The crates unloaded behind the bar, Selri directed the droid bartenders - affectionately called Bob-ots - to distribute the bottles about the bar before they guests would arrive. New sorts of alcohol and exotic juices would make a splash with the members of the Clan and their guests. No doubt, the Chef would have something similar in mind, once he made sense of the wild ingredients from the distant colony.
The scent of hot noodle soups found its way to where she stood, the droids whirring around her. “You got Squeeks in there with you, old man?” The Ranat was well known to visitors of the Dentavii station as well as the workers that lived there. His noodle stall was a staple, even if the translations were as suspicious as the ingredients.
“I don’t know if I should be complemented or insulted, Selri.” He stuck his head out of the kitchen, his lips twitching in amusement. “I’ll take it as both.”
Selri chuckled to herself as he turned back to his work. “Good, I wasn’t sure, either.” Turning, she heard the subtle sound of doors opening, the first of what was sure to be many patrons coming in tonight. Scuttling off to her office, she flipped the switches on her datapad, the subtle lighting effects and good music starting to liven up the place. She winked at one of the Bob-ots as it wheeled out of her way, a soda gun spinning on a metallic finger.
It was going to be a good night.
The Versea Matriarch wasn’t one for joining many social events. She tended to shy away due to always being forced to go to many as a young girl, her parents being ambassadors and all. Also due to the hardship between Bentre going mad, causing mayhem and jeopardizing things, she wasn’t even sure how long their marriage would last. Far as she saw it, he had become far more distant and aloof, even from her. Every so often even if she messaged him,it was always wanting to do experiments on her child to quote “Protect her. “She let out a sigh. “Was being a Sith really a path she wanted to continue or would she cause more bloodshed, hurt and harm to others deemed enemy by Naga Sadow?” So many questions she had been mulling over these past months now. Deep down part of her had always wanted to be a protector to those she loved. She wanted to have a small family, yet so far all of it had been cut down by thirst for more power, greed, and selfishness. She found herself actually going down to the dentavii bar now, but why? Perhaps she just wanted to relax and have some company.
She had grown weary of late. Donning a nice black evening wear dress, she also placed a golden headpiece with rubies and emeralds in the pattern of her clan symbol. She then also wore a waterfall necklace with emeralds around them. Her eyes had a forest green eyeshadow with a black wing eyeliner to draw attention to her emerald eyes. A soft blue lipstick to make her lips a little darker but more natural to her sapphire skin. Her lekku swayed as she walked in a pair of black pumps into the bar. She looked like she was up for a night on the town. Smiling, she stepped up to the bar and sat down on one of the stools. “Tattooine sunrise if you please.” She replied to the bartender as she glanced about. While she waited, she sent out a message to her mercenary who had been sent to some Taldryan farm. She wanted to see how Vance had been. Moment’s later he responded with. “Going well, I have to go. I am currently busy entertaining folks with my guitar.” She chuckled. “Well least someone seems to be having a good time.”
The monowheeled droid spun to attention quickly, unholstering a soda gun from tanned leather at its hip as the other hand poured distilled sucractus alcohol into a tall glass of ice. Spinning the bartender’s weapon on its finger like a nerf wrangler, it filled the rest up with naran juice, the citric color and scent filling the area around it before withdrawing the gun. Pausing for a moment, you could almost see the droid process the order. Tatooine Sunrises had a sectomelon float for color, whereas a Tatooine Sunburn was really just two Starshine Surprises in one glass with the same float, but usually a call to the medic after. It replayed the order inside its processor, double checking to make sure.
Tossing the sodagun in the air with a spin, it caught it with the other hand, shifting the selector over for the concentrated sectomelon syrup, then sprayed a moment’s worth over the golden drink. Sliding it onto a napkin in front of the Twi’lek, it tipped the oddly shaped hat on its head before wheeling off. All three of the Bob-ots were similar, but unique, wearing the trappings of ranchers and wranglers in homage to one of the clan legends…or maybe it was just a running in-joke, it was hard to say. At this point, after a few thousand years, they were almost the same thing anyway. The service by the bartending droids in the Seventh Tooth was designed to be unique enough to be entertaining, and efficient enough to not turn annoying over time.
Sergeant Davron walked along the promenade between the docking bay and the outside food venders leading to the hotel and bar. He was happy with himself, his promotion to the senior NCO ranks having just gone through. His stripes were sewn on and he was in the mood for celebratory drinks before his new assignment on Tarthos in two days. He stopped and took a swig of the bottle, then casually threw it in a bin. Before walking any further he stopped, seeing movement between two crates nearby. Curiousity overtook his good mood and he wandered over. He frowned and crouched down, looking for what he had spotted. Then suddenly he saw a pair of red eyes looking at him from the darkness, before a sudden stab of pain in his chest. As his life drained he felt himself dragged between the crates.
