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His thirst for coin was as vast. His lust, his desire, his only love. There was nothing he would not do for wealth. If he had a sister he would sell her. If he had your sister he would sell her too. The Neimodian had wealth. Casinos, gambling dens, slave pits, and spice. Occasionally dabbled in theft. No matter the amount collected he wanted more. All the credits in the galaxy could not lick the luster for credits. He wanted it all, and more!
The Pit he called it. A gladiatorial stadium on the planet of Neimoida. Bellow The Pit, a blistering dry wasteland. The Pit hung in the air with massive drasteal chains. The chains ran high into the air. The city of Koto-Si gave support to the chains that held The Pit. Koto-Si, the city was a typical Neimoidian archway city that spanned from one rock cliff to another.
[SIZE=16pt]The Pit[/SIZE]
A massive coliseum. The sheer size of it was monstrous. It was a city of its own with hotel rooms and amenities. Gambling halls filled with sabacc tables and slot machines. A night club where one can drink and dance the day away. Concession stands and fine dining halls. There was little one could find on The Pit. Chool Zhaald ran The Pit. The law seldom intervened. That is Chool kept lining their pockets full of credits.
The main attraction was the grallatorial area. Be it man or beast, many were slaves. Some few, men and women who sought combat. Be it for coin or glory they came to fight. Then there was the mob, the masses that cheered on the brutality. It was a massive racket of the suffering of those tossed into the pit. It was such an attraction the events were held live over the Holonet. Gambling dens across the galaxy held polls of whom would die and whom would live.
Little did the gathering masses knew, what show was in store for them this day? A Sith Lord has sold a captive Jedi to Chool Zhaald. What a prize indeed Chool believed. He had paid well for the prisoner. Now he had expected his investment to pay off. It was [member="Barrien Siegfried"] ‘s turn to be ushered into the area floor.
Bix leaned up to the railing of the luxury box. She still wore the armor she had worn on Contruum. Without the helmet that was destroyed. Also the mud and grime was cleaned off. The marks of war still visible. She looked down, far below was the area floor. Bodies and weapons still littered the floor from previous fights. She smirked hearing the Jedi’s name being called out. In her twisted mind this was his second chance. By chance he would live or die. Would he cling to his believes and die in the area or would he give in to Bogan.
Sera was one of the more unassuming Sith you would see, but as her Master was making her aware she had yet to see the value evident in all life compared to the force’s will. Part of her training was shaping events before they happened, vague were her visions, hazy signs or a fleeting cloudy image, training was helping clarity slowly but surely and had been for years.
Chance and command had taken Kintan’s priestess to the arena. She was here to assist other lord’s with visions of future victories, and what better way to train than watching individual battles of life and death. One name had caught her eye, drawn her forward. As he was shoved forward, she approached fully covered in her red desert wear, from head to toe, just faint flicks of fiery locks coming out of her hood, and graceful footsteps carrying her forward to bring her before him.
Deep blue orbs watching [member="Barrien Siegfried"], she smiled and pulled her hood back, pulling a small golden knife from her belt, and passing it gently to his belt with an obvious but gentle touch of her hand, one that might come in handy in the coming battle when he might find himself alone or unarmed [member="Barrien Siegfried"]. “You may make use of this.” Her cryptic message delivered, before she scowled at the guards who were about to question her motives, or remove it, pulling her hood back atop her hair. Her motives were never anything but to serve her Masters, and that knife did so, in ways they couldn't begin to see with their limited understanding.
“He will live or die as he always would, but you will not if you remove that knife.” Her usual honeyed words instead cutting and direct. Everyone had a part to play in what was to come, fire kindling behind her blue eyes, flames of rebirth and renewal, she saw more than they could know.
He had thought she would interrogate him. He'd thought she would explore who he was. When he'd woken up after being knocked out on Contruum he was in Force Binders. He was not free. And she was nowhere. It confused him at first. He knew he was on a ship, but he didn't know where the ship was going. He didn't know anything. What he did know, was that she didn't come to see him. Not once. Not a word about anything.
And then he was on a strange world, and sold to a slaver of some kind before being ushered off to who knew where. He didn't understand, but he didn't have a choice, and he couldn't use the Force given the binders. Not that he would have been seeking to harm someone or anything of that nature in order to escape.
When he was stood before a gate, he frowned. The gate led into a pit, and he could still see the blood stains. He knew what this was. On Oaken Dawn, some of the more extreme House's preferred this kind of sport. He grit his teeth because this disgusted him, and also because he knew he wasn't going to be given any choice but to participate. He hadn't been sold to a traditional slaver, he'd been sold to a gladiator owner.
