Plourr Estillo (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fighting_mad) wrote2007-10-04 03:23 am
fighting_mad) wrote2007-10-04 03:23 am
[OOM] Eiattu - Royal Bedchambers
Plourr is in bed. That's where she is all the damn time now, besides regular trips to the 'fresher and the occasional excursion to the living room sofa. She is, as one might imagine, not well pleased.
But she feels uncomfortable; 'enormous' and 'ungainly' are two other words that immediately spring to mind, along with 'like shit.' It's reached the point where she feels better (for a given value of 'better') keeping her feet up than she does moving around, so in all honesty, she wouldn't exactly be running any marathons even if she hadn't been ordered to bed by the little old royal doctor.
That doesn't mean that she is any less cranky about the entire situation, though.
There is a stack of datacards and a reader in the bed beside her, along with a small holoprojector and another stack, this one of holos. A small stuffed bantha also sits on the Plourr-free side of the bed, a blue tie pinned to just above its mouth, the tie looking suspiciously like a set of droopy blue mustachios.
The bedroom is large and spacious, styled in golds and creams and yellows with a high ceiling, and manages to appear rich even with the simple decor, much like the rest of the apartment. There isn't much in the room; neither Plourr nor Rial are ones for clutter, besides the items in the bed. Two wardrobes, two closets, a dresser with a mirror over it, a (closed) door to the 'fresher, and the enormous four-poster bed, the bedcurtains tied back. There are a few holos scattered here and there--a group of Rogue Squadron pilots (including a bald Plourr) in orange flightsuits caught mid-laugh, one or two shots of Plourr and Rial together (and not a one of them is a proper, posed still-holo)--but few knicknacks. A painting, carried out by a hand skilled in oils, of the palace in summer.
The balcony doors are open. It is a beautiful day outside, the warm, thick air curling in through the doorway, the white roofs of the capital city laid out below the palace walls and the blue-green sea--dotted with repulsorcraft--stretching as far as the eye can see beyond.
Plourr sits in the bed, propped up by exhorbitant amounts of pillows, reading from the datapad resting on her stomach. She looks good. Very pregnant and almost as bored, but healthy, red hair loose about her face and her attention on her reading. She spends a lot of time reading. And informing the baby that if she doesn't quit rolling around and kicking her and causing her pain, things are going to go Very Badly for her.
Chances are excellent that the baby recognizes this for the empty threat that it is, because it has yet to dissuade her from driving Plourr out of her mind.
If you aren't Plourr's (admittedly well-meaning) mother- or father-in-law, chances are excellent that she is going to be thrilled to see you.
But she feels uncomfortable; 'enormous' and 'ungainly' are two other words that immediately spring to mind, along with 'like shit.' It's reached the point where she feels better (for a given value of 'better') keeping her feet up than she does moving around, so in all honesty, she wouldn't exactly be running any marathons even if she hadn't been ordered to bed by the little old royal doctor.
That doesn't mean that she is any less cranky about the entire situation, though.
There is a stack of datacards and a reader in the bed beside her, along with a small holoprojector and another stack, this one of holos. A small stuffed bantha also sits on the Plourr-free side of the bed, a blue tie pinned to just above its mouth, the tie looking suspiciously like a set of droopy blue mustachios.
The bedroom is large and spacious, styled in golds and creams and yellows with a high ceiling, and manages to appear rich even with the simple decor, much like the rest of the apartment. There isn't much in the room; neither Plourr nor Rial are ones for clutter, besides the items in the bed. Two wardrobes, two closets, a dresser with a mirror over it, a (closed) door to the 'fresher, and the enormous four-poster bed, the bedcurtains tied back. There are a few holos scattered here and there--a group of Rogue Squadron pilots (including a bald Plourr) in orange flightsuits caught mid-laugh, one or two shots of Plourr and Rial together (and not a one of them is a proper, posed still-holo)--but few knicknacks. A painting, carried out by a hand skilled in oils, of the palace in summer.
The balcony doors are open. It is a beautiful day outside, the warm, thick air curling in through the doorway, the white roofs of the capital city laid out below the palace walls and the blue-green sea--dotted with repulsorcraft--stretching as far as the eye can see beyond.
Plourr sits in the bed, propped up by exhorbitant amounts of pillows, reading from the datapad resting on her stomach. She looks good. Very pregnant and almost as bored, but healthy, red hair loose about her face and her attention on her reading. She spends a lot of time reading. And informing the baby that if she doesn't quit rolling around and kicking her and causing her pain, things are going to go Very Badly for her.
Chances are excellent that the baby recognizes this for the empty threat that it is, because it has yet to dissuade her from driving Plourr out of her mind.
If you aren't Plourr's (admittedly well-meaning) mother- or father-in-law, chances are excellent that she is going to be thrilled to see you.
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"No," she says, her pointed sour glare fading. "But you're working on that. Clearing the Reds out of your city, one platoon at a time."
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Remember your audience, Makita.
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"Makita," says Plourr. "Look at who this girl's mother is."
She says the dreaded 'm' word without so much as a hitch. Such is progress.
"There won't be any questions if she starts making things explode."
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Then she leans back, "So, really, how's it going?"
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"Sucks," she says frankly, after a moment. She laces her hands over her stomach. "It's almost to the point where I just want the kid out."
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Makita's real bad at this sympathy thing. Who'da thunk?
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Pregnant? Yes. Weak? Hell no.
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This is the point where Plourr would ordinarily give her a hand up. However, she doesn't want to expend the massive amount of effort necessary to get out of bed.
In lieu of the hand up, she says, "Come on, get up, I didn't push you that hard." A moment's pause, and back to the original topic: "I didn't ask for this. Hell, I didn't even want this."
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Her pause isn't incredibly long, but it's noticeable.
"I was trying to make the point that, because I didn't plan for it, getting knocked up wasn't my fault." She shakes her head, hair falling into her face with the movement. "But that's shavit; it was my own damn fault. Don't know who else I could blame for it, really. 'Sides Rial."
She studies the hat for a moment, lost in thought, pressing her thumb against the five points of the red star, before looking up again.
"I'm not great company right now, Makita."
It's honest, quiet; rare unspoken apology.
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She draws back and musses Makita's hair roughly, affectionately.
"Company," she says, "that's about to teach you the best thing you ever learned. You know how to play sabacc?"
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The games go on for some time. Plourr is a good, if impatient, teacher, and Makita a quick study. Rial gets called in and promptly sucked into the game when the need for a third player arises, and before long, the room is ringing with laughter and cheerful arguing and accusations of cheating.
Gror the mustachioed bantha solemnly watches all, his new oversized fur hat nearly sliding over his black bead eyes.