Clan Feeding Restriction: Romani of Eastern European descent.
Storytelling Note: Among many Ventrue, it was considered a bad omen to associate with the gypsy people, who they considered thieves and murderers. Regardless, Nicolaus keeps this hidden as best he can.

Prague | Blackriver Citadel | circa 1785

“You've been found guilty of treason against your Sabbat brethren, sharing secrets that jeopardize the interests and security of this Sect, and conspiring with the Camarilla!” The thin, pale, dark-haired Lasombra read from an unfurled scroll, eying the caged vampire across from him with much gile and suspicion. “In turn, you have been stripped of your title as ‘Inquisitor’ amongst the Black Hand and are hereby subject to summary judgement by way of a thousand blade cuts and incineration until Final Death has destroyed your existence.” A wry grin formed across the creature’s dried lips. “And mark my words, your confederates will be found and destroyed and you will therefore be stricken from the manuscripts, never to be remembered again.”

“Remembered for what exactly?” The other scoffed, clearly unimpressed with the series of charges that, while true, were still overly exaggerated.

The Lasombra tilted his head slightly as his face contorted into the epitome of anger and disgust. “You Ventrue lackeys are all the same, stubborn to the last, and yet you insult my intelligence by assuming I am not aware of the prestige, the Dignitas, that you’ve managed to acquire for the past one hundred years as a member of the Sabbat?”

He stepped closer to the thick steel bars of the small cell holding the prisoner.

“And if it wasn't for your Sire advocating on your behalf, the Black Hand would have had considerably less tolerance for your continued insolence. In fact, many of us within the Circle are convinced she is just as guilty as her half-wit childe.”

“Kivaria has no part in this I assure you. Keep her out of your little ’witch hunts’.”

“Perhaps.” He paused, steepling his hands. “Regardless, your betrayal has ended here, and will prove fruitless as countermeasures are in place to ensure our secrets are kept well hidden from the outside clans.” The Lasombra smirked, his yellowed teeth peeking through the small slit between his lips. “You know nothing Nicolaus, and you will die a most horrible death with nothing.”

The prisoner stood for a moment as though he were contemplating the words of his accuser. “You may be right, but I am aware of one important fact...”

The Lasombra arched a single eyebrow. “Humor me Ventrue.”

“That you, and you alone, were responsible for the rape, sodomy, decapitation, and burning of the only woman I ever loved. And rather than owning up to such an ’accomplishment’ against a defenseless mortal, you pinned it on my Sire, causing decades of tension and mistrust in the wave of your deceit.”

The Lasombra cackled in a most horrific manner at the other's words. “So this was the catalyst of your treason? A mortal woman? Oh Nicolaus...you are a weaker fool than I thought- ”

“No!” He interrupted, leaning closer to the cage bars as he stared deeper into the darkened eyes of the Sabbat Inquisitor. “You, my friend, are a disgrace to your kind and an insult to all those who follow your skewed perceptions. You are a sack of sludge unworthy of the unlife Caine has granted.”

The Inquisitor snorted as he took a half-step closer to the cage, whispering to the condemned only inches from him. “You will die in the most painful way imaginable, Nicolaus Strøm. Your body will be divided and sent to the four corners of the world as a warning to all who would even consider betraying the Sabbat. You will-”

The Lasombra’s vile speech was suddenly cut short by a long silent dagger jabbed under his chin, and forced up through his skull, penetrating the gray matter within and causing a low guttural sound of blood and bile as it forced its way through his severed vocals. His expression, once full of smugness, had transformed into petrified fear, as streams of thick blood ran down the assailant's weapon hand and his target’s ceremonial black cloak.

