fighting_mad: (special - hallway)
It would be startling, if anyone were watching. One moment, the empress is leaving the banquet hall in a poorly-hidden bad temper, and the next, a dark-haired aide is suddenly by her side as they step through the archway and continue down the corridor.

Plourr glances over her shoulder, but no one at the table appears to have been looking.

The corridor--walls steely blue, and floors a dark gray shining marble--is simple and empty, but for a guard who turns the corner and bows his head respectfully as he passes. Plourr tips her head in return, and she looks back again as they round the corner. No one appears to be staring or coming after.

Her evil plan is working?

"Welcome to Eiattu."
fighting_mad: (medium - down down baby)

Talk to your idiot about what I offered him.

Watch out for each other. Meant it when I said I wasn’t going to let you disappear again. I don't hear from you for a while again? I'm going to come looking.

Force be with you.
fighting_mad: (special - hallway)
“Plourr?” asks Rial, closing the conference room door on the confused faces of the Cabinet members. He reaches for his wife, worry evident in his frown. “Plourr, what’s wrong?”

They stand alone in the echoing, brightly lit corridor. Plourr grabs his hands and plants them on her belly, his palms pressed to her tunic.

Rial’s sense of alarm spikes. “Plourr—”

“Shhhh,” she says, sharply, staring at her stomach, and Rial shuts up and looks down.

Silence stretches, and stretches, and stretches and then Rial asks quietly, “Plourr, what—”

She makes a low, frustrated sound, and shakes her head. “Won’t perform in front of an audi—”

Something flutters under Rial’s hand. He freezes, standing still as a statue and staring downward. Then his eyes snap up, finding Plourr’s. “Was that…?”

She nods, eyes on his, and then she smiles quietly. Rial grins, sudden and broad and fierce, and he grabs her up in his arms and spins her around. Plourr yelps, and then she kicks up her heels and laughs.

Setting her back down, Rial cups her face in his hands and kisses her like his life depends on it. She leans against him, sinking a hand into his hair and rising up onto the balls of her feet – and then the baby kicks again and they both start.

“That’s our girl,” says Rial, grinning helplessly. “Our daughter.”

Plourr shoots a sidelong glance at him. “Guess she’s really in there, huh?”

“Yeah,” he says, wrapping his arms around her as she does the same, resting her hands on the backs of his shoulders. He draws her in close. “She is, my princess.”
fighting_mad: (p - little bump)
"This is painless, Princess," says the little doctor, hand on her hip. "I don't even need to touch you. Quit your complaining and roll up your tunic."

Half-reclining in the examination room, Plourr scowls up at the white-haired, ageless woman. "It's Empress," she complains, but she pushes her tunic up above her belly and leans back on her elbows.

"I delivered you twenty-two years ago," says Doctor Wilen matter-of-factly, flicking a switch on the machine beside the table. "You will always be a princess to me, Princess."

Plourr rolls her eyes but she falls silent and lets the doctor get to work, checking her blood pressure and her heart rate, among other things. She ignores the bustling woman and glances at Rial.
fighting_mad: (p - little bump)
Plourr keeps her clothing loose, outside of the apartments (though there's really not much she can do to keep it between them much longer, not really), but inside -- not much need, is there? She's sprawled on her back across the sofa, her legs hanging over the armrest and her arm across her eyes. She got as far as removing her jewelry, changing her tunic (exchanging a flowing royal purple top for an old, fitted undershirt), and kicking off one shoe, before she flopped down on the sofa with an inarticulate noise of disgust, and stayed there.

State dinners are the pits.
fighting_mad: (mama said knock you out)
I'm fine, but in the cells for a night.

It was worth it.

fighting_mad: (artie - gerbil)
Plourr slept here last night, at the bar. It isn't a rare occurance for her and Rial to stay; it's a place away from the duties and the stresses, which is nice. What is less nice is the way that she's being suffocated. She worms her way out from under the covers -- and stares at the giant pillow in front of her. Then down at her furry paws. Then over at the man sleeping beside her who is decidedly not her husband.

