoor's dancers he realizes.

“Stop girls." Farod says calmly. “You're not dancers, that much is obvious." He says cooly.

“And how would you that?" demands the Togorian.

“I've seen shows on every major planet in the galaxy barring Kuat, and on hundreds of ones no one without good reason to go there would know its name." Farod answers.

“Well what if this is our dance then?" The Gungan follows.

“Gungan, I don't know your name, would you tell me it?" Farod asks.

“Keesa but I fail to see how that matters." She answers.

“Well Keesa, you're trying to spin on your toes, when I was at the life-day celebrations at Theed City all the gungan dancers spun on their heels." Farod says before getting up, and spinning on his heel before sitting down again. “Like so, give it a try."

Keesa shrugs and spins on her heel, completing the motion without so much as a falter in movement. With that, she falls silent looking inquisitively at her dancing partner.

“As for you togorian, what is your name?" Asks Farod calmly.

“They call me Merid." She answers once again shy.

“While I have never seen a togorian dance myself I was on zygerria once to purchase weapons for the Umbarian Planetary Police, and they too are somewhat feline, your motions are fine but stiff where they shouldn't be and relaxed where they should be stiff. You struggle to keep the lace moving because you don't keep your shoulders stiff as you spin, and when you finish a turn of the arms, you need give it a slight flick of the wrist." Farod explains, moments before going up onto the stage. “Here try your movements once again, I will help you. I may have never been a dance instructor but I did sell the books." Farod jokes.

Once again, Merid goes into her motion not expecting Farod to keep up with her. Farod does, though, corrects her curving motion by moving like a tangent to her normal. It takes three tries, not because of Merid but because of Farod's poor teaching.

“Thank you master." Merid says with a slight bow of her head.

Farod physically recoils. “Try not to call me master, and never in public." Farod stammers as he sits back down.

“Why not?" Kessa asks impatiently.

“Because it's weird to be called a master and will draw eyes where I want none to be." Farod answers.

The gungan just looks at Farod with an unamused look. “Man, you must be on the straight and narrow Mister." She states flatly. “I can already tell you've got a million talents, but being fun ain't one." She muses.

“I know you heard my conversation with your former master Kessa, you know damn well why I don't want you calling me master." Farod states coolly.

“Even in the bedroom?" Kessa teases, getting closer to Farod's chair making sure he sees just shy of modest cleavage.

Farod just gives the gungan a look of disgust and turns his head to the ground in an obvious gesture. Kessa turns away, her eyes wide and hand held together as if embarrassed or nervous. The togorian shares the almost nervous look as they slink back into the unseen entrances, and the muffled talkings begins anew. Farod just sits in the chair, his brow furrowed and mind whirling in how to diplomatically demand an explanation from Lord Belukoor or Lady Enk that properly details the insult they have given him. He drinks heavily from the mugs beside him, a thick, heavy drink of some sort of liqueur and honey.

As Farod's storm of emotions rages inside him, he briefly steps out of the room. The nearly-all black outfit of the Sith formalwear heightens the perception of his own anger. A pair of the Sith Knights clad their chortis armor beneath their ornate flowing robes turn and stop beside him. “I can feel your anger from here, giftless one, it makes you strong makes you Sith." He cheers raising his unlit saber in some knightley celebration of extreme feeling.

More disgusted with the knight's relishment of such a destructive force, he slinks back into the candle-lit room, drawing one of his more relaxing smokes from inside his vest, he lights it on one of the candles. With a shuddered sigh, he sits on the fur-covered chair once again, taking up the other mug of the same amber beverage. The herbal smell coming off the burning leaf soothes Farod's mind as the mild stimulant hits and contrasts the downing of the alcohol. Sipping and puffing along he regains his bearings, as he sheds his anger and begins to face his newfound shame. The more he reflected the more he found error with his conduct, the harshness from the start, the more he thought about it the worse his first impressions became. Embittered he rises, and with black gloved hands begins to look for the secret entrances for the dancers on the private stage. A near-silent click can be heard as he presses one of the smaller stones opening a pitch-black passage. Knowing how possessive the Sith are he unlatches the blaster in his holster and begins to slink down the hallway stalking like an assassin against the wells.

He draws up his neck gaiter over his nose and fashions his hat so that as little of his face can be seen as possible. Moving slowly, his hands ready to grab a neck or his blaster at a single instinctive twitch. As he feels his way around a corner he sees light coming from an open door. Stalking his way towards the light. Muffled noises and voices. Farod inches closer, keeping his right hand on the grip of his blaster pistol. He glances into the room, it's a tailor's workshop, and there an elderly human sits, seemingly alone. Farod peels down his gaiter, and steps into the light, walking cautiously into the workshop.