“I will live...” Nicolaus hissed through clenched teeth as he twisted the steel dagger, causing the low squishing and popping sounds of cartilage and brain tissue. “And I will see that the Sabbat pay in blood, even it takes me until my last nights.” He pulled the dagger quickly from the vampire’s bloodied head, and immediately pierced his heart, which caused the Lasombra to instantly go rigid as the very source of the creature’s unlife was struck the final debilitating blow. And with the blade embedded firmly in place, Nicolaus grabbed the keys to free himself from the cell, allowing the stiff body to fall hard against the stone floor, before kneeling down next to the dying Sabbat Elder.

“And by the way.” He said, pushing the vampire’s head to one side and exposing his long, veiny neck. “Kivaria gives her regards...”

And with that, the Ventrue sank his fangs deep, draining every last bit of the creature’s vitae, his essence, his soul, and with it a renewal of strength surged through Nicolaus as the stroke of Final Death took the withered and rotting corpse of the Sabbat.

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Countless decades ticked away on the great clock of immortality, as time was trivial to one who lived forever. Nicolaus was on the run, embedding himself into the Underground realms of Europe, Asia, and eventually, the Americas, building up what he had lost when he severed his ties to the Black Hand of the Sabbat, and much of the Kindred world for that matter. For over two centuries he kept hidden among the mortals, gaining vital contacts, amassing wealth from various business deals, investments, and black market transactions. If living amongst the Ventrue had done anything, it increased a sense of resourcefulness and survival, and his various professional backgrounds and a solid business acumen allowed access into the upper echelons of society where he could keep tabs on both kindred and kine from a safe distance. However, as with any influential individual with a network spanning multiple continents, the shadow that once covered him was slowly fading away as the light of truth and Kindred interests crept back into his life.

Among the handful of Camarilla clans, Garou within the Glasswalker tribe, and mortal business partners who had dealings with him, his Ventrue brethren had the most interest (and gain) from his influence, and as trust developed over many decades, his acceptance into their Sect had become a natural occurrence. The Elder Ventrue of Los Angeles invited him to join their ranks and enter into a pact with the Camarilla, hoping his vast network would allow their clan to continue greatness and stability in an otherwise Anarch-driven society. Even as much, Nicolaus not only had to prove himself to the Inner Circle -and those leaders within control of the Free State-but to his own clan, gaining sought after Dignitas that was lost to the ages, which would again place him amongst the elite of his kind.

Eventually he was appointed the “Servire” position, assisting the Archons of that time with intel and just about any other duties required. Near the tail-end of the Twentieth Century, as Lucinde was selected as Justicar representing clan Ventrue, one of her first tasks was to hunt and capture the notorious Samedi diablerist, Genina, which she did, increasing her prestige amongst much of the kindred population. For Nicolaus and his part in assisting Lucinde and her coterie, he was appointed position of Archon, and more specifically “Alastor”, allowing virtually unhindered freedoms in order to bring those kindred who are in severe violation of the Traditions to justice, whether by trial or fire.

Nicolaus knew, however, that the exploits of his life leading up to present would come full circle, and that two events were inevitable: His sire would resurface and come for him as either friend or otherwise, and the Sabbat would track him down to exact their own twisted brand of judgement…

Aside from several Servire at his disposal, below are key NPCs utilized to better solidify the information gather network

Elizabeth Salahori: (mortal) Retainer & companion to Nicolaus. Has vast connections with Romani, even those within kindred society. Her and Nicolaus have kept their nearly fifteen year relationship on the downlow, and while their closest associates are aware of the bond between the vampire and mortal, they also fear it may upset the integrity of the long-standing Traditions.

Jack Frost: (Nosferatu) contact and friend. Nico saved his life from a fiery attack years ago. Jack uses what pull he has to lend any Underground intel, also acts as a guide to Nico if the need arises to traverse vast networks of sewers and tunnels.

