Golbah Games | Viewing Party

[Ascendant Muse]

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P E T R A N A K I​

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Arena
Confederate Skybox

On this day, those who bore witness were treated to an oasis. Compared to the sweltering heat of the Geonosian arena, the Lounge that had been set aside for Confederate viewership was pleasantly cool. Spanning a long, comfortable length: the box was completely encased in glass and afforded a marvelous view of the festivities below. All about, bustling natives cheered and shouted in their seats: electricity was in the air. Yet, the patrons within the private space would be immune to the thunderous cries of excitement: for the walls were dampened against exterior noise. Instead, those who chose to observe would be free to wander the carpeted space, listening to the live music provided by a local quartet.

Or, they could focus on the main event.

From the comfortable seating about the box, one could easily see the Arena below. However, screens hung above the bar and numerous angles within the room. Any patron could carry on a conversation without missing a second of the action. What's more, food and drink were always within arm's reach, for service droids wandered to and fro with refreshments in hand. Truly, this was an opportunity for the viewership to kick back, relax, and enjoy their comrades beating the ever-loving chit out of one another.

Spoiler

[member="Aedan Miles"], [member="Aevan Kitaki"], [member="Akabane Jarvik"], [member="Aleksander Miles"], [member="Arlox"], [member="Ash"], [member="Ashen Soul Reynauld"], [member="Aut-X"], [member="Avo"], [member="Aya Clarke"], [member="B1-990"], [member="Bartic Myth'rand"], [member="BBZ-20"], [member="BX-22222"], [member="BX-25233"], [member="BX-66260"], [member="BX-72967"], [member="BX-73300"], [member="BX-75244"], [member="Chalim Vern"], [member="Charr"], [member="Chek Zun"], [member="Darth Interitus"], [member="Darth Kentarch"], [member="Darth Rixas"], [member="Darth Seraphic"], [member="Daxton Bane"], [member="Deneve Verd"], [member="Derek Dib"], [member="Edward Varric"], @Galven Hanson, [member="Hades Dai"], [member="Helix Syndicate"], [member="Holowan Industries"], [member="Idaren Verd"], [member="Iris Issey"], [member="Izevel Zambrano"], [member="Jack Anderson"], [member="Jaya Tandris"], [member="Jia Darkhold"], [member="Jorah"], [member="Jrogan"], [member="Kal Jaii"], [member="Katrine Van-Derveld"], [member="Keric Dynt"], [member="Ket Van-Derveld"], [member="Kurenai"] Ymi, [member="Lady Psyona"], [member="Lewis"], [member="Liset Vereen"], [member="Lord Mettallum"], [member="Maanis"], [member="Malok"], [member="Marcus Lund"], [member="Maxerian Gron"], [member="Morgan Redeaux"], [member="Muad Dib"], [member="Nasho Vesh"], [member="Natalie LaForte"], [member="Natasha Darkstar"], [member="Noviac Caligo"], [member="Rapax"], [member="Rashae"], [member="Seela Tarkona"], [member="Sila"], [member="Sochi Ru"], [member="Surnin Strenger"], [member="Talbot Vitalis"], [member="Tiberius Royalblaze"], [member="Tmoxin Temi"], [member="Tschov Bolyn"], [member="Valis Marr"], [member="Valjan Hon'rey"], [member="Verd Skirata"], [member="Werah Unon"], @Xera Wran, [member="Yuna Hart"], [member="Zahori Denko"], [member="Zenva Vrotoa"]

 

[Srina Talon]

The dove skinned Echani was quiet as the crowded arena below got a little smaller. Outside of the sky box itself, only protected by the transparisteel glass from the lift, she could still hear the thrumming cheers from the crowd. Her small hand rest momentarily against the transparent barrier that seemed almost cold to the touch. Silvery eyes lingered on the view for a few moments longer than she should have before she fell back to her mentor’s side. Ever since the Force had led her to him with lucid dreams and less then subtle visions she had a tendency to orbit around him. Never too close—yet never too far away. When she was trapped within his gravity she felt oddly safe and secure. It was an interesting dynamic considering he wielded similar abilities that would-be assassins had chased her with not long ago.

It was only curiosity that coaxed Srina from his welcoming shadow. That or his request.