Her (tiny, AHHH) stomach lurches, and decidedly not in the way that it has been for the past two months. Beady eyes wide, she flies across the wide plains of the covers and makes her way to the floor by way of the bedside table and several acrobatic hops. The room looks huge and forboding in its size, but it is unmistakably the one that she shares with Rial. Here are her boots, looming high above her, beside the bed, here are some familiar articles of clothing; Rial's hairtie is on the floor. She could jump through it as if it were a hoop. She yelps sharply, and that is not her voice. What the hell is this?! Her eyes swing back up to the enormous bed, and the enormous man in it, and, teeth set in determination, she tries to climb back up. But she took a few jumps to get down in the first place and she is forced to concede, after a few moments, that she won't be able to get up there and wake him up and demand to know what he has done to her, and with her husband.

Maybe someone downstairs will have answers. They will. Plourr will beat it out of them if she has t--

Oh. Right.

fighting_mad: (medium - mmmm)
Plourr is in a tree.

It's not quite as strange as it might originally sound; she and Rial make a point of taking at least a day to themselves per week, and she tends to hightail it outside. The courtyard is small and overgrown, forgotten long ago; wild and beautiful, flowers spreading across all. The tree is low and sturdy and Plourr is sprawled across a heavy branch, her back against the trunk and one leg dangling, her foot nearly touching the ground. The tree is just under the overhang that leads into the 'yard, and, eyes closed against a ferocious headache, she listens to the rain pound the leaves, the soil, the overgrown pathways.

She always did love Eiattu's rainy season. She likes it even more, now. She doesn't look out across the plains and wish that she were riding; not in this mess.
fighting_mad: (bald - eyes dark)
The meeting finishes at a good time, just as Plourr is coming in. The empress slips past the last woman leaving (nodding to those who bow to her, brushing off the one duke who tries to corner her) and into the conference room. Inside, Rial leans over the table, brushing hair impatiently off his face and gathering some sheets of flimsi, and she stops on the same side of the huge table.

She sets her shoulders, face a touch pale.

fighting_mad: (any - asleep)
Flopped facefirst into the pillows, blankets hauled up nearly over her head, Plourr hasn't moved in a while. These days, this means that she is asleep.

Tonight, however, that is not the case.

She has been silent and still for some time when she cracks an eyelid and sees that the light is still on. She hits out in Rial's general direction. "Rial," she mumbles into the pillow. "Give it a rest. Go to bed."
fighting_mad: (bald - lethargy)
The days are running together. They all pass the same.

Once upon a time, Plourr would wake early in the morning (with the help of several alarms and a husband) and trot off to work out or take a ride. With that out of the way, she'd shower, grab a quick breakfast and a mug of strong caf with Rial, and set to work.

The days were long and occasionally boring, but usually not so bad; several audiences, some comm calls with leaders of other planets in the system, several committee or Cabinet meetings, constant updates on various situations from aides, all sorts of proclamations and bills and laws to sign -- the process of running a planet was not exactly glamorous, but Plourr found that she liked it a hell of a lot more than she'd thought she would. Sometimes Rial was there and sometimes he wasn't; they tended to split duties as close to half-and-half as possible. Often, there were diplomatic functions or dinner parties to host or attend even after the day was through, and Plourr enjoyed those less than the work, but she had Rial on her wing, and if all else failed -- some very fine wine to fall back on. Maybe she was getting better at this whole diplomacy thing. Sometimes life was entirely different; sometimes she traveled through the capital city, sometimes she went to various parts of the planet to meet with local leaders or oversee special events, sometimes they had dinner with her in-laws. Some days, she went to the capital city hospital to visit a man with one arm. But, for the most part, her days played out similarly, though with enough variety to keep her interested, and by the time that she returned to the royal quarters at night, there was time to enforce a 'no paperwork in bed' rule, and if that enforcing sometimes turned vigorous -- well.

