J'eeta Feevah

[Gantuhar]

He sat by himself, in a bubbly tub. His features pinched into a feline sneer as he stared at the ceiling. A mosaic of some Cizerack deity stared down at him, bow lifted and arrow loosed. All around him danced tiny cherubic females, their hands outstretched to him and the impressive woman holding him tightly. Each colored stone was vibrant and bright, made even moreso by the shifting water of the tubs below.

Some of those tubs were occupied by couples enjoying more than just a bath. Grunts and muffled words of ecstasy surrounded him. Whispered cries to the gods before a long moan of pleasure. It all fell on his deaf ears.

Gantuhar was not interested in those things. He was not interested in such pleasures.

His pleasures were taken directly from the water itself, and the simple glass of Hamesi root tea. The j'eeta was nice, calming and enjoyable. It dulled his otherwise quietly roiling manic behavior, turning him into a purring, mumbling creature. Both arms were wide, resting along the top edge of the tub he sat in. Head back, the Trianii kept wide eyes on the mosaic above.

"This one wishes all... a wondrous time," he murmured to the ceiling, lips pulling back in a wide smile to no one in particular.

[Abarai Loki]

It wasn’t fair. Behind the bar, deep within a sanctuary of long reaching palm leaves and flowing ivory drapes, Loki inflicted his anger upon the glassware. Delicate flutes, lofty tumblers, stout rocks, hearty snifters, and the daintiest cups of bone china, they all met the silver trays like they were hammering nails. The barkeep’s disapproval was deflected with a look that bordered on murderous. In short order, the trays were full, and, with one in hand, he sailed through the swishing veils into the perfumed fog beyond.

It was an outrage. On sandalled feet, he negotiated a well-trodden path that snaked between the seething pools and slithering bodies. He stopped at intervals, stooping as best he could, without resorting to indecency, in a pair of shorts that were anatomically belligerent. He’d worn larger utility belts, and every step was a battle to prevent the fabric from making unsavoury advances between his buttocks. As if that wasn’t enough, he was expected to smile, and grovel, and kowtow while he handed out drinks like some common waiter.

He was a masseuse, and a fine one at that. Or, at least, that was his impression before the Madame pulled him away from his usual station to dish out drinks at an orgy. Some nonsense about Kitthaarro coming down with a case of jirra’rou flu – if indeed there was such a thing. And the sights he saw! In the past, the occasional lustful moan drifted into his massage den, just enough to stoke the fires of a healthy imagination, but now, those fires blazed on the verge of inferno. He could ill afford to lose his head, with hunger and homelessness a pay check away, so he maintained an air of cool professionalism at all times, and, at every stolen opportunity, he beat it like it owed him credits.

On the last stop of his journey, he encountered a Trianii caught up in some sort of j’eeta-induced rapture, mumbling gibberish to any with ears to listen. In greeting, he bowed low, and deposited a fresh glass of tea on the edge of the pool.

“A thousand thanks, my friend,” he said in response, trying his best not to sound dangerous, “May the warmth of Saanjarra smile down on you and your something-or-other. Here’s your tea.”

[Gantuhar]

"Ah, Saanjarra," the mumbling shifted to that delightful Cizerack deity. His replenished drink was somewhat ignored as glassy eyes drifted to the young pup of a human.

"The sweetest of lips, This One will never taste again," he finished with a rumbled chuckle. "She is a nefarious one though, will steal a heart whenever she can. The beautiful ones always do though."

A moment passed before he marginally focused on the boy. His gaze went from head to toe, then back up. Not exactly who he was expecting, he'd hoped that the wondrous creature from the day before would serve him now. Letting out a somewhat disappointing henh, his lips halfway pulled back over one side of his muzzle in a strange approximation of a smile.

"This One thinks that you're too young to be working here. Not as pretty as the ladies, either, This One has to admit."

[Abarai Loki]

When the half-baked Trianii started regurgitating poetry, Loki wilted. It was his own fault for mentioning Saanjarra, he supposed, which in turn provoked some sort of artistic gag reflex. Deep inside his blissful reverie, the Trianii mulled over concepts of romance and beauty with all of the vacant grace of a penniless street performer. And he was about to leave him be, to wallow in his own saccharine thoughts, when his age became the next topic of conversation. He stiffened, and turned to regard the sopping wet fool with renewed caution.

"This One is glad you do not sign the pay checks, then." He managed a fraction of a bow, "Will there be anything else, friend?"

[Gantuhar]

At that, Gantuhar burst into a great, rolling laugh that began in his gut, reverberating up to leave lips that had been pulled back in a wide, open-mouthed and toothy smile.

"If This One had the credits to sign your check, Little Bird, then he would certainly still found himself wrapped happily in the arms of the Imperial Princess herself. Such soft, sweet skin," his voice fell to a rumble then, eyes closing at some memory. His body sagged into the pool just a little bit more, unkempt fur untangling itself in the waters.

