Voidendron's Literatures

He stood at solemn attention, cane grasped in front of himself as he looked down at his holo and the all too familiar Sith’s figures in it. His thoughts may have still been his own, but that was all. His body was theirs to control, his tongue theirs to place careful words at the end of. And all it took was that one word.

He’d never fired upon unarmed civilians before. And yet… He couldn’t bring himself to feel guilt for it. He was in the right. He was. Really.

And then he was growling, baring his teeth as his tail lashed. He knew when Zeltron trickery flooded his senses when he felt it. They were impossibly charismatic, drew trust far too easily, kept all of a room’s eyes on them for too long. “Easy, friend,” the stranger purred. Needless to say, lekku weren’t a trait Kidak was expecting him to have when the door opened.

Dirt and stone felt crushing. She could barely breathe as it pressed in on her chest. - or; the Warrior's encounter with the Quesh cave-in

It was routine. Something they did often, by request of the Commander. Another mission, scouting out suspected spies nosing around where they didn’t belong within Alliance territory.

A bounty hunter and the Wrath find themselves caught in a hailstorm while out hunting. Not that they're complaining about a chance to be alone for a while.

They hadn’t expected the emergency signal. Not after so long. Something had happened. Something bad, if his use of it was any indicator. - or; the extraction team discovering the aftermath of Agent "Verdat" being discovered as an Alliance spy within the Sith Empire.

He shifted farther back against the tree trunk when he heard another gundark somewhere below him. His wounds throbbed and he forced himself not to think of the beast’s teeth or claws or powerful limbs.

It may have been a mistake, but she couldn’t find it in herself to regret it. She would have never forgiven herself if she hadn’t at least tried. She could have finally ended it, ended all the pain he was causing. It would have torn her heart in half, but so be it.

Undercover in the Sith Empire under the guise of "Agent Verdat" to gather information for the Alliance, Cipher Nine's cover has been blown. He finds himself interrogated by one Sith known for her sadism, and the other for clever mind tricks and blackmail.

Next thing he knew, the air was forced from his lungs as he landed flat on his back. He had to spend a few moments coughing and catching his breath, and looking up revealed the Zabrak with her hands on her hips and a smirk painted across her face. “Guess you win,” he croaked.

A nice night, a quiet morning, light filtering in through the window to wake the Commander. When she opened her eyes, Torian wasn’t there but she could hear him rummaging about in the bathroom as he prepared for the day.

It was getting harder to ignore the pain in his arm; stinging had turned to heat, as if a brand were being held to his flesh. It traveled down to his fingers, up through his shoulder, his neck. He sucked in a breath through his teeth. Ignore it. There’s worse to come, he told himself.

She’d told K’hedif over the holo not to worry, that they had good doctors handling her. “It’s going to look bad,” she’d said. “Just promise me you won’t freak out?” Yeah… That obviously wasn’t happening.

The shot hit her before she’d even realized the target had his blaster drawn. Terrin was sent to one knee as the shot burned through her thigh—through thick leggings, through flesh, to leave it blackened and the smell of burned skin heavy in the air.

Her speeder hit something—hard—and she was thrown off. She hit the ground and rolled, grimacing and hissing as her clothes and fur were torn, as her tail twisted underneath her, as something in her arm cracked.

The groundquake was over just as soon as it had started, but one of the walls in Shalim’s office had a crack running down it. The overhead light continued flickering a few times before it went out completely to leave them all glancing at each other through darkness.

When she raised the arm with a nozzle (flamethrower?) mounted to it, Liakige didn’t react fast enough. The sensation hit them first—heat, right in the face; the smell of burned hair and flesh and some sort of chemical strong enough it could make anyone gag; they couldn’t see.

It was just a routine run. Supposed to be, anyway. Something they’d all done a hundred times. But of course it couldn’t stay easy. At that point, it had become a running joke through the crew that either the Star Hopper or their Captain himself was a bad luck charm.

It was dark. Dark, dark, too dark. He couldn’t see anything, couldn’t hear anything but his own breaths.

Jen grinned and shuffled his feet on the chair. “Can I steer? Please, Ma?” Riza took his hands—his tiny hands that fit so easily within hers—and guided them to the steering mechanism. There were grooves worn into it that fit her hands, but it would be a long time before they’d fit Jen’s.

Teeseven moved forward—slowly, carefully, ever watchful not to run over her tail that she swiped out of his way—to gently bump against her shoulder. “Master Vetiko = not a good liar.”