It wasn't long before he was approached by [member="Sera Inkari"]. He didn't know her. She couldn't know him. But she moved close, lowered her hood and put a knife in his belt. He blinked, curious of why she was helping him, but he said nothing. The knife might be handy, but he doubted she would enjoy the way that he would use it.
When she was gone, he moved closer to the gate. Would they remove his binders or was he going to be forced to fight in such a manner as to have no use of his hands? He did not know, but he waited all the same. Soon he would be forced to fight. If he fought beasts, he would fight back. If he fought sentient beings, that would be much harder, and probably quite boring for those looking on from above. He stared up at them. She was there. He could see her in her armor. Somehow he would unravel her mystery.
Sitting in the stands, she normally would not be in a place like this. Vices such as gladiator games were so ... boring to her, but she would make an exception this time. A Jedi, captured on Contruum, was the prize fighter for today and she was very curious about what this Jedi might do in such a situation. Lady Slisia had been the one to capture him, and she could see her watching from the luxury box.
She had merely taken a seat among the rabble, quietly observing behind her mask and armor. A crescent shaped lightsaber hung from her belt, indicating to those around her she was to be left alone. Another Sith, an acolyte like herself she guessed, passed the Jedi a golden knife. Interesting.
Casually waving her hand in a circle, her probe droids would spread out around the pit. They would simply lurk in shadows, feeding her their visual and audio feed when they designated something that might interest their master. The fight would start soon, perhaps the Jedi would actually be of more interest than now ... who was to say.
Amidst the crowds of scum and criminals, who made up the majority of the viewers at this gladiatorial coliseum, was a Lieutenant of the Galactic Republic military. It would be understatement to say that this soldier wasn't welcome on this One Sith controlled planet. But he wasn't here for personal entertainment, he was at this location for strictly one purpose only - to save the Jedi Padawan known as Barrien Siegfreid. It was no secret that this task would not go without resistance; this hive of villainy undoubtedly contained some members of the One Sith who were unlikely to let their prisoner escape with ease, even if they had sold him off to Chool Zhaalb.
So here Jaccer was. Sitting in a sea full of the type of people he killed for a living wearing only a set of CAS-5 Light Armour and a filthy rag covering it. All he had to defend himself was HAED-L Slugthrower Rifle, a couple of spare magazines and two combat knives concealed in the gauntlets of his armour. This fully armed soldier didn’t draw much attention to himself as his rifle remained on his back for time being and the rag prevented anybody recognising the armour or the man who wore it.
It seemed like it was Barriens turn to fight in the arena next. There wasn't much Jaccer could do to aid the young Jedi at the point. All he could do was wish him good luck against whatever opponent he may face. Until the point where he could intervene, Jaccer sat in the stands gulping down a glass of brown liquid which had a taste he could not recognise ever trying before. “I could get used to this. Watching a pair of unlucky people forced to fight to death while sipping on a nice warm glass of… well I'm actually not so sure what this is...” The Lieutenant joked down the communication system which was wired to all other members of the Galactic Republic currently taking part in the mission.
The words were naught but a low growl as they left the throat of the creature, heard by nobody but the man himself. The darkness consumed them readily, drowning out everything but the sound of his breathing; even the jeering and rattling outside seemed to fade away as he focused, orange eyes slipping closed.
Layer after layer, he peeled away the distractions, the frustrations, the weight, and let them all out with a long exhale. As if expelling a foul toxin from his body, Kur-gal could breathe anew with ease, for there was purpose in his heart. A torch ignited by the Yun'O, by Yun-Yammka, whose name he bore.
Name and caste.
His jaw set, rows of sharp teeth grinding against each other as he sought to purge the conflict from his mind. Surely, he must have been Shaped by Gods' will, and could not be wrong, for their will was the True Way. Surely.
Kur-gal extended his muscled arm, fingers reaching to brush against Kraets in the darkness of the cell. Through the closed door, only a sliver of light filtered down, and with it the raucuous cheering of people come to witness blood. Such a simple sport, and most base in nature. A testament that men were nothing more than animals in fools' clothing.
Each time he came here, same faces stared down from the stands, always different, and somehow still the same. Angry, empty, lustful faces, of creatures who were too weak and too scared to step into the ring themselves.