Detective ? - Mortal retainer- works out of LA precinct

“If you’re really up there God, just as you’ve been preached about countless times enough over the years for me to have listened, then I promise to turn things around once and for all. I know I’ve been a mudak, made wrong choices, but I’m not doing this for myself anymore…”

Gavon peaked around the corner of the large steel pillar he’d been huddled behind for the last hour during the firefight, catching a glimpse of his former comrades armed to the teeth, intent on ending the female Relief Soldier’s life -and his- to preserve their own sadistic lifestyle. There were four of them, one with a pistol pressed firmly against the girl’s temple, she couldn’t have been much older than eighteen and damn sure she didn’t expect this to happen. Or maybe she did? Either way, he could see the fear in her eyes, a life that was ending even before it really began. It was hard enough for him to believe that he’d fallen in with such psychopaths, but equally understandable to a degree considering the world they were thrust into, and the lengths people had to go to survive in a wasteland...

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Russia, the once capital of the European Confederacy, had been torn down to essentially nothing after the Third World War, leaving its people and those surrounding countries, to pick up the pieces of their life and pride. Gavon only received these as stories, passed down through a generation or two, trying to picture in his own head what his homeland must have been like before war came to rear its ugly face and spit blood on civilization. His father went off to help in the war efforts, his whereabouts never revealed, and mother, a school teacher, assisted in rebuilding the educational infrastructure that was so desperately needed. Fortunately for Gavon, aside from his native Russian, he was taught to read, write, and speak in the English language, as that had been more or less the universal tongue and would serve him well.

To eke out a life from the ashes of a once proud legacy was anything but simple, and the difficult choices had to be made in order to preserve what was left, to rebuild something out of literally nothing, and hold on to the hope that one day you would put all of the chaos behind you. Either by means of a one-way ticket out, perhaps to another stabilized nation, or from a bullet to the head. Gavon was born and raised in a wasteland that looked like a hopeless case, a place nothing good could ever come from again, and yet he held onto the values passed from his parents:

Work hard, stay true to your homeland, protect its people, and have faith in the One who creates rather than destroys.

As time passed during the adolescent years however, his values and beliefs wavered greatly, and more out of necessity he fell in with a group who promised greater things than he’d ever had. The Solntsevskaya Brotherhood, a name derived from a Russian mafia of the twentieth century had been one of the major factions who recruited and labelled themselves as “Resistance Fighters”, when in fact they were no better than vicious street thugs. Stealing illegal technology, weapons, and supplies -ripped either from opposing gangs or from relief convoys sent down to assist in rebuilding and revitalizing- only to have their goods sold on the black market to other gangs and corporations waging their own civil wars. The Brotherhood took no sides, but rather reaped the benefits from whoever had the means to pay.

Even as he learned several useful skills and trades through his teenage years such as armed and unarmed combat, guerrilla tactics, and negotiations through intimidation and blackmail, he just didn’t see a future in taking from a society who was already buried in shit and piss. In his early twenties, as relief convoys began hiring additional protection for their goods, the gangs found it increasingly difficult to overrun them, and Relief Soldiers began pressing down hard on their assailants. Gavon saw the potential of joining such a faction of people whose sole purpose was to help, not hurt those nations who needed the means to a better future. A life of crime at the expense of the innocent was no life he’d ever intended, and the opportunity finally came to prove where his loyalties lay.

-----------------------------

“I’m doing this for the people and values I swore to my sem'ya I’d protect…”

He slid the ammo magazine out from the modified handgun gripped tightly in his hand, doing a quick ammo check, before clicking it back into place and sliding the next bullet into the chamber.

“...and I intend on keeping that promise...”

With a smooth and effortless roll to the side, he kept low behind a table tipped over, and fired off several rounds, the first hitting the man next to the girl, which knocked him off balance, giving her the opportunity to disarm the guy and finish him off with his own weapon. The other bullets went wide, a few hitting non-vital body parts and scattering their ranks. Curses were screamed out in Russian, English, and some other unknown languages, as bullets flew in both directions, one of which nailed Gavon in the shoulder causing him to fall backward. The firefight alerted nearby Relief Soldiers, who charged in and swept up what was started, and in the end, three assault rifles were aimed at the lone man laying on the ground with a bullet in his shoulder and a wry grin across his lips.