“Are these events always so…”, she trailed off, dual tones sweet and whispering, almost like distant singing. Gray eyes flickered quietly between herself and the dark skinned man beside her. “Ostentatious?”

Her dress had been provided for her. It was made of cyrene silks that hugged her petite form and was the color of crushed rose petals. She typically favored soft blues or snowy ivory versus something so glaring. The Echani hadn’t been in the presence of Darth Metus nearly long enough to start wearing that much black—Nor so much red. The style was also not her usual fair. There was no cloak to hide her shoulders or the pale swath of glowing satin skin that was exposed down her back. The off-the shoulder sleeves were long enough that they brushed the ends of elegant fingertips and the hem swept the floor.

Her white-gold hair had been woven into an intricate pattern that began at her left ear, before wrapping around her head, so that it could fall into a braid that lay neatly over her right shoulder.

Srina moved silently beside her teacher as they made their way through the decorated hall that led to the sky box. The door opened of its own accord and not for the first time she found herself tense as she observed the room. Her clothing did not allow space for a weapon. Not a knife, not a dagger, and certainly not a disruptor pistol. No, today, she seemed more like a gray eyed porcelain doll with an eerie sense of perception. The sudden blast of artificial coolness caused a small shiver to run down her spine.

A waiter walked by and offered both of them drink. The crystal it was served in was exceedingly fine and Srina almost refused. She had a penchant for accidentally breaking fragile objects with the force lately. Her countenance was that of frozen beauty when she eventually accepted the drink and flowed further into the room. They were visually an odd pair indeed, dark and light, opposite in many ways. “Shall we?”, she queried, gesturing toward the seating, that had the best view of the screens.

Srina would honestly rather spend the better part of the day training—but she couldn’t deny the allure of watching people fight. There was something dangerously poetic about watching warriors come to blows in an official capacity. The notion of such a thing reminded her of home. She wondered if they knew how she would view every round. She felt like she never knew someone better than after seeing them in battle, or even better yet, fighting them herself.

She took a seat and languidly set her drink down on one of the hovering tables. Srina hadn’t tested the beverage. She didn’t know what it was, but she already knew her tolerance for spirits. Even for an Echani, it was incredibly low. The last thing she wanted to do was lower her inhibitions in public forum. Her posture ran rather rigid, despite the betting, and rather boisterous conversations going on. Her delicately scrolled ears picked up the sounds of a quartet playing not far off and she almost wished she’d picked seating a little closer.

It had been a long time since she had heard music that didn’t come from a holo. True music was real and raw. Hearing it second hand diminished some of its beauty. This wasn’t truly her choice, if she had one, but it was better than dull and dreary tube-lift music.

At least one good thing came of entering the room with Darth Metus. Aside from her personal preference. His presence dwarfed her own and most of the people in the skybox paid more attention to him than they did her. For now, she could simply enjoy the games, and let her teacher handle all of the pleasantries.

The combatants started walking into the area and Srina sat up a little more to get a better view. There were contestants of all walks of life and none of them seemed the least bit afraid. She was getting ready to settle in for some intensely brutal fighting when she realized that one of the men on the red team had something peculiar in his hand. Was that a bread sword?

Cold silver eyes flickered to Darth Metus and then back to the monitors that overlooked the arena. The breadstick man wasn’t the only one with an odd weapon. There was a beautiful woman that actually had a bent butter knife and a fork. “You’ve got to be joking…”

She relaxed only slightly when she realized that there were other weapons to choose from in the actual battle space. Some of the fighters were already running toward it. Pale fingertips tapped the armrests of the comfortable white chair she sat in as her gaze turned to her mentor. “This feels like a trap. If this was your way of saying we need to get out more—Point taken.”

[member="Darth Metus"]

 

[Derek Dib]

Standing at the edge of the viewport he silently watched the empty arena below. The crowd jeered and cheered as anticipation heightened slowly for the coming combat. It was ever so. The allure of conflict ignited a fire within most. The thrill and expectation mounted with each breast until the ending satisfied the craving. Blood lust was a disease that afflicted most organics.

Gently swirling the crystal tumbler, the amber brandy twirling gently within, the man sighed and turned to look at the other occupants in the booth. Drinking, betting, and a general milling was occurring as the others waited for the event to begin. The black suit and charcoal button up cloaked him in the masses wearing finery in the watch party. Yet though he appeared just another observer among like minded individuals, Derek stood apart. He was never one to feel the need to surround himself in a facade of social graces, though he was adept at it.

