#genitrice

obi - wan is tending to the eopies when he hears the approaching landspeeder.    wary eyes lift to track it as the vehicle draws nearer and nearer until at last,   he can make out the three figures journeying toward him.    just before it comes to an abrupt halt at the bottom of the hill,   realization strikes.    padmé.    her force signature is almost as familiar to him as anakin’s had once been,   in a sense.

if his voice wavers when he calls out to her,   it is at the thought of how she had asked him to stay with her,   and his subsequent refusal.    he hadn’t been able to bear the thought of failing anyone else.    only after he’d come to tatooine had he realized that he had,   in fact,   failed her anyway in leaving her.    

i failed everyone.    do you have any idea how many people paid for that?    do you have any idea how many people are paying for that right now? 

transmission,   @genitrice​   :   do u take on other creatures besides zombies asking 4 a friend

        ❛❛  You  think  I’m  out  here  trying  to  change  the  world  ❜❜  gruff  voice  melted  into  the  dingy  darkness  of  the  room,  head  cocking  while  a  wry  smirk  threatened  at  his  lips. 

         He,  always  a  creature  lurking  in  the  shadows,  looked  to  her  under  pale  hooded  eyes,  as  the  only  light  that  eked  out  its  existence  here  fell  across  her  like  a  heavenly  shard.  It  was  poetic  enough  to  make  the  man  sick. 

        ❛❛  But  I  don’t  care  what  happens  to  it.  I  just  want  to  watch  it  burn  ❜❜ 

“do  you  ever  find  you  miss  naboo,  my  lady?”  question is  stated  softly,  almost  carefully  as  slender  fingers  work  over  𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒕𝒉 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒈𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒏  until  rich  garment  lays  perfectly  over  padme’s  slim  form.  politics,  dorme  has  come  to  learn  very  swiftly,  is  as  much  about  presentation  and  appearance  as  much  as  any  clarity  of  prose  or  impassioned  plea. 

in  turn,  senator  amidala  must  look  as  graceful  &  powerful  as  dorme  knows  her  to  be,  𝑨 𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹𝑴 𝑪𝑳𝑨𝑫 𝑰𝑵 𝑺𝑰𝑳𝑲.  

“i  find  i....miss it  more  than  i  might  have  thought,”  words  come  as  a  quiet  confession,  sharp  features  thoughtful  as  she  steps  back  to  admire  her  work,  bright  gaze  scanning  for  any  hint  of  disarray,  “naboo  was  never  without  its  own  politics,  but  at  least  we  knew  that  near  all  acted  in  desire  to  see  it  bettered,  regardless  of  disagreement  or  differing  course  of  action, but-”  dorme  pauses,  brow  furrowed,  “we  are  fortunate  to  have  you  𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒖𝒔,  my  lady,  that  is  all  i  mean.”