"Little Bird, come. Sit with Gantuhar. Many beings ignore This One, and company in any form is always preferred."

[Abarai Loki]

The invitation came as a surprise. And Loki, rigid from the indignation of being called 'Little Bird,' retreated an awkward step. Then, he considered the Trianii's proposal. His gaze drifted across the expanse of busy pools, to the even busier bar, where his co-workers bustled about with trays. It was monotonous work, unworthy of his gifted hands. Let them bustle, he thought.

"My name is Wex," he said, deciding to nip the nickname in the bud, "I am pleased to meet you, Gantuhar."

Of course, he was not pleased to meet Gantuhar. He was strange and spoke nonsense, but Loki had met his fair share of oddballs in the past, enough to know that it was the little white lies that made the experience palatable. And, if this particular weirdo was going to insist he join him, and set aside his regular duties, who was he to argue? He pulled up a chair beside the pool and sat.

"Tell me more about this... Imperial Princess of yours."

[Gantuhar]

The Trianii gave an incredulous look to the chair, waving his free hand dismissively.

"No no, Little Bird, you must sit with This One. Here," his waving hand moved down to pat the water's surface with all the softness of Hutt poetry. "... in the water."

There was something to be said about sharing stories while submerged in such warm embrace. It was not to be squandered.

"This One is always happy for company, and for company to be just as comfortable. Come in, and This One will tell you of his Imperial Princess."

[Abarai Loki]

Gantuhar's next request had Loki troubled. He stared at the spot where his big paw vanished, and followed the ripples in the murky water to the edges of the pool. It was a small act of rebellion, to sit and indulge idle chatter with a patron, but to actually take a dip in the aromatic waters demanded a whole new level of commitment. Yes, he was angry, but he also needed a job. With a bracing breath, he considered how to word his refusal, and at the same time, drank in a banquet of fresh aromas that tingled his nostrils. If he was angry, a pleasant bath would do him the world of good. A cautious glance back across the room. The Madame was nowhere to be seen. After all, it would only be for a few minutes. And it wasn't like he could otherwise afford such luxury.

He stood, ready, when an idea occurred to him, "I will join you, Gantuhar, if you stop calling me Little Bird."

[Gantuhar]

"Ah," the crafty glint of madness shone in his eye, as he found the request rather interesting. Most interesting. The acceptance that was conditional was mysterious, and the Trianii gave a silly expression to accompany his next words.

"Then what shall This One call you? Wex is a name many have, including one who This One spent much time with at the End of the Stars." He ran a clawtip over the water, effortlessly puncturing the surface and swirling a finger about the myriad of herbs that danced across the top like Naboo ballerinas telling a story with their bodies. Or, like the crush of beings that constantly surrounded him at Star's End. The memory of Myoka Wex darkened his features then, as he went on.

"Such a depressing old one. Spoke of tears and sorrow and pain, and was a rather boring man. This One wishes not to think of such things."

The crooked half-smile returned as the thought of those old times were banished for now.

"This One has much joy in his chest, and a desire to share wonderful words of good memories."

[Abarai Loki]

"The end of the stars..." Loki repeated, mystified.

Too often, in the past, he had disregarded another Trianii called Kazahan as somewhat touched by madness. It had been an unfair appraisal. Even so, there were times, following their illuminating trip to Brochiib, when the curious padawan had renewed bouts of... peculiarity. And it seemed that, where Kazahan was occasionally visited by madness, in Gantuhar, madness had made a home. Loki tempered his pity, for the unfortunate wretch seemed happy enough. And he took some comfort in being able to make some fractured sense out of his unique word soup.

"My name is Wexley Wallis," he elaborated, sliding out of his sandals. "No-one calls me Wexley, but for you, I will make an exception. If it helps."

Before he removed his shirt, Loki turned gingerly on the spot, sweeping his gaze from left to right, like an alarmed Lurmen. The rest of the pool boys were attending patrons at the other end of the tea house, and the bartenders were far too busy to spare a glance his way. The Madame had been very specific in her instruction: he was not to parade around the tea house like some Iridonian cage-fighter. So the scars were kept hidden. And now, in his new state of toplessness, he felt unusually exposed - like the Madame herself was going to swoop down from the hazy ceiling and send him on his way. And therein, he felt a thrill of excitement.

The hateful shorts put up a stubborn fight, but once unburdened of them, Loki basked in the release, and the quiet but substantial joy of having genitals that could move once more. With his clothes set aside, he quickly lowered himself into the water, and found it was as hot as he had always hoped it would be. A sigh lifted out of him with the rest of the vapour, and he sank lower, closer to the unusual water. The smells became a symphony, and at once, he was transported back to Ossus, where he took shelter from the sun amongst the great looming kingswoods. After a moment, he remembered Gantuhar, and drifted back to their conversation with reluctance.