It's different now. Rial doesn't have the heart to wake her, and Plourr sleeps late, beyond when she'd have the time for a work out, except for when she is woken by a sour taste in her mouth and a desperate need to bolt for the 'fresher. Those mornings, thankfully, don't happen often (but she's getting better at handling them; sometimes, now, she gets out of bed so quickly and quietly that Rial doesn't even wake), and on those, after rinsing out her mouth, she'll go for a run. No early morning rides now, racing the sun out into the grasslands; it's one of many new rules.

It's a struggle to get through the day. At the end of it, on days when she absolutely can't stay on her feet any longer and feels like she might just collapse of fatigue and sleep forever, Rial kindly but firmly makes sure she goes to bed, and he makes excuses for her at their evening engagements. Thankfully, she doesn't usually feel that badly, and she attends dinner parties and balls, and she stares rather longingly after the servers carrying wine glasses. It begins to rustle through the palace that the empress is refusing alcohol; maybe they won't be able to keep this to themselves, Plourr thinks, dispirited. At the end of those longest days, she comes home, kicks off her shoes, takes off her earrings, and falls into bed. Rial leaves a light burning sometimes so he can look over reports and things on his side of the bed, and she is too tired to tell him to knock it off. There is no enforcing, vigorous or otherwise. Just sleeping, so that she can wake in the morning and do it all over again.
fighting_mad: (long - grrrr)
Plourr was at the battle of Endor where she was a mechanic on the Mon Calamari flagship Home One. Even though the Alliance won, it suffered tremendous losses in starfighter pilots and Plourr's natural talent was discovered as the search for new pilot candidates went on. Despite her flying ability, no commander wanted to take her and her attitude on until Captain Wedge Antilles recognized her as an excellent pilot and recuited her into Rogue Squadron.

She was born Princess Isplourrdacartha Estillo of Eiattu, who had to flee her home planet as a child after a coup d'etat was staged and her entire family was executed by nobles. Much of her rough exterior is meant to hide her insecurities and the wounds left by being the only survivor of the massacre; by hearing her father and two sisters tortured and murdered, and by being forced to kill her traitorous younger brother in order to escape. She doesn't talk about it much. Plourr was raised by a variety of technicians in space garages across the galaxy, where she learned both her piloting skills and her infamous zeal for mechanics treating her X-wing just right.

Since entering Milliways, she has returned to Eiattu, where she left the Rogues to reclaim the throne, and has chafed under the responsibilities, stresses, and constraints of being a princess and ruling a planet. She matured some, astonishingly enough, and married Count Rial Pernon, who she was betrothed to as a very young child. The marriage started off rocky and only happened out of Plourr's sense of duty, but everything slowly changed. She bounced back and forth between Rogue Squadron and Eiattu for a time, but she resigned her commission as a lieutenant in the New Republic Starfighter Command, and is a full-time planetary ruler.

Second civil war of Eiattu IV:
The throne engaged in a bloody civil war with Eiattu's nobles. In fact, reports of Rial's death (greatly exaggerated) in a bomb set by the Priamsta were what brought her home in the first place. The war was ugly and prolonged over several months, and after the flattening of Nental and scores of other cities and villages, the throne received a break and smashed the backbone of the resistance. In a last-ditch attempt to seize control of the planet, the Priamsta kidnapped the princess.

The good count received warning of it, but it still hurt like hell to receive the nobles' demands, while at the same time, in the jungles, the princess was rebuffing every chance given her to acquiesce to those same demands. Rial made a demand in response, but it hurt more than it helped. He did everything he could, down to giving potential solutions that the princess would hate, but in the end, everything came down to the princess herself (even if afterward, she would never admit to needing rescuing).

Life took its time returning to normal, after that. Or as close to normal as things come for Plourr and Rial, anyway (it includes purple crumple-horned snorkacks, thak races, and lots of charters, dinners, and politics). They were coronated and officially took the throne several months later.

These days, her title is Empress Isplourrdacartha Imarco Estillo, but really.

Call her Plourr.

In mid-February '07, Plourr found out that she was pregnant. Nobody died. (Yet.) She had a baby in November '07; Princess Ianna Estillo-Pernon is small, redheaded, very loud, and charming the pants off of people wherever she goes.

