RPlog:Choices

Ten days since the raid. Two since the Republic's camp nearly doubled in size with the peaceful addition of the stranded Imperial personnel, and more survivors - from both sides - were still being found. It's a strained coexistance, but between Inrokana's orders to his people and Ipex's to hers, there have been no overt, physical hostilities.

The camp is always active now, its perimeter better defended from predators, and this afternoon is no exception. A small, mixed-group of scouts have just returned from a hike to the top of the nearby mountain, and while the two unarmored Stormtroopers go in search of Krieg, the two Republic men go in search of Wrista, and whoever is with her.

Despite being nominally in charge of the NR contingent, having stepped up to do so, Wrista has not honestly spent much time in the camp since getting stranded. This is larely because she can trust her fellow Republicans to continue competantly without her peering over their shoulder, and also because she's one of the most qualified people to be ranging out of the camp. And both Raxis and Vengan are certainly capable of holding up command, as well.

However, right now, she *is* in camp, settled at one of the fires, chewing on one of the pieces of cooked meat from one of the many hunting trips that have been made. She's actually been eating more than one would think she's capable of managing, over the last couple of days, but very little could be considered normal. For all of that though, she's been her usual sunny self, more than happy to socialize and mingle and talk with those sharing the camp regardless of rank or affiliation.

Sitting by that selfsame fire as Wrista resides beside is another of the New Republic forces. A male, human, and a pilot by the looks of him, and his flight suit, yet adorning him. Yet, his features are a conglomoration of scars, crisscrossing over seemingly every inch of his visage.

Lance 'Wildman' Corbet remains quiet, for the mostpart, picking at his meal as though at any instant it may come alive and turn the tables upon him. Neither does he look up from his meal, aside from the occasional long glance towards the dancing flames, intermingling within the firepit. The young man, for he does not even appear in his twenties quite yet, remains silent, and withdrawn.

One of the scouts breaks off to go find food of her own. The other, a Vultan man wearing a FleetOps duty uniform that has seen better days, steps over to sit down next to Wrista, sparing the withdrawn pilot a concerned look before turning his focus to the twi'lek. "We spotted three more sites - two were ours. Didn't see any sign of the people the escape pods belonged to, though."

Wrista barely even pauses in stripping the meat off of the bone of... whatever this particualr animal came from, giving the scout a nod to sit if he'd like. She swallows when she gets a chance, then replies. "I suppose tracks or anything like that's too much to hope for. Any signs of anything else that maybe got to them first?" She glances over towards Lance, as if inviting comment.

"Perhaps the pods were used as decoys." the young man says after some moments of contemplation, finally looking upwards. "I've seen Imps shoot pods out of the sky. They might have used those pods to draw their attention." He shrugs after a moment, turning back down to his meat, breaking off a portion, and placing it in his mouth. While still chewing, he adds around the meat within his maw, "Then again... maybe not."

"They hit in a swamp," the Vultan replies gravely, taking the invitation to sit and clasping his hands in his lap. "Even if there had been tracks, they'd probably be long gone by now. Too much life in the area for our scanner to tell the difference between a man and a..." His eyes flicks to the meat the twi'lek is eating, and one shoulder lifts in a shrug.

Looking to Lance, he slowly shakes his head. "Things were not in a state where we could spare escape pods, son," he says quietly. "Not on our ship, anyway. Maybe one of the others, but the Captain's orders were clear."

Wrista nods agreement. "No, I'd agree. There wasn't much time for firing off spare pods like that. And the Imperials had a lot to distract them. Given these landed in a swamp, it's more likely the tracks are just... gone." She looks pensive for a several moments. "Perhaps we can find them nearby, however. We should take a little time to see if we can't identify places near those crash zones that would make favorable campsites. If we have time, we can check those areas as well." Unfortunately, she had to do a certain amount of cost/benefit triage with these searches. Searching potential areas near the swamp could take valuable time that would save other lives, potentially. It wasn't a juggling act she was very pleased to be doing, but it was the cards she had.

More moments of silence ensue, and it appears as though the young man will not speak again after being shot down in his first potential assessment. Then, looking up and directly upon the Lieutenant, he says softly, "I would like to help with the search. I have been doing little since I was found, and even less before that. My wound is mending itself, and I'd like to become useful."

"Your wound?" the Vultan echoes, his brow furrowing in concern as he darts his eyes between the pilot and marine. He has a opinion on this, it's obvious - but it's also not his call.

Wrista gives Lance a long, evaluatory look-- the kind usually described as being 'dissecting'. After she's given herself some time to ocularly strip him down to the bone, so to speak, she nods. "Alright. We'll add you into the rotation. There will be caveats. One, I want you to see one of the medics and make sure you're healed up enough that the predators out there don't think you smell hurt. Two, you'll be on the lighter marches. You don't need to be wading through swamps or scaling mountains. Three, the second that side starts acting up, we'd better hear about it. No heroically stoic "I don't want to be a bother or stop helping" nonsense. If that's clear, then you're free to join the searches."

"Understood." comes Lance's calm reply, and a nod given as though to emphasize his understanding of the situation. In truth, his side had been bothering him less lately. This news seems to cheer the young man, if only slightly, and another morcel is drawn from the portion he has been eating from, placing it within his mouth to chew again. Eyes the colour of a mountain stream glance between the two, and he is once more silent, listening now.

The Vultan seems to find this compromise acceptable. He nods to Lance, smiling gratefully. "As soon as the scouts have figured out likely campsites, I'll make sure they know to include you in the work," he promises, turning a pensive gaze to the sky. "It'll be dark soon, though, so they'll likely be waiting until daybreak to go back up. Not sure what they're planning to do about theirs," he adds in a murmur, casting a look towards a small group of Imperials across the camp.

Wrista glances over, shrugging. "I'm sure we'll find out soon enough. Either they'll need a hand or not, and if they do, we'll lend one. It's quite simple, all told." She shrugs, and strips another bite off of her meal, pausing to murmur quietly at it. "I've *got* to find some tubers or something..."