Violently, the Dragon spat in disgust at the thought, and strong fingers curled around the crab in preparation of the gate swinging open. Even as the doors started creaking, old metal sliding aside for a millionth time, he leaned back and yanked the tsaisi from his flesh. A sharp grunt, and then the mottled skin bubbled and knotted on the spot, reforming for a millionth time.
As if on cue, the call rang across the arena, and the beast stepped out of his cage and into the light, unafraid. With each stride his presence was branded into the bloodthisty hive mind of the hungry spectators, a promise of what they had come to witness; death.
A death-walker's work was never done. The war could end, the blades could all be broken, and still the thrum within their soul would tell them to fight. Soldiers could be tamed, aye, but a swell-sword of hard-blood could not be. Their eyes would still be filled with fire, their hearts would still pound, and the ache in their bones would be forgotten. Only death could claim one of them. And even he, the mightiest of Reapers, could only carry some. Others could slip out of his grasp, able to avoid the eternity of sweet demise.
Ven'Rain Sekairo was a death-walker. A warrior with harsh blood, a desire for combat, and a need to feel that rush. Combat was where she thrived, even if she no longer wanted it. To be bathed in blood would be akin to being given new life for her. Every time she was thrust into the fray she found another piece of herself, another portion of the puzzle, something she could use from that moment onward. In the last month she had rekindled the flame within, allowing it to burn once more. She was a death-walker, and she would walk with the Reaper 'til she could walk no more. "Aegis in position," the merc said into her comm unit, her helmet automatically sending it to the other Republic agents. No others, not even those directly by her, would be able to hear her voice. 'Twas the beauty of her helmet, hidden behind a simple black cloak. Ven was hidden high in the stands, cloaked in the shadows, watching the scene unfold with seeming disinterest. A heavy piece of cloth covered her. It only revealed a faint glow from her helm. To her right a man in a nice suit following the fighters closely, his gaze refusing to miss a single detail.
He was her 'client', she was his 'guard'. Smuggling her into the arena hadn't been easy. In the end she had been forced to pose as a mysterious protector. The Aegis to a crook's crown. Others were hidden within the area, some posing as audience members, some as guards, and at least one as a slave owner. They were going to far lengths in order to rescue a single man. But he was a kinsman, one of their own. To leave him behind would be to leave behind part of the body. And so they had come for him, ready to strike out at a moment's notice, waiting for the perfect chance.
Fighters entering an arena. Two walk in, one walks out. To the Rattataki assassin, it was funny to be on the spectator side for once. She had made a career in pits like these when she was just a girl, fighting other girls and whatever beasts the Warlords of Rattatak could purchase to throw at them. Of course, this was not Darth Ophidia's first time in a gladiatorial arena since she left Rattatak, but the feeling of estrangement never faded. Once she painted the sand in precious life-blood, she had been forever changed. Perhaps it would be so for the Jedi as well.
But, Darth Ophidia was not just there to observe the fight. She was there to secure their client's interests. Selling a Jedi into slavery was a risky business, because Jedi and other Republic pretenders had an awful habit of saving each-other. It was in their nature to rescue those who were too weak to save themselves. So, in order to secure good relations to a valuable client and prevent the Republic from regaining lost troops, a Sith Assassin was sent to oversee the captive's transition into subjugation. Her presence there was only known to the parties of the sale and the Council of the Sith Assassins. To all else, she was naught but another spectator.
The role of spectator was one Ophidia adopted easily. The look and feel of the crowd was child's play to replicate, as she covered her armour in a layered cloak designed to keep the heat away by trapping cool air inside. Something commonly worn on desert worlds. By application of make-up and synth-skin prosthetics, she hid her own more prominent features and and drew new ones to make herself just another Rattataki. Where there was bloodsport, you would find her kind. They were mercenaries, slavers, and pit-fighters, because there was little else that came from her old home. Of course, her presence in the Force was masterfully subdued to make her appear as a non-force sensitive. She appeared simply insignificant in the crowd, which made it all the easier for her to keep a look-out.
Pale eyes surveyed the gathering spectators. She could see the captor, [member="Bix Slisia"] in the luxury booth, not to mention the Jedi and his opponent. She noticed a in the [member="First Daughter"] in a seat near opposite of herself among the crowd, masked and clad in black. Not very inconspicuous, but not what she was looking for. Still, she kept the person in mind, just in case. Sensing Ophidia's concern, the Tsaisibola stirred under her cloak, tightening around the waist of her cuirass. She ran a soothing finger over its head to calm it down while turning her gaze down to the pit and the fight.
