Private Drunken Escape

[Niijima Izumi]

The road into J’arkai was quieter than it had any right to be.

Too quiet for a border settlement. Too clean for a place that saw this many mercenaries and drifters.

Izumi preferred it that way.

Her sandals whispered against the packed earth as she climbed the last stone steps toward the ryokan, the lanterns along the eaves already glowing gold against the falling dusk. The light softened everything—the hard edges of the wooden beams, the chipped paint on the gate, even the old sign swaying overhead.

Hot water. A drink. A roof.

Nothing more complicated than that tonight.

The straw kasa hat shaded her face, brim low, weaving shadows across her eyes. Most people wouldn’t look twice at her; just another wandering swordsman, another ronin passing through. That was the point.

Her kimono was plain indigo, travel-worn but clean, tied tight for movement rather than elegance. The fabric pulled slightly across her shoulders where armor once sat out of habit. The katana at her hip rested in a lacquered black saya, the cord wrapped and rewrapped so many times it felt like part of her hand.

Familiar weight. Honest weight.

Unlike silk. Unlike perfume. Unlike smiles that had to mean something.

She adjusted the hat with two fingers and stepped through the gate.

The scent hit her first.

Steam. Cedar. Rice wine. Soap.

Warmth.

Her shoulders eased before she even realized they’d been tight.

Inside, the floorboards creaked softly beneath her steps. A few low conversations drifted from the common room—travelers, a merchant couple, someone already drunk enough to laugh too loud. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.

Strangely foreign.

Just this morning she’d still been kneeling in a polished room, spine straight, sleeves folded just so, repeating the same careful motions she’d practiced for months. Pour. Turn the wrist. Smile. Lower the gaze. Speak softly.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Geisha training, they called it.

Grace. Composure. Control.

She’d learned it well.

Too well.

Now her body kept trying to move like that—quiet, measured, deliberate—as if every step might be watched and judged.

Old instincts layered over older ones. Performer over warrior.

It was exhausting.

Izumi exhaled slowly through her nose and let some of that stiffness go.

Tonight, she didn’t have to be either.

Not a student.

Not a blade.

Not anyone’s decoration.

Just… a traveler passing through.

Her hand rested briefly on the hilt at her side, thumb brushing the guard in an unconscious check. Still there. Still real.

Good.

At the front desk, she set a few credits down without ceremony.

“One room,” she said, voice low, calm. Human. Not the airy, lilting tone they’d tried to teach her. “And access to the baths.”

A small pause.

“…And hot sake.”

The attendant nodded, unfazed. No questions. Just a key and a polite bow.

Perfect.

As she moved toward the hall leading deeper inside, steam drifted past the doorway to the springs, curling into the air like breath on a winter morning. Laughter echoed faintly off stone.

For the first time in days, something inside her loosened.

Hot water would soak the ache from her shoulders. Sake would quiet the thoughts she didn’t feel like having.

Tomorrow could worry about tomorrow.

Tonight...Tonight she would set the hat aside, leave the sword within arm’s reach out of habit, sink into the water, and let the world shrink to heat and quiet.

Just another nameless guest.

Just Izumi.
​

Varek Ordo​

 

[Varek Ordo]

Niijima Izumi

Varek Ordo's boots crunched softly against the loose earth as he made his way down the road into J'arkai, the distant hum of the settlement's sparse activity in sharp contrast to the noise he'd grown accustomed to. Border towns were never this quiet. He kept his pace steady, his breath measured, the weight of his armor nothing but an old companion he'd learned to ignore.

The air here was thick with a strange kind of tension, the kind that soaked into the bones of those who stayed too long. And yet, there was a simplicity in the quiet, a harsh beauty to the isolation that made him uneasy. He couldn’t help but wonder what kind of life thrived in a place like this, where even the dust seemed untouched by time.