“Who the hell are you?” The girl asked him, flanked by her team, as she wiped sweat from her brow.

“Just a nobody trying to get the fuck out of this place...”

In the years following, due to heroics, sacrifice and a lot of charm, Gavon was part of the Relief Convoy, assigned as a soldier tasked with protecting the ships, it’s cargo, and delivery of goods. A position he grew to love, embrace, and would die for. That female soldier he saved? As fortune would have it, they grew close and married a few years after, working together to recruit more to the relief cause while maintaining a personal life. The idea of children had come up several times, but they both knew their duty came first and accepted it all the same. When the Genesis Project rolled out publicly, relief efforts turned into riot control, and soldiers were needed in every capacity to keep the peace. Gavon was eventually given the opportunity to become the Vitae’s Head of Security, based on his combat skill set, loyalty to team, and leadership qualities.

The day came, however, where his life would take an unexpected turn, when the bullet of a sniper passed through his armor, piercing his heart, before exiting through his back. Gavon instantly fell, his wife Natalie rushing to his side, and her screams for help fading as all went dark. His body was carried away by the medical AI units , sustaining his life through temporary means while they transported him to the Vitae -an Ark that would become his new home- in hopes of saving his life and retaining a great asset. On board the Ark, they quickly went to work, replacing his damaged human heart with a newly developed artificial unit, and allowing him the time needed to rest and recover while his new robotic heart adapted to its host.

Natalie, who was assigned as Security Chief on the Vitae until her husband’s full recovery, began structuring the department for additional personnel, and amassing a loyal group of men and women who would serve as the ear, eyes, and law aboard the Ark.

A responsibility she knew Gavon would uphold with his life...

Five Years Later:
As in any situation that keeps one busy, time seemed to fly by, and it was no different aboard a hung of metal floating through unknown space as time and tide tested everyone’s meddle, only to filter out the weaker links and fill the voids that were found within the ship’s security. As months turned into years, and plans for further development within the Ark continued, Gavon’s focus shifted toward physical security, ensuring that entry/exit doors, cameras, alert systems, and a myriad of measures were taken to upgrade and maintain safety and security for both civilian and military personnel. Natalie’s, aside from her continued work in Dispatch and Communications, had focused on the ship’s network and firewall system security, working with NOAH and Engineers on a daily basis and filling any gaps that were needed so necessary data flow was encrypted and running smoothly throughout the mainframe.

Until I can find a suitable image, I'll keep it to the description...

”Where words fail, music speaks”

The dark-haired girl stared intently at the quote scribbled along the top of the promotional poster hanging just outside the Boston Symphony Hall on Massachusetts Ave, that portrayed one of her favorite violinists. Not just a favorite, but a mentor of sorts, an inspiration and reminder of how much greater her talent would need to be in order to make it to the top one day. To be admired by others rather than simply passed by on the street like a nobody. Although contrary to these fleeting thoughts, Bryn was never much of a social person, nor did she enjoy being in any kind of spotlight. In fact, she hated it. Mostly self-taught, her musical talents were above average, and she found the violin to be a most pleasant instrument in her grasp, as each note and melody produced a vast mixture of emotions that she could relate to on many levels. In the grand scheme of things, however, the girl didn’t need to be on top, but rather sought affirmation that she hadn’t wasted her years plucking at the strings of a tool which didn’t produce some kind of enjoyment for herself, or for others. Bryn was still an artist, and the perfectionist side never seemed to allow her to move to the next level, no matter how hard she worked.

An artist had to eat, right? And so came the small venues here and there throughout Boston, as well as paintings she’d created in her spare time that connected to the music she wrote. Bryn made a decent living from the meager earnings her artist talents produced, and to an extent, she’d become content with the lifestyle and “romanticized” living of a young bohemian Boston-born artist. As time passed, she’d fallen in love and married, eventually had two kids, and did her best to carve out a life with a new family, all the while continuing to pursue a more lucrative musical career.

