#also rip all of these poses are facing the same direction and cropped similarly

[scythe-of-house-aurkus]

I have made the world's edgiest reaper! And so far, I've got nothing on her but vibes

[willowgust]

He Had It Coming!

(( ...Yeah. I decided to do the thing. This is either going to be really funny or really stupid lmao ))

CLANG. The dark stage is contoured by a murky light. Though obscure for now, the set is grungy and cold. Lonely drips of water echo from an unknown basin.

This is what makes the human sitting cordially behind a desk so out of place. His rectangular, long-limbed build is dressed in a prison warden’s uniform. The slight crinkle of his face and receding hairline suggest he’s in his mid-forties. Otherwise swathed into a neat crop, some errant strands of hair frame his large forehead, its near-black shade a stark contrast to his pasty complexion. Noticeably thin lips huddle underneath the umbrella of his mustache, which sits beneath his slim, arrowlike nose. This monk is a cocktail of courtly rigidity, of-the-earth heartiness, and dry farce. His critical hazel gaze lends an air of unerring clout, but he’s equitable. Cool-mannered. Proper.

With an amenable huskiness, his sing-song accent finally announces with lightly flipped R’s, “And now for something completely dif--”

“Whoooa whoa whoa. Slow down Sir Nunchuckington,” a lean, angular figure struts onstage.  “You wanna get your Gilnean ass sued? This thing’s live.”

Qaradoc turns to quirk a brow at the Sin’dorei. 

He wears a tuxedo. A golden earring dangles from his ear, cradling a ruby. The cuff of his partial ponytail is gold and sapphire. And yet he couldn’t act more self-assuredly blasé if he donned sandals and a Bilgewater-print shirt. It’s like he stole from a show host’s trailer on his way to pick up pizza. Even the gunslinger’s voice is unceremonious- comically so. His disenchanted eyes, creased at the edges, are such a saturated green they could probably be mistaken for glowing moss agates. Underneath, his low cheekbones look lumped into his face. His skin has a markedly red undertone, a color that dulls his shoulder-length hair and pointed goatee to a pallid sandy brown.

Qaradoc responds with a flat, stiff-lipped glare. “...Had this blooming stage not been a conceptual absurdity of cross-faction, cross-dimensional rubbish, I assure you you’d be popping daisies before you could utter the words ‘mana wyrm jubblies.’”

Oshiban’s disarming smirk is quick, but sardonic. “Well at least you pull off exposition like a bandaid.” A slow, jazzy beat fills the room as he directs the same expression at you. “Charming guy, am I right? And now,” he raises his voice, “with my buddy Seo-yun taking it away on piano, ladies and gentlemen, the reason I never call any of you ladies back: The six merry murderesses of--!”

“AAAARGH!! F’NUU ULN’FWAHE FWSSSH!” rips out an unearthly Eldritch shriek. It tore from the throat of a doll-like, pre-adolescent girl in a cell on the other side of the stage, which just lit up. Qiraji battleguard armaments adorn her gangly body. The very air around this menace feels multiple levels of wrong. Her fierce, blindingly white stare is enough to freeze the hair on one’s spine. The rest of her face is thankfully hidden behind a veil. She doesn't look older than eleven, which arguably makes her all the more unsettling. 

Aloft on dragonfly-esque wings, the little Qiraji furiously rams herself against the bars.

Oshiban’s eyes bulge with alarm. “...Well some little lady forgot her teddy-bear-shaped sedatives today.”

Baffled but unfazed, Qaradoc knits his forehead. “What in blazes is that cell doing out of solitary confinement?” he asks disapprovingly. “Guards!”

“Ugh,” he tosses his eyes up, “if I take care of this will it get you to yank that jolly good stick out of your ass? I’m on it. By the way I was only half joking - I want some numbers.” Oshiban crouches, vanishing into stealth.

