Private A simple drink, a violent delight.

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Onderon, Inner Rim

The Snoring Katarn was a small, squat bar, little more than a single floor tall with a domed roof made of lightly stained sandstone that blended in beside taller structures on both sides. Its tattered sign, an ancient creature, half asleep and with one eye open, swayed in the soft wind. An open door released a smooth spiral of song notes that fluttered out over the sound of light chatter and pleasant merriment from those within.

Itzhal was not the first Mandalorian to step through the door, his boots creeking on the weathered hardwood, the boards layered with a rich gleam. His gaze travelled across the room, over the faded torchlight from scones in the wall, past figures armoured in Beskar'gam nestled into luxurious booths lined with red velvet, and towards the back, where a soft-edged spotlight illuminated a bar filled with an array of drinks lining the wall.

Slowly, Itzhal made his way over towards the bartender and the line of stools that orbited his domain. A few glances headed his way before he was summarily ignored by those curious enough to look, dismissed as just another Mandalorian on a planet filled with them. Few of them would ever understand how deep a victory that conclusion was for him, emboldened by the fact that his people had not only survived but thrived. Even here, on a planet that only months ago had been rattled with the shift of the magnetic poles and an entire break in law and order, the world had gone on, and the people lived on.

It was worth celebrating, though, as he looked across the room towards the section of the bar with a screen above and the patrons gathered around it, he figured it was not the only thing they had to cheer. Knightly figures, dressed in a wide array of armour and fabrics, flitted across the screen, highlights from the feast of Iron and Honour that had occurred only a few days ago. He watched for only a moment, amused as the display showed the Grand Champion and their final tilt against the Queen's brother, even as he looked away, he felt the impact translated through the cheers that followed, the patrons' unaware of the eerier silence and worry that had followed the moment, replaced by another highlight.

He ordered a drink, light and non-alcoholic, as he waited for his fellow Mandalorian to arrive.

Tags: Adelle Bastiel​

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

The Snoring Katarn, Onderon
Tags: Itzhal Volkihar

The bar was well worn and looked like it had seen empires rise and fall since the beginning of the town's origins. Adelle crossed the street, more than a little tense. She and bars did not often get along. There was almost always a bar fight with her at the center of it, despite never throwing the first punch--usually. Still, this was where the elder Mandalorian Itzhal had said to meet and she had won the gamble. Maybe this time, she could have a drink in peace and quiet.

Patrons crowded the bar, many of them watching the holoscreens playing highlights from the jousting on Nessantico. Adelle didn't look: she didn't want to see her own lackluster performance played publicly. She did get a glimpse of the young noble getting unseated before the highlights switched over to the duelling arena, showing highlights from the shirtless match between the Mand'alor and a Jedi Knight. That got some rowdy cheers.

Adelle scanned the crowd, looking for the armor Itzhal had worn at the jousts himself. She finally saw it at the bar counter, the man sitting on a stool with an air of steady patience about him. She moved from just inside the door and quietly made her way through the crowd, the dim interior light glancing off her armor. Walking in the armor came a bit easier nowadays and with the ease came a slight swagger that did not exist outside it. Something Adelle had noticed and could not explain.

She came up to the counter and took a seat on the stool next to Itzhal, nodding at him before removing her buy'ce. "Su cuy'gar. It wasn't easy finding this place. A favorite haunt of yours?"

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Onderon, Inner Rim

Scarred and calloused fingers caressed the delicate frame of a glass, the drink inside a clear oasis that turned crystalline at the edges, ice-cold against the warmth of his bodysuit and the skin beneath. A few cubes of ice, bobbled near the top, shifted by the ripples of the metal straw that his other hand stirred errantly, his attention focused elsewhere.

In the background, the screen continued to play more of the tournament, a spectacle for those uninvolved, but noticeably less so for one who had stood among the crowd and the energy that loyal patrons of this bar could only imitate. Still, the attempt was noteworthy, even if he glanced between them and the bartender, uncertain where the line between rowdy and spirited was on this occasion. He shoved the thought away before he found himself focused on work, rather than a simple night of entertainment.

One arm leaned against the bar, releasing the drink as he tapped away at the tune from a nearby jukebox, its wooden frame littered with old nicks and scars from a lifetime of harsh handling. His buy'ce released with a soft hiss of the seals, detached with a whispered word and the right touch, before being clamped to his hip with a metallic whine, as his free hand swiped aside the silvered curls that clung to his forehead, then just as quick returned to tapping notes against the bar.

Sweetness burst across his taste buds, wrapped in a refreshing chill from the lemonade that he savoured with careful sips. Curled into the side of the bar, Itzhal's gaze travelled across the room, unhurried as it trailed over the doorway and each individual that entered, until, only a few minutes after he'd arrived, he spotted the one he was looking for.

