[i]“Boring conversation anyway."[/i] [color=7ea7d8][b]The [i]Aundus-Valay[/i], Above Zetrea[/b][/color] [color=f7941d][b]Outer Rim[/b][/color] There is beauty in the ending of things. In the death of what is and the decay of what remains. This was never more evident than in the wake of a battle on the scale of worlds, where the fate of a civilization hung in the balance. In the darkness of the void that encircles the forge-world of Zetrea come the heralds of a war without end. They come in numbers unimaginable to those who dwell within the safety net of Zetrea's outposts, in numbers that would overwhelm lesser worlds without even a moment of resistance. It is in many ways like something out of a waking dream for most; a spear thrown by the uncaring gods into the heart of a world which has grown past suffering, past the struggle that defines lesser cultures. A world that has grown fat and soft. Secure behind the walls of credits and the shield of their own creations, warships piloted by those unfit for command but whose mere presence served to deter would-be assailants and suppress would-be rivals. In the days to come it would be said of Zetrea that this is why the Mandalorians had chosen their planet. This was why the gods had seen fit to punish them – their indolence, their weakness, festered within an armor they believed to be impenetrable, and it was this weakness which had drawn those to whom the very idea of weakness was abhorrent. Even now the quiet darkness that surrounds the forge-world and embraces the glorious jewel of the [i]Aundus-Valay[/i] is webbed with blazing lines of light that explode against shields and slice through those vessels whose defenses cannot hold. Shrapnel fills the galaxy around them, a geyser of escaping air and corpses into the void following soon after where the shattered ships cannot keep them in. At the head of the Mandalorian fleet rides their flagship, a grand vessel that dwarfs its fellows and bears the mark of the Field Marshal who rides it all across the hull. It is the sigil of Aliit Ransiir, the clan whose might has unified the forces arrayed before Zetrea now; a half dozen aliits who apart had been weak, but together had been made strong. Forged into a sword for the hand of Mandalore, a warrior band that sang his praises as they fell into the vanguard to prove themselves worthy of his regard. All around this flagship flows the ion-wake of the [i]Kandosii[/i] dreadnoughts which serve as its honor guard, even now swarming with the fighters they've unleashed upon the battlefield. From their bows and the bristling weapon mounts all along their flanks comes a storm of turbolaser fire, a silent rain of searing heat to rip apart those who stand before them. In and amongst this tide of crimson light soar the smaller vessels, the [i]Retan[/i] breach-craft and the [i]Jehavey'ir[/i] assault cruisers that comprise the bulk of the fleet. The former lead a charge that most would consider that of a sentient possessed – a suicide charge into the front lines of the defenders with nearly no weaponry to defend themselves, save the wicked laser battery that lines the front maw of each. But they are not a weapon meant for the clash; they are a precision instrument, a craft alike to the Basilisks that the mad Mandalorians will soon ride down to the surface of the world. Now, as they draw near the shining star that is the [i]Aundus-Valay[/i], they whip forth with greater speed and unveil the cables and grappling clamps they'll use to burrow deep, the cutters of their prows already charging for the first and final bite to break through the hull that awaits them. Astride their course ride the [i]Jehavey'ir[/i], their dull bronze-hued plating a shield for the brave warriors who would soon flood into the sanctity of Zetrea's jewel and tear it asunder. They unleash dazzling displays of covering fire and take each hit from the defenders' scattered emerald blasts with ease, shrugging off all but the hardest of the [i]Aundus'[/i] turbolaser barrage. As fighters scramble from Zetrea itself the Mandalorian assault ships turn their attention towards them, ravaging the swarms before they can reach the breach-craft. Across the distance between the Ransiir flagship and the Palace of White Fire far below flies a short, curt exchange of communications. Their contents are unimportant; the only matter of importance is the erosion of confidence and the mounting fear from those who had felt themselves secure. Who had turned away offers of alliance in their arrogance, and who had now come face to face with the price of hubris. More ships – heavy Zetrean cruisers now – rise from the surface of the world, but to those who watch the conflict unfold behind the viewports of the ships within it, and from the HoloNet broadcasting it live to those on the ground, the outcome seems certain. Barring any sort of miracle, it is only a matter of time. And few are those who still believe in miracles... [center]****[/center] The flick of a blaster rifle's muzzle forced Kujata to sit up straight in his seat. He spread his hands wide and far from the folds of his coat – there was really no sense in antagonizing those who held the power here. Well, one sort of power anyway. The immediate kind. The important kind. If there was one lesson any Jedi who'd ever left the Temple had to learn – and learn fast – it was that no amount of attunement to the living Force or deep understanding of the philosophies of ancient Tython could undo a blaster bolt to the brain, and though a Jedi's reflexes are usually far superior to those of any opponent they faced, there was always a chance that things could go horribly wrong. He'd seen it too many times to recount. Danger thrummed in this moment and he'd be a complete idiot to ignore the overwhelming risks. And sure, Kujata could be dumb sometimes, but he wasn't a complete idiot. Usually. “Let's not be hasty here, Leej, my … amiable acquaintance?” A few curt gestures told Kujata exactly how close to amiable they were. Despite the situation, the Jedi Knight had to fight down a grin. Somehow he'd never really pictured his life being threatened by a being that barely came up to his waist. That was probably very speciest of him. Something he'd have to correct. Instead of speaking to his new captive, Leej waved to the Gamorreans. “Stand outside cantina, make sure no uninvited guests. Will make more credits off unwilling guest than random customer!” The grunts did as they were bade, stepping out through the doorway and leaving only Leej and his heavily-armed Rodian companion to cut a deal with their new captive. “Listen, you've made a pretty thoroughly incorrect assumption or two about my wealth,” the Knight said, meeting the even stare of the Jawa beside him. “I'm not sure why you think I'm burdened with credits, but I can assure you-” “No lies,” Leej warned. He pointed to his muscle, who in turn aimed the heavy blaster rifle in his hands directly at the Jedi Knight's forehead. “Leej saw kindly one leaving Britu headquarters. Does business with giants of industry! Admitted to Leej is big time business man!” [i]I did, didn't I? Well that wasn't smart.[/i] Around this point in the conversation Terzeh would have reprimanded him for not thinking things through, not trying to get a better read of the situation before he walked blindly into it. But … why should he? This wasn't war. This wasn't the hunt. There shouldn't have been a need for that sort of careful planning or paranoia. The galaxy was at peace – give or take – and he was a sworn servant of the Light Side of the Force. Which … [i]hang on.[/i] He set his sights on the 'tender as Leej continued to explain all the reasons that Kujata could afford the outrageous ransom he was about to propose. [i]Maybe there's an easy way out of this.[/i] Kujata focused himself, allowing the tenuous threads of the Force to gather around him, to tighten, to churn with power. He pictured the breath as it flowed into and away from him, siphoning away the heat, stealing away all but the calm within. Leaving him quiet. Centered. For some this came easily, this grasping for the power that all Jedi commanded. But for him – well, few things in life were easy. He raised a hand towards the Rodian who bore the heavy blaster rifle. A slow gesture, careful and calm. Don't antagonize. [i]Sympathize[/i]. Reach out, seek out the mind, touch the mind … “Isn't that blaster heavy?” he asked, filling his voice with kindness, with compassion. With a kiss of the Force. “We're all friends here. You can set it down.” Leej trailed off as the Rodian blinked, then looked down to the weapon in his hands. “I … can set it down. We are all friends here.” The weapon's barrel lowered. A micrometer at a time, agonizing in its slowness … A chittering cry erupted from the Jawa, his gloved hand waving frantically at his partner in crime as he turned his attention from Kujata. “What? Leej did not command! Weapon up, or friend Vachlek does not make big credit pile!” “Yes …” the 'tender replied, shaking his head. “Yeah, gotta keep that weapon trained. I don't know why I'd …” Kujata threw more into his voice, concentrating. Pushing himself, drawing in ever more of the living energy around him. “No, no need for the blaster. Money can't be all there is to life, and it certainly can't be worth the danger you're putting your friends in by waving that weapon about.” “I … do not … want to endanger my friends,” the Rodian – Vachlek – conceded, and again the weapon slipped downward. “Credits … are not worth … the risk?” Only a handful of words in the native tongue of Jawa culture found any sort of translation in Kujata's head, but a few choice phrases from the string of utter vileness that Leej unleashed upon his ally stuck out and made the Jedi Knight suddenly glad he didn't understand the rest. There was a surprising depth to the young Jawa's creative linguistic arts, and an he could sense an immense imagination at play. Surely the Rodian understood at least as much as Kujata, for the weapon wavered and stopped. “Yes … point … blaster …up.” “It's getting heavy, isn't it? Might as well set it down.” “Yes … down … for … friend …” “Up! Leej demand up! Do you not speak Basic good? Are you damaged? Up, or you will not be paid!” “ … get paid … good … raise weapon … ” “Why would you raise that weapon? You don't want to do that, do you? To risk the lives of all your friends?” And again it fell. The furious Jawa reached into the folds of his emblazoned cloak and retrieved a heavy metal object from the belt within. A gloved finger depressed a switch on the device and a length of shimmering metal emerged. From such a close range Kujata could almost [i]taste[/i] the electric charge on it. “Leej will maim if no comply!” he roared. “[i]Maim[/i]!” Beads of sweat erupted across the Jedi Knight's forehead as he tried to summon another wave of compulsion. Vachlek's bulbous eyes flickered back and forth between the two, nearly crossing from the strain, but the weapon crept up once more, wavering like mad. In the deepness of his eyes he seemed to be begging Kujata to stay silent. To allow him a measure of mercy. “Down.” Heavy silence fell. Kujata put the full energy of the Force into his single imperative as Leej leaned forward, the tip of his stun baton creeping closer. Somewhere above and behind them the cantina's air filtration system kicked on and filled the room with a low grumble – a sound accompanied by the nearly audible tension in the Rodian's arms as he fought between the gentle thunder of the Force unleashed … and the palpable rage of his employer. A centimeter. Another. Leej hissed and the weapon held still for just a moment – a moment that hung and splayed out across what felt like forever – and then, with a deep melancholic sigh of one embracing their doom, the blaster rifle clanked against the bar as he dropped it. “Do you have death wish!?” The stun baton slammed into Vachlek's chest and threw him back into the glass bottles and sloshing jugs behind him. Ragged breaths echoed out from the hood of the Jawa's cloak, the charge slowly creeping back into the silvery metal of the weapon in his hands. Piercing topaz eyes rolled back to Kujata and the stool swiveled to follow. “Kindly one has chanlon tongue! Must teach to Leej, after pays own ransom. And recovers from [i]savage beating[/i]!” Grunting from the effort of once again trying to draw the full font of the Force into himself, Kujata reached out and raised a few fingers towards his Jawa aggressor. “You don't want to hurt me. You'd rather let me go, and wish me a safe-” The partially charged stun baton cut him off as it whipped against the side of his face. Electricity crackled through his skin and arced for a moment through the coarse hairs of his scraggly beard, sending a couple of surges of immense pain coursing through his jaw. “No make clever words!” he roared. “Leej makes big time mess of kindly one's [i]face[/i] if kindly one tries again! Do not test patience of Leej!” [i]Well. So much for that.[/i] [center]****[/center] Zeti Trankan thought: [i]Ba’jur bal beskar’gam, ara’nov, alit, Mando’a bal Mand’alor— an vencuyan mhi...[/i] She could not see the conflict as it raged beyond the shuddering hull, but she could [i]feel[/i] it. A dizzying array of light lancing through the pitch black of the space that sought to devour it, slamming into deflector shields and erupting into novas of heat, bleeding out into the cold of the void. Flowers of hate, of carnage, blossoming for but a brief moment, lost forever after. A fleeting thing, a beautiful thing … Another quake rocked the ship. The cargo webbing she clung to kept her steady, kept her on her feet, even as the pilot twisted and bent his path through the battery fire that lit up the Mandalorian fleet. Her hands burned from the strain of holding so tightly but to let go would have meant injury, or death – they were too close to the monstrous silver-white luxury cruiser now, and had begun to feel its gravity as they barreled down towards it. No, it wasn't just that. If she let go now the others would see the way her hands shook. Would see the betrayal of her body against her mind, the waves of anxiousness, of fear, and of excitement – that heady brew of mad chemicals which flooded the whole of her being. They were close now, very close. She could practically feel the weight of those green strikes on her armor, could feel the burden of bearing them, and the hope that soon they'd be burnt away. She would stand with the others. She would wield her blades, would wield her blasters, side by side with those who had taken her in. Who had raised her. With those she sought to emulate and who she loved, and who loved her in return. There would be no more doubts, no more fear, no more worry in the dead of night that they would never accept her, never laugh alongside her nor share in her triumphs. [i]Don't get overwhelmed[/i], she chanted, shutting her eyes to picture the war raging beyond the ship. [i]Don't get overwhelmed. Focus on a single point, let everything else rush past. Let everything else go.[/i] And the chant continued. Around her the others did not blink, did not flinch when the whole of the world was turned and shifted around them. Each thunderous crack against the deflectors rolled off of them as oil across water. Only the unbloodied were as she was – only the unbloodied were trying hard to achieve what the others did without effort. Did they feel as she did, the other recruits? Did they, too, need this war as she did? Would the blood of an honorable foe mean more to them than anything else in the whole of the galaxy? [i]Ba’jur bal beskar’gam…[/i] … an ear-splitting shriek sounded through the ship, echoing and drawing all eyes towards the front of the hangar. An explosion followed by the hiss of the hangar doors unsealing, and the white-heat of slagged metal, and the acrid bite of molten plasteel … [i]… ara’nov, alit …[/i] … the thunk of clamps and the unbearable whirring of servos and they rolled in the cables which now bound the Mandalorians to their prey. Humming shields as they extended out to ensnare the searing red and glowing orange of the wounded hull before them … [i]… Mando’a bal …[/i] … tension erupting in chaos as blasterfire rained into the hangar, a swarm of white-clad warriors of Zetrea rushing forward to try to unlatch the enemy, to cast their hellish assault back into the darkness from which it came, and already the veterans were unhooked from the webbing and on their feet, pressing towards the breach and unleashing their fury, and all of them roaring as one … [I]… an vencuyan mhi.