"Get inside, ya dizzy, mutzh!" A creature, one he identified as Vhuul Zhaalb, brother of the infinitely evil Chool Zhaalb shouted through the burgeoning storm of exuberance that dulled in intensity as it traveled through the floorboards and showered down in to the labyrinth of tunnels and rooms bellow the sunken belly of the deadly, and famous Pit.
Six-O complied, crossing through the stabbing beams of the LED wall lamps whose globed, amber hue shone dim in the dusty hall.
"Like rabid akk dogs. . . I tell ya!" The green Neimoidian snorted, sealing the circular door behind the blood dripping droid with a loud clunk of the locking mechanisms. "If I had known this is where I'd end up -- locked in some steaming prison stocked with every type of mongrel from the Deep Core to the Outer-Rim, I think I would have taken my chances with the Galactic Republic. Hey. . . come on now, ya plucky droi'chek. . . wipe off -- be civilized." The alien said, tossing a black towel towards the droid with his long, spindly fingers.
The inner-modulation of this room had clearly found itself adapted to fit the needs of Vhuul as his personal office. A single small window highly elevated away from the floor peered out at ground level in to the arena, not an optimal view. Just something that provided enough line of sight to gaze upon the current action. A desk, with an ornate curvature in it's design appeared to Six-O to be made of a well shined and polished Oro-Wood, a magnificent antique to be sure, it'd been over 800 years since Alderaan had been destroyed. Coming across such pieces was rare. Wampa Skin carpets, Rancor Leather chairs, all manner of bauble and trinket. High-class consumerism at it's finest.
"Well, come on in, don't stand there like a mutzh! I haven't seen you since the Moon Festival Games. . . ?" Vhuul voiced, waving Six-O in further.
For a moment, as the droid swiped his chassis with heavy strokes of the towel, it's soft fabric snarling and pulling against the jagged scars and pitted metal of his body. Six-O contemplated on how best to, and in what manner he wanted to reply to the old acquaintance. He ultimately decided he wouldn't. As his memory bank knew, it didn't matter what you said to Vhuul Zhaalb, he very rarely heard anything other than his own voice, and routinely would carry on the conversation whether replied to or not. An ever scheming conniver, obsessed with becoming more than his brother was, but owing his continued survival directly to the fear his brother inspired in the Organics around him.
"Os vai! That was a rough one, right? Hadn't seen you busted up like that since you came limping in from somewhere out on the Fringe." On a gaudy side table to Vhuul's right he poured himself a fruity concoction of liqueurs native to this world, in to a large hurricane glass, sloshing down a deep gulp.
Six-O still did not reply.
Vhuul looked to the droid, cradling the cup in his left hand casually. "Zuubsi. . . what am I? A chi'menih? Come on now!" the alien said, sprightly and laughing. "Let's talk a little, no need to go right in to business! In fact, let's talk. . . while we walk. By the time we get to the other end of the compound it'll be like I'm doing YOU a favor. Truuusst me." The Neimoidian, stretching out his right arm as he approached Six-O, cautiously extended the mottled limb across the shoulders of the Droid.
". . ."
"Heeyyy! I'll talk, you just listen and follow, alright?" With arm still over the Droid's shoulders, the two began to stride forward casually. Vhuul draining his beverage further and further with unsavory quaffs and loud swallows.
The door soughed, opening for the two to exit out in to the dank and dingy halls of the Arena underlevel.
"So, my Droid, you know my brother? Yes of course you do!." The lesser answered himself. "You know things are being set in motion, lots of moving parts, and there's a whole big plooha about it. . . may be nothing, may be something, no one really knows for sure, we all just take our place in the gear work and do our bidding until we get our calls, thats how it's always been. That's how it should be. So we'll see what happens there, right?"
Dark shadows frequently broken by the glowing light of lamps, that's what the Droid became fascinated with most as the two carried on through twists and turns. Never stopping to fully examine the nature of the cells and holding areas for the less important Gladiators and slaves that would be rendered mere puddles of blood in the sand by days end.
"Well, I take on a job -- pretty typical, nothing extravagant -- for this Governor, or maybe he was a Senator. . . or he could have been an Admiral. . doesn't matter he was a mutzh! Long story short, I'm an alien, he's a human, he's this, that or the other -- doesn't matter, he says doesn't have to pay. Wrong. I know where this scum. . . this racist, white haired, Zhell-faced coward likes to exert his authority and have a good time, am I right? Of course I am droi'chek."
