fighting_mad: (long - kind of sad)
"There's been an incident," Count Hilunda had said quietly after interrupting the meeting, and the bottom of Plourr's stomach had dropped out. She'd excused herself and ducked out into the hallway with her aide, but Hilunda had tossed a meaningful look at Aurelia and Rher, and Plourr had walked down the hall with him, away from the guards.

They stand there, conferring in low, serious tones.
fighting_mad: (medium - two-faced)
War, Plourr decided, was worse when you weren't doing any of the fighting yourself.

Every day, she received a briefing on 'the situation,' and every day, it was worse.

Nental was bad enough; she and Rial spent days there after the fighting ended, appearing, meeting with city leaders, rebuilding. Plourr spent a morning sifting through the rubble alongside volunteers. Her aides scheduled it as a public relations stop but she felt better than she had for days during those couple of hours spent hefting rocks, sorting debris, carrying wounded. She'd always felt better when there was something to do with her hands. But there was too much to be accomplished globally; she couldn't stay and focus on one city.

The royal couple made more than one stop like that as time went by.

The Priamsta kept attacking and the guard kept fighting back, and intelligence kept failing to infiltrate, to follow to map to do anything useful. The nobles shouldn't have been able to vanish like ghosts, but they did. The people stuck by the crown, which surprised her until Rial pointed out that they were sticking by her. They trusted her, for whatever Sithforsaken reason, and they were sure she'd find a way out of it all. She built up the guard, inspected the Royal Navy, beefed up defenses wherever she thought they could be improved. Kriff, she even called on the New Republic, though she got the exact response she'd suspected she would: apologies, Princess, but the New Republic simply cannot interfere in internal crises. The woman she spoke to said 'internal crisis,' but Plourr knew what she really meant: civil war.

The one thing she'd never expected to feel if she returned to take the throne was helpless.
fighting_mad: (long - concentrating)
Plourr was in the middle of an informal audience with the governor of one of the planet's largest provinces when the aide interrupted and murmured in her ear that something had happened. She told him to define 'something,' and he had said the magic word: the Priamsta. She excused herself from the audience and left her office (something the palace was still atwitter over; princesses didn't have offices), and that was when she'd been told that Nental, one of Eiattu's larger cities, was in the process of being attacked by a group thought to be led by the rebelling nobles.

They were smart; going after the governmental buildings, the royally-operated or loyalist-run businesses rather than the ordinary people. Wouldn't do to alienate the people they were trying to gain control over, after all.

"I want Zee Squadron moving at all possible speed to Nental for air support. Who's in charge of the city's Guard? I need him on the comm ten minutes ago," Plourr snaps, cape and outer tunic lying crumpled on a table, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. It's still chaotic in the impromptou war room but less so than when she'd first entered and started setting things to rights.

She talks over the general buzz of voices, moving quickly from terminal to terminal and person to person, answering questions without hesitation and often in the middle of other sentences. "Someone tie in to the--yes, do that--to the newsfeeds; see what they're reporting, if we're not getting through on the official channels."

She bends over a terminal alongside a low level tech, named Zhaleian if she's remembering correctly at all, and he brings up a holo of a local reporter, standing on what looks to be a building roof. The dull whine-whump of heavy blaster and cannon bolts can be heard, and occasionally flash in the distance over the female reporter's head. Plourr watches and listens, her face tight and well under control, but furious.
fighting_mad: (medium - upset)
The guards know better than to say one single word when high heels click outside the apartment door and the princess enters, red-eyed and pale with fury. It would be dangerous enough to say something ordinarily, and her temper has been even more unpredictable than usual for the past day or two. The two of them respectfully avert their eyes as she walks through the living quarters and into the bedroom.

Rial is asleep on top of the covers, and Plourr trips over to the bed and flops down, curling up with him, tangling her legs in his (and possibly not taking enough care with her sharp heels) and burying her face in his neck.

It would be an awesomely dedicated sleeper who could sleep through the way she's holding onto him.
fighting_mad: (any - asleep)
The secure apartments aren't bad, per se. They're just small. Plourr gets an idea of stark white and mismatched furnishings, but everything is blurry by the time she enters through the cordon of security measures and guards in the living area, so she could be wrong.

The bed is small and the sheets are scratchy, but she is beyond the point of caring. She collapses onto it, pulling a chrono toward herself and setting an alarm, and then she shuts her eyes. She is vaguely aware of small hands tugging off her boots (she lamely kicks at the hands, but they won't go away) and pulling the heavy coverlet up over her, and then

she sleeps like the dead.