“Stop there boy." The lady says calmly despite not even looking up from here work. “You are looking for what was given to you, yes?" She asks.

“Given, is a word I have a bit of conflict with." Farod replies.

“Would you prefer, came into?" The old woman scoffs.

“Do you take me for a lecher?" Farod prods.

“No… no… not my favorite supplier of extraplanetary fabrics Sir Hytherion, merely that you cannot see obvious reasons as your trade blinds you to the now." The elderly woman coos. “My husband, when he still lived, was much the same, you merchants and industrial types are always too blind to what's right in front of you."

“What on earth are you saying?" Farod asks hiding his furrowed brow to the best of his ability.

“A pair of newlyweds so kept apart, gift their friend they see as lonely two eager, shapely women, and the first thing the man thinks of is how they came to be gifts." The lady laughs.

“Oh yes, they're competent, but to whose benefit? Certainly not the Sith who loses a bargaining chip. Not the merchant who may lose his head. So, for whom do the spoils go?" The crone crows.

“I don't like your implications, elder." Farod says cooly into the room.

The old woman finally looks up, amber eyes shooting like daggers into Farod's mind. “Oh, young merchant, a gift of life is rarely ever to the receiver. Bound in chains of honor and tradition, how does one give a reward to the owned other than to reward them with a new owner." She says with the mirth of an angered grandmother. “I find Darth Belukoor and Darth Enk to be a different breed of Sith to myself, young merchant, I only gave away my prizes with my expectations detailed." the elderly sith muses.

Farod draws his blaster but does not raise it. “Then what would your demands be should have given them Sith?" Farod demands.

“No fear of the Dark Side? Interesting, merely anger." the Sith Tailor whispers beneath her breath. “I would have told you I expected you to enjoy them as they seek to enjoy you." She demands behind a growing, yellow-toothed smile. “Kept from men and volunteered, a gift a friend from concerned newlyweds." She continues.

Farods face hardens. “I…" He begins.

“Do not speak, giftless one… I can feel your thoughts and conflicts. Settle what you must on Mygeeto, but do scorn my girls again, I had no hand in their taste in men or lifestyle. If I find their tears in my dress again all the Jedi on Yavin and Crusaders of Mandalore will not get between me and you." The Sith threatens. In the next moment she is returned to her work but Farod finds himself unable to move. “Pardon my… passion in the moment Sir Hytherion, I do respect you coming here to make some sort of amends, and I admire your strength in the face of the Dark Side, Lord Belukoor has a nose for the brave, though wisdom often eludes the young." She finishes.

Once more Farod tries to move, but is pulled towards the table at a breakneck speed. Just as he thinks he will surely slam into the simple wooden table, he stops as suddenly as he starts. Whisking off the walls a pair of golden-threaded garments lay into his arms, a bag flies off the wall behind the old sith. The garments in his arms fly like leaves into the wind into the bag which then floats lazily into his hand.

Farod is then thrust faster than he came in, out and into the black, stone walls. Miraculously he slows to a mere tap before slamming into certain death. The Sith looking wryly at him. “If you come here again without an appointment, I will not slow you down." She states plainly and the doors to her workshop slam shut.

Farod, hating the answers but somehow knowing the crone-sith did not lie, makes his way back out of the secret passage and back into the private stage room. There, much to his own displeasure a pair of displeased Kel Dor's Sith stand waiting, it's the planetary ruling pair.

Farod can't even find anger in him anymore. “The tailor… err… Sith lady… informed me." Farod explains, trying to regain his bearings.

The displeasure of the two sith fades to relaxation. “Friend, I would've had to kill you." Belukoor sighs.

“You could've told me the gift was barely mine." Farod says embarrassed.

“You know you wouldn't have believed him." Lady Enk says, reaffirming his subconscious self-critique.

“Yeah, that's true." Farod answers, tired and embarrassed.

“Ei-Either way…" Farod begins, trailing off as he can't find the words to say.

“You must be hungry, come, join us, the games are over." Lord Belukoor suggests.