Yet, little did she know that on any given Saturday afternoon while taking her young children for a stroll through Boston Commons, her life would be drastically altered forever.

As she approached the large brick laden tunnel she’d crossed through dozens of times in the past, a young dark-haired woman about Bryn’s height and weight, barefoot and dressed in a flowy lavender sundress that looked strangely familiar, stood at the very opening. The stranger held in one hand a dark wood violin, encrusted with small shimmery gems, and in the other, a deep brown lacquered bow with a series of beads at the base. As Bryn approached, still pushing the doublewide stroller with her twin infant girls, she slowed her pace to a crawl, noticing for the first time that the woman’s facial features resembled her own! The stranger, void of any real expression, cocked her head slightly to one side and lifted the stringed instrument to her chin, where she began to play a low key and rather morbid sonata.

At first glance, Bryn was stunned, unable to vomit out a single word in protest, and certainly had no idea what was going on as this seemingly average “clone” continued to play a tune which held the young woman’s attention against her own free will. Was this a dream? A dream within a dream? Bryn hadn’t realized that time around her began to slow to a standstill and it was only her, the two children, and the other moving in real time. Curiosity took hold, as the music called to her, chiding her to approach the stranger. As she passed the front of the stroller, the girl noticed that both her kid were asleep, which hadn’t been an unusual occurrence during their afternoon walks. Her attention then pulled back toward the other until they were both within arms length, and the stranger ceased her playing, but rather holding the instrument out for Bryn to take, which she did without much hesitation to her own surprise. The violin felt heavenly within her grasp, a surge of excitement and wonder that she hadn’t felt in a long time surged through her, and she immediately closed her eyes and began playing music she’d never played before. Musical compositions that were on a level she’d never reached before, and yet there she was, playing them effortlessly and for that small moment in time, the world she’d been born into and raised up in was forgotten as the music enraptured her very being.

And then an abrupt push from the clone -the Fetch as is later realized- that plunges the girl into another realm altogether, with the last visions of her two sleeping children and their new “mother” at their side, smiling wryly and waving as the portal closes behind the now lost young woman...

An undetermined amount of time had passed, and even as Bryn opened her eyes from what seemed as though it were a long slumber, she was greeted by a lush and beautifully maintained garden, one of which seemed vaguely familiar. Even the scent that permeated throughout brought her joy and comfort, a place she hoped to never leave again. Her mind told her to rise up, as though she were actually laying down, yet it occurred to her that she was standing all along. Even moreso, the young woman felt as though she’d been here before...many times, in fact. Bryn tried to walk as she’d done every day of life, but she was stuck, rooted into one place and as her stiff neck turned and pivoted her head toward her legs, the realization struck her like a thousand blades to the heart. What replaced her lower body was the massive trunk of a tree, it’s roots spread in every direction, going deep into the ground to soak up the water and nutrients it offered. Her arms and hands, thick twisted branches and vines that took the shape of what was once human appendages of flesh and bone. Even what she could see of her upper body, was covered in bark and more corded and woven vines that made up the rest of her body. She brought a shaking limp up to her face, and without being able to see her own visage, knew that it was less than what it was, but still a shadow of it’s former self. She was what one would consider a Dryad from folklore, a hauntingly beautiful creature made up of an array of wood, thorny vines, various flowering plants, and the blackest of soil to bind it all together.

The girl wanted to scream in protest to whatever had happened, her mind raced and thoughts carried her back into time, countless years to the point of her first being pushed through the gateway and into the darkened Hedge. The massive Ogre who carried her nearly unconscious body through the thorny pathways into Arcadia, where he’d kept her for many days in a workshop full of sculptures made of every kind of element you could imagine. Bryn grew weaker as the days passed, still in her human form that slowly felt as though it were fading away, as though her flesh slipping away from the skeleton that held her up. The Ogre -her Keeper- had bled most of what was left in her body into a pot, adding it to the strange brew that was simmering day after day within the morbid workshop he considered his home. As the last vestiges of life drained away into whatever concoction the beast had, Bryn died, but only her body faded away. Her true essence, her soul if you will, carried on into the wooden golem that she now inhabited, its structure, once just a base design, twisted and formed into a closer image of what her mortal form had once been. Just more…tree-like.