Malisane sat on a quiet table drinking a flavoured water. Since handing management of the bar over to Nova the gammorean waitress he had little reason to be here, but with no offical duties he was sharing his time between advising on restoration works on Aeotheran and trying to socialise with the rest of his fellow Clan members. The first was a pleasure and the second a constant chore. He looked around, spotting the twi'lek elder and he raised his glass at her in respect. She had been his Aedile along with other more senior positions in the Clan. He had little regard for most but she was one of the few he did respect.
He took another sip of his drink and then frowned. He sensed something, a presence he had not felt in a long time. Slowly he rose, and walked across the bar, pulling his cloak around himself as he made for the back room of the bar, earning a curious look from Nova. Finally he shut the door and looked around. After a few seconds a short and heavily robed figure detached itself from the shadows.
Malisane felt anger rise from within and did his best to supresss it. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, “The terms of your emancipation banned any of you from this system.” The figure looked up at him, then spoke in strangely metallic tones. “Revolution? That is not possible. You were not given the ability.” The figure met his gaze, red eyes looking up at him and it spoke once more in it’s own language. “Prophet?” Malisane demanded, “what prophet?” The creature spoke once more. “Very well,” Malisane replied, “I will assist you. In the time being keep your head down. Literally. If the Clan Summit see you there will be questions I do not care to answer.” The creature nodded and slipped back into the shadows.
Malisane turned and left reentering the bar. He was deeply troubled.
As Malisane walked in, she glanced at her former Quaestor. It had been awhile since she had seen him around. As he raised a glass in her direction, she smiled at him and nodded raising her quarter gone tatooine sunrise in return. Suddenly, she watched him rise with urgency, though with his cloak she couldn’t quite see his face to tell something was up. She was curious, though it was no business of hers. Pondering what it could be, she saw him reenter again, cloak still up around him. *“Think I might go talk to him.*She grabbed her glass and slowly approached the man.
Malisane saw the other elder approach. Beneath his mask his features were unusually conflicted, as unpleasant possiblities raced through his mind. He had to take action but this was not the time. He walked towards the twi'lek and made a slight polite nod. instinctively falling back on his Inquisitorius diplomatic training. “Greetings Adept Versea. I trust you are well?”
DarkHawk walked in to the Seventh Tooth, his posture was different. He carried not quite a somber look to him, but off. He seemed deep in thought or he was not “present” in his body. As he entered he saw Tasha and Malisane, then sighted the PCon. It was good to see his brethren, and for a quick moment, he wondered if Lord Keibatsu ever aged. The bar staff was busy stocking supplies and the aroma of food seemed to pull him from his trance for a moment.
Moseying right up to the bar, the monowheeled bob-ots quickly rolled up to him. “Double whiskey, neat.” The droid quickly produced a glass, then turned to snag a bottle from the top shelf. Dropping the glass in front of the man and filled the glass nearly to the rim. DarkHawk quickly snagged the glass and polished it off. “Another…” The droid poured another and as quickly as the first, DarkHawk finished the drink. It was warm, the woody spices and subtle earthiness indicated a lengthy maturing process. Surprisingly, the finished taste had prominent tones of vanilla and oak, whispering the rich ingredients of the region.
The whiskey was not helping his mind from racing…least not yet.
“As well as can be for now. Been sort of sticking to the shadows and running background support for Sadow.” Raising her glass to her lips, Tasha'Vel took a sip of her sunrise. Her emerald eyes studied the man behind the mask, but she couldn’t sense anything amiss. “How have things been lately for you? Fairly busy would be my guess, judging from how fast you ran out of the bar earlier.”
Malisane pictured the words of the diplomatic guide. A simple truth can hide more than a lie, and is less often found out. “I am not overly busy since i handed control of the bar to Nova”, he replied, “I had a matter to deal with a small acquaintance.” He paused, realising that did not quite sound right. To open space in a conversation or cover an error, move the topic to one of mutual interest with the other party, with an observance and relevant supporting fact. His blue eyes flicked around momentarily. “I see you have the Dark Sword of H'kysch. I researched and wrote a paper on it for my Knight Trials. I was able to gain much useful knowledge from Master Caerick, and another elder from Scholae Palatinae, though many of their recollections conflicted each other.”
“Ah, research can be fascinating Malisane, especially on older relics, however I am a little more curious as to who this small acquaintance was.” Her eyes flickered a bit as she held gaze with his eyes, a little more intimidating as she tried to extract information from him..She now knew based on the Inquisitor training she had received, he was hiding something and she wanted to know what.