Farod follows back out of the room and to a discreet elevator that takes the three up a great number of floors. The feast hall is a menagerie of powerful Sith and aristocrats. Farod makes decent conversation with a number of them, special contracts for rare and difficult to find goods for Sith appear in his datapad like few other days in his career, his financial calculator suggests a net profit of 16 billion New Republic Credits, enough to have four custom built Imperial XX class star destroyers on the fastest lines above Kuat made just for him. Though in actuality he'll probably sell the bulk of the contracts and take a hefty fulfillment fee.". By the come of sunrise the next day, his belly is a mass of wine and rum soaked meats and fruits, every time he nears drunkenness some sith adept draws the poisonous effects of alcohol from him or the caloric excess of the food in some sick game of

Feeling nothing but a distinct hollowness where his body should be feeling a hangover, Farod continues to his room to crash. Exhausted he barely notices the other sleeping figures in his bed and just crawls between them falling suddenly, and deeply asleep. He dreams the usual dreams one would suffer being this close to so many powerful sith, visions of glorious battles and great passions, of darkest despair of the screaming agony of the less honorable side of war, at least this time the usual order was reversed. Farod sleeps for nearly an entire day, rising the next morning with a series of uneven weights upon his chest. He opens his groggy eyes to see a bill and muzzle laid across his collarbone, and the nightgown clad shapes of a gungan and togorian he immediately recognizes to be Kessa and Merid by coloration alone.

Farod writhes like a serpent out of the bed via the foot of it, replacing his now wrinkled formalwear with more casual clothing. A pair of burgundy shalvars with the black socks that run to the knee over the loose-fitting clothing. Black shoes, and a burgundy burgundy poet's shirt. No hat, no gloves, no show of anything, just enough to look good in a palace but clearly abstaining from formal function. He takes a look in the mirror briefly to ensure his composure is fine, and with a glance back to the bed to see the new parts of his goings-on, leaves.

Farod Hytherion makes his way to one of the estate staff to ask if the ruling pair are preoccupied. Finding that they left yesterday with the King of All Sith to Korriban for some Sith business. Farod briefly returns to his room and writes a quick farewell letter and requests that his ship and skiff be made ready for his departure when he delivers the letter to one of the staff. The head of the valet gives him a buzzer for when his skiff will be ready and tells him to gather his belongings. Farod returns to his room to find that Merid and Kessa are already awake and dressed in some passable degree of common wear; trousers, shirts, vests, and boots.

“The skiff is getting ready, I hope the both of you are ready to leave Erandi as we're going nonstop to Mygeeto after this." Farod says he hurriedly gathers his things.

“You don't sound very excited." Kessa states.

“No, I'm not, I'm going to a key banking clan world to commit a small ocean of fraud." Farod says in passing.

“By the force why are you doing that?" Kessa demands.

“So I can have a papertrail fabricated for you, it'll be easy for Merid, but you Kessa, being a gungan will be a bit of a headache." Farod explains.

“Why will it be easy for me?" Merid squeaks.

“Because your people don't really engage with the rest of the galaxy, so just saying you don't have any is more often than not true." Farod explains.

“Is it not true?" Merid demands.

“Hell if I know Merid, I know exceedingly little of your people." Farod sighs.

Farod turns, having packed his suitcase fully to a Kessa with her arms crossed. “What?" Farod asks.

“How is it more a problem for a gungan to get papers?" She pouts.

“Naboo and her colonies like to track their own, if you just the daughter of a pirate, well enough, but you are not 'just' a pirate's daughter in a legal sense." Farod explains.

“I don't see how that is a problem." She pouts.

“Having a Togorian as a technician on board is not unheard of, so saying you found one in the outer rim and hired her and now you need papers is painless. The Munns of Mygeeto won't even bat an eye for such a thing nor will most customs officers, but a gungan outside of Serene space is rare, one not born within Serene space virtually unheard of, so the fears that you are being trafficked or are already sold into slavery is very high, so they will be reluctant." Farod explains.

“And what's wrong with being a slave now?" Kessa demands.

“The fact that it is banned in more than sixty percent of the galaxy." Farod states plainly.

“So we could just leave you?" Kessa smirks.

“Not really, you'd still need papers unless you want to work as a prostitute." Farod says, not thinking about the context of this conversation.

“A pr-prostitute? That's it?" Kessa demands.

“It's like the only job I can think of outside the outer rim that wouldn't require papers. If you were a male you could be some sort of bouncer for an illicit business. I can't see either of you doing that though, that sort of industry is not for people with souls of any sort." Farod ponders.

“You barely know us though." Kessa snaps.

“You've been kept from men if I recall? At what age?" Farod asks.

