It was just another day...

[Ronen Jerik]

Mos Eisley Cantina​

The Mos Eisley Cantina...

An Enviroment in which Ronen was far to familiar with. The smell of spice, alcohol and exotic drugs. The sound resonating in the room from the group of mouths spurting thoughts on future plans, excursions, adventures, bounties... The sight of men walking across the room, shouting for more whiskey, for some privacy, pushing others around like they owned the place. The feel of the sandy floor underneath your feet, telling you that danger is lurking around every corner, in this place, you could find everything from a maid, to a bounty hunter, or possibly, even a Jedi.

That was what the young Rogue Padawan was doing in the corner, his Bantha steak on the end of his fork in one hand, and his classic Corellian Gin in the other, He had grown accustom to the new surroundings he had been exposed to when he met Carden, he had grown to like it. But something was missing. It was the same with his Jedi training, there was always a void, a hole, something wasn't there.

He gave up thinking on it, and took his Whiskey down in a single swig. Not drunk, but a little tipsy. Wait... He could sense something, curious, very curious. It was not like the sith he had met all that time ago at the cantina in Coruscant, it was... odd, to say the least. It was powerful, yet controlled, calculative. It reminded him of his days working as a farmer in the Tatooine slums, the man that took his parents had a similar aura, they weren't good, but they were not idiots. They knew what they were doing...

Pff, what was he thinking!? No sith would come to a place like this to eat and drink, not for the latter in any case.
"Another drink for the jedi in the corner please!" He shouted at the bartender, him responding with a happy wave, they knew each other at this point, they might as well have been friends.

Nothing better disturb him from his Drink...

 

[Teynara Jeralyr]

[member="Ronen Jerik"]

Location: Cantina, Mos Eisley, Tatooine, Outer Rim Territories

To visit the Coruscant Opera Houses, take in a show at the Starlight Theater on Abregado-Rae, perhaps partake of the elegant gambling casinos of Pantolomin, or even take in a podrace on Malastare...these were refined pursuits, the sort of thing that any being of cultured taste and credits appropriate to such tastes might enjoy. There would be expensive and fashionable clothing, drinks served in crystal flutes worth more than the salary of the being serving them, food whipped up by some of the Galaxy's finest chefs, each offering exquisite morsels designed to challenge the palate of those wealthy enough to indulge. The civilised life.

There was no hint of such pleasures to be found on this dry, dusty, arid little world of no consequence. Tatooine remained far removed from the Core, ignored by all but those who needed somewhere to be anonymous, outside the rule of any law but that of the blaster. The environment of the planet was inhospitable, but that seemed welcoming compared to the nature of the beings who inhabited it. The natives were fierce, dangerous individuals, but even they were fairly benign compared to those who used the planet as a waystop: somewhere to simply do business.

A place where life would struggle to survive, life was oddly the cheapest of commodities: bought and sold in slave markets run by greedy Hutts and immoral Twi'leki, contracts for death and debilitation exchanged by those with an axe to grind and those more than capable of dealing death for credits, arguments and disputes settled on the wrong end of a blaster, rather than with any civil arbitration. Here is where one might truly find the dregs of society. Truth be told, there was only one reason any sane individual would come to a place like this: to look for a fight, or to look for information.

After all, when life is a commodity, something as simple as a little piece of data easily changes hands. Knowledge is power, and those vying for something greater than this dusty little backwater would do anything to gain the little power that might offer such a change.

It had been common practice for the Sith to send operatives to such places in the days when their Empire had spanned countless hundreds of worlds, with armies and fleets at their disposal, trained operatives available to engage in any number of reconnaisance or intelligence-gathering capacities. In leaner times, we must be prepared to act for ourselves, however. It was for that reason that Tirdarius had come: to simply observe, and learn from the doing of it. Deals would be made, information exchanged, some carelessly let slip for an alert being to pick up. The scum of the Galaxy often have more to offer than they ever imagine.

It was a simple thing to skim the minds of the beings here. Seating himself in a dark corner, quiet and undisturbed, he could simply extend his senses out to cover the patrons of this dirty little Cantina, pick up on those stray thoughts that they unknowingly projected for the sensitive to pick up: undisciplined as they were, they would have little sense of what they might be advertising to those capable of touching the Force. He often learned interesting tidbits of information in such a fashion, and that alone was of sufficient value to warrant being present on this horrific little world, bereft of true civilisation.

His reverie was interrupted, the loud clink of a glass being placed on the polished stone table that sat before him, filled with a murky liquid that was best left undescribed, clearly intended for his consumption. The Sith's grey eyes narrowed, suspicion naturally creeping in at the presentation of something he did not recall having summoned. And it is the little anomalies that always bring complications, he thought reflectively. Not something to be easily ignored.