Four hours later, there is a princess holding court in the lower level apartments' living area. Her court is made up of the four guards whose job it is to watch over the quarters; she likes them, but wishes that they could be stationed out in the corridor to allow for more privacy. However, when the aim is to keep their whereabouts quiet, it's not a good idea to have uniformed guards standing outside the door. So she's making the best of it, perched on a kitchen chair and listening intently to Lelian, Sy, and Aurelia, occasionally asking a shrewd question of them.


Aug. 31st, 2006 04:16 pm
fighting_mad: (long - melancholy)
Resigning her commission is surprisingly easy. A quick conversation with the captain and a handshake and she's gone.
Your faith was strong but you needed proof
It doesn't hurt to leave her X-wing nearly as much as she thought it would. It doesn't hurt at all, not even when she's running her fingers over the hard-earned kill silhouettes that will be painted over, not even when she hauls herself up into the cockpit to remove the couple of personal items that she always kept there.
You saw her bathing on the roof
To be fair, nothing hurts right now.
Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you.
She doesn't say goodbye to anyone. She's just another former Rogue, following Elscol, Dllr, Herian, Ibtisam, Nrin, Xarcee, Feylis, vanishing silently into the night just like the rest of them. Like the Darklighters and the Porkins and the Rendars and the Docs who came and went before her time.
She tied you to a kitchen chair,
She doesn't look back. Not once. Not walking out of the fighter landing bay, not in the shuttle leaving the Mon Redonda, not even once she has booked passage and is on a rattly old Stalwart-class light freighter bound for Eiattu.
She broke your throne, she cut your hair,
When the ship captain asks in the Alassar Major spaceport, she says the second alias that comes to mind. She thinks Hobbie would be horrified if he knew she gave her name as Klivian. Hell, maybe he'd laugh. She doesn't know.
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah.
She wants to say Pernon, but she knows better than that.
Hallelujah, Hallelujah.
The bored customs official spells it wrong. Thou Klivan doesn't correct him. She just slips him a few credits so that he won't need to see her identification.
Maybe I've been here before,
I know this room, I've walked this floor.

It takes three days to reach Eiattu, not four.
I used to live alone before I knew you
The nobles have to know she's coming, have to be watching the Eiattu spaceports and passenger lists for her. If they weren't ready to make an attempt on her life, they wouldn't have acted.
I've seen your flag on the marble arch,
She wears a hooded cloak and she keeps to herself, away from the crew and four other passengers. She spends most of the voyage on the bunk that's too short for her, sleeping or watching the stars streak past.
love is not a victory march,

It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah.
The freighter sets down in Otomne. She rents a speeder and travels the four and a half hours west to the capital city.
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
It's sick how easily she gets into the palace without identifying herself. Bribe a guard here (he's going to lose his job), use a secret passage there, and she's in.
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
On her way through the lower levels of the palace, the servants' levels, she runs into young Hilunda first. He's a count who she's worked with a few times; he lacks political clout, but she approves of him. He seems to actually care about the people; a rarity among the nobles.
Remember when I moved in you?
Just the fact that he's in the palace at all is a good sign; it means that he didn't break ties with the government the way that the Priamsta stalwarts did. Though damned if she knows what he's doing in this level of the palace.
The holy dark was moving too
"Princess--" he starts, eyes wide, but she brushes right past him. He is forced to hurry after her to catch up.
And every breath we drew was hallelujah.
"Count Hilunda. I need an immediate update on what's happening; the damage done, who was killed," and her voice doesn't hesitate or pause, not even on that, "and the demands of the Priamsta. Then I want a way to get a message to them, and when I say 'then,' I mean now."
Maybe there's a God above
"Princess, maybe you wish to speak t--"
And all I ever learned from love
"Princess!" Malia, her maid, dashes down the hall, hair flying behind her and her simple dress rumpled as if hastily thrown on, and maybe that's a clue as to what Hilunda is doing in the servants' levels of the palace. "Princess, you d--" The girl gets one look at the princess's face. "You don't know," she breathes. "Please, come." She grabs her princess's hand and tugs insistently.
Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you
She shakes her head. "I don't have time f--"
It's not a cry you can hear at night
"No, no, you need to come now," says Malia, and Isplourrdacartha is so stunned by the girl's interruption, by her uncharacteristic strength, that she lets the girl lead her away from Hilunda, up the stairs and down a corridor.
It's not somebody who's seen the light
After a few minutes, she starts, "Malia," but then there are voices in the corridor ahead, and they turn the corner.
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah
First, she sees a guard. One of her own. Then two more. Then a young baron and a layman advisor; two men who she would have expected to remain loyal to herself, and then, talking to them--
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

She has snapped. She has gone too long without sleep and her mind has just snapped.

fighting_mad: (medium - regret)
Plourr had been vocally against the official goodbye, informing the cabinet that she didn't want a committee at the spaceport to see her off, no matter how small. She's a strong-willed princess, but she lost this one. Mostly because of the lack of state reception when she had arrived.