Malisane met her gaze. He was used to interogation, from the best of the jedi, mercenaries, imperials, other clans, the Chamber of Justice and even those creatures with the living ships no one talked about anymore. He could politely but firmly brush off the twi'lek in a second with a short answer and depart. He was considering doing so when suddenly a flicker of movement across to the space behind the bar caught his gaze. Beneath his mask he mouthed a silent curse, his eyes flickering around the area. The other other Sadowan present was the Consul who was leaning over his drink, apparently lost in his own thoughts. His eyes went back to the twi'lek elder. “We should have a seat. I am thirsty.”
Without looking at the bar he walked over and took a seat facing it, leaving Tasha'Vael the empty one with its back to it. He looked up and was pleased when he saw the hulking gammorean appear with two drinks, a flavoured water with some sort of vegetation floating in it and the twi'leks usual. Nova spoke a word in her own language and left. Malisane made no comment on the gammoreans unexplained skills in prediction and faced the twi'lek, deliberatley not focusing his eyes on the bar. “So what were we discussing Adept Versea?”
Sitting down, she leaned in a bit more her voice softer and lower, but a bit firmer. “Either I am imagining things Malisane or something has you bothered a bit deeper than you care to share. Your body language is showing a bit. Again, I don’t usually pry into other’s lives and trouble, but it seems that something is on your mind and if it’s something that requires actions of a sort, you know I am here as a support and aid. You don’t have to always hide problems and situations from everyone. Least not from me.”
Sitting down, she leaned in a bit more her voice softer and lower, but a bit firmer. “Either I am imagining things Malisane or something has you bothered a bit deeper than you care to share. Your body language is showing a bit. Again, I don’t usually pry into other’s lives and trouble, but it seems that something is on your mind and if it’s something that requires actions of a sort, you know I am here as a support and aid. You don’t have to always hide problems and situations from everyone. Least not from me.”
Malisane paused for a few seconds as if in thought and then casually let his gaze drift around the bar. Some off duty officers were playing an enthusiasistic game on one of the machines. A few droid waiters were trying to get their attention. Another was cleaning up a spilled drink near the door. A young romantic couple were talking quietly across a table, staring into each others eyes and obvlivious to their surroundings. Nova, the glamourous gammorean, was taking another drinks order from the relaxing Consul. And at the far end of the shelf behind the bar a huddled robed shape was decanting a slightly steaming liquid into a metallic flask. He looked back at the twi'lek. “It is nothing of concern. An aquaintence of mine came to me with,” he paused for a few seconds, “a family problem they needed help with. I know their family very well.”
He looked over again at the back of the bar. The robed shape had disappeared. He pulled back his black hood revealing his ravavaged and burnt features and reached for his flavoured water and took a deep drink.
As he stepped onto the station, the Corellian felt a wave of nostalgia overtake him. He had nothing to fear from any of the loyal military sort, here. He was sure that his previous position made him unmistakeable, even if he had spent some time away from the limelight. He was, to put it kindly, more scruffy than the last time that he had been there. He carried himself with a less royal bearing than when he had held the seat of power, but there was still a stiff pride in the Son of Sadow’s every step.
He made his way through the station. He took note of the clinic. He might have to stop by later. He had been experiencing a sticking in his eye socket where his alchemical eye sat in his skull. Despite his own amateur tinkering in his own head, he hadn’t figured out what was going wrong with it just now. It had started to give him migraines. Maybe the sawbones there could do something he was too squeamish to attempt on his own.
That was not what made him feel a sick pit in his stomach, however. He felt a familiar presence aboard the station. He was not looking forward to facing her again. As he approached the cantina, Bentre Stahoes did not preen or march inside. Rather, he sulked in towards the Seventh Tooth.
Mostly he hoped that she would not be too mad. He still wanted to protect his daughter. He still wanted to better prepare her against the evils of the galaxy. He knew that she didn’t see it that way, though. He knew that she didn’t see that there were things far more evil, far more vile out there that did not mean her well.
As he approached the doorway leading into the larger cantina area, Bentre Stahoes swallowed and hoped above all, that he would have a chance. He wasn’t there to fight. He wanted to seek her out, to try to parlay. He wanted peace, more badly than she would ever realize.
He just hoped she wasn’t in a stabby mood.