The flicker of lanterns caught his eye as he approached the ryokan. The golden light spilled across the uneven ground, softening the sharp lines of the building’s old architecture. His gloved fingers brushed the hilt of his blaster, a comforting reminder of the weight he carried. It wasn’t the weight of a blade. It was the weight of a man who had seen too much to be fooled by peace.

Inside, the warmth of the ryokan greeted him like an old friend. The scent of cedar and rice wine filled the air, soothing something that always felt on edge. There was no place for a man like him to blend in, but here, with the scent of soap and steam mingling, he felt something close to the luxury of being forgotten.

The murmur of voices from the common room drifted through the air, but Varek paid little attention to the people. He wasn’t here for their stories, and they weren’t here for his. A drink, a quiet corner, maybe a bit of hot food. Nothing more. The ghosts of his past were still far too fresh for anything else.

He approached the desk, his movements deliberate. The attendant’s eyes flicked to him for a moment, but there was no judgment in their gaze. A man like Varek was nothing more than a traveler passing through. He tossed down a few credits—barely more than necessary—and in a voice as cold and calm as the night air outside, he ordered a room.

“One room,” he said, voice low but clear. His Mandalorian accent didn't need to be hidden. “Access to the baths. And a drink.”

The attendant nodded and handed over a key with a polite bow, no questions asked.

Varek didn’t care for small talk, for the trivialities of others. He wasn’t here to be known or understood. He wasn’t here to be remembered. A bath. A drink. A quiet night.

As he made his way to the baths, the warmth of the steam hit him like a wave. For a brief moment, it felt like the weight of his past, of his choices, of his life, slipped away with each step he took deeper into the heat.

Tomorrow would come, as it always did, but tonight, for just one fleeting moment, he could let the world shrink to steam and silence.

Just a traveler passing through.

 

[Niijima Izumi]

Armor has a voice of its own. Even when a man moves carefully, even when he thinks himself quiet, there is a weight to beskar and plating that speaks against wood and earth. A measured tread. Heavy. Controlled.

Not a drunk. Not a merchant.

A warrior.

She did not turn immediately.

She was seated at one of the low tables in the common room, straw hat resting beside her knee, one hand loosely wrapped around a ceramic cup of sake. Steam curled from its surface, ghosting against her knuckles. Her katana lay within reach, set parallel to her thigh; not displayed, not hidden. Simply present.

She tilted the cup slightly, watching the surface ripple as the door slid open and let in a breath of cooler night air.

The raven-haired woman breathed out a small sigh before turning her head in a 45 degree angle, her pupils acknowledging vividly the stranger. Her head was still tilted downward though, as not to give the stranger any ideas that she was staring. It was the practice of subtlety or humility of her bushido code that didn't allow her to outwardly engage with someone. That, and her introverted nature.

Izumi placed the cup to her lips, the warm fluid reaching her tongue first before sliding cleanly down her throat. The immediate taste of concentrated rice wine filled her tastebuds, and almost instinctively she would utter another sigh, one of more relaxed nature than the last. From the corner of her eye she could see that the stranger wore armor. Mandalorian, the only thought which crossed her mind.

Her gaze lingered a fraction longer than polite before drifting away again, as though he were no more than passing weather.

When she heard him speak to the attendant at the establishment, she couldn't help but give a faint smile, lowering the now empty cup in her hand gently on the table in front of her. The same requests, from two very different people.

She rose smoothly as the attendant handed him his key. The movement was fluid without being delicate. Training still clung to her in the set of her shoulders, in the way her sleeves fell just so when she stood. But there was less softness to her now. Less performance.

As she passed him, the scent of steam and cedar wrapping around them both, she bowed her head just enough to be respectful.

No words were exchanged, as one would expect from someone like Izumi, although she would not be opposed if the stranger offered conversation. If not, she would simply move past him and make her way to her room, the long training she had subjected herself to earlier made her more tired than she had been willing to admit. The hot springs called her name, quite literally, and she would give everything in her possession for a night of reprise and relaxation.