Striding forward with a slight swagger that shifted with the weight of the armour around her thighs, Adelle Skirata's Beskar'gam was a simple design, relatively unmodified from what was common for a modern Mandalorian, with the shapes of the plates and their alignment not unlike what Itzhal would expect from a mass produced piece of the forgeworks, refined and adjusted in the later stages, as was traditional during hectic periods, or when the individual had not fully settled upon their final design. It had been several years before he'd settled on his own, and even then, he could not claim to be finished; over a thousand years of progress had brought a couple of advances.

With one more sip before she reached him, Itzhal raised his hand, "Su cuy'gar, take a seat," He waved towards the stool beside him. "I wasn't sure what you might want or when you would arrive, so I figured it was just best to wait."

Exposed in the dancing light of the flickering flames of the nearby fireplace, faded laugh lines crinkled as the Morellian looked around the room, his expression just a tint too soft to be nostalgic. "I guess you could say that in a way. I'm not sure if you heard of them, but a group called the New Mandalorians used to be headquartered on this planet. I stumbled across them, a mission that was bigger than just myself, and two clients who wanted the same thing done, each with mercenaries of their own. At the time, I was wandering from job to job, trying to get my footing in the Galaxy after some time away, and well, I wasn't exactly interested in the old warmongering that so many of our people insisted on bringing back. Duchess Kryze and her vision for our people, reaching out and helping, was something of a keystone in that time."

Around the edge of his smile, a bitter edge grew, a faint sadness in the corner of his eyes as he twirled the straw between his fingers. "As all things do, however, they got pushed out when bigger factions got involved. The Galactic Alliance turned their attention to the world, and well, we faced either chaining ourselves to an aligned world or packing our bags and leaving for elsewhere. In the end, we decided to leave, a hard choice as it was, it needed to be made. Some people decried it as cowardice, and others grew despondent, figured what was the point if we couldn't even hold onto a single world, as if the New Mandalorians had ever cared about territory when their whole focus was helping in a Galaxy determined to tear itself apart."

"Me, I ended up on the same planet as the Mandalorian Empire," he said, with an amused shrug of his shoulders and another sip of his drink. "Technically, I'm an ambassador, at least that was the original intention, though I can't say I've done much of that recently. I haven't heard anything in that direction for some time now. If the rumours are true, most of them have left for this Empire or fallen back into old habits. All of which is a long way of getting to the point; one of them recommended the place, and I went once or twice. It wasn't till the magnetic pole flip, however, that I really started coming here. The bartender happened to be helping with some of the relief efforts, and I was dropping supplies to a few hubs."

Tags: Adelle Bastiel​

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Tags: Itzhal Volkihar

In hindsight, Adelle should have perhaps ordered a drink first and then asked her question.

She had expected a much shorter and simpler answer that would have allowed for an order to be placed and a drink enjoyed with the conversation. But she still listened to his story attentively, leaning her elbows on the counter and occasionally making eye-contact to let him know she listened. His story hit a few chords in her: finding a leader that believed in more than just constant war, in building a better legacy, after drifting from job to job and just surviving.

His mention of the Galactic Alliance got a wry smile. A larger galactic government taking over, hostile or not, pushing the smaller faction out, and now it was an ouroboros. She had taken a job from them just before they collapsed, the leadership scattering like dust in the wind. She never did get paid for that job.

The New Mandalorians caring about holding territory seemed at odds with the Resol'nare to Adelle. Wasn't the whole point of the armor, the language, the perpetuation of the culture and ideals about persisting in spite of a lack of territory? Wasn't it about the perpetuation of an idea rather than a specific world and a specific people? Hadn't the Taung been the original Mandalorians and hadn't they very nearly died out?

Adelle raised her eyebrows when Itzhal said he'd been an ambassador to the new Mandalorian Empire. Currently an ambassador or not, that was influence she'd never wielded. Not even in her old Order. She'd never been appointed to the Council and there were reasons she'd never been assigned a diplomatic mission with government representatives.

"It's true what they say," Adelle said dryly. "Nothing brings people together quite like disaster."

As if to punctuate her sentence, another clash between jousters played on the holoscreen. Loud cheers and even jeers, mixed with yelled instructions, thundered after it. She got the bartender's attention and ordered a Corellian ale, a simple request and one quickly filled.

"Is the Empire a successor you believe in?" she asked. "I don't know much about the history of the Mando'ade, sorry. I am a recent foundling. But . . . I want to believe the Mand'alor believes in more than just conquest."

