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No. No. No no no no no no no. She's only barely recovered from last time they took her; she can't let them take her again.
If she draws her saber, she'll die. There's no doubt in her mind about that, outnumbered as she is and with her master right there. There's nothing she can do; he knows it, they know it, she knows it. They wouldn't do this any other way.
The flash of inspiration is more like a memory; the floating, disconnected kind that sometimes linger after... whatever it is that they do to her. It's never been quite like this before, but - she reaches into the Force, nudges it just so...
The burst of feedback - fear and rage and terror - overwhelms her; she reels, barely keeping her feet, distantly aware of the shouting, of her droid stepping forward to steady her. She ignores it as best she can, and continues nudging at the Force, carefully, carefully...
And then, suddenly, she's elsewhere.
"Flavor," Merra says, with the faint dry tone that's probably what her humor looks like when she's being careful. "She has opinions."
Merra glances back at Deskyl with something that might, briefly, be amusement. "I'll tell Brytha. She'll either appreciate it or take it as a challenge." A pause. "Probably both."
Merra's mouth does something small at that — not quite a smile, but close — and she turns back to the path.
"Didn't know there were ducks nesting out this far," Merra says, watching the pocket. She sounds less like she's making conversation and more like she's updating a map in her head.
"She says you shouldn't take any more from that nest, she intentionally left a few to hatch. But she should be able to get more at least somewhat regularly."
Merra nods. "Good practice." A beat, and something in her tone shifts slightly — less scout's report, more person. "She knows this kind of thing. Hunting, foraging."
It's not quite a question.
"Common sense isn't common," Merra says, and leaves it there.
The fort gate is visible ahead. She's been keeping an eye on it the whole walk back, probably without thinking about it.
Brytha looks at the fish first, then the eggs, then Deskyl, with the rapid assessment of someone calculating meals.
"Hm," she says, which covers a lot of ground. She takes the fish, looks at the size of them, looks at Deskyl again. "There's more where these came from?"
"Good." Brytha sets the fish down with the care of someone who intends to use all of it. "Tell her—" she stops, looks at Deskyl directly instead, making a visible adjustment. "Thank you. This helps."
Deskyl nods agreeably and signs: "She says you're welcome, ma'am." And, after a beat, "would you like to show her the mushrooms you like to use?"
Brytha considers this for a moment, then wipes her hands on her apron and goes to a shelf, returning with three different dried mushrooms — small quantities of each, carefully stored. She sets them on the counter and watches Deskyl's face.
Brytha listens to this with the focused attention of someone taking notes mentally. She picks up the first mushroom, looks at it, sets it down.
"How long to reestablish?"
"Fair enough." Brytha puts the first mushroom back with the careful deliberateness of someone revising a plan. "The bitter ones — show me, when she finds them. I'll decide if they're worth the trouble."
Brytha gives Deskyl one more assessing look — the kind that seems to be recategorizing her from 'unknown quantity' to something more specific — and turns back to her fish.