You Must Be This Tall to Ride

[Hobgoblin]

"Not for Hob's health, does he visit the homeworld of the Imperial Machine!" The goblin peered at the purple liquid in the glass before him, suspicious of its intent. Giving it, first one cautious sniff, then a second, he took a sip.

A slow smile spread across his face. It tasted good.

Hob gulped down the rest, wiping the fresly-created juice goatee from his mouth using a sleeve and issuing a hefty Belch! "Delicious!" he remarked.

A delightful rush of energy began flowing through him, and in the midst of this delightful charge Hob noticed a collection of parts strewn across the floor of Fook's ship.

"Hob must travel to the land of the Machine," he explained. "To the Temple of the Murdered Order. In the Temple, in a place Hob has learned of, a small garden hides. From this garden, Hob desires to retrieve a certain bush. When aware of Hob's mission little Sysha became, she requested a cutting from the bush. For this cutting, she helps Hob cross the Divide. Much aid, medicinal aid, she believes the cutting can provide."

"What the bush is, what it does; these things Hob knows. Hob does not deny it may provide her what she seeks. But dangerous, the trip to the hiding place will be. Hob must first enter the Temple, then to the Archives for information he must go. When have the information, Hob does, the garden, Hob can reach."

When Fook turned from his cooking, he saw the goblin sitting on the floor in the middle of a patch free of circuits, wires, and other various components that had found a home on the floor instead of as part of the ship or within a storage bin. Hob had assembled the parts into a miniature walking droid, with blinking lights for eyes, mismatched casings for legs, and tiny grabclaw arms that clacked open and shut as the droid marched forward. "If afraid of the journey, you are, find another companion, Hob can," Hob said as he peered at the droid with a creator's grin.

[Li Ho Fook]

Cooking fried nuna wasn't an art, it was a religion, where Li Ho Fook came from. The nuna had to be properly cleaned, the breading needed to be spiced just so, and the oil had to be at the right temperature. All things were well in control while Fook worked away in his little kitchenette, back to his passenger. Chunks of nice, greasy whomp rat were tossed into an iron skillet which was set to high heat, followed by a hearty helping of greens, once the meat's fat had rendered down. He managed his kitchen with confidence and grace, simply nodding as the little goblin spoke.

"Medicinal bush, huh?" the Wah laughed. "Dawg, I am so with you, there. This playa partakes of some leaf from time to time, too, feel me?"

Into the fryer the nuna went, and he stirred the greens once more. "Gotta be some mad strong ganj to go to Stormtrooper Central, though, homie. I mean, like, killer bomb-ass grade leaf, yo."

The remainder of his cooking didn't take long, and he plated up with ease before turning to head to the table. Then he froze, blinking his black, beady eyes at the tiny droid.

"Dawg, you just build that?"

[Hobgoblin]

The goblin looked at Fook's questioning face, then down to the droid, then back to his host, then back to the droid. After thinking a moment whether he'd built the droid or whether the droid had used him to build itself, Hob answered with a firm "Maybe!"

Then a scent caught his nose and he sniffed the air. "Time to eat, is it?" he asked. He affected an air of nonchalance, but his stomach rumbled a betrayal. Thinking back, he'd eaten his last meal some time prior to Beldarone and could do with replenishment.

Hob stood and clambered into a seat at the dinner table that, for once, was not as high off the floor as he was tall. Fook set a plate, utensils, and a glass of water before him, then settled into his own seat at the table's opposite end. A can labeled "Dat Purple Drank" sat next to Fook's plate. The goblin briefly wondered if it were the same juice he'd gulped down earlier, curiosity, foretaste, and saliva mixing in his mouth.

More wouldn't be so bad, would it?

Then, Hob forced his attention back to the collection of food in front of him. He'd been presented with a fine meal. Overconsumption was the essence of greed and to take beyond his necessary share would lead to Darkness.

The Offering of Gratitude would be fitting. Hob clasped his hands together and closed his eyes.

'In the Force
All are One
One are All
Who Shares with Us, We Thank
Who Receives from Us, We Nurture
Excess is Unnecessary
For No Greater Reward Exists
Than Continuation of Being
The Cycle
Is the Way
Is Life
Is the Force
May You Who Pass into the Force
Live Through We Who Remain'

And with the Offering's conclusion, Hob snatched a fork and began a quest to scarf his entire meal down immediately.

[Li Ho Fook]

Fook eyed the basic droid, hoping no important systems had gone into the creation of such a toy. The smell of fried nuna and fresh greens brought him back to reality, and he slipped into his seat at the table, only to hear the strange little goblin rattle off some sort of prayer. Feeling compelled to add his own form of blessing, even if just for show, the Wah's mind turned before he bowed his head and spoke reverently.

They see me rollin',
They hatin'.

With that, it was time to tuck into his own meal, unused to having company along for the ride. At least company outside of the prisoner hold. Much of their meal was taken in silence, but something about Hob's little prayer nagged at Fook's mind until he could not resist inquiry.

"Yo, you really believe in all that Force shit, dawg? Like, the religion and stuff? You some kind of Jedi or somethin'?" He asked. Fook knew well of Jedi legend, and the corresponding bedtime stories of the Sith, meant to frighten children into doing what they were told. Both were common enough on his world, though his race did not follow one path or the other. The Force had been inflicted upon his race by the witches of Dathomir, the planet the Wah's forest moon home oribited, but after the experiment was deemed a failure, the two races fell back out of communication with each other. Transporting someone to Coruscant was dangerous enough, but if this little half-pint was a Jedi, things just became much more complicated.

And complications often added to Fook's price tag. He could practically see the credit signs racking up behind his eyes. Thirty grand? More like fifty.