"I did not order this," he remarked curtly to the server, his Coruscanti accent clearly enunciated with each word, a touch of forcefulness in his tone that made his displeasure clear. "Whoever thought to send it is clearly mistaken if they imagine such an act to be appreciated." Tirdarius flicked a hand outwards, dismissively. "Remove it, and yourself," he instructed the server, his attention sliding away from them and back to his passive contemplation.

 

[Ronen Jerik]

Ronen sat at his table, hearing the refusal of the glass from the mysterious man in the corner, he was still not aware of the fact he was a sith Lord, the drink has made his mind heavy, and he was in no condition to be using the force; let alone drinking. The bartender came back to the table, placing a glass next to him.

"Parrently' This drink ain't good ebough for im' "

Ronen was perturbed by this odd dismissal, what man in his right mind would refuse good Corellian Whiskey? being honest any man in his right mind was to refuse such a horrible drink, but ronen was young, and he was knew to drinking.

"He doesn't want it?" He said, just getting his language right.

"I'll have a word with him!" In a tipsy fashion he stood up and walked towards the man, put his hand on the man's shoulder, trying to be somewhat civil, and did his best to utter "You need to work out your priorities my friend"

This was a bad mistake...

[member="Tirdarius"]

 

[Teynara Jeralyr]

[member="Ronen Jerik"]

Feeling a touch on his shoulder, the gentle application of clumsy pressure interrupting him, Tirdarius' eyes opened, wide at first, then rapidly narrowing with anger at the interference. It had been a fair while since anyone had dared to make such contact with him without his permission, and he was certainly not going to tolerate being pawed at by some lowlife with little reason to disturb him. It was true that he had dressed down for the purposes of his work here, eschewing soft robes for hard-wearing utilitarian clothing - admittedly still black - and wouldn't easily be identified for what he truly was, but there was little reason to endure such violation.

He half-turned in his seat, wrenching his shoulder away from the being that accosted him, staring in angry appraisal at his assailant. The smell of poorly-distilled alcohol was apparent, and he knew he was dealing with someone that had imbibed a little too much of the hyperdrive coolant that the locals considered alcohol, perhaps mistaking the Sith Lord for someone that cared for whatever drunken musings this person wanted to impart. You have chosen entirely the wrong audience for that, I am afraid.

A carefully-wrapped bandage covered the man's eyes, concealing them from view, but likely also ensuring that he could not see through them. Not with any natural act of sight, Tirdarius reflected, surprised despite himself. The Miraluka were known in Sith circles for being naturally attuned to the Force, using it to provide sensory input that their eyes were incapable of providing. Which means this being is not what he seems, at least not entirely. That would warrant more careful observation.

"I have many priorities, most of which are likely to escape your grasp," he intoned coldly, carefully enunciating each word so as to make his feelings on the matter inescapably clear. "You and I have no business that I am aware of, so kindly bother someone else," he added, a miniscule wave of his hand adding energy to the latter half of his statement, a tendril of psychological force intended to compel obedience.

Certainly he could have provided a more direct reason for the drunk to make himself scarce, but that would draw attention to his dark nature and compromise his ability to sit and gather information quietly in a place where he would otherwise remain unnoticed. Subtlety is always called on at such times. He trusted matters would not continue to deteriorate from there.

 

[Ronen Jerik]

How could someone be talking to him like this? That's what the drunk Ronen was thinking, how could a simple commoner be talking down to him like some kind of school child. It was like he thought he was some kind of Sith lord, talking to him like he could rip his skull from his neck with a hand gesture. Who did he think he was? The alcohol told him, these emotions were clearly clouded, he knew he was being irrational in his thoughts, but it didn't matter to him, he didn't come to the Cantina to be talked down to like a school boy. It reminded him of his days with Tydus, where he was quickly exposed to what these emotions felt like, but he didn't think. He could feel the anger rising in him, as foolish and unjustified as it was.

The glasses sitting on the bartenders table simultaneously cracked under Ronens Drunken fury. "Don't Talk down to me!" He said in something a little less than hysterics. He smashed his hand on the table in a drunken fury, Not thinking about the effect it would have on the patrons at the bar. He was more worried about the man sitting in front of him, as a matter of fact, why would someone talk to a Jedi like that when they knew of his abilities? It seemed a foolish thing for a normal... man to do.

It had hit him like a stack of bricks, as his anger had sobered him up, his fear engulfed him once more, as he deducted, if only a man sterner and stronger than a Jedi would talk to one in such a fashion, who else could it be? Only a Sith could have such a cold demeanour. He started to see it now, it was so...

Immense...

He realised his mistake, but he feared he may have a tad too late.