“Well tough cheese!” Qaradoc derides. “Two are spoken for, another’s underage, and that leaves you with a Ren’dorei. Unless you prefer much older women. One of which is quite literally decaying.”

“Whatever,” says a disembodied voice.

As the cage rolls backstage 'inexplicably’ (for Oshiban’s safety), Zja’heed lets out another vicious scream: “DEATH TO THE TITAN ABOMINATIONS! C’THUN FWA’YIL ZJAAA!!” Then she’s gone.

Qaradoc shakes his head. “Several sandwiches short of a picnic,” he mutters, before snapping his attention back at you. “Ladies and gentlemen, Park Seo-yun Whalecarver and the six merry murderesses are proud to present a rather silly rendition of the Cell Block Tango. Enjoy. At least then one of us will.” He offers a polite nod. The spotlight above him fades. 

He and the desk slowly drift offstage, revealing six, bleakly illuminated cells each containing a burlesque woman. Underneath blue-tinted lights, they all wear variations of knee-high boots, stockings, mini tube tops and skirts. 

Off to the side, a Pandaren wavespeaker in another tuxedo drums his paws across the piano keys. So scruffy is this wharf bum that it comes off vaguely threatening, if not for his expression: He can’t seem to decide if he’s uneasy or aroused. He's tall, pear-gutted, and blubbery. The fur coating his mountainous body is dull with wear. A haggard beard splays out irregularly from his cheeks to his chin, hosting a braided goatee kinked with split ends. The shaggy mop over his head hasn't seen a brush in... ever, but is knitted with strips of leather, yarn, and painted beads. His icy-blue eyes are beady, his stare simple. 

The tune is slow. Suggestive. There’s a broad medley of women behind those bars. From left to right: a Gray Sith indulged in bird taming and meteorology, a Force-sensitive medic prone to using herbalism, a Gray Jedi and ex-noble with a penchant for explosives, a Yibbish priestess and homemaker balanced in Light and Shadow, a Republic sergeant whose tinkered inventions are inspired by entomology, and a Tanari illusionist who explores magic with mathematics. Half of them appear to be in their late twenties, early thirties.

The Gray Sith is a tall Twi’lek with turquoise skin. Her energy feels born for musical theater. She’s svelte and pear-shaped, with slender arms and narrow shoulders. An elegant tiara crowns her forehead. She conveys a feisty but carefree grace; it’s easy to imagine her running barefoot across a meadow. Her motions are pithy - bird-like in a way, the notion accentuated by long, maroon talons. Tattooed with streamline patterns and weaved in black ribbons, her stubby lekku resemble pigtail braids. Her lips are dramatically cupid-shaped and half-painted in mulberry lipstick. A stud gilds her gently hooked nose, and her large, moon-silver eyes are framed in violet wings. They’re puckish and spirited.

The medic, another Twi’lek, is ocean blue and clearly family. Beneath another opulent tiara, the round smoothness of her face and adolescent slouch made her pre-adulthood undeniable, no more than 17. Her mousy posture has a sense of both dignity and humdrum awkwardness, and she could probably camouflage herself against a red wall wearing a green shirt. Also pear-figured, she has a ponch over her belly. Her flat, hickory-colored eyes hide behind a pair of glasses, which pinch a similarly hooked nose. She has her sister’s lips, but slimmer. Her tattooed eyebrows are thick and straight, and her lekku are marked with rows of tiny circles reminiscent of... well, octopus tentacles. 

The Gray Jedi is a human woman in her 70s. She wears a robe over an otherwise provocative costume. Like an overused towel, she’s wrinkled and washed out. She moves with the arthritic rigidness of old age and is slightly hunched, but otherwise not in too bad a shape. The tops of her vulture-like hands are staunch highways of varicose veins. And her smirk is as easy as her scowl. She has an angular face with thin features, capable of many blunt and snide glares. Once a rich auburn, her hair is grayed, dry, and wrapped into a trio of buns, two on either side and one at the back. They’re secured by golden hair jewelry. A pair of modest glasses shields her brown eyes, narrowed into a grumpy sneer.