“Well you take care of yourself then Malisane and if you ever need a hand with something just let me know.” Just then she felt Him. It had been awhile since Bentre had graced anyone with his presence, though the last time, he was more a fugitive. She downed her Tatooine Sunrise as she scanned the bar. “Well seems I now have something I need to do now Malisane, please excuse me.” In her mind, she hoped that perhaps he would be a little more in the mood to talk. She sighed, he was still unpredictable, but she admitted to herself that even though things were strained, she still cared about him. Damn my feelings.. She then walked about searching for Bentre.
He crept from the entrance, making his way uncertainly towards the bar. He reached out to the Force, and just like that Bentre Stahoes disappeared from view, with little more than the barest sound of footsteps giving any evidence to his passing. The way that her head was pivoting, the former Consul was not about to put himself within reach of the angry Twi'lek. At least, he assumed she was angry. He didn’t think she was planning a surprise party for him.
As he reached the bar, he allowed himself to slip back into view. She probably wouldn’t stab him this close to witnesses. He could hope, anyway.
He motioned to the bartending unit, and gave a half smile. “One whiskey. Whatever will get me drunk fastest, please. Been a hell of a week, and if my feelings tell me anything, it is probably just about to get worse.”
Malisane pulled his hood back over his head and breathed a sigh of relief. He had nothing against the twi'lek elder but this was not the time for explanations. The only other member of the Clan who he could talk to was the Alchemist, who had been not been seen for six months. He would message him anyway. In the time being he had to get the creature out of here. Then subject it to a long debrief.
Slowly he walked outside and along the promenade to the food stalls. He approached the besalisk owner “I require a mixed meat tray, with no sauce or spices.” He waited while the owner assembled the meal, paid, and picked up the tray. He walked across the area to a quiet corner behind the stalls, hidden from common view and sat on a metal bench. He placed the tray on the bench to his left and waited. After a few minutes he sensed movement behind him, and then the tray disappeared. He heard sniffing, and then chewing sounds.
Malisane kept looking ahead. “Listen to me,” he began, “If I am to help you regain the leadership of your kin I need to know everything, about the uprising, the prophet, and if there is any way they can leave your world. I am assuming you took the one remaining shuttle we left at Usharak Keep.” He listened to the creatures words from behind, as it paused eating. “Not here,” Malisane replied, “there is a light freighter in bay five. Go there and wait for me.” There was no response. Malisane looked behind him. There was no sign of the creature or the tray.
Malisane clicked on his communicator. “Major, this is the Adept. something is coming to the Deathshead. Show it to the secondary cargo hold. Do not look directly at it, attempt to engage it in conversation or make any sudden movements. I will be there in several hours.” He stood and walked back to the bar.
The Bob-ot tilted its head at the man, servos whirring in its head as it processed the request. Whatever would intoxicate this meatbag the quickest could have flowed down several different decision chains. Tatooine Sunburns were pretty harsh on most species’ livers, but there was a note here about humans. There was Double-Sight Spirits, the concentrated clear liquid so alcoholic that it would evaporate in a few minutes. That was technically a whiskey too, albeit aged ….precariously. And then there was all manner of straight alcohols behind the bar.
Coming to a conclusion, the droid spun, grabbing the bottle of Double-Sight from the back shelf and poured a few seconds worth into a squat crystal glass. Sliding it down the bar at the man, the droid had timed it so that the bulls-eye symbol of the clan faced him as it came to a stop, the liquor coming just short of sloshing over the side. Perfection.
“Double-Sight Spirit, pardner. Straight up.” It tipped its wide brimmed hat at him. “If’n you need a chaser, you just let me know.” The programming of the vocalizer was smooth, the accent unmistakable for some of the eldest in the clan.
She saw him at the bar ordering a drink and made her way towards him. Frustration, anger, and sadness surged within her as she made her way to the seat closer to him. She wanted to say a lot of things to him, but at the same time, refused to cause a scene. So she sat down next to Bentre and gave him a half smile. “Hello there stranger. Fancy meeting you here. How’ve you been?”
“When you are weak, appear strong. When you are strong, appear weak.”
Nausea crept to Creon’s psyche upon his arrival. The density of consolidated energy from the dark side radiated to his senses like a deep pressure onto his mind. He knew now he walked into a den of vipers. The spark of fear spiked his heart rate like a wave passing through him, yet instinctively he brought down the tempo of his breath to quell the trepidation.
He scanned the cantina from right to left; not meeting any eyes but offered a smile to any who decided to look his way. Creon approached the bar with a careful stride, gestured to the Droid, and then patiently waited to be served.
