After the initial shock wears off, Obi-Wan finds that he has no choice but to focus on gathering information while avoiding the market. He finds slavery detestable, downright cruel, and its thriving culture on this output leaves a strong, bitter taste in his mouth. Particularly when he thinks to his friends that are now forced to suffer the same fate that's currently threatening him.

It makes sense to organize. Whenever there's an opportunity, Kenobi is colluding. He finds those he can trust — Moirans — and that's where his focus remains. He's a problem solver, after all, and this is one problem he feels is in everyone's best interest to be solved once and for all. It won't be easy, no, but enough willing people to provide assistance, even the longest odds don't seem so unfavorable.

He will be moving freely through the outpost for the first week, from one shadow to the next, operating under the assumption that he's untouchable, breaking free those who seek his help, planning with the brightest minds in an effort to secure an escape for them all.

It's hard work, but familiar work, and for once, Kenobi welcomes it.

But as with all things, nothing lasts forever. Some time near the end of the first week, Obi-Wan Kenobi, for whatever reason — reasons likely unknown to anyone but him — finds himself a slave once again. His few short days on Zygerria, while difficult, are a lasting reminder of toils once wrought, and with that in mind, he takes to being a owned with as little grace as possible, while still remaining active in his previous pursuits.

When he meets with anyone — clients specifically — he does so in private, as is the way of things. But he doesn't play along, not as he's been told to. A mindtrick or two does wonders, and fine words can solve more problems than any one person might imagine.

Behind enemy lines, gilded by his owner, the Jedi Master looms undercover, lurking in the depths of darkness in order to save as many people as he possibly can from this very barbaric trade.

This, too, is hard work, but familiar work just the same. Good work, that needs to be done, for good people who need to be saved.

Tak-Fren knows of many ways to break a slave. By her skilled hands she sits proudly on a proverbial throne, her legacy, the highest rate of success among her peers. She has never failed in this task, partly owed to her inability to survive any other way. She'll be damned if she gives in to starvation now simply due to an iron will and some unseen protector.

Dealing in sex is easy. On a good day she can turn a profit without issue — one or two fresh faces around these parts, particularly pliant slaves, yields capital enough to keep her in business — but Tak-Fren needs more than a roof and supplies. Like all of her species, she occasionally needs to feed, and like all of her species, feeding is complicated.

"Nuu-nuu," she coos, settling in next to her prey. Her sharp claws drag lightly along a bristly jawline, one scaly hand on each side of ginger whiskers. A second pair of hands wave a bouquet of burning herbs into the atmosphere, ceremoniously spinning the smoke around her prone victim. A crackling rumble shudders from a gland in her neck, the sound reminiscent of a human's laugh. "Breathe deep, rasha. You will work, you will work for me..."

A haze rolls in, thick like fog, obscuring, all encompassing. It curls, smoke  in the nose, out the mouth, silent, stealthy, invasive. It takes hold, into the lungs, the blood, the heart, the mind, snaking around hostile territory with a built-in numbing agent, leaving no trail in its path, no indication of its presence in the now...

Stubbing out the smouldering bunch, Tak-Fren clicks sharply as she looms over Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi. In the short time he's spent as her slave, the human has reacted uniquely compared to others of his species. He has performed — seven successful appointments in a row — but what Tak-Fren knows that her clientele does not, is that his success is born of trickery, much like her own.

"Fair money," she crows, raising her arms in victory. She would punish him for the insolence if she didn't admire the resourcefulness of it. It's made her a lot of money in a very short time.

Her sensitive eyes — two pair to match the arms — read the levels within her prey, sensing as the last of his active consciousness dips below the surface. Whatever advantage he'd had over this situation — whatever planned level of protection he'd thus far maintained — gives way, and Kenobi's connection to the Force goes with it. Set adrift, separate and sedated, his mind becomes open. Suggestible.

As she leans in to drone softly in his ear, tendrils from her chin curl around Obi-Wan's face, grasping as Tak-Fren's alien words seed his mind with thoughts of suggestive situations. An unfettered thrill shudders through her as her hunger flares. Just there, she sees it: a pool of intensity that's been long reserved, emotions unspent over years and years, a veritable feast living shallowly on her floor.

"Rasha, oh rasha... How do you live like this?" Clever and so full of potential. Pitifully unspent. She'll eat for a week, gorge on every constructed production, on every raked up desire.