Turning back to the glass he went back to silently observing. His silence had taken the council on Olanet some time to get used to. He was a man of few words, choosing to listen and observe before committing to speaking. Most words from sentients were trivial fluff that mattered not in the larger scale, so he abstained from joining his voice to chaotic murmurings that held little importance.

Raising the tumbler he took a swallow of the brandy, enjoying the heady aroma and flavor before swallowing and feeling the trace of fire run through him. Shifting his shoulders lightly the harness under his jacket slid with the slight movement. His back still itched from where the Mark of the Patron had seemingly claimed him. He still wasn't quite sure how he feels about that particular ordeal, yet there was nothing to be done except waiting and seeing what the ramifications would inevitably be.

Turning his attention back to the arena grounds he watched as the teams made their way across the sands. His head moved in disbelief and amusement as he saw the 'weapons' the fighters were adorned with. Catching new movement in the reflection in the glass he turned sideways and saw the pair also engaged in watching the tournament. Isley Verd, Darth Metus, stood as imposing as ever. At his side was a contrast to his form in every sense of the word. Giving the pair a nod, he turned back to observe the fight that would momentarily begin.

[member="Srina Talon"] [member="Darth Metus"]

 

[Malok]

This reminded him of the Pit.

As the turbolift ascended above the ecstatic crowds, the thunderous cheers took the Sith Lord back. Although his sulfuric gaze was upon the event before him, his mind briefly thought back to the days of his youth. He was reminded, vividly, of how he once stood before a bloodthirsty audience himself. Yet, that day the champions were not of Confederate origin: but rather a Galaxy-spanning roster of the most brutal warriors he had ever heard of. It was a shame to admit that, in his previous weakness, he was soundly defeated at the hands of an Apex Telekinetic. But, as with all things, an Alchemist learned from every defeat.

And now, Telekinesis couldn't touch him.

A voice chimed like a morning bell, pulling him back from his depths of his memories. In the here and now stood his apprentice, [member="Srina Talon"], whose appearance was befitting their destination. Her dress was a stark contrast to his own ensemble: as the pink was bright against the charcoal of his suit. A white, button-down dress shirt was worn beneath the jacket; yet lacked a tie due to the temperature of the desert planet. And, for a touch of flair, a crimson pocket square had been neatly tufted in his chest pocket. Lofting a brow at the question, Darth Metus responded quite simply. "On Geonosis? Yes. The natives live for this sort of action."

Shortly thereafter, the lift arrived at its destination. Together, the Sith ushered Srina through the hall leading up to the skybox; halting only to await the automatic doors parting way at their presence. Once within, Darth Metus briefly surveyed the room. He was not looking for any particular person. He certainly wasn't checking for the most ideal screen. Rather, his gaze bounced from platter to platter, hungrily identifying what looked the most appealing. Cheeses? No. Crackers? No. Squid? What the...As the evaluation of appetizers commenced, Srina brought his attention to the seating with a simple: "Shall we?"

"Lets."

Following the lead of his apprentice, the Sith soon lowered himself into the chair beside hers. And, while she had picked up a beverage along the way, Darth Metus' pickiness had prevented any satiating of his thirst on that part. It would take a few moments before he found something that corresponded with his appetite - that something being a supremely simple platter of assorted "crunchy" vegetables with a cup of dip - before he could truly begin to enjoy paying attention to the contest of strengths. Of course, cuisine aside there was another obstacle to his watching the event: literally everyone. As Vicelord of the Confederacy, walking into an event was...much akin to shining a beacon upon one's self.

Metus soon lost track of how many half-conversations he had in passing whilst eyeing his snack platter. In particular, he did silently nod to [member="Derek Dib"] in passing. They would have to touch base later regarding the aftermath of Siskeen, of that he was certain.

Yet, the time was soon upon them. The Games were set to begin! Leaning forward, Darth Metus briefly steepled his fingers and assessed the combatants individually. For him, this was not just entertainment, but an opportunity to evaluate the finest warriors the Confederacy had to offer. Here, he could see just how much they could handle. Here, he could begin to weigh the true strength of his nation. "You've got to be joking...." The Sith's eyebrows skyrocketed when Srina spoke...and he instantly saw why. A breadsword? CUTTLERY? He let out an audible "Ha! Cairyn is insane I love it!"