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Onderon, Inner Rim

Until the words had flowed from his lips, Itzhal hadn't realised just how much he had to say on the matter of his history with the world and, more importantly, the New Mandalorians. It was all the more baffling when he considered just how long he'd actually spent with them, a mere couple of months, a flicker in the eye for a man who had lived over a century. Perhaps it was because they had been the first to matter to him in this new era, a clear division between his proper timeframe and this new Galaxy, so different that sometimes it felt like one side had to be a dream, though he could never quite tell which side was the nightmare.

With a chuckle at her joke, the Morellian shook his head in amusement before he gulped down his drink, grateful for the excuse to do something with his hands and the new sensations that burst across his taste buds. He noted the drink she bought, passing credits down the table, where they stopped only inches from the bartender and the Corellian Ale they poured.

Her next question was even more complicated than the last, though ironically, he thought it could be answered in less time as he lowered his hands, the last dregs of his drink nestled in between them. Or maybe not, he had noticed a propensity for tales and speeches in recent years.

"Do not be sorry for that which you are already attempting to change," Itzhal stated, an order for all that it was softened by the smile he offered in the wake of his statement. "So many people are comfortable with settling for who they are and what they know; it is a feat of effort to reach out and learn more, as you said, this is new to you."

He paused then, a furrow to his features as he considered the words he had to speak, "If the question is, do I believe this Empire is a suitable successor to the New Mandalorians, then the answer is no. I do not. That, however, is not a condemnation of what this new Mand'alor has created. The New Mandalorians are, or perhaps were, rigid in their ideals and methods; they desired peace, and although they were willing to fight for it, everything they did was ultimately intended towards the goal. It left little for those of our people who do not fit that mould."

"Nor should it, you cannot please everyone, nor can you cater to everyone," Itzhal declared, a prediction woven into fate from the bones of countless failed attempts. "In that regard, Aether is a greater dreamer than the Duchess ever was. He wishes for a home for us all, and despite my misgivings about the situation, so far, he has done well to keep us together. In that regard, I would argue that his Empire is a much more inclusive successor to the Mandalorian people."

"I think with the Galaxy as it is, and with the collapse of the Alliance, it is only natural that the Empire would expand, though I am pleased it has avoided the atrocities of our warmongering past. I cannot deny some wariness of where the line is to be drawn between the aegis of protectors to worlds in need, and the conquerors that have made our people feared in many sectors. Mayhaps, that is why I remain even in those moments of doubt, because someone must watch, even if in truth, I believe the Mand'alor cares far more for the people who exist under him right now, and their culture, rather than some galaxy-spanning goliath built upon the back of Mandalorians in name only."

With a twirl of the last remaining drips of his drink, Itzhal threw the glass back, only to deposit it on the bartop with a satisfied sigh.

"Apologies, I swear I was more concise in my younger years. What about yourself? I know you worry about our people becoming conquerors once again, but what brought you here, not only to the culture, but why the Empire when Clan Skirata would accept you regardless?"

Tags: : Adelle Bastiel​

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Tags: Itzhal Volkihar

The bartender set a pint of Corellian ale in front of her as Itzhal spoke, the creds quickly swept off the counter and into a pocket. And then the elder Mandalorian asked what brought her to the Empire, to being Mandalorian. Adelle took a slow drink, collecting her thoughts, and discarding the ones that would be too much or irrelevant.

"Loss brought me into Mandalorian space," she said simply. "The Planeshift. Lost my people and couldn't find them again. Ran out of creds trying to find them. I was on Taris when the riots broke out."

Someone there had seen fit to supply those rioters with military grade weapons. She'd heard other Mandalorians talk about rocket launchers and explosives being used in addition to blasters. The grenade at the bar hadn't been just a fluke.

"A short while after, the Mand'alor offered me and another hunter a contract. He seemed measured, a scholar and not just a soldier. Thinks before he acts but doesn't just send people out to do his dirty work. And I figured if I was going to be in Mando space for a bit, I might as well make it work for me. You live your life following a Code, following a Creed isn't all that different."

Another cheer came up from the crowd watching the highlights, mixed more with insults and jeers now. She could hear a couple voices start to argue, but not in earnest. Yet. Adelle drank more of her ale, slightly worried about the odds of a bar fight happening. The number of times she'd been to a bar and not had some kind of physical confrontation happen in recent memory numbered . . . one. Although with all that invading of personal space Virelia had done, Adelle wasn't sure that didn't count as physical confrontation.

"I'm pleased to see Mand'alor take a different path than his predecessors," she said. "I used to belong to one of the big Force-using traditions. A sect of Mandalorians tried to wipe our enclave off the face of the galaxy. Some crusade or something. I think that's what drew me in to the Empire. The Mand'alor's recognition of Force use as good and valuable. It's been a part of my life for so long it'd be like losing an arm at this point."

