Ra'a'mah
Baroness
Bastion was never quiet—but there were places where its noise thinned into something usable.
The training hall Ra'a'mah Numare had chosen sat high above the city's core, durasteel ribs arcing overhead like the bones of some great machine. Wide transparisteel panels looked out over Bastion's endless sprawl, ships sliding past in orderly vectors while the planet's lights pulsed below. The floor bore the marks of real use—scuffed plating, shallow impact scores, the subtle wear of repetition and discipline rather than ceremony.
Ra stood near the center of the space, cloak set aside in favor of practical attire suited for movement. There was no audience, no guard detail, no sense of performance—only open space and intent. As Jerrik arrived, her attention settled on him entirely, amber eyes assessing posture, balance, and the quiet tells of readiness before he ever spoke.
"Ra'a'mah Numare," she said calmly, offering her name without flourish or rank. "You may call me Ra."
Her stance was relaxed but unmistakably prepared, weight evenly distributed, hands loose at her sides. Not an instructor standing apart—someone ready to step in. "You chose Bastion," she continued, her voice steady and precise. "That tells me you understand pressure. This world does not forgive hesitation, and it does not reward wasted motion." She turned slightly, gesturing to the open floor between them.
"This will not be ceremonial training. No demonstrations meant to impress. No philosophy layered over poor fundamentals. What we do here will be practical—control first. Distance. Reading intent before movement commits."
Her gaze returned to him, level and unblinking.
"If you are here to sharpen your edge, we begin by understanding where it is dull—and why." A brief pause, measured, intentional. "When you are ready," Ra'a'mah said evenly, "step onto the floor." Her eyes remained on him, not challenging, not indulgent—simply present.
"Show me how you stand."
Jerrik Molten
The training hall Ra'a'mah Numare had chosen sat high above the city's core, durasteel ribs arcing overhead like the bones of some great machine. Wide transparisteel panels looked out over Bastion's endless sprawl, ships sliding past in orderly vectors while the planet's lights pulsed below. The floor bore the marks of real use—scuffed plating, shallow impact scores, the subtle wear of repetition and discipline rather than ceremony.
Ra stood near the center of the space, cloak set aside in favor of practical attire suited for movement. There was no audience, no guard detail, no sense of performance—only open space and intent. As Jerrik arrived, her attention settled on him entirely, amber eyes assessing posture, balance, and the quiet tells of readiness before he ever spoke.
"Ra'a'mah Numare," she said calmly, offering her name without flourish or rank. "You may call me Ra."
Her stance was relaxed but unmistakably prepared, weight evenly distributed, hands loose at her sides. Not an instructor standing apart—someone ready to step in. "You chose Bastion," she continued, her voice steady and precise. "That tells me you understand pressure. This world does not forgive hesitation, and it does not reward wasted motion." She turned slightly, gesturing to the open floor between them.
"This will not be ceremonial training. No demonstrations meant to impress. No philosophy layered over poor fundamentals. What we do here will be practical—control first. Distance. Reading intent before movement commits."
Her gaze returned to him, level and unblinking.
"If you are here to sharpen your edge, we begin by understanding where it is dull—and why." A brief pause, measured, intentional. "When you are ready," Ra'a'mah said evenly, "step onto the floor." Her eyes remained on him, not challenging, not indulgent—simply present.
"Show me how you stand."
Jerrik Molten