#txrkin

Closed with @txrkin

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It was always so cold on the surface. It would have seemed cliche even to him, given it was high summer and sweltering for the natives of the region, but Soris was freezing, curled up in the corner of the room he'd been summoned into. The room that had very quickly been sealed when that summoner realized this was not the demon he'd ordered.

Thankfully this didn't happen often. Soris wasn't even a proper demon, not really, and imps didn't tend to get a lot of attention from really anyone. Even their own bosses tended to simply order them around, names given mostly out of necessity to keep their rank and file organized. He'd been plucked up before, once every millennium or so, and usually he was allowed to pop back down just as fast.

This was not a usual case, however.

For one thing the summoner was enough of an idiot not to let him explain himself and simply ran off, afraid he'd skin him or eat him or whatever he thought the five foot tall welp of a thing could manage. But while the bastard was incompetent enough to pick the wrong demon, he was competent enough to make sure whatever he brought up wasn't leaving without permission. Or negotiation.

Grand Moff Tarkin in full regalia, smirking at someone wearing a white cape.  ( This is “Van Tarking”, really )

”The evening had just become a little less boring…”

"Oooh hello hottie. Want a smoothie?"

Once lit, Wilhuff took a long, slow drawl of his cigarette, holding in the smoke for a lingering contemplative moment, icy eyes slipping closed, before exhaling heavily in a puff of grey-white.

He turned his attention to the other man. “Thank you. That was very much appreciated.”

        He shrugged off the thanks, still sheltering the light of his own cigarette from the rain-spattered wind that reached them even here in the doorway. 

Arliss and Cynthia “who can be the biggest asshole” contest 

He was pushing her to her limits. His most promising cadet, Tarkin had seen something in the young Phasma, but whether he meant to bring it out or crush it under his heel was up for debate. She’d been training against her entire outfit, every Trooper-to-be throwing themselves at her with everything they had. He’d left at some point, only to return hours later to find Phasma still on her feet, panting, bleeding from a deep gouge across her lip, grimacing with blood-stained teeth as yet another young  cadet threw fists.

It wasn’t until exhaustion made her slow, unable to dodge a hard blow to her skull, that she finally crumbled to her knees, icey, swollen eyes sliding over to Tarkin’s unreadable expression. But as her opponent advanced, Phasma snatched at him, throwing him off balance just enough to leverage her weight against him and with every aching last ounce of strength, hauled him to his back and straddled him to deliver one slow, merciless fist into his face again and again until Tarkin’s soft voice finally said “enough.”

She toppled off of her fellow cadet and onto her own back, the both of them bloody and swollen and gasping for breath like beached fish. Medical personnel carried both of them away as Tarkin explained the lesson he meant to teach the troopers through such a barbaric display, but neither Phasma or the other cadet were conscious enough to hear it.