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Onderon, Inner Rim

Quietly, Itzhal gestured for another drink from the bartender with a sequence of hand movements that would have otherwise been nonsensical if it hadn't ended with a quick jab towards the bottles of Meiloorun juice stacked in one of the chillers. A bare sliver of his attention, which just as swiftly returned to his fellow Mandalorian, and the story they had to tell, filled with tragedy for all that the details were skimmed over, a scab that could be acknowledged, but neither party had a particular interest in tearing open.

Tragedy always had a special way of intertwining those lost adrift with the Mandalorian way. Her tale was less bloody than his, for all that he could see the pain that lingered in her eyes, banished beyond the reach of her people, unable to uncover the truth behind their disappearance and what remained of them. He'd been fortunate in that regard; devastating as his father's death had been at the time, there had been closure, even if it had been found standing upon a pile of corpses and a single way out.

He imagined in a way Taris hadn't been quite so dissimilar, violent as the reports had been, speckled with rumour and hearsay. It had still been a blow to realise the planet he'd fought to protect during the Gravesong War had torn itself apart, another wound inflicted upon a people who had already suffered so much. Another sin to lay at the Diarchy's feet, if he felt like counting.

There were no winners in such a game, however, not when he deemed to look upon his people's storied past. A history that their new Mand'alor wished to acknowledge and respect, if only to avoid the mistakes of yesteryear.

On the matter of force-sensitives and the previous sect's reaction, he paused, listening to another perspective on the crusaders he'd heard much about, though by the time he'd awoken, they'd been so focused on the outer edges of their territory, they'd had little time to stumble across a figure like Itzhal. He still wasn't sure what he would have done if they had. In a way, it was just as conflicted a situation for the old Morellian as were force sensitives, gifted with abilities that he could not reach or even understand. He'd like to say he was better now, but that was easier to say when he wasn't in the moment, staring down an individual who could and would turn it against him. The best he could offer was that it remained a tool, limited in who could reach for it.

His next drink, a bright pink monstrosity, was delivered with a short exchange of credits, flicked into the bartender's hand, before Itzhal lifted it to his lips for a quick sip. The sharp fruity tang, a burst of taste and delightfully refreshing, as he released a soft sigh of pleasure before he lowered the drink to the bar with a gentle clink.

"My condolences," Itzhal offered, his voice steady, for all that the words felt paltry the moment he spoke. "I hope that you'll forgive me for the impudence, but if you ever desire help finding your people, it would be my honour to help. It is a heavy burden to find oneself separated from one's people, and I would not wish it upon anyone."

He glanced at the arguing figures around the monitor, their voices raised in bouts of both amusement and annoyance, playful taunts shared among friends and distant strangers, gathered together in that moment of belonging. Others were not so merry, a hissed conversation between two barabels, dripping venom with each sharpened word they hurled at each other, separated from the rest of the world by the barest of space between themselves and the opening of their booth. Another, a Zabrak with a green-coloured buy'ce placed upon the table, had gone worringly quiet as he glared down at his armoured companion between the delivery of a new set of drinks. Despite that, for every awkward confrontation that Itzhal witnessed, another dozen defied them with a mixture of blatant joy and hushed contentment.

With a moment of privacy, silently given, Itzhal returned to the conversation, listening to what Adelle had to say.

Tags: Adelle Bastiel​

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Tags: Itzhal Volkihar

Words had more power than people gave them credit. Itzhal was a stranger--he didn't have to care. It wasn't his burden. But he offered his help all the same. Adelle raised her glass to the old man before taking a drink from it.

"Thank you," she said. "If I ever get a solid lead again, I'll let you know."

She set the glass down carefully, not because she feared breaking it--it was more out of contemplation than anything else. Nightmares still featured that feeling of flying over empty land or through empty space with no sign of Karre Noba's farm or Na'an and Leigh. And they didn't show signs of stopping.

Glass shattered somewhere behind her, near the crowd. Her head snapped in its direction at the sharp sound. Yelling became shouting, arguing started becoming physical. Fan-fething-tastic. A bar fight.

Again.

On the monitor, the highlights of the final bout played again, the replays zooming in on where the lances hit. If Adelle had to guess, there was probably a disagreement--an understatement--on the ruling score and the winner of the tournament.

She turned back to the elder Mandalorian, one hand firm on her drink. Just in case. "How long do you think until security sorts it?"

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Onderon, Inner Rim

Itzhal leaned forward, tilting his head towards Adelle in acknowledgement of a deal that meant more than mere words, a promise sealed away in the vault of his memories. One day, she would meet them again, he swore, though he knew it would likely be many years from now. Regardless of how fresh their acquaintance was, mere days by his reckoning, the truth remained; no one deserved to be alone. With his offer taken, a warm smile softened his face, deepening the gentle laugh lines etched into his pale skin.