Turning, took a moment to dunk a stick of celery into the cup of blue cheese (because anything else would be blasphemy.)

"A trap? No. This is a learning opportunity." came his response. "Well, don't get me wrong, it's been years since I've seen a decent tourney of any kind. But. These combatants are some of the strongest in the Confederacy, watch them. Learn how they adapt to literally the most ridiculous scenarios you will ever see." Crunch. Swallow.

Snacking aside, the Sith did have a relatively serious question to ask. "Now then...Have you been dreaming lately?" He didn't have to spell out what he meant, as it was her own visions that brought them together in the first place. However, if those visions continued...they would have to cultivate that gift, of that he was certain.

[member="Tmoxin Temi"], [member="Srina Talon"], [member="Derek Dib"]

 

[Srina Talon]

Her Master was lost again. He never seemed to notice when his thoughts drifted to places she could not follow, to ghosts that she could not see, and to difficulties that she could not fathom. Yet, she did. There was a particular distance in sulfuric eyes that her acute awareness did not miss. A small and barely noticeable grin dotted the kiss of her mouth when Darth Metus finally acknowledged her question.

“I was referring to the skybox viewing.”, she responded lightly, tone a softly lilting lullaby, as she gestured toward the level of finery they wore. Whereas he may have been used to it, being the Vicelord, the Echani was not. There had been a number of jewels and baubles sent for her to choose from but she’d waived them all away. All of them except a peculiar plain silver ring. Her mentor’s associates had insisted upon it and she knew not why. “Is all of this really necessary?”

Whereas Srina evaluated the room for the best place to view the games her teacher seemed to have other priorities. It didn’t take her long to figure out he was eyeing up the delicacies that had been provided. The young female hid a small smile at her Masters one track mind and instead took care of their seating arrangements. She expressed very little interest in food or drink and declined most of it, save for a single crystal flute, of which she immediately put down. Srina wasn’t an especially trusting individual after her time spent running from her own flesh and blood. Her teacher would likely notice her tendencies to hunt and peck and eat like a bird eventually—but for the time being she was content to watch him conduct business.

It seemed that everyone who was anyone passed some sort of words or empty platitude in her Master’s direction. Mercurial silver eyes met that of [member="Derek Dib"] when they passed and she returned his nod with an equally inaudible greeting. She did not know of him, and it was likely that he did not know of her, save for her clear ties to Darth Metus. The rapt attention he paid to the arena did not go unnoticed. Some men did not waste time with small talk. Srina could respect hat. Her white-gold head tilted toward Darth Metus for a moment as her chin moved toward the well-dressed brandy drinker. “Who is he?”

Srina found herself less and less enthused with these games from the moment it started. She leaned back properly in the high backed chair with her right ankle tucked neatly behind her left. The young Echani seemed the epitome of a debutante, not an apprentice, and not a warrior. No creature so soft or small could possibly trigger a sense of danger. Not when seated beside, quite possibly, the most dangerous man in the arena. “Yes. Cairyn Midore is quite insane.”, Srina dolefully agreed, with much less enthusiasm than the dark-skinned man beside her. It probably wasn’t the gamemasters fault but she was still disappointed. This was a mockery, not a battle.

A finely arched eyebrow raised when her Master claimed that this event contained a lesson. The typically unobtrusive woman would keep most of her opinions to herself on the matter but a small amount of skepticism escaped. “I must confess that I was eager to see what strengths the Confederacy harbors…But this is not the test of skill I expected. The day an enemy engages me with cutlery and baked goods will also be the day he or she dies.”

A fight to the death? Hardly. Not when there was a joke woven into the opening ceremony. Things might heat up when the gladiatorial portion really began but she was already doubting the efficacy. Their Force related assets seemed entirely muted by the Ysalamiri restrictions of the area. It was not a true test of power. In a real battle, rules such as these, safety measures, did not exist. The evenly leveled playing field was a deception. A real fight was brutal and pitiless. It was not made fair.

Srina was excellent in melee combat. If she had known that training wheels would have been applied perhaps she would have joined in the arena after all. Her feelings of inadequacy when it came to the force would have been completely eliminated.