Perhaps they would meet at the hot springs, perhaps not. But either way, she was more than excited to sink into the hot waters and be surrounded in the warmth embrace of the steam.
​

Varek Ordo​

 

[Varek Ordo]

Niijima Izumi

Varek Ordo’s boots were heavy on the floorboards, but his steps were measured, practiced. Even in a place like this, in the calm warmth of a ryokan, the weight of beskar never truly left him. It spoke, even in the quiet. His movements—deliberate, controlled—were an extension of the armor, each one calculated, as though the earth beneath him were a battlefield and the floor a terrain to be carefully navigated.
His eyes flicked briefly to the woman across the room. A momentary glance. The flicker of recognition like remembering a story heard once. Something in her manner and aspect that spoke to him as if he already knew her. The subtle tilt of her head. There was an understanding between them, something silent but clear, like the echo of a distant war drum echoing across smoke filled fields. She, too, carried her armor. Not of metal, but of discipline, of training worn into the very shape of her body. The weight of it was different—more fluid, more subtle—but it was there all the same.
He didn’t speak. Words would only weigh down the air. Instead, he allowed his gaze to pass over her, not lingering, not imposing. Just acknowledging her presence, and then moving on. Like two predators at a watering hole where the unspoken agreement that there was no territory today. No prey to fight over.

The attendant’s bow was respectful, as Varek’s hand slid the credits across the counter. No fanfare, no conversation. Just a room. And access to the baths. He would get the food later he was sure. His voice was low and controlled as he spoke, more a presence than a statement.
The key was handed to him without pause, the attendant’s gaze soft and neutral. There was no need for anything more. The ryokan was a place for solitude, for quiet moments of rest. No one cared who he was, what he had done, or why he wore the armor of a warrior who had lived too many lifetimes. Here, he could simply be a man passing through.
He moved toward the hall without hesitation, his eyes sliding briefly to the bathhouse entrance. The steam rose in the air, curling and twisting like the remnants of old battles. Varek could feel it already—the heat, the quiet. It wasn’t peace, exactly, but it was enough to be forgotten for a while. Enough to let go of the constant hum of war, of responsibility, of survival.
As he approached the hot springs, he slowed, eyes briefly meeting Izumi’s as she passed him. The subtle bow of her head was a quiet acknowledgment, but it was enough. No words needed to be exchanged.
With a nod of his own, Varek met her eyes through the visor of his helmet, the face he shared with the galaxy, the buffer zone between him and the outside that would see him broken if it could, and continued on, entering the changing area. The first layer of armor came off slowly, methodically, the clatter of metal muted against stone. Each piece removed was a small, deliberate release. The breastplate. The gauntlets. The helmet. All came away, piece by piece, until he stood in only the simple fabric of his undergarments. The armor was a part of him, but for now, it would stay behind.
His body, scarred and tired now unburdened by the weight of beskar, felt lighter, but the tension in his shoulders remained. The heat of the spring would melt it away, he hoped. He rolled his under suit and placed it on the stone before he stretched. Slowly, he entered the waters, the steam rising around him like the embrace of an old, familiar friend. He sank deeper, feeling the warmth seeping into his muscles, into the very core of his being.
The world outside—his world, his life—seemed far away, even if only for a few moments. There were no ghosts here. No battles to fight. Just the quiet sound of water lapping against stone, the slow exhale of a body worn too thin, and the heat that held him together.
It wasn’t peace. But it was something close. Something quiet. Something that could be enough, if only for tonight.
Varek closed his eyes, letting the steam blur the edges of the room and drift away into the silence.

 

[Niijima Izumi]

The corridor to the springs was warm beneath her feet, polished wood giving way to smooth stone. Steam thickened with each step, curling around her sleeves, clinging lightly to her hairline. At the entrance to the women’s side, she paused only long enough to untie the sash of her kimono.

The garment folded neatly. Always neatly.

Even now.

Even here.

Her sword she placed within arm’s reach of the bath’s edge, wrapped in oilcloth against the humidity. Old instincts did not vanish just because the water was hot.