Inside the fourth cell is an undead human who died in her 50s. The priestess apparently insisted on a homely under-dress, appearing more like a fairytale mother than a burlesque performer. Something about her just screams “strong-willed foundation of the family.” Her movements are eye-catching, yet frail. The meticulously styled dead grass she considers hair probably smells like fake flowers, her face a piteous, guilt-reaping landscape of drooping crevices. The balls of her elbows and knees protrude from her withered, green-hued flesh, and yellowed claws jut from her hands. Tired embers drift inside her eye sockets with hurt worry, as if you’d just slapped her for giving you a teddy bear.

A human cyborg tries to subdue her quirky enthusiasm in the next cell. She is short and powerful - very short, at 4′8″, and curved in hilly rounds of muscle. Cybernetics glow from her left eye-socket, cheeks, biceps, and thighs. Soft with sharp edges, her face has a pointed nose and effervescent aquamarine eye, her lips small, pink, and round. It allows swift reversal between friendly and severe. Ruffled bangs jut over her indigo headband like leaves over pottery. The rest of her dark lilac hair falls to her chin and shoulders in wet, feathery disarray, jaggedly layered. It’s parted by broad ears which are hugged at the rims by thick metal hoops. This gives her a whimsical, damp quality, as if straight out of a crystal cave.

Even in such a seductive pose, the Ren’dorei mesmer has the breezy manner of a vacationer. Her ensemble is the most contemporary chic of the six. She has a warm, wizened charisma that she’s failing to completely stifle for the act. There’s also something skittish about her, despite her serenity. A leggy and sleek runner, her skin teeters on brown with a reddish-purple undertone, mottled thick with freckles. Coffee brown hair streaked in burgundy drapes either side of her thin face like a square curtain. Her nose is sloped, and her wide, pale lips coated in gloss. Smoky lavender makeup embellishes the cyan lights of her eyes. They’re cheerfully lean and upturned, further emphasizing her amity.

The melody grows louder. 

On cue, Shiv’athren’s voice is bright, melodic, and girly. “Squaaawk,” she jeers.

Aquileen settles you with a deadpan stare. “Sanctuary,” she states, in a quiet monotone that’s shockingly masculine.

Rimona sneer-smirks, “Forever.” She sounds brash, down-to-earth, even plebeian.

Chavivah’s nasal quality gives an arresting, drawn-out sigh.

Penlink is plucky and high-pitched, but her voice is too soft-textured to be grating: “Sting.”

Colpeia shoots a cautious glance over her shoulder. She utters the last word with breathy coarseness, like warm sand: “Chase.”

The rhythm picks up. 

Shiv’athren’s talons wind around the bars. She swings teasingly from one side to another, her imitation all the more avian: “Sqaaawrk!”

Aquileen inclines her head closer to the bars with a blunt frown. “Sanctuary.”

Rimona caustically props her forearm over the bar support and snarls, “Forever.”

Chavivah siiiiighs, still sitting in her cell holding a handkerchief.

Penlink leans in and enthusiastically makes a slicing gesture, “Sting!”

Colpeia slides her long leg against the cell bars, her patient eyes locking on you. “Chase.”

Seo-yun quickens the pace with a spicy melody.

“Squaaaaawrk!!”

“Sanctuary.”

“Forever.”

Siiiiigh--! 

“Sting!”

“Chase.” 

His boyish stare soaks in their scantily clad figures with near-cartoonish glee as he continues rocking a tango over the keys. The six women clamber over the bars. Some are sensual, others just aggressive.

“Sanctuary.”  “Forever.” "Ahhh...!” “Sting!” “Chase--”

“RAAAAWRK!!” The harpy-esque imitation is startlingly accurate.

The ladies strike perfectly orchestrated poses. In unison they belt in song: 

He had it coming! He had it coming! 