“Ten, what does that have to do with anything?" Kessa demands again.

“Imagine, if you can, asking to copulate with a line cook from his way home from his shift. Trying to seduce this fat, one step from poverty alien of less than desirable physical appearance, and with likely only semi-compatible equipment. Taking them into your home and copulating with them, only for them to leave you enough to buy a meal, and doing this enough to pay for rent and food. There are exceedingly few people who are hollow enough to be prostitutes forever, a shred of paperwork proving you exist, you'll be sent back to your species homeworld if caught, with your status listed before them all, or rot in an immigration holding room until you die, lost by the system." Farod states, trying his best to remember the various prostitutes he saw strutting down the streets of Nar Shadda.

The girls' faces are twisted in disgust, they murmur low enough for Farod not to hear.

“So, shall we go to Mygeeto and commit several frauds to make you real?" Farod suggests trying to bring a degree of energy to the now downcast room.

“Yes, I think we shall." Merid squeaks and Kessa nods solemnly in agreement.

The trio wait at the skiff docks, and the mood seems to improve among the girls, but Farod preoccupies himself with ensuring his laundry list of low-level felonies will not only go off without a hitch but is done in such a way as to ensure no one even suspects it happened. The more he schemes the more he realizes it's like stock trading, except instead of losses or gains, it's prison and death or no issues at all. Not really a business Farod would usually engage in.

Soon a buzzing begins in his pocket as a jet-black skiff screams into the docking area, stopping just before crashing into the marbled blocks that make up the floor. The trio load up and are zipped out to the palaces' own landing area. Farod is dropped off right by his light freighter and home and the scale of the ship seems to impress the girls.

“This is my ship, the Silver Tongue, it has a real cargo bay of 2400 cubic meters and when standard compression is applied, 3600 cubic meters. The ship itself is perhaps 50 meters long, 15 at the highest point, and twenty across. The ship from the outside is a blue and white ship, with engines that protrude on sponsons perhaps two thirds of the way from the cabin to the end of the superstructure, giving perhaps five meters of near useless length. The cargo hold bulges out midsection going towards the end with a slightly tapering cargo door though the top of the vessel is completely flat. Despite the tapering hull that heads to the cargo hold, the ship looks like the letter L with the bottom expanded out as long as the top. Among merchants the ADY-55 was not a pretty ship, but it ran cheaply, reliably, and came with a very good engine and set of both ray and particle shields not to mention its droid-brain operated defense package.

Farod opens the personnel door to the ship and offers a hand to the girls trying to get on. He gives them a tour of all his favorite parts as well as the living quarters barring his own room. Farod goes to show them guest quarters but finds a note slid between airtight seal and metal frame. “Friend, I took the liberty of decorating this spartan space as I intend to use you to ferry some of my diplomats around in the coming years, do be are Darth Untili, the tailor, said that this was not to be used beyond Mygeeto to your own ends, whatever that means. - Darth Belukoor, Lord of Erandi, Prince of Lighting, Bearer of the Midnight Morning, 1st of House Enk-Belukoor.

Farod's first thoughts are simple. “Damnable wench" as well as a creative and diverse spread of synonyms.

“Aren't we going to be in your chambers ma-mister?" Merid squeaks.

“Not until we get off Mygeeto, if the preliminary scans show me sharing a room with you while I have guest quarters, it will be suspicious to customs." Farod deceives.

“Makes sense, but how does that change once I imagine you make us “employed" people instead." Kessa asks inquisitive.

“How did you guess I was going to do that?" Farod inquires politely.

Kessa just looks at Farod for a moment. “Just because I'm a slave doesn't mean I'm stupid or uneducated." Kessa says flatly.

“Never thought you were stupid, the education bit I'll prod after you all get settled."

Farod rounds off the tour with a showing off of the common areas and entertainment systems, and explains Darth Belukoor remodeled their “temporary quarters" unbeknownst to him and implores they get comfortable as sunlight travel is a rather boring, but hands on travel for the pilot. It takes about three hours for air control to give him permission to leave atmosphere, and it takes another six for system command to approve his to-hyperspace flight path to the hyperspace channel after which it takes another two hours of manual command before the droids can manage the hyperspace jump.

Exiting his cabin after nine-hours of tedium Farod reaches into his fridge and grabs a cold bottle of Salucami lemon soda, plops himself down on the couch and begins to flip through his prerecorded catalog of movies, shows, and documentaries for the three-week trip to Mygeeto