She stepped into the spring slowly.

Heat climbed her calves, her thighs, her spine. The first touch of it pulled a quiet breath from her chest—not dramatic, not indulgent. Just relief.

She sank to her shoulders and closed her eyes for a moment.

Across the dividing wall of carved stone and lattice, she could hear the faint shift of water displaced by a larger body settling in. The sound carried. So did breath.

He exhaled like a man who had forgotten how.

Her eyes opened again, gaze drifting to the rising steam rather than the barrier between them.

Scarred, she had noticed when his helmet came off.

Not in the way of someone who stared; but the kind of noticing warriors did. Mapping damage. Measuring history written in flesh.

He had the build of someone who fought forward, not from cover.

The steam shifted. The water stilled.

“You take it off slowly,” she said at last, voice carrying easily over the partition without needing to rise. Calm. Observant. Not prying.

“Most men rip their armor free like it’s choking them.”

A pause.

“You treat yours like it’s earned.”

She leaned her head back against the smooth stone, dark hair damp at the ends now, a few loose strands escaping where they’d been tied. Without the hat and without the sword at her hip, she looked younger. Less severe.

But the discipline remained in the straight line of her spine, even half-submerged.

“I just finished training,” she added after a moment, as if the thought had arrived late. “Geisha.”

The word hung between them strangely in the humid air.

“Which means I’ve spent months being told how to move, how to breathe, how to smile.”

A faint huff of quiet amusement.

“I suppose I understand wearing something that isn’t entirely for yourself.”

The water lapped softly as she shifted, stretching one leg beneath the surface. Muscles loosened reluctantly, like they did not trust the heat yet.

“J’arkai is not a place men like you come to disappear,” she continued. Not accusation. Just fact. “It’s a place you pass through on your way to something else.”

Her gaze tilted toward the lattice, though she could see little beyond shifting silhouettes and steam.

“If you were looking for a fight, you would not have taken your time setting the armor down.”

A small silence followed.

Then, softer...“So I’ll assume you’re here to rest.”

Not a question.

Just an acknowledgment between two people who understood the cost of never doing so.
​

Varek Ordo​

 

[Varek Ordo]

Niijima Izumi

Varek’s shoulders eased under the water, muscles unwinding in slow increments as the heat worked its way into every ache and scar. The steam rose around him, pulling the edges of the world into hazy nothingness. But then, her voice sliced through the quiet, precise and measured, like a blade finding its mark. He didn’t start, didn’t flinch. His eyes stayed closed, the scent of cedar and steam filling his lungs as her words settled in the space between them.

“You take it off slowly.” The feminine voice said, reminding him somehow of dew on lotus blossoms, “Most men rip their armor free like it’s choking them.”

Varek’s lips twitched into a ghost of a smile, but he didn’t speak immediately. He wasn’t sure whether to respond at all. There were few people who understood the weight of armor in the way she seemed to. It wasn’t just metal—it was memory, a record of battles fought, of choices made. There was reverence in removing it, as if each piece deserved that respect. A man like him didn’t forget what it meant to wear it.

“You treat yours like it’s earned.”

Her words were like a distant echo of something he had told himself years ago. A truth he had long buried beneath the weight of missions, scars, and survival.
But tonight, here in the warmth of the springs, it felt different. Less like the heavy cloak of war, more like the quiet understanding of two warriors who had seen too much to need pretense.
A soft sound broke the stillness—the faintest exhale of amusement in her voice.


Varek’s eyes opened a fraction, a slight shift of focus as the words hung in the air.

Geisha.

The thought sat there for a moment, strange yet fitting. He had only ever known the art of war—the discipline of battle, of movement in the thick of chaos. The idea of training in grace, in poise, was foreign to him, but not entirely out of place. He supposed it wasn’t that different from the quiet discipline of a Mandalorian warrior. There was always a price for control, whether in battle or in silence.
She shifted in the water, her muscles hesitating, as though testing the heat, testing her own limits.