Their choreography is simple but bold, even challenging. 

He only had himself to blaaame!  If you’d’ve been there If you’d have seen it! I betcha you would have done the same!

The barred doors swivel in on each other, allowing one of the prisoners to step through.  “Rwrrrk!” “Sanctuary.” “Forever” "Ohh...!” “Sting!” “Chase.” “Aaawrk!” “Sanctuary.”  “Forever” Siiigh-- “Sting!” “Chase.”

Shiv’athren lithely prances forward from the new cell gap.  Despite her feminine, fae-like bearing, her wiseass glower is more appropriate for a tired-of-your-shit spinster with half a bottle of wine. The music slows into a narrative. A deep purple Twi’lek man appears and takes her in a loose waltz. She stares at his face with a slender, tattooed brow perked, then mirthlessly at you. 

“I filed for divorce. It only took me four to five years,” the spitfire remarks ironically. She twirls away from him and crosses her arms. “He retaliated by spreading lies through the village. Playing off my reputation as a sassy shrew made it easy for him.” 

Shiv’athren smirks with a wink. “Well. They’re not wrong. It took a whole year for them to learn that he was the abuser, not I. Ohhh,” she clucks her tongue through a cheeky grin, “He didn’t like that! Now they distrusted him. His life fell to pieces. Naturally, he blamed me.” Shiv’athren glides to him and, with acidic playfulness, boops his nose with her finger, “Because of course, right?” He jolts an accusatory finger at her through their stylized dance. Her laugh is both musical and bitter.

“So, what does he do? The vindictive coward breaks into my home in the middle of the night with a vibroknife.” Her head jerks sideways in fiery sarcasm, “Because, you know, that will make everything better.”

“And then--whoops! Ex-dearest startled my birds. Pippy squawked. Loudly.” He stabs something down. “Sataar risked her life defending me. He stabbed a SISTER of my FLOCK!!” she screeches. “He came right at me so I fired two warning shots with my blaster.”

PEWPEW. The music stops, and the assailant kneels. Shiv’athren reaches down to pinch a red ribbon from behind his neck, her frightening talons slowly drawing it out. She plucks each word with the searing taunt of a witch: “In...to. His. Head.” With a violent yank she tears the ribbon off of him and throws her head back into a high cackle, “AAAAHAHAHA!”

He had it coming! He had it coming! 

Shiv’athren spins, the ribbon flapping in her wake until it she drags it teasingly along her curvy backside. As he rises, she feigns raking her talons at him in rhythmic sweeps. 

He only had himself to blaaame 

The extras step away. Shiv’athren opens her arms, a piercing fire in her eyes, as several vibrantly colored flutterplumes soar in and swoop around her in a flurry of tropical feathers. One by one, the other women point at you through the bars.

If you’d have been there If you’d have heard it! I betcha you would have done the same!

The birds follow as she leaves. After a few beats of rearranging, Aquileen ambles stiffly from the cell doors to center-stage. Two masked extras dressed as Revanites slink behind her. She resembles a blank-eyed kid filling someone in on drama. “Okay. So, our village was attacked by mind-controlling Revanites? So it was kind of a hot mess. I was assigned as an assistant medic to a makeshift sanctuary for the injured.”

The extras advance on the teenager. “I guess they thought an artifact was buried under it or something weird? Two of them managed to break in. Someone had to protect those patients, and the other doctors had lives on the line. So I’m like, don’t sweat it. I’ve got this hot potato. I stood at the door with my blaster rifle and didn’t sugar-coat it: This is a sanctuary for the wounded, I said. They’re our patients. Get out.”

The Revanites step over each other and aggressively leap at her with unseen weapons. BANG. Pewpewpew. Ssshing! It’s the noise of a blade that forces the music to pause. 