[/i] She would take her kill. She would do it with honor, with pride. She would show her father that he was right to take her, that he was right to train her. That everything he did – everything he put her through – made her stronger. Had made her into a Mandalorian that would make him proud. She would fight this day for the glory of Mandalore. She would press down her weaknesses, her fears, her doubts. She would be one with the aliit that adopted her, one with the father who had taken her as his own, one with the horde of warriors who even now sung praises of Mandalore with the sound of their blaster fire and the distant pounding sound of detonators as they tore apart those who would stand against them. Zeti leapt from the webbing and flew into the mass of warriors who fought their way down towards the [i]Aundus[/i], taking her place amongst the blue-clad warriors and beside those who wore the green slashes of the rankless recruit. They followed in the wake of the giant who led them, their Rally Master clad in resplendent crimson armor, his blaster ceaseless in their storm of shots raining hell down against the fools who thought themselves the equals of the Mandalorian Crusaders. One step at a time, one moment at a time, one breath at a time. They advanced. She stepped past and over the fallen, and advanced beyond the sizzling edge of the world she knew and into the unknown, the world of war, the battlefield. Around her were screams of laser fire and of the dead and dying, but still she advanced, and began to see through the soldiers around her. At last the wall of bodies parted and she was free of them, exposed to the battle, to the enemy. In one swift movement she swept up the blaster rifle which hung from its clip on her armor and tucked it into firing position, and sought the white-clad Zetreans against whom the beast within her could be unleashed. One shot was all it would take, one shot to end the child's lot in life and advance to her place amongst the servants of Mandalore. She found one of their soldiers, a man clad in shining white armor that would not save him. He fumbled with the energy cell of his own rifle at the far end of the corridor they'd stormed into, trying to fix what was broken, trying to put his weapon back together to save his life. She waited. She waited a heartbeat, then another, until at last he had socketed the cell and was once again part of the fight. He, too, pulled the rifle in close, and he too searched the field for an enemy to blood himself upon. Their eyes met for just a moment. Electricity surged between them. Her finger tightened, as she'd been taught. As she'd done a million times before. But … the shot never came. She could not pull it for its full measure. Something inside her [i]squirmed[/i]. Some distant voice, some dull device buried deep within her, some far-away whisper that slithered into her heart in that moment … and he was gone, cut down by one of Zeti's fellow recruits, and then another wave was upon them. The Mandalorians roared out their song of battle, the chant of their clans, the voice of war with many tones and only one word. Mandalore. White-clad Zetreans fell upon them from seemingly nowhere, blasters cast aside and blades out, stabbing and cutting in a suicide rush, a desperate attempt to take the Mandalorians down before they'd advanced too far. To buy time for the rest of the defenders to get into position, for the ship to react to the blitz that had sunk its teeth deep into them. One of them slammed into Zeti and threw her aside, and as she fell she drew one of her blades, the other catching – the angle was all wrong, and it did not clear before she hit the ground. She kicked to right herself and used her empty hand to push free of the ground, but even as she did so a Zetrean soldier, too, was thrown down, slipping in a pool of blood to fall onto Zeti's half-raised sword. Ice filled her veins and a horrible sinkhole opened wide within her. [i]Not like this,[/i] she begged. [i]Please … not like this...