"So... this princess..."

[Gantuhar]

"Wexley... "

The word rolled around on his tongue in that way that made it seem a strange thing to say. It was an explored word, and Gantuhar said it once more.

"Wexxx-leeeee... "

The refilled Hamesi tea that he'd been given was nearly forgotten, were it not for the words spoken to remind him of the princess. His princess.

"Aahhh, Wexley. Wexley Wexley. The Imperial Princess, she was delicate, like the gentle rains of Alderaan that are no more," a sad shake of his head, and half-lidded eyes went to stare at his new tub-mate.

"This One met here on a planet that This One no longer remembers the name of. But the suns as they set, they made the most beautiful of colors in the sky. Her name... it was Iseria."

A large hand rose from the water then, to gesture at the rest of the patrons who milled about the tea house.

"Iseria was more beautiful than any creature in here. She was quiet and demure, and This One spent many moons clutching her close. She had once belonged to a wealthy Imperial general, but This One stole her love for himself. Her skin, smooth, black as the night, and her voice was as music... though... " a moment of thought, and Gantuhar frowned slightly. "... she could scream like a wailing nebula banshee if one knew where to touch her just right."

The Trianii let his head fall back then, letting out a sigh as his mind took him back in disjointed flashes.

"This One misses her. She took the breath away from so many men."

[Abarai Loki]

When Gantuhar confessed to having forgotten the name of the planet where he met this princess, Loki started to have doubts about the authenticity of his tale. Still, he listened. The Trianii's voice had a soothing timbre to it, and he spoke in such a colourful way that his story enriched the whole experience. The effect was lost for a moment, when Gantuhar alluded to his more elicit activities with the fair Iseria. The corners of his mouth ticked in amusement, summoning cherished memories of his encounter with the Twi'lek beauty, just days previous, in the massage parlour. Not that anything improper had occurred, of course, but from the experience, he'd learned of the intense satisfaction to be gained from making a woman moan with pleasure. But to scream like a wailing nebula banshee? That was the dream.

By the end of it, Loki set aside his doubts, for there was no mistaking the sincerity of emotion bleeding through the words. Idly, he drew a finger across the surface of the water, and watched ripples dance with rainbow colours. All the while, considering the answer to his next inevitable question.

"She sounds like a remarkable woman. What happened to her?"

[Gantuhar]

Head lolling back forward, Gantuhar slowly pushed away from his spot to drift into the middle of the pool. The long, uncombed strands of his fur seemed like wisps swirling in the water, and the Trianii allowed himself the liberty of inhaling deep, pulling the steam and all of its' aromatic blessedness into his nostrils. The j'eeta fired through his senses with a slow, methodical burn that soothed every muscle and tendon in his body.

"Ah, but This One's princess, she is no longer with us. She was taken away when This One was sent to the End of the Stars. This One watched as she was dismantled," downcast eyes focused on a floating bit of an herbal leaf, and lost for a moment, Gantuhar dipped his muzzle into the water, waiting a moment before blowing out a small stream of bubbles. A few seconds passed before he came back up for air, blinked slowly, and looked to Wexley.

"The Imperials... they removed her priming rods and lower receiver. They destroyed her in front of This One's very eyes."

[Abarai Loki]

"Mhm." Loki was sinking into the water like it was a warm bed. Somewhere, in the void of his departing thoughts, a single word protruded, bright and sharp. It hooked him like a fish. "Dismantled!?"

From his cradle of aromatic bath water, he gaped. Had he misheard? Perhaps he'd fallen asleep for a moment. That would make sense of... But no, Gantuhar continued. And, as he did, Loki could feel his face twisting with violent disbelief.

"Priming rods?" He winced to hear his voice echo around them, and proceeded in an undertone that sounded thoroughly scandalised, "Do you mean to tell me this princess of yours was some sort of... some sort of droid? You were intimate with a droid?"

Suddenly, he recalled how Gantuhar had boasted of making his princess scream, and the bewilderment gave way to nausea.

"What kind of a story is that? Seven hells!"

[Gantuhar]

It was his turn to stare now. One half of his upper lip twisted in a crooked approximation of incredulous reaction. One eye squinted even as the other remained open.

The still-dry fur covering his head seemed to poof just a little bit more at the thought of... of... goodness the thought. A low rumble in his chest, and the Trianii slowly rose to stand. His head, in contrast to the rest of his soaking body, seemed hugely over-sized for the spindly frame that now had wet clumps of fur clinging to it. He towered comically over Wexley.

"Iseria," his voice was a rasping sound, grating out from between his teeth, "... was not a droid. She was far more precious than that."

Sopping wet arms went wide, and his eyes tracked up to stare widely at the intricate mosaic that was the ceiling. His chest pushed out, heaving in some strange mimic of ecstasy.