Aquileen lowers clumsily to pull a red ribbon from the Revanite’s neck. As she stands back up, her glare is blunt enough to make a boulder seem soft. “You know, some guys just can’t hold their heads after having a--” her attempt to raise her soft, bland voice is almost comical-- “SURGICAL KNIFE CLEAVE THROUGH THEIR NECK.” She holds out the ribbon. It drifts to the ground like a mic drop. “Aquileen, out.”

They had it coming! They had it coming! 

Aquileen and the two Revanites twine around each other in a combative hustle. She pushes them aside and they float offstage. With a diligent frown, Aquileen pulls out a scanning device and points it in a nondescript direction, its lights flashing against the stage’s gloom.

They tried to kill before her prime They threatened children 

She flings flower petals over the ground in an arch, trying to be sexy and... well at least the vigor is there. The prisoners swerve and writhe inside their cells.

When they were bleeding!  It was a murder, but not a crime!

Aquileen wanders off. Rimona is next to swagger angrily to the center. The grumpy crone crosses her arms, refusing to dance with the human man that appears. He reaches out-- THWAP. “HEY!” she snaps. “CUT IT OUT.” 

The dancer flinches and stands off to the side, exchanging an appalled glance at Seo-yun. He just shrugs back at him. 

“Ehhh, where was I? Gimme a minute a’right? I’m old... Oh, right. We were married for 3 decades. You know the story. ‘You’re mine. I’m yours.’” She levels you with a flat sneer and stretches out derisively, “’Forever.’ Sure, pal."

“Then bam - he lets slip about an affair. Wanna take a shot at how long? TEN KRIFFING YEARS!!” she snaps. A beautiful young woman prances onstage, spinning hotly into the other dancer. “Yeeeeaahhh,” she growls huskily at them, “forever all right. Go to Balmorra for a lesson in ‘empathy’ my old wrinkled ASS! He only wanted to get closer to his damned mistress!”

The man gradually steps backwards, fading into the darkness. “We divorced. Did I kill him? Nah. Trust me; I did something way better.” The woman begins dancing around Rimona. “Ran into this 30-something by chance after ditching my old life. I took her under my wing and we blew stuff up. We had a riot. Eventually she mentioned how much her husband Farien would disapprove. So apparently he kept us a secret from each other for a whole decade.” 

The music pauses. She and the woman grin knowingly at each other. “He has no idea how much I’ve been influencing her. She considered me her new role model. So she just happened to keep running into me. She ran into me ten times a month! How’d ya like that ya old bastard?!” Rimona flings out a blue silken cloth from her wrist and breaks into a boisterous guffaw. It lands atop the flowers as the lights go red.

The women file out of their cells to join at her back in ordered chaos.

He only had himself to blaaame!  Her trust was nurtured Then it was butchered! 

Rimona and the young woman have arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders, still in hysterics. “HAHAHAHAHA!!”

I betcha you would have done the same!

BOOM! -- a fiery explosion. The smoke clears, and Rimona and the woman are gone. Through a soft blue spotlight, Chavivah hobbles forward with a distressed siiigh, looking between you and the others. The music softens for her to lament. Seo-yun assumes a tweaked melody, somewhat more reflective of her culture.

"Ooh, az grob schmuck! Er farkoyft meyn mentshn tsu der Kult fun di Damned! Mayn man, meyn tokhter, eyner fun meyn kinder, ale toyt!” she exclaims in a constant state of italics, wandering from person to person, her arms broad but somehow feeble. Several extras in peasant clothing far downstage shuffle despondently, then vanish. 

Chavivah buries her lips into her handkerchief-clutched hand, shaking her head. “Ikh bin mazldik ikh nokh hobn meyn bubala Isaac. Dernokh,” she raises a claw with an aha-moment, “ven ikh iz geven sorting durkh a registri yorn tsurik, in di eybbish kultur prezerveyshan gezelshaft registri ikh gefunen a bisl nemen mstma zeyn. Afilu zeyn mstma ort. Es iz aoykh gring!”

