Duel In Vino Veritas

[Drystan Creed]

UKATIS

"Oh man, this storm is something," Drystan muttered, nursing a mug of ale as he leaned forward against the bar.

Situated in an intimate tavern in the capital city, Drystan had intended to retire for the night as soon as his business was concluded—another lead investigated relating to Force artifacts. But before he could make it back to the outskirts, a torrent of a storm rolled in, stripping away any desire to step outside and replacing it with a preference for the warmth of a barstool and a good drink.

He had no plans to leave the planet just yet. There was still work to be done—an opportunity to leverage the lead into something substantial. Still, he wouldn't have minded experiencing the comfort of his bed aboard his ship tonight.

The rebellion had done much to encourage the flow of Force-related contraband—with little to be said about its other consequences. But those consequences could be left to more capable hands. The handling of the Force artifact trade, however, would be his responsibility. As it had been for his entire tenure as a Shadow.

He took another swig of ale, letting out a satisfied sigh.

The first of many tonight, he thought.

For now, Drystan was content to let the storm run its course. He would pass the time in warmth and silence until it moved on or wore itself out.

Not much would get him out into the rain. Anything short of a life-threatening scenario would find the Shadow more than reluctant to leave the comfort of the indoors for the cold and stormy night outside.

Lysander von Ascania

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Drystan Creed

​

Lysander sat alone, tucked away at a booth pressed against one of the tavern’s walls. Unlike most, he did not perch at the bar with the crowd, nor did he care to laugh or lean into their friendly conversations. The warmth was palpable, but distance had been by choice.

It had been barely a day since he’d set foot back on Ukatis, his home, in both body and memory. But already, the pull of departure tugged at him. This was not the return he had once dreamed of. Now, the air tasted bitter with loss. His visit was a solemn one: to stand before his father’s grave, a privilege denied to him when the Sith invaded, for his loyalties caught him between past and present.

The teen’s attire was purposely monastic; a black dress shirt, high collared, hugged his form, matched by a pair of tailored black slacks. Over his shoulders, a long coat draped. A single clasp fastened it at the sternum, concealing the curved hilt of his lightsaber.

His fingers moved instinctively, retrieving a tightly rolled paper from his pocket, a bundle of herbs. The scent alone seemed to anchor him, a moment of calm within his restless mind.

Taverns had never really been his preferred element, by nature or by choice. The tankard of ale before him was more of a prop, something to help him blend into the crowds that had been gathered amid the storm outside. Were it not for that, he would’ve gone somewhere else entirely. Alcohol had a way of dulling the sharpness he often depended on, and the edge in which he played mental games. The last thing he needed was temptation followed by the regret of bumping a few uglies on his home planet after indulging in the poison.

With a rehearsed flick, he lit the tip. A ribbon of smoke rose into the air. The scent slowly spread through the tavern, carrying hints of pine and a touch of citrus. It worked slowly, dissipating the tension in his shoulders. His posture loosened, and without even meaning to, he leaned back into the seat. And despite the occasional glance from other patrons as the clouds spread, it was the void before him that truly captured his focus, searching for answers in the depths of his mind.

 

[Drystan Creed]

UKATIS

"CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG!"

There went warmth and silence. And by his own doing, no less.

Unfortunately, one mug of ale turned into two, then three—and now Drystan stood at the center of a circle of onlookers, downing an entire keg. Amber liquid sprayed into his mouth from the spout, staining both his cloak and the simple tunic underneath. It was fine enough attire, concealing the lightsaber at his hip, while his prosthetic arm housed a second, hidden behind a cortosis plate.

This was not a good situation for a Jedi to be in—or really anyone, for that matter. Yet here he was, the wiles of the bottle seducing him into yet another poor decision. At the back of his mind, the last vestiges of sobriety flickered with an image: him wearing only a barrel, slumped on the side of a village road, and Corazona von Ascania stumbling upon him in that compromising state. Funnily enough, that incident had also taken place on Ukatis.

But for now, the majority of his consciousness was devoted to drinking the entire keg—of which he had already consumed half. As he did so, his eyes shifted toward the booth where Lysander von Ascania sat, a strange air of familiarity about the young man.

OH!

He paused his feat of alcoholic endurance, raising a finger mid-gulp and giving a sloppy wave.

"Hey! Hey!" he called out, alternating his pointing finger between himself and Lysander.

"Kaggath, right? Kaggath." As if attending the same deathmatch tournament had earned them some kind of camaraderie.

Lysander von Ascania