[member="Tirdarius"]

 

[Teynara Jeralyr]

[member="Ronen Jerik"]

The drunk resisted the mental impulse that the Sith had projected, shrugging it off with the subconscious effort that only a Force Sensitive would possess, and a trained one at that. Only such a being would be able to deflect that without intending to, he thought reflectively, eyes narrowing in thought. He felt himself forced to reassess this being: impulsive, reckless, certainly foolish, but yet to deflect a mind trick required a certain level of mental discipline that he would not have expected the younger man to possess. But not one of us. That much seemed obvious.

It was true that many of the Miraluka could touch the Force, but even so, they would find themselves susceptible to such a technique if they were not trained to resist it. Tirdarius remembered his own training in such: endless hours of telepathic contact, the kind that left your head feeling as though someone had been repeatedly beating it with a heavy object. Trying to block each contact, the way one might parry a lightsaber blade, pushing it away until it became so instinctual that it could simply be brushed aside without conscious consideration. And this one has learned the same.

This one was full of mixed emotions, that much the Sith could sense, turning the full focus of his thoughts towards the boy. Anger, oh yes, that shone through very clearly, and the Sith Lord bathed in it, feeling the darkness that whispered to him sharply as the Miraluka drew upon his own inner rage, clearly feeling put out at the manner in which he had been dismissed. A faint smile touched his lips at the sensation of it, knowing that two alone could feel the darkness of those feelings.

They gave away swiftly, pushed aside with conscious effort as fear set in, the sudden realisation that anger was but enticement for a Sith, and to drop one's guard around one of them was but an act of suicide. Or so many believe. One did not antagonise the Sith, and with his dark robes and dark eyes glaring searchingly at the younger man, his identity was clear enough now. Overstepped a little, have we? Yes, the Miraluka certainly had a talent for that...

"Your survival instincts are somewhat lacking, aren't they?", he asked softly, dark amusement evident in his tone, the soft purr of a predator toying with prey. "You have a singular gift so rarely given, and yet you fail to use it in the one moment where it might save your pitiful life," Tirdarius continued, his expression cold. "Had you but consulted the Force, you might have known better than to disturb me."

Too late now, he mused, staring at the boy forebodingly, knowing that he would now have to do something here. Some would simply kill him as a lesson, others might make him suffer for his insolence, perhaps a handful might toy with him, prolong the torment that he must endure before the end finally comes. In truth, Tirdarius was not certain which option would be best here. One thing he was certain of: the Force was scrapping the barrel here, gifted to a drunkard that had little insight into what a remarkable opportunity he had been given in that.

"I am no friend to the Jedi, as you might have discerned earlier, had you not allowed your mind to be so muddled by drink," he said with utter disdain clearly projected through his tone. "You do waste that which you have been granted, and I've half a mind to see to it that such wastefulness stops."

 

[Ronen Jerik]

"Hey Do-"

Wait a minute... this was not the response Ronen was expecting in the slightest, he had half expected for his head to be separated from his mortal body. But no. He had showed him mercy, well, maybe not mercy than pity. Even he knew what a stupid and Unhonourable situation he was in. He should never had touched drink, it clouds him. He put his drink on the table, and thought to himself for a minute. A gift? He never thought he had any inherit talent in the force, he may have never had a midichlorian count, but he had never been told by any of his masters or friends that he had any power, or gift for that matter.

This man saw something in Ronen, it may have been an untapped recess of his mind, but it was there. He had never even looked into the dark side before, apart from force choke, which he couldn't even use at will. Even so, Ronen sobered a little at this mans speech, and slowly started to realise the position he had put himself in. Not a particularly comfortable one, as situations come. Half mind to change that? Was he making an offer to Ronen? Or was this the whiskey... At this point it was a tad difficult to tell, anyway, he had to get to the situation at hand, he couldn't have another situation on his hands, or it could mean the end of him, what could he muster in this desperate moment?

"In half a mind to change that you say? What did you have in mind?" This may not have been the greatest course of action, as the sith lord could simply have been making a referral to his stand on Ronens current state of mind. What could this lead him down, and how could it complicate his plans with the bounty hunter...? So many questions, but whats done is done, he can't take back his words. If only he had been a little more sober, he could have clearly seen the massive force aura emanating off of him, it was blindingly obvious. He had to wait now, what was in store for him was not so obvious.

[member="Tirdarius"]

 

[Teynara Jeralyr]

[member="Ronen Jerik"]

Apparently the boy did not understand a threat when it was directed at him. Must I be less subtle in this respect? It was clear that a person who wasted the gift of life granted to them by the Force would ultimately be better off losing it altogether, lest they strayed into the past of those more worthy of it, and served to ruin theirs. Especially when able to touch the Force. To allow your life to be worth only the contents of your bar tab seemed absurd to say the least. I'd be doing us both a favour by removing your sorry carcass from existence.