And so there are a princess and a count quietly walking the corridor, Plourr in a flightsuit with her helmet tucked under her arm, Rial with Plourr's duffel bag thrown over his shoulder. Two uniformed guards move with them, one several meters ahead and one trailing behind. As they reach the end of the hall, Plourr waves the two women on, gesturing to the door leading to the garages. "Go ahead," she says. They do.

She looks to Rial, tightening her grip on the helmet. "This is probably the last chance we'll have to talk without fourteen courtiers and your father pretending they're not listening."
fighting_mad: (medium - eyeing)
When the X-wing sets down in Eiattu's capital's spaceport this time, it's alone. There's no fanfare; just the lone snubfighter tearing into the atmosphere, slowing at the last moment and settling down softly on repulsorlifts and landing gear. The seal on the canopy pops and the canopy itself lifts, and the pilot takes a deep breath and starts running an efficient post-flight checklist.

It's not long after that there's a princess stepping down from the fighter, onto the ferrocrete. The changes are subtle; the snubfighter has more kill markings, more dings and scraped paint. The princess has longer hair that she's running a hand through, a walk that might just be a touch more graceful. Of course, she's wearing the traditional orange flightsuit and combat boots and carrying a duffle bag over her shoulder, so there's not too much grace.
fighting_mad: (flygirl)
After deciding, it's only a few hours before Plourr finds herself striding across the hot duracrete, duffel bag slung over her shoulder and helmet tucked under her arm. The flightsuit is baggy and the same old eye-searing shade of orange, the white flak jacket stifling in the heat, her boots heavy, straps dangling and threatening to tangle her legs-- and she feels more comfortable than she has in a long time. She moves quickly, easily through the bustle, ducking Headhunter wings and fast-moving techs and pilots.

Once across the capital's tiny spacesport's airstrip, she shoves open the hatch on the lone X-wing, still painted with row upon row of fighter silhouettes and the Rogue red stripes, and she stuffs the duffel bag into the small storage compartment. Up above, settled into its place behind the canopy, her R2 unit tweets at her, its top spinning every which way, and Plourr has to smile for a second as she slams the compartment shut. "Yeah, Vapebait, we're going to fly." Vapebait squeals.

She has a sharp, one-sided conversation with a tech who's fueling the X-wing, and then she's gone, ducking under the nose of the snubfighter to shout for the pilots to gather up. She notes rather disapprovingly that it's not 30 seconds before the group of men and women in blue jumpsuits are standing in front of her; they're overeager, nervous. Very, very green.

"Alright. You've all got the coordinates for the jump, right?" Twelve heads nodding. "Recheck them, make sure you ordered them into your navcomputers right. Once we're out there, I don't anticipate too much trouble, but if we do run into any, you stay in your wingpairs, you watch out for each other, and above all--" She glares at them. "You don't do anything stupid. Got that?" She receives more nods and quiet assents. "Force be with you. We fly in a few," she says curtly, and she turns on her heel and walks away, helmet dangling from her hand.

Plourr hears them talking once again behind her; wishing each other luck, saying their goodbyes to techs and a family member or two who were allowed on the airstrip. She looks around as she makes her way back to her X-wing, awkwardly carrying the helmet and trying to roll her flightsuit sleeves up to her elbows around it.
fighting_mad: (short - butchy mcfab)
Diplomatic receptions are highly necessary, especially for Eiattu. The planet spent years under the yoke of Imperial control, and now its neighbors are cautiously testing the mettle of its new princess and her husband. Plourr knows this.

Of course, the necessity doesn't stop them from being unbelievably dull.

You'd think an event that lasted this far into the night would at least be interesting. Sadly, however, it was not, and Plourr is now sitting in a (to be specific, Rial's) ground-floor private office, still in full royal regalia with her shoes kicked off. She has her bare feet up on the desk and a much-needed bottle of lum in hand.
fighting_mad: (special - wedding closeup)
The city is bustling, buzzing with excitement and happy voices and visitors. The palace is even more busy, stuffed to bursting with distinguished visitors and distant relatives and staff scurrying about. The Great Hall is bright with flags and ribbon streamers and rows upon rows of seats.

You would think it might be difficult to miss a six-foot-tall princess in a wedding dress in all that, but Plourr has managed to escape the maids, the bodyguards, the well-wishers, the soon-to-be mother-in-law. She is sitting in a little-used back stairway. It leads down to a small kitchen that is gathering dust now that the kitchens are staffed by 'droids; it's one of her favorite hiding places.