Time passed, and the Ogre continued on with his new bondservant, treating her as less than equal but paying little attention to her other than being a mere tool for his trade or an exquisite “show piece” for his vast architectural landscapes and gardens. It was then, surprisingly, and after several years of hard labor, that the Ogre presented Bryn with a beautifully crafted violin that had a rich, deep red color soaked into the wood itself. The beast never forgot the girl’s true potential and gift of music, and he wished to take advantage of yet another aspect of the Changeling's rebirth into the land of Fae: Magic.

Learning to play this newly crafted instrument all over again as a reborn Woodblood was challenging but the girl was determined to bring back the one thing that truly kept her happy and at peace. She brought herself up to speed in no time, playing tunes she'd remembered from her mortality and learned new songs by simply listening to the environment all around her. The Ogre’s work flourished with each harmony, and many of his sculpted pieces came to life as a result of the magic that flowed through the red violin. The instrument was a part of Bryn, and she, a part of the instrument.

Forever inseparable. Or so she thought.

Many cycles later, in a fit of rage, the Ogre ripped the instrument from his slave’s grip in a single violent stroke, taking with it pieces of her wooden limbs that slowly regenerated. The violin body cracked, and strings broken away from the tuning bolts, an emotion erupted in the girl that has never been there before. Where fear and subjugation had been the dominant factor, they were quickly replaced by a heated anger that unleashed in a flurry of attacks against her keeper. The first of many, gouging the beast's eyes out with the sharpened ends of her fingers, causing the branches to grow and penetrate into the creature's brain matter until it reacted by swatting her arm away, snapping it in half and leaving the wooden shanks lodged in his head.

Bryn shrieked as she’d lost her forearm, but knowing full well it would regenerate with time, but at that moment she only wanted to flee and create as much distance between her and the Ogre as possible. So she scooped up the broken violin and ran, using the time that her Keeper was blinded and distracted to hide in the thick of the dark forests, a place she knew would allow her sanctuary, if even for a little while.

And so the two worlds collided once again.

Up ahead, canvassed by large trees and flanked by two pillars of layered stone and glass, a tall but narrow rip in the fabric of Arcadia revealed the mortal realm, a world where Bryn knew she'd belong to many years past. Slivers of memory came back as she gazed into the gateway, keeping focus on what lied beyond, and using what little she could remember about the portals to make a possible escape. At that moment, however, fear and doubt once again rose up and kept her petrified. She wanted to run, to escape the unknown years of slavery and reclaim what was once hers on the other side of the gateway. But what did await her? The girl could hear voices in the distance, and she'd realized that it was now or never to cross. With a deep breath and a renewed sense of purpose, Bryn bolted toward the portal and leapt through the narrow passage just before the glamour which held it open dissipated and the spot where the gateway appeared returned to its original state.

Most of what happened next seemed to be a blur, memories of the transition from Arcadia to the mortal world again hit her hard. Her body took on the Mask of a rather close approximation of her former self, but still different, with certain aspects of her true form, her Mien, seeping through the magical disguise she wore to protect her identity. She'd landed in a place that was foreign to her, a city that had never been her home before, and was far from where she'd started. What's more, she knew she had to escape to the mortal realm, yet she could not recall who or what she had prior to being taken all those years ago. Did she have family? Was there a home for her to go back to?

The basics of survival were still with her, and little by little, she discovered that the Fae magic coursed through her veins even in the strange new city. Her arm, the one damaged during her escape from the Ogre, formed properly but was still not fully functional, and felt weak compared to the rest of her body. A small price to pay she supposed, but hopefully something that could be rectified as her journey begins in New York City.