"She was This One's slender, sleek death. She came from an Imperial, and was destroyed by Imperials. Only Gantuhar carries on her memory."

[Abarai Loki]

For a heart-stopping moment, when Gantuhar rose out of the water, Loki thought things were about to take a turn for the violent. What a way to be remembered: the boy who lost his job and/or limbs because he climbed into a bath with a Trianii. Mercifully, Gantuhar was not violent. Nor was he loud. He spoke of his strange and illusive princess in a sort of hushed reverence. And his words did precious little to shed light onto his peculiar love.

Loki followed his gaze, and took in the grand mosaic high overhead, as if, in looking, he could glean some sense from it. The archer, the woman, the cherubs. Was this a reflection of Gantuhar's relationship with... with whatever the princess was? Wait. The archer. Loki's eyes narrowed, half in thought, half in disbelief.

"Iseria... was... a weapon?"

[Gantuhar]

A long sigh, as if in the most tender of releases.

"This One loved her," slowly he sank back down into the murky water, swirling the herbal leaves and aromatic about as he let his body be swallowed once more. A silence, filled by the sounds of so many moans and grunts all about them. Gantuhar gave a dismissive wave of his paw to those that surrounded them, slinging drops of water all about.

"But it is not that sort of love, Wexxx-leeee. It is the true love that needs nothing but for one to pay attention and care. This One cared for Iseria for many, many turns. She was never, ever untrue."

And in a rare moment of lucidity, his eyes became sharp, and he fixed Wexley with an unflinching stare as his voice became a measure more steady and less of a rasping lilt.

"A DC-15A is a solid firearm, Son."

[Abarai Loki]

"It is indeed. A bit ungainly under sustained fire, mind, but if you tickle the trigger, it always hits home."

The words spilled out without thought. It was, after all, the first normal thing his big Trianii bathing partner had said since they met, and Loki latched onto it like a drowning man grasping for a helping hand. Maybe it was the fumes, and how they were starting to fog up his head, or maybe the water, and the way it made him feel inches away from sleep, but there, in the pool with Gantuhar, he felt... well, he couldn't remember when he last felt so relaxed. His guard had to be up if he was going to prevent anything else from slipping through the cracks. Now he had to commit himself to another lie:

"My grandfather," he began, with deliberate lethargy, "We visit his farm, from time to time. My parents and I. He has a collection of rifles and carbines. Sometimes, we go shooting. The DC-15A was my favourite."

Finally. He punctuated the end of his fabrication with a nod, and thought, ruefully, that it was yet another lie he'd have to remember for the remainder of his stay on the station. And it would not do that he left it there, otherwise his companion might feel obliged to make enquiries. So he acknowledged Gantuhar's loss with a polite bow of the head, "You have my condolences, friend."

So he was humouring the big lunatic. But there was a niggling part of him that thought he was, perhaps, being unfair to Gantuhar and his passion for the princess. After all, if someone had ever attempted to dismantle his lightsaber, there would've been no corner of the galaxy that was safe for them.

[Gantuhar]

It was in a flash that the muddled, almost lost expression returned to his eyes, and Gantuhar turned away with a grunt, focusing his attentions on his tea.

"Mm, yes."

A sniff to his drink, a delicate sip, and the off-white mug was set back down. He stifled a yawn.

"This One has had many loves in his life," came the now-murmured words, and as the Trianii felt himself sink lower into the water, he stopped only when the bottom of his jaw was nearly submerged.

"Many, many loves. One cannot limit themselves to just one, you know," again he blew a slow stream of bubbles into the water.

"Sadly, This One cannot fly well, else he would have taken to the sky and stayed there long ago. To explore and discover. Instead," one last forceful blow at the water, "... Gantuhar must rely on public transport."

[Abarai Loki]

That was met with a grimace, "I share your pain."

Without a ship of his own, or the qualifications to fly one, Loki, too, had to brave hellish drudgery that was public transport. When it came to the limits of dignity, there was something crushingly final about resigning one's self to breathing the body odour and farts of a hundred wretched passengers that had accumulated, and stagnated, over the course of fourteen hours in a little tin can. And, despite the threat of future journeys that loomed on the horizon, he knew, in that moment, that he was safe inside his hazy circle of bliss, untouchable.

And so, he drifted. The hot water kissed the back of his head, and bled into his hair, it tickled his ears, and caressed his neck. Above, the intricate mosaic stretched out in vivid colour, expanding the narrative with new characters parcelled off inside their own private domes, wreathed in gold. He'd never taken the time to appreciate it before; the sex was distracting. The teahouse dripped with lust. He wondered if there was a drop of real love in any of it. Perhaps Gantuhar, in his strange... strange way, was the true romantic amongst them. Many loves, he had said. Many loves. It begged the question:

"Gantuhar, what do you do when you're not idling away your days in teahouses?"