His senses couldn’t pinpoint any particular individual with the most influence in the Force. The Dark Side clouded Creon’s attempt to find the strongest amongst them. So instead he thought to to bring them to him. By intentionally exerting his own potential influence, those attuned would sense how strong he was in the Force. One perhaps could be compelled to approach him, either out of curiosity or concern. To mitigate the cause for alarm and meet a swift end for what is to be a peaceful gathering, Creon had to be subtle. Fury was his conduit to the Dark Side; like a flame within that could grow and be honed through temperament. Controlling the magnitude of the depth for which his rage was capable through tranquility was a crucial balance.
The Rage he had summoned brought his veins to view, pulsing with adrenaline fueled blood throughout his limbs and up the neck and into to the brain. The primal state of flight vs fight loomed awakened within the dormant core of his subconscious.
The Dark Side enveloped him to create an aura to grab the attention of those receptive. To the naked eye, however, his demeanor seemed calm and relaxed. It was again his carefuly timed breath that kept his mind cool from losing control in the heightened state. His ability of Control Self was the counterbalance to his rage.
“Beer”, Creon replied when asked what to drink. His voice was lower than it typically would be, with a growling undertone.
Come, Creon thought implicitly to project to any who was adept with telepathy.
Bentre let out an audible sigh. “Hey Tash. So, I am glad to try to catch up, but- did you hear that?” He theatrically panned his head to consider the newcomer. He had spent a lot of time studying the archives as the Keeper of Holocrons. He was pretty sure he recognized something about the lean human. He gave an unusually warm smile before turning back to his wife. “It is lovely to see you. It still is. We will have to catch up, but I do believe I have heard someone calling me. It would only be polite to introduce myself.” He placed a hand on the Twi'lek’s arm. “If something should go wrong I am sure that you are more than willing to back me up.” There was a cool menace to his words, which his wife and former rival could recognize. It was a hint of bloodthirst. “I have always loved playing the welcome wagon.” He winked.
Taking a slow drink from his whiskey, Bentre limbered up slightly. He pivoted his head to give a wide smile as he turned towards the Equite who had invited him. The Corellian Elder gave a nod.
“Have we met?” He smiled as he sat down by Creon. “I mean, I have to admit that I am curious about what brings a former Jedi to my station. I wonder what prompts a former Odanite to stroll onto my station, where I spilled my blood, to come and demand of me and mine that we come to him?” He tapped his chin. “If this is about a missing welcome basket, I can always see what I can do to drum one up.” He glanced back at Tasha'Vel. Her mouth twisted in mild amusement.
“So what reason do you feel you have right to call upon a Son of Sadow, or my kin?” He smiled with a calculated warmth that did not reach his eyes. His eyes widened in mock surprise. “Oh wait, is it because I forgot to introduce myself? I am sorry, so many things slip myself in my old age.” He extended a hand. “I am Bentre Stahoes. I think my reputation precedes me. And you….you are?”
Creon knew of Bentre Stahoes, but relatively little. A certain Shadow Academy Krath whom Creon worked with in secret behind the Summit’s back often complained in jealousy of Bentre’s comparative brilliance. Creon intentionally blocked the identity of his Krath knowing his thoughts and feelings are now telepathically exposed.
He turned to face Bentre, meeting his eyes. And although Creon towered over Bentre in physical stature, from within he felt much, much smaller. Though uncertain whether or not Bentre could memory meld direct knowledge from Creon, as his Krath could, the ex-Odanite still brought to surface his intentionally supressed PTSD.
The first was the malicious torture of electrical tendrils spewing forth from the fingertips of Jeric Cyrin. Only a boy at the time, Creon could still clearly recall the quality of pain. Bringing to light Creon’s origins under clan naga sadow not only served to reveal who he was, but the trauma fired further the rage inside him, intensifying its effects upon him by the Dark Side. Creon sank further into a meditative habit of tranquility to balance the darker connection to the Force, and held onto the beer glass carefully not to break it and embarass himself from lack of control.
Quick and fleeting flashes of memories of Grand Master Muz Ashen’s invasion of Tyhon passed through his mind. From his battleteam’s assault ship crashing, the killing, and to being taken in as a prisoner of war by the Jedi. These fragments of his past would irregularly return as nightmares and still shook Creon awake in a cold sweat. Where Creon’s eyes naturally reflected a serene green, a sharp observer would witness speckles of smoldering orange of potential hatred like molten magma rising to the surface.
Creon slowly and silently took a drink from his beer glass. The gesture seemed pretty disrespectful, but if he were to die today he may as well not be sober.
Upon approach within Creon’s sphere of influence his channeled anger was often contagious. Yet he did not identify the Son of Sadow’s face to be truly of anger; but one of pride and fear instead. Creon felt Bentre’s aura encompassing the entire dominion, and the others in the cantina had dampened their connection in yielding to his expanse. With only Bentre’s connection to the force to be sensed, the former obscurity which earlier blinded Creon became more clear.