“You know the rules, lmperial dog. If you want to eat, you fight!”

The large Fight Master, whose species was unknown, fully charged electro-staff in hand, continued to poke and prod the blood and sweat-soaked combatant, shouting profanities in aurabesh, and spitting vile yellow-green saliva which poured from the corner of his mouth as he spoke. The resounding death chants of the crowd pulsating throughout the small makeshift arena had become deafening as the battle continued.

“That's ‘former Imperial’, genius…” The human retorted in between heavy breaths.

“If you want to die...well...you’ll have to die somewhere else!” The creature's lips parted forming a wry smile that revealed rows of jagged, displaced yellow stained teeth. “And I’d hate for something as succulent-looking as you to waste away so soon”

The combatant stood up slowly, holding firmly onto his right arm where his opponent, a dark reddish-hair Gundark who smelled of week old urine, carved a good sized gash that went deep, rendering any muscle movement in the arm useless at that moment. The human shot the wretched Fight Master a cold stare, his sore and tired green eyes ignited with the will to push on.

“You know I used to like you...about thirty seconds ago, but now I just want to kick you in your face. The problem is, I can't tell where your face starts and your ass ends you slimy piece of- ”

The human’s gaze suddenly switched over to the charging beast, fifty meters ahead and closing in fast.

A frantic look replaced the Fight Master's earlier smug expression as he let out a harsh squeal and something exclamatory in his native language. “Gru’dah! Time to take my place behind the gate! Good luck meatbag human!…”

The Fight Master, chuckling to himself, started toward the outer gate, while the human’s arm quickly reached out and grabbed the electrostaff mid-handle. “Not so fast worm, I need to finish this...”

The human male, tall, lean, and muscular in physique, held tight to the staff, shifted his weight to his leading foot and spun around with the grace of a wild Cathar, ripping the weapon free from the Fight Master's greasy hands. As he was virtually meters from the huge beasts open jaws and massive claws, the human gladiator launched the electrified end of the staff straight out in front of him and the weapon hit its mark with near precision.

The crowd roared with intense excitement. Blood is what they wanted to see, no matter whose it was.

“Move!” He shouted toward the slug-like Fight Master as he dove and rolled sideways out of the overly-pissed creatures path of destruction. The energy cell powering the staff overloaded causing the beasts insides to burn at an accelerated rate. It writhed out of control for a few moments longer until the dust settled and the beast’s shrieks and thrashing fell silent.

“Now I eat…” The human said behind clenched teeth. “And you’ll not say another word...”

The fight master, shaking off the anxiety, stared at the creatures half-burnt corpse in disbelief and then back at the dust-covered, bloodied, and bruised humanoid and nodded in acknowledgement.

“Ehh, right...so what do I call you off-worlder?” The fightmaster asked, as he motioned over to the clean-up crew.

The man grabbed the edge of the Fight Masters tattered cloak and wiped the sweat, dust, blood, and whatever else was stuck to his face.

“Call me whatever you want slime, just pay me what I'm owed and I'll go on my way.”

“Hah, bold words, meatbag. You'll get your pay, less the cost of that electrostaff you destroyed, of course. But I need a name as well before you see anything.”

“Fine. Gavon..call me Gavon”



Odd jobs. It had been like that since the collapse of the Empire, its many holdings and investments dried up, stolen, or destroyed by enemies and competitors, or any entitled rogue group considering themselves valiant heroes of the war. Many corporations throughout the galaxy whose vested interests were embedded in the mega-structure of the Empire, abandoned planets, or negotiated new contracts with private businesses, Republic officials, or anyone willing to keep them employed. Inhabitants of the galaxy needed work and did what they could to hold on to it.

Gavon had no real love for the Empire, it’s Imperial army of drones and tools, and especially not the deified Sith, whose ego knew no bounds, or so he heard. Fortunately, he never actually met a Sith Lord, or any “force sensitive” during his employment, and even if he had, Gavon [jokingly] assumed they would be easy to spot. Did a Jedi or a Sith glow with the force? Was there a secret handshake that would be their tell?

