Somewhere in the small flat she could hear the sounds of Xan sleeping, an odd sound to her ears still. The pulse of life was hot and wet to her senses, feeling like she could reach out and run her fingers through the air and pull and tug and grab a hold of the threads. Absently she felt Xan turn and she slyly sent his mind back to slumber, wanting at least one of them to be well rested. She'd been catching a few hours but the world - the galaxy - felt too awake for the Miraluka to try for more rest right now.
The air was heavy and hot, Aran lifting a hand and fingers flexing, straining the limits of her sight to see each finger twist in the air as she closed her hand into a fist. She fancied she could close her hand around the air and pull the Force, coalescing it into a visible spark and fire.
Flames. Silver and flickering. She kept a watch on Xan's sleeping form, wondering if Zephyr ever grumbled at her constant practice of the Flames inside his head. The fire curled over her fingers and Aran bit her lip against a hiss of pain.
That had been rather expected, the woman admitted to herself silently. Aran knew she was treading a fine line and her steps didn't always hold to it as well as she knew they should.
Artia had been busy the past two weeks. The confusion - and relief hearing Ihlrath was alive - and the scramble to find the time to make everything happen. The Black Barge Collective was flexing its silent, hidden vines and muscles, and she wondered when she'd have the time to watch it all. Xan was worried for Kali. His daughter. The Mirialan caring for her. Ihlrath even, even if Xan still called himself Sith.
Her concentration didn't waver as she continued to hold the Flames steady, the apartment's walls bathed in a faint glow until she finally released them, as well as her breath. It came out in a hiss though and she shifted then grunted, standing up from her seated position and holding her breath again.
Rubbing her forehead she shook out her hands, a quick flick of fingers like she was tossing off water. She felt lighter again, and her head was clear. Now she did what she so rarely actually let someone see, picking her way across the floor of the flat and pulling out her saber, the saber she had finally begun working on - with Xan's help. It felt unfinished in her hand and the weight was unusual still, the feel of the hilt both familiar and unfamiliar.
Now she moved silently, feet lightly padding across the rough flooring to the second room. A judicious use of Force to lift the sofa cleared the floor and with a breath the woman settled into a stance, hilt tucked into the waist of her pants and drawing a pair of vibroknives into her hands.
Rest. She'd lost track of her old crew when they had pulled back from the Rim, afraid of the growing war. Jer and Andi and Atsuo. They'd been a small crew. A band of three Jedi and one military man, trying to just do a spot of good to the galaxy. Their last 'far flung' run had been taking medical supplies to Ajiit Prime, keeping the sicknesses of a terraformed world at bay.
Form. She didn't know if the job had been some long-forgotten thought of revenge. It didn't feel like it - there'd been no satisfaction, not even a glimmer, watching Paul die.
Strike. Why had hearing Macelis blab about the Black Barge gotten such a reaction?
She paused, sweat dropping from hair and skin, running down and leaving cleaned trails. She panted, feeling the pull of muscles rarely used and stretching sinuously like a nexu.
She'd have sworn it had felt like a challenge to her pride. Maybe that was why Kashira's words had stung so much, too.
Softly the woman started to wind down her forms, channeling the uncertainty into the blade work.
This was... not an anticipated problem.
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