There was no need for further words, as he returned to his drink, content with the moment and the warmth at his side. There was no rush to speak, no fluttering desire that gathered in his stomach or errant thought that required release.

It was not made to last.

Glass shattered, a declaration of intent that grew with each raised voice that garnered his attention. With a sigh, Itzhal turned towards the escalating argument, where barked insults were thrown like punches, the veneer of the tournament fading into insignificance, a mere footnote in the minds of those who clenched their fists and bared their teeth. Then again, it had never been about the tournament in the first place, Itzhal noted as the screen flickered through highlights of that final bout.

"Not long," he answered, noticing as the bartender moved closer to the scene, shouting names and pointing fingers at those who were very quickly releasing just how close they were to getting bared. A fate worse than death for some of those patrons, though a few lingered, shooting daggers at those who stepped away from it all.

In the corner of his eye, Itzhal noted the way that Adelle held her drink, either to protect it or just as easily to smash it into another's head when the time comes. The rest of his attention, however, remained on the few who still stood by the monitor, inches from fisticuffs, their faces illuminated by the screen's glow. Errantly, his feet pressed against the ground, testing their weight, ready to spring into action. "Should I worry about these being regular occurrences?"

Tags: Adelle Bastiel​

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Tags: Itzhal Volkihar

The glass shattering set her on edge.

“I’ve never been here so I couldn’t say,” Adelle said, forcing herself to look away from the brewing violence. She could feel the tension build up like a stormcloud among the group, although there were several tables where she felt that same tension. Aggressive negotiations. That was a Hells of a way to put it.

The last time there’d been a fight, she’d smashed her glass into the face of a Zabrak.

And that turned out oh so well, didn’t it.

“I will say that of the last five times I’ve been to a bar, a fight has broken out four times. And only one was my fault.” Adelle stared at her ale for a moment, listening intently to the voices by the monitor, and paying attention to what the Force told her.

“Maybe I should just drink at home. Seems safer for everyone that way.”

Security started moving in, two large beings that had the air of being heard or making themselves understood. Beyond them, motion by the monitors. A shove or a grab, it didn’t matter.

It was a spark to a fuel canister.

The small group became entangled noise and movement while security rushed in and allies rushed to either join the fray or pull their buddies out of it. Adelle hissed out a sigh, muscles already tensing to move if needed.

“Of fething course.”

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Onderon, Inner Rim

"Apologies, I was hoping for something calmer than this," the older Mandalorian admitted, his voice quiet but firm. The grooves of his boots, flush against the hardwood surface, creaked with the shift of his weight, his body tilted towards the brewing argument and the bartender's futile efforts to temper the situation.

With a sigh, he placed his drink, in all its bubbling pink glory, on the countertop with a gentle clink. "I'd best help out."

He stood then, eyeing the situation as one of the bouncers neared closer, the hard leather skin of a Nikto providing some protection as a drunken patron lashed out with a fist that cracked into their jaw. Boisterious laughter and wild screams followed in their wake, lost in the fray of bodies that shoved and heckled, some desperate to escape the fate that awaited them. Others only poured fuel on the fire, a kick to the ribs, an elbow to the shoulder and even a headbutt was launched in those moments as Itzhal neared closer, moving quickly to shove the buy'ce at his waist back into place.

"Protectors here," Itzhal bellowed, pressing his hand against the side of his shoulder and the pauldron that flared with the mark of the Mandalorian Protectors, invisible, until the moment he needed it. "I'm going to give people a chance to calm down. You've had a bit to drink, and I can see that tensions are high. Take this as your last chance."

The smarter ones, those still with a semblance of sense tucked away somewhere in their hard skulls, retreated to the safety of their booths and seats further away from the action. Naturally, not all of them were so smart. It was the towering form of an Anx that struck first, their arm swinging out as Itzhal ducked underneath, slipping beneath the guard of the over nine-foot-tall figure, before he wrapped one hand around the pointed edge of their chin, and slammed the rest of his weight down through the shoulder, carrying them headfirst into the bar with a horrid crunch.

His bracer blocked a blow to the buy'ce from an armoured theelin, buying him time to drop to a knee, his other leg extended in a sweep that took the Anx to the floor, then just as quickly shot back up with a chambered uppercut that rattled the male Theelin, collapsing back into a seat at the bar with a dazed look in his eye that only grew when they glanced at the fiber-corp wrapped around their legs and the stool.

With a short wince at the muffled bruises spread across his shoulders, Itzhal bound the last of the fibre-corp wire around the Anx on the floor, testing the bonds with a sharp tug. He had a feeling they weren't getting out of them anytime soon, not without help at least. A quick glance around the room, filled with wary faces and grateful security guards, showed little hope of that help ever materialising.