Darth Metus caught her off guard when he questioned her dreams. Her hand formed a small fist for a moment as her jaw unintentionally tightened. Ever so slowly she tore glacier gray eyes from the viewing screens, watching [member="Daxton Bane"] attack [member="Katrine Van-Derveld"], before she let them linger on her Master. It was a rather personal question, in her opinion, to be asked when there were others close enough to overhear. “…Have you been breathing lately?”

The defensively dry response was softened immensely by the melodious quality of her multi-toned voice. Her fist unclenched and her face cleared itself of any misplaced emotion so that only a blank slate was left behind. Her mentor did not ask with designs to torture her. He couldn't know how disturbed some of the visions left her. “Dreams are merely tricks of an over-stimulated mind in an attempt to make sense of what we don’t understand.”

“The things I see don't feel so easy to simplify. They have the composition of a reality in waiting. I see them awake. I see them asleep. It remains manageable...But it has not stopped.”

[member="Darth Metus"] | [member="Derek Dib"]

 

[Grace Darkson]

When Grace has heard of the tournament, her first instinct had been to stay home. After all, she had seen enough of Cairyn's arena to last her a lifetime, and enough of it was firsthand experience that she didn't want to repeat. But she didn't have to fight today. She could enjoy the sports from far away, getting to watch the carnage without the risk of being a part of it.

Well, minimizing the risk, at any rate.

As she walked through the room, the woman stopped at the bar near the back, quietly ordering a glass of wine as she surveyed the room. It was luxurious, majestic, and altogether expensive. Part of her wondered how much they had spent to set them all up.

It's a publicity event. Of course they spent the money on it. Still, part of her rebelled against the idea. It had wanted to believe that the CIS was different, a government that didn't care for its image. But it wasn't like it made a difference. He would not let her leave. They were bound to this nation. They would stay here. For now.

As more and more people showed up, she smiled. The little party grew. Even the big names like Darth Metus were here. As the Sith Lord perused the food, talking to some woman she didn't recognize. But that wasn't what interested him. No, she was more interested in what he had just said.

It took her a minute, but she turned on her heel. "Really? Cairyn's insane? Next time you'll tell me that Geonosis is hot and water is wet!"

[member="Srina Talon"] [member="Derek Dib"] [member="Darth Metus"]

 

[Malok]

"This comes with the job." came his simple admission. Darth Metus did not make a point of draping his life in luxuries. His home was not a sprawling estate. His attire was as exquisite as a situation demanded. His wealth was not burned on frivolity; for it was something he was not accustomed to possessing. The Sith was raised on simplicity and carried those ways forward into adulthood. However, the mantle of Vicelord demanded the portrayal of a certain image. One of power. One of prestige. One of confidence. To wear a comfortable pair of denims and to sit amongst the cheering crowd would place undue questions in the minds of the people.

And as a fledgling nation, the Confederacy did not need that. It did not deserve that. "I will...make it up to you." Of what this would entail, the Sith did not know. But, whatever they decided would be certainly less gilded than the skybox.

As they moved along, [member="Srina Talon"] posed a simple question: who was [member="Derek Dib"]? No doubt, the exceptionally-aware woman had taken notice of his wordless greeting of the man. "That is Viceroy Derek Dib of Siskeen." he replied. "He leads and represents Siskeen within the Confederacy." His explanation was to the point, as he sincerely doubted Srina would enjoy an in-depth exploration of the nation's political structures.

...quite

Srina's words were...not filled with the same air of wonder as Darth Metus had grown accustomed. She did not speak, now, as she did when they landed on a new world. Her tone did not match the excitement of discovering a nugget of understanding in the Force. She said very little...but also said quite a bit at the same time. Before her was something she understood. Intimately. Combat was the foundation upon which both Eshan and Mandalore were built: the very same which uplifted Srina and Metus into who they were today. As such, he assessment of the Gamemaster's whims were...the furthest thing from amused.

"Aye. And it was not the test they expected either." he said, briefly deviating his gaze so that he might follow the opening engagement more. "That's what makes this interesting to study. It's much like asking: what would you do when your greatest strengths are taken away, but you have to survive?" Darth Metus paused, long enough to dip another morsel. Crunch.

I see them awake. I see them asleep...But it has not stopped.

Swallow.

"For the average person, yes. I agree." he began. "But...we are different. Our dreams are different. They can be controlled. This will be something that we focus on next - as you deserve your rest."