Plourr comes into the Bar past the last bit of canon that ever mentions her, Mandatory Retirement. That means, you guessed it, we're in uncharted waters, folks.

Note on PB's:
Icons are of Plourr from the comics, as well as of Mariska Hargitay, Maureen O'Hara, and Eve Salvail. Her face looks most like Hargitay's, but she is definitely not a dead ringer for any of the real women.
fighting_mad: (long - head tilt)
The sun set hours ago. All day spent in meetings and treasury committee meetings and Plourr is in search of sustenance. She may not have much hope for her mind after today (and yesterday, but she is steadfastedly not thinking about yesterday), but her body has to go on, appetite or no appetite. Crouched in the kitchen, she digs around on the shelf, arm chilled by the artificial cold and hip chilled by the open appliance door resting against it.

"No," she mutters, setting down an ancient canister. "Not that. No. Frell. No."
fighting_mad: (special - hallway)
The private hall outside the royal apartments is quiet now; the warm, faded red walls and shining tile floors tell no secrets. The two guards dressed in charcoal and purple uniform, standing uneasily outside of the door, however, are a different story. For one thing, there only ought to be one of them. For another --

Lelian and Marama stand in close conference. His arms are crossed over his chest, and her hands are twisting in front of her. Every so often, one of them glances down the hall or starts to bring a commlink to his or her mouth, but one guard always halts the other. Neither of them has produced a weapon, but both look deeply troubled and out of their element.

"Do you think we should call--" asks anxious Marama for the fifteenth time, ginger hair piled high, but Lelian only shakes his head and begins to pace.
fighting_mad: (medium - mmmm)
Plourr rolls onto her back and stares up at the blue sky, shading her eyes with one hand. It's a warm day, a few wispy clouds scudding across the sky and the sun shining bright. The two thaks are quite happily tucking into their feed nearby, tethered to a fallen tree, and the tall blades of grass wave softly in the wind all through the field. Best yet, there's no sign of anyone else or any manmade object as far as the eye can see; just grass, thaks, forest, and sky. She closes her eyes and lets the sun warm her face.
fighting_mad: (medium - flat look)
Chin in her hands (both hands; it's a thing that she thinks bears repeating), Princess Isplourrdacartha Estillo glowers down at the open datapad and stack of rifled-through flimsi sheets on her desk. The night sky of Eiattu is beautiful behind her, stars glittering in the black sky, the outskirts of the city bright and cheerful, but Plourr is not bright or cheerful, nor is she glittery.

Absently sticking one hand through the holo representation of Eiattu IV revolving on the edge of her desk, its princess looks about as happy as the stuffy portraits of her stuffy ancestors hanging on the office walls.
fighting_mad: (long - looking down)
There isn't much to move from the temporary quarters the royal couple had been sharing. Just a few boxes, a few bags. It only took Rial and Plourr two trips. The servants could have easily done it, but Plourr doesn't mind the work; it's only a few hours that she's been out of the infirmary, and she relishes in being able to do things for herself again.

She glances around to be sure that Rial isn't in the room--the warm, comfortable sitting room, decorated simply in creams and golds and yellows--and she eases herself down onto a box to catch her breath. He worries so when really, she's fine. Settling the sling more comfortably around her neck--a few more weeks, she reminds herself, only a few more weeks--her eyes fall on a box beside her foot. She leans forward and tugs it toward her, pulling open the flap.

Her smile flutters, quick and startled, as she sees what is inside; she carefully pulls out something lumpy and wrapped in linen and an old tunic (for purposes of camoflauge), and she peels back a corner of fabric and peers inside. Whatever she sees satisfies her, and she sets the small package on her knees.
fighting_mad: (medium - smug)
Plourr is thoroughly sick of floating in pink goo. There is bacta, she thinks, trapped in her sinuses. She's just thankful that she was unconscious for the first few days. As it is, after four days with nothing to do but float, heal, sleep, and stare at the tubes running in and out of herself, she is going out of her mind. Rial visits, though, and that helps make it bearable; he talks to her even if she can't hear a word she's saying. For the first few days, when she's in and out of consciousness, she only has one memory, of him laughing as he says something. When she's more with it, they carry on a few conversations, Rial with gestures and inaudible words, Plourr with a range of facial expressions that is fairly impressive considering that the breathing apparatus is covering most of her face.