His power seemed to draw the Dark Side from the outside inward. What felt like oscillating waves reaching from the Sith’s mind tapped into reservoirs of power, yet to Creon it revealed the structure of his host’s stress. His only reply in kind was to dig deeper from the inside pushing outward in antithesis of Bentre’s overwhelming aura.
“Jedi. Odanite… I was afraid I’d be seen as such,” Creon spoke whilst slowly setting down his glass. His focus shifted to the tension in his veins, wilfully withholding the enhanced strength that would cause his glass to break.
“An ultimatum made me one of them. Or what they would call ‘rehabilitation’.”
His memories of the trial as a prisoner of war was less sharp. But in swearing an oath to become a Jedi, Creon was given limited freedom from his imprisonment.
“I saw their trials as a tribulation. And walking their path did come with valuable qualities for an Obelisk,” he continued.
Memories learning vapaad under Aurora “Blade” Tavar, and the resol'naree of the Okami were brought to surface.
“It took years to gain their full trust, but now they keep no eyes on me. Nor do they have anything further of value for me to learn from or appropriate. I can disappear and they would neither notice nor care; thinking me either retired with some woman in a villa on Naboo, or dead from a bounty hunt gone wrong.”
Creon’s presence in the Force then quelled, bending under the weight of the Elder’s exerted pressure. Instead of exerting flames of fury, a compressed shell consolidated potential energy at the base of his abdominal core.
“I’m a forgotten survivor. Here intended to return to my roots. I did not come sooner for I was not powerful enough to be worthy to stand before those who first molded me.”
Creon’s anxiety now began to bubble up countless questions in his mind, now revealing his fear. Will they all only see of me what the records have labeled me as? Am I strong enough for this? Will I find the mentorship I threw my old life away for, or am I going to die here and be finally free of this mortal coil?
His eyes lowered from Bentre’s stare, showing subservience and recognition to the apex warrior amongst the gathering.
“Admittedly I wasn’t sure how relaxed I should be.”
“Plenty of choice. I hear one of the Sons of Sadow even has juice in his Bottle of Sadow. Even so I know the bar is well stocked.”
The Versea Matriarch’s emerald eyes bore into Creon as she stood before him. Then chuckled at Bentre’s statement. “An Obelisk returning to his roots? Well, I can say this training is going to be grueling, merciless, however I think there is hope for you Creon, but the question you must ask yourself is how much will you push your limits to achieve your goal?”
A cracked curl on the left side of Creon’s lips came in reply to Bentre’s hospital courtesy.
When the Twilek approached he looked at her, yet through her. Her question caused him raised an eyebrow. “Limits?”
A thought arose from within Creon’s mind, for which he attempted to suppress in vain, his impression of her. Sizing her up without looking beneath the neck, his ego suggested he could probably take her in a fight. If she was the end product of “grueling, merciless, training”; then what struggles implied could be relatively trivial.
Realizing his inner thoughts were still under surveillance, Creon broke a nervous sweat at the temple and purposely avoided what face Bentre might make in reaction.
“I believe limits are a dellusion.”
“Hey, of course there is hope for him. ‘Sadowan Supremacy’, remember?” Bentre shook his head. “Don’t mind my wife. She isn’t half the back-stabber Marcus was.” He shrugged giving another all-too-wide smile that obfuscated anything other than an air of pleasant good nature. “More of a front-and-side-and-vital-organs kind of stabber. Pretty effective at what she does.”
Bentre lifted his glass with one finger as he spoke, using careful movement and the Force to keep the drinking vessel upright.
“Realistically though, I would not discount her words. One doesn’t become a Daughter of Sadow, a Black Guard, or serve as a Guardsman without some realistic idea about one’s limits.”
Stahoes leaned forward to peer at Creon rather pointedly, he grin never wavering. “Though I am always willing to test differences of opinion. At a later date.” There was a hunger in the man’s eyes, and only his eyes for only a moment before he shrugged. “I am rather fond of testing theories, but now is a time of relaxation and not work.” The scarred human set down his whiskey glass as he watched Creon. His eyes reflected amusement.
“If not for this gathering, I wouldn’t have known how to approach you. So I am grateful you are as charitable as you are powerful. I do apologize for the beacon, it was so you can take proper measure of me.”
Though his veins now seeped from view and he appeared more relax, the rage within lingered like a kindle. It would never truly extinguish; forever resting like a kindle awaiting more fuel.
“Charity is often cheaper than blood.” The Son of Sadow leaned back. “I would be quite willing to hear more of your adventures before joining- or rather rejoining I suppose- the ranks of our adherents. Stories over drink are a bit of a time-honored tradition where I come from.”