Almost, hesitatingly, Itzhal looked back towards Adelle. He had a feeling it would probably be in poor taste to mention that it was good they had a medic in the house.

Tags: Adelle Bastiel​

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Tags: Itzhal Volkihar

Adelle had been about to assure him that she'd had worse encounters in a bar when the elder Mandalorian stood, saying he'd better help the situation. She nodded and watched him wade into the fray, announcing his authority. Mandalorian Protectors? She vaguely remembered hearing about them from someone in her clan. The law enforcement of the Empire. The law in places where clans and courts held no sway. Adelle raised her eyebrows a little, taking a sip from her pint and watching with interest. A professional curiosity. How did Mandalorian enforcement compare to CorSec?

Itzhal's announcement was enough that the ones sober or smart slunk back to their tables and drinks, unwilling to chance getting barred.

The drunk and stupid decided to feth around.

And boy, did they find out.

The elder Mandalorian moved with a grace and speed that belied his seeming age. In a matter of seconds, he had a towering alien neatly hog-tied and a Theelin seeing stars at the bartop. Adelle took another drink then caught his glance her way. Why—ah, right. The red sigil on her pauldron.

"Anyone dying?" she asked him. "Because if not, a few scars will be poignant reminders to behave."

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Onderon, Inner Rim

Dazed groans emanated from the bruised and injured brawlers spread out across the small section of the bar, breaking through the shared stare between Itzhal and Adelle, snapping his attention back to the chaotic aftermath of the short-lived fight. The floor was slick with fresh blood and even more plentiful booze, puddled in golden and red-hued pools around those few figures unfortunate or foolish enough to have stayed. Crouched over the groggy form of the restrained Anx, Itzhal lowered a finger to press against the side of their neck, in search of a pulse that beat quickly but seemed to gradually slow to a consistent thrum.

"This one's got a head injury, breathing seems fine, heartbeat is good," he answered instead, tilting his head to pan over the remnants of the bar brawl and those still too injured to retreat from the scene. Most of them seemed bruised and humiliated, though, ultimately, the only real damage was to their pride. Out of the rest, however, his attention lingered on an older Zabrak male, whose flared trousers were dotted with glimmering shards that leaked red at an alarming pace, and a Gamorrean who slouched against the bar, one hand against the side of their neck as they stole whatever air they could with rattling breaths.

Standing up, the older Mandalorian reached towards the side of his right gauntlet and the buttons embedded beneath the shielded cover, "I'm calling this in."

A few seconds later, he nodded to something unheard by the others before he disengaged from the comm-link. "We'll have support in five minutes max, but in the meantime, it's just us. I've got first-aid training, primarily in combat scenarios. The rest of you, sound out," he turned his head towards the nearby bouncers, expectant of answers that another would have had to demand.

Tags: Adelle Bastiel​

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Onderon, Inner Rim
Tags: Itzhal Volkihar

With the noise reduced to pained groans and the crowd dissipating as they could, Adelle could better get a handle on the situation. Empathy helped with assessment, as pain was a strong enough feeling that most creatures projected it in the Force with no trouble. As the number of dull pains spread out, she could feel spikes of sharper pain. She slid off the barstool, relinuishing her grip on her drink, and slowly approached the epicenter of the fight.

She looked at the Anx on the floor, a dull pain centered on their head, but it was not one of the spikes.

"Concussion, probably," she said. "They're in no danger."

She stepped carefully through the puddles of spilled beer and blood, wanting to make sure she didn't add herself to the list of the injured. The sources of pain felt sharper, closer. Close enough it localized itself in her body. Two separate spikes. One on the legs, one centered on the neck. Adelle looked around quickly. The leg injury was concerning—the thighs generally had major veins in most mammals. The neck injury however, that one threatened all but a few species.

She spotted a Zabrak slouched in a chair, red staining his trousers. So that was Legs but where was— A Gamorrean slumped against a barstool more than sat on it, breathing labored. A thick hand pressed against their throat. Adelle strode to their side, gesturing to the Zabrak as she did.

"Triage that one," she said, experience carrying authority. "This one needs my attention first."

She stopped in front of the Gamorrean. As much as she'd like to immediately begin healing, she also didn't want to get her head caved in because she startled a creature much larger than herself.

"I'm a healer," she said, pointing to the red sigil that flared bright red against the black of her armor. "I'm going to put my hands on you and you will feel a strange sensation. Remain calm."