Her voice slipped into the quiet again.
“J’arkai is not a place men like you come to disappear. It’s a place you pass through on your way to something else.”

Varek let the words sit there.
She was right, of course. He wasn’t here to disappear, wasn’t here to become anyone else. He didn’t know how to be anything other than what he was. But he wasn’t in a hurry, either. The quiet here—this moment—was something he hadn’t had in a long time.

The water swirled softly as she continued, her words coming without the weight of challenge. “If you were looking for a fight, you would not have taken your time setting the armor down.”

Another silence stretched between them. Not an uncomfortable one, but a shared one. A space where the past, with all its blood and noise, faded for just a few moments.

Varek shifted slightly, letting the water cradle him as his voice finally broke the stillness.

“You’re right,” he said softly, the rasp of his tone more from disuse than weariness. “I’m not looking for a fight.”

He let the words linger in the air, then added, just as quietly, “But sometimes, it’s harder to find rest than it is to find trouble.”
A pause. Then, softer still: “Guess I’m here for both.”

His gaze drifted to the lattice that separated them, and he let out a breath, half-lost in the warmth, half-lost in the quiet company. It wasn’t much. But tonight, for once, it felt like enough.

"Much like you," He said as he made out the hint of a silhouette through the lattice, "I'm just here to be for a moment before I need to put the armor back on."

He caught a feminine scent amongst the steam and let it sooth him further.

 

[Niijima Izumi]

The springs were quiet in that particular way only old places ever were.

Not silent...but layered with soft, living sounds.

Izumi let herself sink until the heat wrapped fully around her ribs.

The bath wasn’t some polished luxury spa meant for nobles and tourists. It was older than that. The edges were uneven in places, shallow grooves carved by time and fingertips rather than tools.

The water itself wasn’t perfectly clear either.

It carried a faint mineral cloudiness, catching the lantern light in soft gold swirls. When she moved her hand through it, the currents curled like silk ribbons, slow and heavy. Tiny bubbles clung to her skin before slipping free and floating upward.

It smelled faintly of earth and iron beneath the cedar.

Natural. Alive.

Not perfumed or masked.

Just heat pulled straight from the bones of the planet.

A wooden spout fed the spring from one corner, water pouring steadily with a hollow, rhythmic knock-knock-knock against the basin below. Not loud. Just enough to remind you the world was still moving somewhere beyond the steam.

She liked that sound.

It kept her from drifting too far.

The air above the pool was thick and warm, almost heavy to breathe. Steam clung to her lashes and dampened the loose strands of hair at her neck. Every inhale tasted faintly of mineral and wood smoke from the lanterns.

Her skin had already flushed pink from the heat.

The ache along her shoulders, the one that came from carrying a blade too long, from sleeping lightly, from pretending too much—slowly unwound, like knots loosening one thread at a time.

She rolled one shoulder experimentally.

Less tight. Good.

She rested her arms along the stone edge, chin almost touching her wrists. The rock was warm from the constant heat, smooth enough that it didn’t bite into her skin. Someone long ago had sanded these edges down with patience.

A place made for staying a while.

“You ever notice,” she said lazily, voice quieter now, softened by the steam, “how hot springs make everyone honest?”

Her fingers traced the water’s surface again, breaking the reflection of the lantern light.

“But here… you’re half-naked, unarmed, and too tired to lie properly.” The corner of her mouth twitched. “Hard to pretend you’re invincible when you’re sitting in a bath trying not to overcook yourself.”

She shifted until her back pressed fully against the stone wall, legs stretched out beneath the water. For once, she didn’t bother sitting perfectly straight like she’d been taught.

She slouched.

Just a little. It felt strangely rebellious.

“…It’s a good place to forget who you’re supposed to be,” she added quietly. “Even if it’s only for a short while.”

Then she closed her eyes, letting the sounds of water and the smell of cedar fill the space where thoughts usually crowded.
​

Varek Ordo​