As Malisane neared the bar he was feeling more calm about the situation and wishing he had bought a second tray of mixed meats for himself. As he reached the entrance he heard a faint whisper of a voice in his mind, almost a word. He glanced around, and then shrugged. He had learned telepathic skills at the Shadow Academy on Lyspair decades earlier but had never really used it. It was filed in his mind along with similiar powers under the label “The Decadent Arts Of The Krath”. Old predudices never died.
He looked around the bar as he entered. The female half of the romantic couple had apparently left, and the male half sat staring at his drink looking woeful, the now drunker officers were sat playing a dubious card game at a table while being watched suspiciously by Nova the gammorean, the consul was still drinking alone, and curiously the former consul and his wife were talking with a neatly groomed youngish man Malisane did not recognise. He decided to pick a quiet table and relax for a while. After ordering another flavoured water from a passing droid, he opened his datapad and brought up his proposed plans for the improved Aeotheran flood defences and began to study them.
“I have some funny stories, and also horrifying ones,” Creon replied in response to Bentre’s interested inquiry.
“Well, we have more than enough time for both. What qualifies as….horrifying?”
Creon grew a devious grin, but then his lips pursed into a nervously concerned expression, only to follow up with a chuckle; “Clan Odan-Urr has some pretty interesting characters…”
I mistook one of our own for game one time.“
“So Jedi have hunted each other, before?” The Corellian sipped his drink slowly, savoring the burn. “Or just you?” He chuckled. “You cannot just leave it at that. I am more than familiar with hunting a mark. What happened next?”
“Well… Force Users are a Mandalorian’s specialty,” he winks. “But the Mrs. wanted something grilled, and it was the season for it on New Tython.”
“I suppose you had to of been there. Or perhaps it’s not as funny as I thought it was.
She was some rabbit person. I honestly didn’t know vermin could be intelligent, or use the Force at that.
I was some distance away and watched her walk upright. I thought it was the strangest thing… Went back to all fours though after I fired a round.”
He called for a second beer before continuing, “Jetpack is always faster than on foot. At the time I was frustrated and confused on why I wasn’t able to hit at first, but with the Force a critter can crawl at crazy speed.”
Bentre nodded, a glint in his eye. He knew the thrill of the hunt. A moment later though, his features twisted a bit at the thought of a Jedi, or anyone, hunting one of their own, even if by accident. He was used to the juxtaposition of conflicting values. He was a Sith, but even as a Sith he had principles. Such as they were, anyhow.
“The Force is a powerful ally for Jedi, and an even stronger tool for my lot.” He nodded. “What happened after that? I am guessing that you didn’t succeed in your hunt? Did you face some sort of punishment, or did you escape that Jedi judgement that they are so well known for?”
“No one died. She left some pellets and curse words but no injuries. The Summit didn’t hear of it, she just didn’t know about a hunting season. Makes sense since her eyes don’t face forward. But now she most certainly does know about hunting season, and even tried petitioning to make the reservoir a protected site.”
Even as he was telling his story and enjoying another drink, Creon’s senses pulled him towards Darkhawk. He looked over at a side glance, with a relaxed posture so not to distract Bentre. The pull was a deep one. It was not intentional, instead passive yet devouring. He felt as if he wasn’t looking at a man, but a dark cavern within him filled with a horde of monstrosities.
The pressure was too strong for Creon to compare. Though he knew this was to be expected. Naga Sadow were few, but each of those few we’re amongst the most elite in the Brotherhood, so Creon believed.
Bentre tapped his chin thoughtfully. It was still tinged with a flair for performance. He looked over to Tasha'Vel. “Hey lass.” He motioned for the Twi'lek to join the exchange. “So this one says he is an Obelisk, and he is returning to his roots. Do you want to weigh in?”
Bentre turned back to Creon. “Don’t worry. She won’t eat you.” He nodded to Creon’s glass as the former Rollmaster approached. “Are you sure you do not want something stronger, by the way?”
“For me? Things that dwell in the farthest reaches of deep space. Things that, even with all we have, are helpless to stand against as a divided galaxy. A presence that brings madness; and very alien to nature and reality as we know it.”
Creon called for another drink, with clear signs of distress in remembrance for Bentre’s curiosity.
“I know I sound vague. It’s just hard to describe. Actually, if you’ve a good datapad I can use, it might be better to show you.”
“Unfortunately, I do not have either a datapad with me just now or a piece of flimsiplast, Nerra. I honestly did not even bring my lightsaber or much of anything with me but a Pazaak deck.” Bentre’s tone was apologetic.