The temptation to do just that was strong for a moment, though it felt more appropriate to one of the other Sith than it did to him - never the ruthless murderer that cared not who he killed, and for reasons far more whimsical than reason would suggest. It would be simple, yes: he might squeeze the life out of this one with just the slightest exertion of energies; he might blast his central nervous system with a heavy burst of electrical energy, frying synapses and electrocuting cells; he might simply draw his lightsaber from his belt and slice him into two neat pieces.
All such simple possibilities. All would ultimately be quick.

"Don't flatter yourself to imagine that something could be made of you, boy," he said in tones colder than a winter's day on Hoth, disgust evident even though his words were measured. Tirdarius could sense that he was hoping for something, and the Sith Lord likely wasn't going to provide it. It would be a waste of time to see this one to anything other than a quick end. "You lack discipline, and no respect for either your abilities or yourself. Why should you imagine the world would care?", he added with a sneer.

He'd seen types like this before: beings without any true sense of direction, the kind that didn't give a damn about the galaxy, and who believed that their sole contribution would be to drain it dry of the hardest alcohol they could find, slipping into drink-induced oblivion. I think I'd be doing both you and the Galaxy a favour if I simply snapped your neck, he thought cooly.

"Do you have anything useful to add before I end this pointless conversation?", the Sith Lord asked in a dire tone, knowing full well that he would probably compromise his ability to blend in here by acting against this fool. And so you ruin my day as well, he thought darkly. The quick mercy I'll offer you in turn almost fails to make up for it.

 

[Ronen Jerik]

Ronen knew he was acting pathetically, he knew the drink was twisting his mind, so he had to try and focus, he had to, he HAD to. He took a deep breath, and tried his best to calm down. He thought to himself, how can i prove loyalty to someone so cold? So angry inside, so much focused and controlled anger. How can he prove to someone that powerful that he was worth it. He had to show some of his force ability, something impressive, something rare among jedi. He could show him his ability in the Miralukan art he had mastered, ever since their species was near extinction, few miralukan people can use the ability.

He laid down his lightsaber on the table, along with his head band, revealing his white, empty eyes. He stood up, slightly sobered, and looked Him in the eye.

"There are 27 men in this bar with 2 women and 14 bots outside, there are a total of 173 mugs in the bar, with 24 different variety of drink, 19 of the 27 men have outdated blaster rifles, and your clothes are black, and i can sense a weapon underneath your thin robe" He pointed to the right of his cloak.

He started to lift the alcohol out of the cup with the force. It dropped back in fairly quickly.
"Those are the useful things i have to say."


[member="Tirdarius"]

 

[Teynara Jeralyr]

[member="Ronen Jerik"]

The lightsaber that came to rest on the table between them spoke volumes as to the identity of the Miraluka, revealing more than enough to provide confirmation of his nature. There are so few that carry such a weapon, and I know for certain you are not of allegiance to one of them, Tirdarius thought, his eyes narrowed and expression darkening on appraisal of the weapon that sat in the space between the two of them. A flicker of movement would activate the blade and send it through me. The presentation of such an object was both identification and threat, rolled into one.

It was ever a dangerous thing, to offer such to a Sith. Tirdarius knew his own lightsaber was close to hand: clipped onto the belt at his side. He could have it drawn and active in a heartbeat, but such was the action of a more aggressive being. And who needs to resort to such menial violence to deal with one such as this? That the boy cared to offer an accounting of those things within the room spoke much to what he considered valuable: as though any other Force Sensitive would struggle to accomplish such a simple feat. The boy had not understood who he was speaking to, after all: he might have known how many beings were in the Cantina, but he had not realised a Sith Lord was sat but a few metres away from him, until it was too late.

"I assume there is a point to such a demonstration?", he asked, eyes fixed upon the lightsaber in front of him, rather than upon the boy that had so carelessly brandished such a dangerous weapon in public. To have revealed yourself as a Jedi in a place that both fears and despises them is, perhaps, the most foolish thing you have done since walking in, Tirdarius thought. Then again, you presented one to a Sith, and we are naturally enemies. "If the aim is to increase your life expectancy by a few more minutes, perhaps you've misjudged your audience."

In truth, he hoped this encounter was more than it seemed: a Sith Lord being approached by some drunken rogue Jedi with a death wish. Certainly the only way the boy could prove himself more suicidally inclined is if he asks for my lightsaber and impales himself upon the blade without any further assistance from me. In truth, such would probably make matters simpler, but also far less interesting. And the barman would likely ask me to provide credits for the clean-up.

"You've proven yourself a Jedi, albeit a foolish one," he continued, amused at the thought despite the seriousness of the situation. "I'm afraid if you were imagining that would elicit sympathy, you're quite mistaken."