Still, she is going mad with boredom. So when the tech appears and points upward, and she hears someone pulling the top off of the tank, she is kicking upward even before she's told to.

A shower, a robe, some new bandages, and a whole lot of mouthwash later, she begins to feel halfway human again. She tests her body, her muscles, as the techs usher her around. Her arm is in a combination cast-sling--the cast is a noxious, horrible shade of bright green. somebody thinks they're really funny--and her right shoulder--which had had a low-set vibroblade taken to it--wrapped up in bandages. Her ribs are wrapped, too, and they're still aching; enough that she doesn't complain too much when the staff insist on the repulsorchair. Her knee is in a brace but she's not too concerned about that one; it's an old injury that tends to recur if she twists her knee. Her face, from what she can tell, is largely healed; they've taped up a few cuts on her fast left by shrapnel or nobles' rings and the majority of the swelling and bruising has gone down, leaving her eyes bright and clear.

When she's ushered into the hall outside the private medbay room, Plourr talks the tech into letting her get out of the chair and take the last few steps by herself.

"A few hours, Princess," the tech reminds her, removing the chair. "Then you've got to go back in."

"Yeah, yeah," she says impatiently, and--with one hand on the doorway for balance--she steps through the door.
fighting_mad: (any - plourr hates you)
The floor is cold and dirty and she cradles her arm close, trying to raise herself up on her knees and her good elbow. A boot hits her in the ribs and something cracks; she’s sent sprawling again, crying out as she lands on her arm.

“Get up,” hisses Baron Aronnse, and she hears his footsteps as he crosses the room to her. She’s already trying, moving weakly, and she’s on her knees when he slaps her hard across the face, with enough strength to knock her down. “Get up!” He grabs her upper arm and hauls her almost to her feet and she hardly recognizes her own voice in the high-pitched noise that she makes, her vision wavering at the edges.

He holds her there, not quite standing, and he laughs and bats her hand away as she scrabbles at him for purchase. “See here, boys? Not so t—”

She has his blaster from its holster before he even realizes it.

His eyes widen. Plourr’s are narrow in a bloody face. She pulls the trigger.

Aronnse stumbles back with a gut wound, and she puts a green bolt between his eyes for good measure. Her arm rises and she shoots and three guards, three men who spent hours, days causing her pain, are down. A fourth rushes at her from behind and she shoves her elbow into his solar plexus. Doubled over, he is easy to hurl headfirst into a wall.

Plourr Ilo is hurt. She is battered and beaten and bloody and she stumbles rather than walks, sways drunkenly when standing still; she stays up due to sheer force of will. But she is a big woman. She is well-trained. And she is very, very angry.

The final noble -- oh, and she remembers this one, remembers the look on his face when he set the vibroblade on a low setting -- blanches and steps backward, reaching for his forcepike. Plourr takes two unsteady steps forward, the floor cold on her bare feet, and her fist makes hard contact with his face with a meaty sound. The pain that flares in her hand is blinding but it's worth it, Sith, it's worth it to see him crumple. She kills him. It's merciless and quick and not at all what he deserves, but there's no time to do more than put a bolt in his throat.

Plourr looks around, searching for movement, but there is none among the men sprawled across the floor, not even any death twitches. She leans against the nearest wall a moment, closing her eyes and breathing shallowly, each breath stabbing at her ribs. But she has places to go, people to see. She won't allow herself to rest; doesn't trust that she'll be able to keep going if she does. A man's tunic makes a makeshift sling for her broken arm and she gathers up a few blasters and holsters, giving a vibroblade a long look before tucking it into her waistband.

She glances over the windowless room one last time, with its unfinished floor, the chair lying on its side in a corner, the bodies splayed across the ground, and then she steps to the door and moves out.
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