Kai'el Brat "Guardian of the Light"
Braze was prowling after a man who carried an ancient Force relic, something that had been whispering faintly to him in his dreams, had drawn him across the stars like an itch underneath his skin he just couldn't scratch.
Port Nowhere was the last place the smuggler's trail had gone cold. It was like a drifting fortress of crime and villainy, where every deal was bought in blood and sealed in silence.
The station's corridors reeked of fuel and spice, its dim lights flickering over faces that never wanted to be seen. If the relic was here, it was buried somewhere beneath the layers of vice, deceit, and desperation that held the port together at the seems. Why would the Force lead him here of all places?
It was by no means Braze's first foray into a den of vice and sin, but this place was rough even by his standards. He slipped through the crowds with his hood drawn, the din of the typical day to day struggles echoing through the steel bones of the station. Eventually, he found himself drifting into a sectioned-off area where the noise grew louder, into primal jeers and chants. The thunderous pounding rhythm of music rattled the air melding with the cheers for blood and spectacle alike.
Up ahead, a massive durasteel cage hung suspended over the crowd. Neon lights and laser beams strobing through layers of steam and smoke that drifted like ghosts above the pit. The air tasted of iron and cheap liquor, accentuated by smoke, char, and engine oil, thick enough to cling to the back of his throat. Prize fighting, by the look of it. Whatever the rules were, they didn't seem to involve mercy.
A jagged scoreboard built form derelict scrap, flickered high above the cage. Half its numerics were burned out, the rest flashing erratically as odds shifted faster than the fights themselves. Names scrolled in neon script, each punctuated by a cheer or a groan as bets were called out and credits exchanged hand-to-hand. Bookies shouted odds from behind rusted caged booths, their datapads chained to the tables to prevent theft.
Weapons lay piled along the wall of the cage above; anything from vibroknives, durasteel clubs, even a few stun batons stripped from old security droids rested pinned for the combatants to snatch mid fight. Combatants picked through them like scavengers at a junk heap, some wrapping their hands in strips of synthleather, others stepping barefoot into the arena as if daring it to kill them.
Braze lingered at the edge of the crowd, hood shadowing his pale eyes as he beheld the display, sparks showering from an overhead grate while the crowd surged with hunger for blood and spectacle.
Somewhere in all that madness, the relic's call pulsed faintly in his chest . It had to be here. Braze exhaled slowly, breath misting in the recycled air as he scanned the crowd.
It was like trying to find a needle in a haystack, only the haystack was armed, drunk, and shouting for blood. Faces flickered in the half-light, most of them mercs with scarred jaws or gamblers clutching chits between shaking fingers, droids counting wagers with cold indifference to it all. Every bit of sound felt louder, every little flash of light threatening to drown out the quiet call that guided him here.
Beyond the betting booths, a bar curved around the far side of the pit strewn together from a patchwork of metal panels welded from ship parts and old cargo doors. The countertop was slick with spilled drinks and questionable substances. A small holo-sign sputtered overhead, casting the name The Hangman's Mercy in sickly green across the haze.
Braze started toward it, keeping his hood low. He settled at the far end of the counter, turning to watch one of the flickering screens that displayed the cage fight above. He looked unsettled, or perhaps simply perturbed by the place itself, even as he waited for the barkeep to notice him. He tried to steady his breathing, to calm the restless hum in his chest. Suffice to say it was not an easy task in a place like this, thick with suffering, anger, and all the tangled noise of pain that pressed against his senses.
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