There was no way that Darth Metus could know the full extent of her suffering - especially not through the justifiably hollow explanation she provided. What he did understand was that her dreams had not concluded...her visions had not concluded...and thus it fell upon him to ensure that they were harnessed and controlled. What came to mind was the journey that had seen the Ferocity enter into his possession...they would need the help of his late sibling, Ember Rekali, moving forward.

As the thoughts pieced themselves together, a voice interrupted the Sith's next bite.

He raised an eyebrow.

"Geonosis is hot. Water is wet."

[member="Srina Talon"], [member="Lady Psyona"]

 

[Derek Dib]

Standing at the window he wordlessly observed as several of the combatants leapt into action. This was a tournament of combat and, despite the oddly unique weaponry chosen initially, no matter that the contest was intended to showcase the strength of several of the strongest within the Confederacy the risk of maiming and death was still a very real possibility. The fact that his brother had volunteered didn't surprise him yet he still worried for the newly minted Shaman.

Behind him he heard his name and his vision switched to watching through the glass at the arena to watching the reflections played out upon the surface of the glass. Narrowing eyes upon Isley, Psyona, and Srina he listened to their conversation. Turning he glanced at the three in curiosity.

Srina was an unknown, pale of skin and hair yet there was steel in her posture and gaze. One to take note of and watch. Being under the wing of Isley also spoke to a certain amount of power and worth which further strengthened his opinion of the woman. Lady Psyona was an interesting read. She didn't seem to revel in the limelight however her flippant remarks could be viewed as one coming from a person who endeavored to be noticed. But Derek didn't seem to believe that. Rather it appeared she had a familiarity with the ViceLord that allowed her a certain amount of freedom. The eyes of Psyona also revealed an affinity to the Darkside, the yellowing not from a sickness of the body but a sickening of the spirit. Derek's brow furrowed for a moment before turning his attention to the third figure.

Isley Verd, also known as Darth Metus, munched on a tray of food. He echoed in the force with an aura that was difficult to pinpoint. Power but there were hints of something that didn't feel right. He couldn't narrow it down. Shrugging his shoulders he took another drink from the crystal tumbler as he turned away from the Mandalorian Sith.

Looking back to the arena he briefly wondered how he found himself in the Confederacy, but it was a question he had asked several times and always found a legitimate answer. Between his brother, Tmoxin, the mission of the CIS, and his responsibility to Siskeen he knew this was where he belonged, despite the questions that came about due to his allies. Perhaps as he learned more about them he would understand what molded the others into their current incarnation. Watching the arena react to the battle he whispered to himself.

"Strange bedfellows indeed."

[member="Darth Metus"] [member="Lady Psyona"] [member="Srina Talon"]

 

[Srina Talon]

Srina remained silent as her master explained that the pomp and circumstance was part of his calling. The fair-haired woman had been born to a privileged Eshan family and up until her self-imposed exile had never wanted for anything. They were well off—but far from wasteful. She couldn’t imagine the amount of credits that had been squandered on the silks for her crimson gown that she would only wear once. But, she understood, in a way. If she was to walk with Darth Metus she needed to walk with him. The small Echani could not appear as a mouse, or a servant, simply trailing in rags behind him.

A slow smile spread across porcelain features when the tall man claimed he would make it up to her. There was an edge of mischievousness to her most would mistake for superiority. He would recognize the difference. “See that you do, my master.”

They found snacks, important to Metus, and seating, important to Srina, rather easily. She sat carefully, posture perfect, with her hands in her lap. Their conversation turned toward the people in the room that she wasn’t familiar with. Derek Dib was first. Silver eyes traced his well-groomed silhouette, and her gaze lingered, even as he turned toward them. His countenance came next. Once she knew the fine lines that created a face—she never forgot it. He seemed to be evaluating them since he’d apparently overhead his name and the young woman smiled slowly in response. It was a silent invitation to leave his lonely corner and join the group. Her tone to her master was light, touched with dry amusement. “He seems…Very involved with his tumbler.”

The information that her mentor gave her was more than sufficient. Name, rank, and purpose. What else was there to worry about in the Confederacy?