Aquileen's forehead wrinkles, using the Force to translate Chavivah’s words. Her eyes widen, “...Whoa. That’s messed up. Did you do it though?”

Chavivah and the music both stop. She gawks at her. “...What are you, meshugah?! Do you have any idea what kind of gelt this man throws around? Feh! I should be so lucky to find a lawyer good enough to shine this schmuck’s shoes!” She lobs out a blue ribbon, using it to dab her eyeless sockets. “Ohhh,” she sighs out, “I don’t even know for sure if they’re all dead...!” 

For a moment the stage goes nearly black, with a few silhouettes. Then it’s illuminated by only the innocent blue. Weeping into her new hanky, she magically fades into the shadows of the stage, disappearing.

He had it coming... 

Their voices ring softly in the background with slow sympathy. Penlink shuffles up through deep cobalt hues. Chipper but not inappropriately so, she looks ready to barge-hobble through a wall until she stops center-stage.

“After the war on Rishi my unit was assigned to domestic altercations,” she explains, already gesturing animatedly. “Our objective was to locate a terrorist. I got separated but discovered our target - they were mid-confabulation about deploying a bomb underneath a residential sector within the hour.” She points up, “Lots of innocent folks. The lieutenant ordered me to pursue while he arranged for backup.”

A large man looms upon her. “Welp. My unit tracked me as I skidaddled after him. I cornered him with my weapon drawn,” Penlink imitates a blaster rifle. The suddenly fierce command in her voice is hair-raising: ‘I am a Sergeant of the Republic Army! Drop the device slowly where I can see it! NOW.’ He stared down at me and laughed.” She rolls her eyes and smirks. “Not a very smart cookie. What transpired next occurred in,” Penlink squints two fingers together, “fractions of a second.” The man spins into a black sheet, vanishing. “First, he cloaked. The butt of my rifle wouldn’t suffice his trajectory. The most lickety-split weapon would be the vibroknife I coat in insect venom. I conjectured his most likely route and executed,” she slashes with an invisible knife.

The music cuts with the sound of a blade-- Sshhhing! The stage goes nearly black again, with only Penlink in a weak spotlight. “Then the lights were cut and everything went black.” 

Her glare hardens with the rigid intensity of a searing laser, red lights once again flooding the stage. She slowly draws out a scarlet cloth from between her cleavage and holds it in an unrelenting fist. Her voice booms with a terrifying metallic ring: “IT WASN’T UNTIL THEY CONFIRMED A PARALYZING VENOM IN HIS BLOODSTREAM THAT I KNEW MY TARGET WAS ELIMINATED.”

The robotic boom in her voice disappears as she sings out, 

He had it coming! (He had it coming), the others accompany.  He had it coming! (He had it coming!) He had it coming all alooong! 

Mechanical locusts pour into the air from behind her, avoiding the others but swarming obediently around her.

Those lives, defended. If apprehended...  Her arms open incredulously, How could you tell me that I was wrong? 

Penlink marches back to join the uncombed line, and the locusts zip offstage. The lights abruptly turn blue and white. In two parts they split: 

They had it coming! (They had it coming!) They had it coming! (They had it coming!) They had it coming all alooong! (If you’d have heard it!) Those lives, defended. (When they were bleeding!) If apprehended (Then it was butchered!), How could you tell us that we were wrong?

Colpeia takes long, slow steps forward. The others create a half-circle behind her. She’s soon loomed over by two large men dressed as Vrykul. The music curbs a final time, while she wanders across the stage with a serene smile. "Stormheim was beautiful. I was enjoying the scenery and the Vrykul found that offensive. Those were dueling grounds, they said to me. To walk them was to challenge them.”

“I assured the two I was but a simple traveler.” She winds between the two, tiptoeing the line between warm and flirtatious. They stand still, unmoved. “I invited them to share tea with me, to share their tales of battle-- no. They would not have it. If I would not fight them willingly, they would chase me, and force me to fight. It was a matter of honor.” 