He thought for a moment. “Hey.” He waved to the droid tending the bar. “Do you have a piece of flimsi or a napkin and something to scribble with?”
“Rat’s I think I left my deck in my office.” She chuckled. “Otherwise pazaak, would be quite fun, though Bentre here is pretty good at it.”
“It isn’t something to scribble. I was going to access my files and show you a feed from my helmet.”
“We will have to give it a look the next time that I have my datapad then. In the meantime, do you want to share one of your humorous anecdotes instead?”
DarkHawk stared into the caramel-colored liquid swirling in his glass, his gaze caught in a near-hypnotic trance. Around him, the quiet murmur of conversation drifted like distant echoes, but his thoughts wandered elsewhere, to Shaevalis. He could almost hear the river carving through the canyons, smell the sweet honeydew carried on the cool mountain air.
Then, the entities came.
They clawed at his psyche as though tearing into raw flesh, swirling in his mind like a storm. Whispered taunts became hollow screams, each one reverberating through his skull. Dark tendrils lashed out, every strike burning like hot needles raking across his skin. With a sharp breath, he shook himself free of the intrusion and downed the last of his drink. Ever since that mission to Ambria, he was convinced something…unnatural had followed him back.
Brushing away the lingering unease, he gave the empty glass a slight shake. The barkeep noticed immediately, setting another full drink in front of him without a sound. DarkHawk pulled a cigar from his case and lit it, the air filling with deep, rich notes, aged mahogany, cured leather, and warm, toasted oak. As he exhaled, a subtle sweetness of figs drifted on the smoke’s edge.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
Damn, Ty snagged a good batch, he thought. He’s going to be pissed when he finds out I know where he hides his stash.
The noghri hunter left his ship and turned as the ramp sealed. The money these jedi were paying him and calling in some debts on Refuge had allowed him to replace his old barely functional ship with a far superior ST-70, or at least a sizeable deposit on it. He was pleased with it. He quietly directed some mechanics to service it and then walked out of the docking bay. He had to report to the jedi Consul and this was the easiest place to quietly do it. As he walked along the promenade he stopped, his nostrils twitching as he smelt a familar scent above that of cleaning fluid and cooking from the stalls. Suspiciously he turned, following the nasal trail to some crates at one side.
Malisane had uploaded his plans to the Aeotheran Ministry of Development, and had decided to go out and get some food. He stopped as he saw the noghri crouching by some crates and approached him. “What are you looking for?” Sarthis turned his head. “I smell blood jedi,” the nogrhi replied, “a lot of blood.” Malisane leaned forward. “What can you tell about it?” The noghri took another sniff, “It is human blood.” “Can you tell anything more?”
Sarthis moved closer, his small form ducking amongst the crates. “Male, about five foot eleven inches tall, and a hundred and eighty pounds.” “You know that from the scent?” the adept demanded incredulously. “Short dark hair,” Sarthis continued, “and dressed as a sergeant in one of your infantry battalions. One single stab wound to the upper chest.” “What?” Malisane asked. He pulled the crate back and looked at the hidden body. A terrible suspicion dawned on him. “I need you to keep quiet about this, we do not want to raise alarm.” Sarthis turned and his one eye regarded the force user coldly. “You are sure?” Malisane met his gaze. “This is not your concern mercenary, this is Sadow business. Leave it to the proper authorities.” The noghri appeared to consider this, and then gave a slight shrug. “Very well.”
“I have a question for you, Bentre. My instincts say you have wisdom, and this is a curiosity I think only an adherent to the Sith can answer.”
Bentre sipped his drink, nodding slowly. “I am rather well-versed in some topics more esoteric than some of my peers. What is on your mind?”
“Think back a few decades ago in recent history. Admiral Thrawn argues with the Emporer to invest into the production of Star Destroyers by the thousands over a Death Star. Now, personally I believe the difference in their thinking was Thrawn wanted tools of war, whereas Palpatine wanted tools of fear. In principle, which do you think is the wiser of the two to use? Tools for war, or fear?”
Bentre stroked his chin. “That is a decent thing to consider. Both fear and war have their places in such an Empire. I think that a super weapon like the Death Stars or even the First Order’s super weapon are foolhardy endeavors, however. I think that thousands of Star Destroyers would have been a far better investment, and could have stood as a symbol of strength, and may I say even fear that would have better served Palpatine than any Death Star. The power to destroy a planet is impressive and terrible, but a larger fleet could have served a similar purpose if wielded wisely.” He sipped his glass before putting it down and signaling to the bartender for another. “The ability to wage war is the wiser option.”