However, all things considered, his dislike for the Empire only went so deep as they did provide a steady stream of work, enough it seemed considering the amount of enemies in and out of Imperial controlled territories.

At the time the Empire was at the height of their power, Gavon had been conscripted and trained at a young age under a relatively new branch of the Imperial Security Bureau (ISB) as an “Enforcer Agent”. The ISB had many branches and agents that kept their fingers busy shuffling through everyone else's business, and the Enforcers were there to ensure they survived when things went awry. They were considered, for all practical purposes, a bodyguard. Training as an Enforcer was quite strict, and long hours were spent in physical as well as mental exercises, learning to extract a team member (and themselves) out of any given situation. Weapons training was one of the last exercises, and a number of blasters, rifles, and an assortment of melee weapons were given to each Enforcer agent to use as needed. But above all things, they were protectors to the agents, and each life lost was a scar on their reputation that would be carried forever. A scar that Gavon wore with much shame.

Kaliza.

Her bloodied face and frightened expression haunted him each night and continued to remain at the forefront of his mind. It was supposed to be an easy covert Op for her, in and out, but the ambush came quickly and the false intel Imperial Intelligence had been fed positioned Gavon and his crew at the wrong extraction point. Even among the opposition of the higher-ups and some of her peers, she had been the first non-human to be accepted in Imperial Intelligence and her career was over before it started.

Protectors. Who are we protecting now, but the undeserving?

After the seat of the Empire had diminished, and the Imperial military no longer working in any official capacity, Gavon found himself at the unemployment crossroads, and sometimes even at a dead end. The galaxy was trying it’s best to pick up the pieces left by the last war, and most corporations and small business had hiring freezes that lasted months. Relief work wasn’t hard to find, and while it paid very little, the benefits had been well worth the time spent for the ex-Enforcer. During a demo and clean up job on Coruscant, the Undercity had been overrun with refugees who once lived on the surface, crime and violence was at an extreme high, even for the likes of the underground world beneath the shining city. Gavon, having taken residence on one of the housing levels, came across a girl, no more than six or seven years of age, who had been hiding away in the closet of a unit he rented. The frightened Togruta child, who he later found out was one of the many war orphans, quickly warmed up to Gavon, and strangely he to her, for it wasn’t until moments after their meeting that he realized the little girl had an unbelievable resemblance to Kaliza.

Weeks turned into months, and both Gavon and his charge, Uriah, left Coruscant and headed toward Nar Shaddaa, to meet a potential employer, Madam Z’noshe, a wealthy art collector who was in need of a full time and local bodyguard. She also had concerns of several pieces of artifacts she claimed were being stolen by pirates and gangs looking to sell them back to her, but had no hard evidence, or a location to start. Gavon knew this job wasn't going to be as black and white as he hoped.

In the long run though, Gavon hoped after some time, his new employer would be able to provide a good home and education for the Togruta orphan Uriah in exchange for half his agreed amount of pay. Even half was enough for him to live comfortably and Gavon knew the little girl needed a life away from all the chaos…



The momentary pinging sound from the communicator console next to his bed startled him from a deep sleep.

“What the...how long was I out? Geez, I didn’t even hear it ring the first time” Gavon rubbed his eyes, and turned on the holoscreen to view the message:

MESSAGE PENDING:
From: Enara Z’noshe
0200 : Centaxday
[[ URGENT ]]

A miniaturized translucent version of Madam Z’noshe materialized on the small holopad.

“Mister TreVayne, my apologies for the disturbance at this late hour, but your attention is of the utmost importance. Please contact me as soon as you can on my private channel, pass phase: ‘drunk Dug with a gambling problem’. Enara out.”

Gavon arched an eyebrow, mumbling to himself. “Must be important. She addressed me as ‘Mister’ “