The Gamorrean grunted, soft gurgles coming with their assent, and removed their hand from their neck. Adelle had to immediately clamp her hand down on the injury to stop the blood flow. Something sharp had sliced across the jugular vein and punctured the trachea. The patron was lucky it was a shallow laceration. Adelle closed her eyes and focused on the pulse she could feel beneath her palm, the rhythm of the rattling breaths. Even with using Art of the Small in conjunction with Force Healing, it was going to take her a few minutes. But with the amount of blood that had pooled at their feet, she was going to have to accelerate it. And that always took more out of her.

She was going to be feeling this barfight tomorrow morning.

"I might be a while," she said to Itzhal, voice barely above a whisper. She couldn't devote more energy to a conversation. "Tell me you've got the Zabrak."

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Onderon, Inner Rim

Spared the consequences of a disastrous brawl, the bouncers rattled off a sequence of reports that were somehow both lacking in detail and yet torturously long. They were civilians, he reminded himself, no matter the training that might have been expected from the bar. Time trickled between his fingers as they spoke, each word, a moment wasted as the hourglass continued to spill.

His companion cut through the rambles, "I'm on it," he agreed, before turning to the others. "We don't have time. If it's important, make it known, but I have others to help."

With no time to waste, Itzhal strode past the bar, stopping only to pass a sanitiser dispenser that was half-attached to the wall, the metal buckled inwards on one side and with one connector outright ripped from the wall. A thump against the dispenser caused it to sputter, a foaming breath that Itzhal spread across the stretch of his fingers, using the few seconds it took to reach the injured to clean his hands.

By this point, their trousers were a lost cause. What once had been a light blue fabric was now marred by a pinkish-red that bled into a dark burgundy near the frayed hems. While that alone might have been salvageable, especially with the right machinery, it seemed exceedingly unlikely, now that the torn fabric bore several scars that appeared to have come from a rather severe battle with a cheese grater.

Assaulted by a stench of freshly spilt iron and potent spirits, Itzhal's visor flickered with a sequence of the detected smells, protected as he was by the filters in the buy'ce. Unfortunately, the man he was here to help could not say the same; their face was exposed, with their skin flushing between a stark paleness and a worrying shade of green that could have easily been from the pain, as it could the smell.

"I'm here to help. Try to keep still," His voice calm and assured, a promise of safety cemented in his heart.

Beside the Zabrak, Itzhal dropped to one knee, a hand on the couch for support as he forced himself into an uncomfortable perch. With a gesture that flicked his wrist to the side, a small slot on the front of his gauntlet popped open, unveiling a vibroknuckler that snapped into what would have been a coiled strike, instead left to waver, inactive, in the air for a moment before he started to cut into the torn fabric. Once unveiled, the wounds beneath were simplistic, for all that the Mandalorian lawman was relieved that one of the components of his pouch contained fresh gauze and a set of tweezers that could be used for the shards of glass that twinkled under the light.

"This is going to sting a little, but it's better we get this all out now." He warned them, then just as quickly got to work. On the plus side, at least the couch and table would be a decent place to hold their legs above, once he'd dealt with cleaning out the worst of the shards and wrapping them up with enough pressure to choke the bleeding.

Tags: Adelle Bastiel​

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Tags: Itzhal Volkihar

Breathe. Adelle rested her other hand on the opposite side of the neck, right hand still clamped down on the hemorrhaging wound. She closed her eyes and felt the rapid shift of muscles and bone as lungs expanded with air and then deflated again. Blood pulsed, quickly, in a heightened pattern. The heart beat fast and weaker than it should have, as the body tried to heal a wound it could not. The Gammorrean was on the verge of hemorrhagic shock. Breathe. Adelle released her focus on the larger world around her and fully entered the Healing trance.

The wound felt large in her mind, her use of Art of the Small allowing her to 'see' the body's cells. Adelle pulled the chasm of lacerated vein, muscle, tendon, and skin closed. She forced the cells to find their connections again, to bond into a barrier once more. It took a lot of her own energy to pull, to create, to accelerate. The bleeding stopped and the wound closed beneath her hand.

But she wasn't finished.

Hemorrhagic shock had been about to occur. She had to make sure the organs still functioned, that blood got to where it was needed. After a moment more, and satisfied with the body's return to homeostasis, Adelle came back to herself and lifted quivering hands from the Gammorean. A thin line where the wound had been crossed his neck—that couldn't be helped. She'd needed the expediency of scar tissue to stop the bleeding, keep the Gammorean from bleeding out. But. He lived. And his wound was healed.

Based on Itzhal's progress, she'd been in the trance for a minute, maybe two at most. She sucked in lungfuls of air, the effort and disconnection from someone else's body rhythms throwing her own breathing into disarray. The energy it had taken left her feeling a little hollow, almost light-headed. Adelle forced her breathing to slow, to still the trembling in her hands, before she walked over and knelt beside Itzhal.