“Well now. That wasn’t very nice. Our ideas of honor were clearly different. But I’m not one to shirk such matters. They didn’t care how I fought, so long as I didn’t abandon the match.” 

She dodges the two lumbering men as they careen and stumble over each other. “These men were stronger than me. They wanted to kill me. They were my predators. So I confused them. My illusions frustrated them. I was able to stuff sleeping powder into one of their faces. The second man found his battle partner and they searched for me...” 

Colpeia spreads a Cheshire grin at you. “Except they didn’t. When I rid of his partner’s illusion, I advised him to choose tea next time. You could say we parted ways because my magics made us see things differently. He saw himself as a strong warrior.” 

The music stops. Her cyan eyes beam with a sudden flash of cosmic horror. Deliberately, she draws out a red ribbon along her exposed leg from one of her stockings. “And I saw him as mad.”

In a flash of arcane Colpeia blinks instantly away to appear with the others, leaving briefly illuminated math equations behind. 

They snap and step in rhythm, the lights shifting to blood red.

The dirty bum, bum, bum, bum, bum! The dirty bum, bum, bum, bum, bum!

They had it coming! (They had it coming!) They had it coming! (They had it coming!)

They stomp, fiercely, some posing with sensual heat and others with loud anger.

Seo-yun stares slack-jawed. It’s amazing he’s still playing.

They had it coming all alooong! 'Cause if they used us ('Cause if they used us) And they abused us (And they abused us)

How could you tell us that we were wrong?

He had it coming! (If you’d have heard it!) He had it coming! (When they were bleeding!) He only had himself to blaaame (Then it was butchered!)

“SCHMUCK!” Chavivah howls in the center as she’s engulfed in shadow tendrils.

If you'd have been there (Those lives, defended!) If you'd have seen it (She was their prey!) I betcha you would have done the same!

Red is instantly replaced by dim white. They speak over each other as the brazen music evaporates into how it started- slow. 

“He stabbed a sister of my flock!!” “They’re our patients. Get out.” “‘Empathy’ my old wrinkled ass!” “Er farkoyft meyn mentshn tsu der Kult fun di Damned!” “Drop the device slowly where I can see it. NOW.” “Choose tea next time.”

Their backward steps carry them once again into their cells. Their voices become distant echoes.

“Squawk...” “Sanctuary...” “Forever...” Siiiigh... “Sting...” “Chase...”

The snapping percussion finally ends, and the bars of the cell doors slam down with a desolate clang.

Seo-yun glances around awkwardly. He peers over the hood of the piano and clears his throat. In his warm gruffness he finally speaks up for the first time, “You ladies doing anything after this?”

“Dibs on the Twi’lek!” Oshiban muffles from backstage. A blaster shot promptly answers him. “AHH! Sunwell! Geeze, I meant the older one.” Two more shots. “OWW!”

The six women stare blankly at each other. Chavivah coughs.

Hey, thanks for reading. xD If you made it this far here are some links to these nutjobs’ blogs. Colpeia Beamgully - Gazelle of the Desert (WoW - neutral) Chavivah Benesh - Momme (WoW - Horde/neutral) Park Seo-yun Whalecarver - The Northern Tide (WoW - Horde/neutral) Oshiban Il’vineen - The Spark Catcher (WoW - Horde/neutral) Master Qaradoc Taliesin - Augur of the Before (WoW - Alliance, blog WiP) Zja’heed - Child of the Screaming Sands (WoW - Alliance/neither, blog not up) Sergeant Penlink Sinowdyne - The Indigo Needle (SWTOR - Republic) Master Lady Rimona Snyder - Old Lady Dynamite (SWTOR - Republic) Shiv’athren - Thunderbird (SWTOR - Imperial) Apprentice Aquileen Thren - Oasis (SWTOR - Imperial)