It was raining. Oh, Lords of Kolthis, it was raining. As he tipped his eyes skywards, and let the water flow through the fur of his face, his muzzled mouth split into the Bothan approximation of a smile. His jaw cracked open further, tongue protruding to collect the taste of his homeworld.

For some, perhaps, the confines of space were something easily adjusted to. He knew that Corellians in particular relished their time in space. Some species loathed the unpredicable conditions - and the weather - that the surface of a planet had to offer, and felt more comfortable in the climate controlled conditions aboard their starships and starfighters.

General Oruo'rel was not one of those people. For one, he was a soldier: a man of action, and motion, and the cramped confines aboard a starship made him feel trapped. Worse though, he was a Bothan: a canine, born to run, and to hunt; and aboard a starship, he was caged, like an animal.

He had served the Alliance loyally - and without complaint - since Borsk Fey'lya had pledged the services of himself and his men. He fought with distinction, for General Madine and for SpecForce; and since Endor, he had stepped into the Corellians shoes and helped to lead the Alliance's campain against the Empire. Never once did he question his orders, or his cause. Never once did he expect undue thanks or reward.

But deep down, he had pined for home; pined to escape the confines of the ships that carried the Alliance High Command from world to world; pined to feel solid ground beneath his paws; pined to feel the sun, and the wind, and the rain on his fur.

It was morning. He was late. And it was raining.

A laugh escaped him. It was good to be home.

* * *

A Lieutenant met him by the door, as he strode into the Intergalactic Trade Mission: a grand facade used by the Bothan Spynet, and leant to Alliance Intelligence and SpecForce until permanent arrangements could be settled upon. A vaulted chamber, clad inside by warm woods and fronted by a panoramic wall of glass, rose above a polished marble floor, symbols and writings that conjured references to Bothan history and myth overlayed in grey and gold.

Forethought preparing the Lieutenant with a towel in hand to pass to the General; alas, Torrsk knew him only by rank, rather than by name. He determined to make the effort: to turn his next expression of gratitude into something personal, rather than mere formality. For now however, he offered the best he could.

"Thank you, Lieutenant." His voice was a purr, low and rumbling like the idling repulsorlifts of a waiting speeder. He relished that: the quiet calm of it; the absense of threat. It lulled those around him into security, and soothed their nerves and fears. It also made it all the more dramatic when, in anger, a crechendo turned his voice from a rumble into the roar of a Republic Gunship.

He briefly eyed the hands of the Lieutenant: not empty as he had expected, but instead clutching a military-issue datapad. With another nod to nonverbally repeat his thanks, he exchanged his towel for the datapad, thumbing the display into life. "Military communiques?" he guessed.

"Yes, sir," the Lieutenant confirmed, hovering beside the General until he gently eased himself into motion.

Torrsk modulated his pace carefully, ensuring that their speed would form reasonably comfortable strides for what he estimated to be the length of the young Lieutenant's legs. His stature meant his own strides had to lengthen of course, but that was a minor concession: the Lieutenant looked like he'd already consumed too much caf this morning, and the sun was barely half-way to noon, lurking behind the clouds as it was.

"Anything important?" he asked, skimming the subject titles.

Slightly taken aback at the request to make a priority assessment, the Lieutenant stumbled over the first few syllables of his response. "I- I- uh-" He paused, drawing a breath; calming himself. "There was a message from the Spaceport, sir. A shuttle transporting -" He hesitated briefly, searching his memory for the designation. "- Dorn Company landed twenty minutes ago; they're being transported here by LAAT/i, as we speak."

"Dorn Force," Torrsk corrected, absently, lips drawing into a thin line. A paw rose to his jaw, scrubbing at the slightly whispier fur that adorned his chin. The unit - an experiment, by one of the Colonels of the Fighting Fifth - filled him with questions and concerns, and given the outcome of their last mission, those reservations needed to be addressed, if only to salve his peers among the High Command.

"Find them a conference room in which to wait," he instructed, handing the datapad back to the Lieutenant; any other business today would have to wait. "I will meet with them individually in my office; please escort Lieutenant Tur'enne there first."

The Lieutenant halted, ready to double back and comply; a curt nod accompanied his confirmation. "Lieutenant Tur'enne - yes, sir."