Of course, she isn't doing a very good job of hiding right now; the wedding dress sees to that. The bride herself has one muscled, bare shoulder pressed against the wall, a single pale yellow flower tucked behind her ear. Plourr had lost on the dress, but won on the no-veil; auburn hair is cropped close to her head, as always. She has been poufed, primped, perfumed, and made up to the nines, and now all there is to do now is wait.

A full, small silver flask dangles from her fingers (with polished fingernails). She waits.

Plourr hates waiting.
fighting_mad: (stubble - smile)
Plourr hums quietly under her breath, pulling the bit out of her thak's mouth and the bridle from her face, rubbing her forelock. The thak noses her princess with her big head, and Plourr smiles and pulls the pieces of bluefruit she's been saving since breakfast from her jumpsuit pocket and feeds them to her. The stableboys could handle grooming for her, but she'd rather do it herself. Besides, the stable is nice; it's quiet and smells like hay and thak-feed, and the stablehands leave her alone when she comes in to take early-morning rides.

As Koer happily eats, Plourr starts the process of unsaddling her.
fighting_mad: (stubble - combat baby)
It's the middle of summer on Eiattu, but it has been one of the rainiest months in the planet's history. The cavernous royal chambers are damp and drafty, and there is a decidedly grumpy princess sitting at a desk in the inner living area (the smaller, less formal one). She is surrounded by beautiful things; rich tapestries, a few paintings, sleek furniture with smooth lines, everything in warm shades of gold and cream and yellow. The glowlamps are turned down low, besides the one burning brightly on the desk, and she is adrift in a studious sea of datapads and flimsi scraps, bare feet planted firmly on the floor.

Of course, it would be a much more elegant scene if the aforementioned princess wasn't wrapped up in a huge comforter, her head in her hand. And if she weren't sneezing, blowing her nose, swearing, and occasionally flinging styluses in abject misery.
fighting_mad: (medium - hell hath no fury)
Princess Isplourrdacartha Estillo is in a Mood.

She has been pressed into wearing a dress. This is bad enough in and of itself, but the green gown has a train that she keeps nearly tripping on, and also involved are: makeup, earrings, high-heeled shoes, and some sort of weird styling substance in her short hair. She looks beautiful; she feels a fool.

Train gathered up in one hand, she stalks through the palace, two members of her Guard following at a safe distance. She hardly notices the startled palace staff and assorted courtiers that she passes as she makes her way down several levels, toward the Great Hall. She was already annoyed enough to have to take time out of a very busy schedule for a formal supper with assorted nobles and high muckety-mucks, and this evening seems to be intent on raising her blood pressure by the second.

She veers from her path; throws open a set of old-fashioned wooden doors and steps out onto the small balcony, into the heavy Eiattu night air. She whirls back and barks, "Come out here and I'll vape you!" at her bodyguards.

She doesn't have a blaster--can't fit even a holdout anywhere under this kriffing clingy thing-- but they don't know that. The man and woman glance at each other, then hurriedly close the balcony doors to wait in the corridor inside.

Plourr leans on the railing, looking at the bright lights of Eiattu's bustling capital city through the low-hanging leaves of a courant tree, and she grits her teeth.
fighting_mad: (bald - white)
Plourr likes this small section of the palace roof. It's quiet, for one thing, and it's flat which means that walking on it isn't too dangerous, but most importantly, she's never seen another soul up here. Solitude's getting hard to come by.

She slips off her shoes and makes her way past the glass of one of the Grand Hall's skylights, bare feet contrasting sharply with the formality of her clothes. She sets the shoes down and sits at the edge of the roof, letting her feet swing out into space. The courtyard is far, far below, but Plourr is a pilot; heights have never bothered her. She watches the capital city spread out before her. Her city. It's looking better; after nearly a month of work, it's becoming difficult to see signs of the fighting that had taken place. Most buildings have been rebuilt, the streets cleaned up, debris removed.

Still, Eiattu is not entirely healed. Plourr knows that.

She sits quietly, leaning back on her hands, and watches the sun set over the city and the jungle beyond.

[OOM] War

Jun. 18th, 2006 09:42 pm
fighting_mad: (grin)
Thaks are ugly creatures by anyone's aesthetic standards, big and scaly with long necks, four webbed feet, long tails, and sharp teeth. They smell and are grumpy and tend to have tempers.

Plourr loves them.

The wind flies in her face and clouds scud across the blueblue sky overhead, and she grins fiercely, staying in the saddle as her thak leaps a fallen log. She gives a wild shout of delight, finally reining the creature in to give Rial the chance to catch up.

She is surprised to look back and see him just behind. "You ride well, my count! Not many can keep up with me when I get going!" she calls.

[All dialogue from Lucasfilm's and Dark Horse Comics' Star Wars: Rogue Squadron: The Warrior Princess.]
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