The elder Mandalorian was painstakingly removing the shards of glass from the leg, methodically. In the time she'd been in the trance, he'd made significant progress. None of the puncture wounds looked deep enough to have cut into the femoral artery or have done major damage. The Zabrak could live with healing at a slower pace.

"I'll need a moment but if you need assistance, let me know," Adelle said. She pulled out a chair nearby and sat, providing oversight if needed. She stretched her neck, trying to calm her own pulse down. It'd been a while since she'd had to heal that fast.

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Onderon, Inner Rim

"What's your name?" Itzhal inquired, his voice unwavering like the skilled hands that carefully manoeuvred a shard of glass, no larger than his fingertip, along a channel of shredded skin and gnarled blood vessels. Most of the fragments were relatively harmless, lodged in thick layers of fat around the thighs, trails of blood weeping like sludge, yet a few—such as the one he was currently extracting—posed a grave risk. If left in place, further pressure on the wound, choking out the blood, would only drive the shards deeper like a dagger into the vulnerable veins beneath.

"Cri-crirox," they gasped in response, their voice trembling and faint, overwhelmed by blood loss and the throbbing pain radiating from the injury.

Blood smeared the sharpened sliver of glass, gently pried from Crirox's leg with meticulous attention, each millimetre a hard-won victory fought for with unwavering patience and a steady hand that refused to falter. Eventually, the painstaking care was rewarded as the shard was slipped past the last layer of damaged flesh and exposed to the air, a sweet victory held in the luminous glow of the pulsing bulb above them.

Then, just as quickly, it was discarded. Dunked into a clear glass that turned pinkish around the point of impact, waves of movement shifted outwards like a roiling tide of frenzied piranhas as he swirled the tweezers, dislodging debris that clung to the metal with a soft clink. Another glass, taken hastily from the bar, and filled with a cleaning mixture from his equipment belt, served for a rushed wash before he continued.

Applying a white patch that hissed upon contact with Crirox's skin, the seal scrunched around the cleaned wound, tightening the folds of skin in a pressure hold that allowed the older Mandalorian to focus on the next laceration and debris lodged within. A simple cycle, complicated only by the effort and attention required. Adelle's arrival was greeted with a faint hum, focused as he was on the task at hand.

Second passed, with the only sound the faint flicker of Itzhal's flashlight providing a better view of the blood-soaked wounds and the fragments that were best dealt with now.

"This should be simple enough," He said, once another shard was dispatched, leaving him a moment of attention to spare as he turned his helmet towards Adelle. "At least, this time I'm not getting shot at."

Returning to the task with a deliberate tilt of his buy'ce, the cleansed tweezers were dried with a new set of wipes before they descended once more into the cragged landscape of bloody tears and breaches. Their only interruption was the winces of pain that slipped through gritted teeth, rare as they were, with the care taken to avoid further damage.

"Forgive me, this night's activities were not how I intended for things to progress," Itzhal admitted, continuing the flow of conversation the moment he could. "I fear it has been a rather woeful conclusion to our wager. I apologise for the distress, and that your talents were needed on a night intended to be merry."

The cantina entrance creaked open, unleashing a frigid gust that swept through the room, extinguishing the cosy warmth that had once enveloped the space, turning the nearest candles' flames to embers that wavered in the cold. Silhouetted by the faint light of the stars and lamps on the street outside, a Mandalorian in beskar'gam stepped forward, their armour a deep silver, apart from the protectorate symbol splayed against their chest-plate, displayed in a harsh black. Behind them, others stepped through, medical crosses on their pauldrons.

Tags: Adelle Bastiel​

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Tags: Itzhal Volkihar

Adelle leaned back in the chair, watching with a professional curiosity as Itzhal worked. She laughed softly once when he mentioned not getting shot at. She knew that feeling.

"That does make things a bit easier, yes," she said.

He was careful to sanitize in between pieces, careful to keep things clean, and patched up the lacerations after removing a shard. It showed a dearth of experience, if his earlier comment hadn't already been a clue. Adelle would have asked but she was tired; it felt like she'd run a marathon distance in a sprint. Quietly, she was grateful the elder Mandalorian had it well in hand. She could hear Na'an's old nagging about running herself ragged in her head.

Adelle shrugged when he apologized. "It seems to be my luck, to be honest. This is honestly one of the best outcomes I've had."

She glanced over at her drink on the bar top and decided against standing to retrieve it. It could keep. "You're welcome to try and meet me in a bar again, if the chance comes up. Can't promise it won't turn out the same."

The doors to the Snoring Katarn opened and let in more Mandalorians, one with a black sigil emblazoned on their cuirasses. The others bore the red sigil of medics. Adelle relaxed back in her chair and let her awareness shrink to just her immediate area. Backup had arrived.