Her thoughts on the Golbah Games were less than polite. Silver eyes had hardened and the little girl that Metus received precious glimpses of was all but erased. It was easy to forget who she was, and what she was, based on the sweet curve of a youthful face. She smiled and the shadows of life lessened. While waiting for a battle her heart slowed, froze, and time seemed to still. She became the pale and hard-hearted ghost that her people had trained her to be. There was a pregnant silence before she responded to her teacher, weighted, and lengthy. It was clear that she was choosing her words carefully. “This is a form of play. Perhaps competitive, but it would be a mistake to call it a fight.”

At least, so far, it was a mistake. Eshan was known for putting on displays of skill on stage that made the most stringent of viewers stare with stars in their eyes. But it was poignant, a story told with fire and passion, versus words. It was a test of talent as much as it was a show of restraint. Srina could remember feeling her heart move when a fighter finally made contact with their opponent. The sharp thuds of flesh meeting flesh could be heard high in the ceilings of a dead silent auditorium.

It was elegant and pure. Not a misguided anecdote.

“My greatest strengths lay in my experiences. If someone were to take that away, my thoughts, my memories—Survival would only be a matter of perspective.”, she responded quietly, deliberately, trying to keep the rest of the occupants of the skybox from overhearing. Silver eyes rose to Darth Metus’s face as she sat back in her chair and turned her mercurial gaze back to the surprisingly vivid screens. “I will study it, as you wish, master.”

He then began to inquire about her dreams as casually as one asked about the weather. Srina elucidated how it felt, what she experienced, and did her best to keep an even tone. Her teacher explained that her visions could be controlled. Her first inclination was to laugh. The first true sight she had ever experienced had been while running from her family. It had started small. Seeing things seconds before it happened. It then graduated into recognizing imminent danger.

And then, her mind’s eye had pulled her to Metus, like a moth circling a flame.

“I do not think your force is concerned with what I deserve.”, Srina spoke slowly, afraid to hedge along the possibility, that she could, indeed control the images and sounds that besieged her. The force rolled through her like an unrestrained wave. The small warrior could no more regulate it than she could alter time from flowing. She was afraid to give in to the hopeful thought that her master could be correct. That she could, indeed, control her visions. “I want you to be right. I just—”

Srina closed her mouth with an audible click as a female voice interrupted. Great. More bad jokes. It was, however, the perfect excuse to bury her uncertainties and end the conversation with her master, before they began getting too deeply entwined with her fears. Darth Metus knew of many of them but the Echani was extremely private. Even among, what could be considered friends, in their strange world—there were things that she didn’t want them to know.

Her eyes turned back to the games briefly, to seal her composure, before she turned her attention back to the flame-haired woman. Rather than ask Metus, since they were in close proximity, she introduced herself. The slender apprentice offered a graceful hand in greeting. “I am Srina Talon…And you are?”

| [member="Derek Dib"] | [member="Darth Metus"] | [member="Lady Psyona"] |

 

[Kurenai Yumi]

She had arrived too late to be a participant of the actual fights in this arena game, but watching was the best next thing, especially from a sky box with an overhead view of the fight pit, with added monitors for a closer look at things. She would have been up and seated sooner, but had been pestering the game organizers to see the fighters before they went into, which she was properly denied, safety or something stupid. Well in her mind anyways, these people were about to enter an arena where the main goal was to kill something, how was talking to them dangerous?

Kruenai gave a pouty sigh as she entered the sky box, unsurprising not the first one there, several others where already present, chatting away for what seemed to have been a while, 'ark, must have been longer than I thought, the games already started'. Coming closer her eyes skimmed over the 4 present, two she knew well [member="Derek Dib"] and @Darth Metus each for different reasons, the other women where new, especially the Echani. The noble looking white hair woman had a very dignified air about her, and wore a dress that one would dread to touch lest it be ruined, probably made from some expensive silk... 'nobles, why do they were such impractical clothing'. [member="Srina Talon"]

The other woman, @Lady Psyona was that of the Mandragora, the newly made witch sect that the Confederacy put into play, something she was not entirely in agreement with, but would not shun, if it meant more power, though unfortunately she had been absent from the group’s first, meeting, if one could call standing around a camp fire a meeting. Still one should not judge a book from their cover, perhaps she would attend their next gathering. With enough monologuing done and out of the way she approached the four high ranking individuals, "Sorry am I interrupting anything, got caught up on a few... things, what have I missed so far"?