[/i] And a screaming opened wide in the back of her mind and it rose and billowed and it swept out to consume her. She watched as the dying child of Zetrea stared into the whole of her being and the light left his eyes, and the strength left his body, and the weight of him dragged her to the ground. [center]****[/center] If Terzeh were here she'd have found a way to diffuse this situation already. Kujata could try using whatever diplomacy was left to him to salvage what was left of the conversation, but that would risk Leej's electric ire again. No, it was time to do something he never really felt comfortable doing – it was time to show off like some sort of grand stinking hero. He [i]hated[/i] that stuff. “Very well, Leej. You've backed me into a corner.” He stared fully into the eyes of the Jawa before him, drawing once more on the power of the Force as he tried to clear his emotions and center himself. “I think it's time you knew who you're dealing with.” “You think idle threats strike fear into Leej? Have seen much! Have lived life of danger! Have – do not move! Will not warn again!” In one immense burst of energy the Jedi Knight swept himself from the bar stool and flipped backwards, landing into a crouch, throwing back the sides of his long cloak to reveal the lightsabers that dangled from his belt. The gleam of the cantina's muted light caught the pair on his right, and the hilt on his left seemed to drink it in and leave none behind. A wry grin spread across his lips as he drew forth the latter and ignited the crimson fire within. But Leej was already in motion the second that his captive fled the bar, slipping down and rolling towards Kujata, brandishing his stun baton, the charge light flickering from red to green as he brought it to bear against the lightsaber-wielding foe he faced. There was not an ounce of fear in the diminutive being; not a hint of doubt. Only steely resolve and … irritation. [i]Agile little schutta,[/i] Kujata thought, eying his enemy and once again having to fight down his mirth. “Kindly one is Jedi?” Leej snapped. “You think Jedi scare Leej? Jedi is fool! All Leej needs to do to win is touch Jedi! One touch, and Leej will have ransom kidnapping of lifetime! Jedi Temple will pay millions of credits to Leej for safe return of their own!” Kujata rose from his crouch and slipped into a dueling stance, nearly touching the point of his humming blade to Leej's crackling weapon. “I think you overestimate how badly they'd want me back, my friend. Though perhaps they'd pay you to keep me as far away from Coruscant as you can.” “Take or not take, Leej gets paid. Win win.” And so they stood, framed by the cantina's doorway: A Jedi Knight and a Jawa scoundrel, weapons at the ready and a sense of impending conflict brewing between them like a storm. The shadows and the light swirled around them as they fed on the blood-red light and dazzling blue arcs of the readied weapons, each testing the other, each opponent stepping with small motions, neither giving ground, hearts beating faster, eyes narrowed, nerves alight … The Trag'tek's door slid open with a hiss and in through the threshold peered a pair of wide-eyed Camaasi women dressed so richly in so many layers of pearl shimmersilk that they could only be hopelessly lost tourists. Everything held still. An instant frozen in time as the women took in the scene. An instant broken as the one in the lead turned to her friend. “Maybe we should go somewhere else?” “Graaahhhh! Where are Gamorreans?” the Jawa roared, throwing his stun baton at the women in the doorway. They fled in the face of his rage, the door closing behind them. “Leej cannot buy good help on [i]Aundus[/i]!” Kujata let the blade of his lightsaber die out, its volcanic fire receding into the midnight hilt in his palm. He cleared his throat to draw the enraged Jawa's attention back to the matter at hand, gesturing towards the stun baton that had discharged itself into the wall beside the doorway, a deep char marking off the point of impact. “So … this is a little awkward now,” the Jedi Knight began. “If you want I can wait for you to rearm … ?” Exasperation flooded every last vibration of the Force around them as the Jawa exhaled. “This not Leej's day.” “Well, it could always get better, right? Go and pick up the baton. We can pick up from where we left off if you want, and who knows? You might be able to get that one good hit in before I can disable your weapon.” The Jawa looked from Kujata to the stun baton, and back, and again. Finally he strode to his weapon and stood above it, hesitant to reach down. A glance back towards the bar, then to the door. It felt as if he'd say something then, but whatever it was he bit it back. One final questioning flash of those brilliant yellow eyes on Kujata … and he reached down for the baton. Every light in the cantina flickered, shut down, and lit back up with a bright red hue. The entire ship seemed to flood with the sound of warning klaxons that nearly deafened both of the conscious sentients in the cantina. They churned on for almost a full minute before dying down to a low screech, allowing the sound of the [i]Aundus'[/i] internal com system to snap to life and a voice to fill the gap: “This is the [i]Aundus-Valay[/i] Security Force,” it said, radiating the sort of calm it took Jedi Masters the whole of their lives to achieve. “The [i]Aundus[/i] is now on lockdown. Hostile forces have begun an attack on our vessel. Be advised that all inbound and outbound travel is temporarily suspended. At this time we advise all passengers to make their way to designated safe zones for their own protection. ASF troopers will guide you to safe zone nearest you. Please proceed in a calm and orderly fashion and we will update you with further news as the situation develops.” The klaxons resumed their howl, but the Jawa's voice was clear enough and shrill enough to cut through the noise with near-perfect clarity. “So,” Leej said, sighing. “How does kindly Jedi feel on subject of bodyguarding innocent Jawas for handsome fees?”