They were crossing the tunnel [member="Barrien Siegfried"] currently found himself standing, readying his mind for what was to await him in the Pit beyond the Gate.
"Who am I, right? I'm not helpless, I know the people that know all the people, right? Yes. So I get some guys to make things right -- they end up killing him. Os vai, I know! Longer story short, everyone knows the pig and I had issue, some Deathstick junkie, rat mutzh runs his trap. . . next thing I know I got Republic Soldiers busting up my shop. Make the call to Old Chool, he gets me off world. All my savings are seized, all my assets frozen. I'm given a Death Mark over this one yuptz, my brother does his thing. I get set up here, brand new equipment, all top of the line, all better than I had. I do what any respectable Underworld Associate would do. . . pledge my life to him. He is my brother, after all. . . for now "
More tunnels snaked off in every direction, screams and cries echoing as distant and constant reminders of the misery this place bestowed.
"You know my brother, Six-O. . . Let's not beat the Bantha dead though, he is more of a Legacy than anything. He has a deep history and mythology that stretches very far back. But really, he just knows the people one might need for any job. And he has a knack for violence, and a place to unleash it free of consequence, mostly. But he hasn't been a landscape changing player for a very long time -- and I don't say that from a position of disrespect, zuubsi. I owe my Neimoidian life to Chool. But a fact is a fact."
The Organic and Droid had paused in their stride, a cage just to their left -- actually, it was less of a cage and more of a well decorated, yet equally, and remarkably, bare cell. Ah yes, the droid could recall now why he had wanted to be here. It'd been for more than an opening act show of cleaving, burning, and tearing the sentience out of Organic combatants to the booming roar of a crowd. It had been to take an analysis of this Gladiator right here.
Groog the Gruesome, they called him. The Gamorrean Executioner, the Cut-Throat of Gamorr. He had been a Gladiatorial spectacle since his capture and enslavement by the hands of those working for some Devaronian in the Outer-Rim many cycles ago. The very same Devaronian Six-O knew to run a very strange and mysterious traveling show of Oddity and Intrigue.
The Droid unhinged from beneath the arm of his walking companion, approaching the bars of the Gamorrean's cell. The creature was monumental in size, quick scans read that he stood 7.7 meters in height, and given the heavy musculature Six-O approximated his weight to exceed 217 kilograms. He was a fine specimen of sickly green flesh, and thick pulsing veins. A wet, slimy snout, and deadly tusks.
"Ah, mutzh! That's what I like to see!" Vhuul said with wild enthusiasm. "You are an appreciator of fine merchandise. Perhaps you and I. . . or more specifically, the One Sith, and I could work out an agreement. You are connected to them, yes?"
Six-O continued with his stance of silence.
"He came to us from one of those devil people, I'm sure you know of whom I speak." The Neimoidian informed, voice lowering for theatrical effect. "They took him from Gamorr," Vhuul continued. "He was a Warlord of that World. . . 1938 days of carnage and mass murder. His rivals became little more than snorting piglets in his presence, and he held great feasts of human meat and bone. Hundreds of thousands at a time, the banquets were long and miserable. Human and Near-Human people were told to avoid travel not just to the planet, but the entire sector by all Custom Agents across the Galaxy. It was truly impressive what this wretch was able to accomplish with a mere axe and insatiable appetite for blood and flesh. He is very prized, he'd make an excellent collection piece, don't you agree?"
". . ."
"You know, Six-O. . . my brother, bless him for saving my meek life. But my brother does not let Droid's up in to the stands of his Arena. . . not even glorious droid's such as yourself who have put on shows of mayhem that have wow'ed and delighted. But I, Vhuul Zhaalb, I would allow you to not only appear in the stands. I would allow you to feed this Goliath. . . would you not like that? Come with me, let me show you to the Slaves. Mutzh, listen when I tell you, you will love it!"
The Gladiatorial Arena. How often had Xavka stood on the sands that covered the pit with the heat, smells and sounds of a crowd eager for the sight of spilt blood bearing down at him. The smells of the varying races and unwashed scum that crowded in to observe the blood sport. The sound of shuffling feet, shouted conversations and the rustling of food and drink. And the penetrating gaze of the gathered peons there for only one thing, to sight of watching combatants fighting to the end of one of them, mainly so that money could change hands.
Once the opponent entered though, the atmosphere would change. The crowds would momentarily quiet at the entrance before roaring in joy of the fact that the fight was near. Adrenaline would rush through the combatants, heightening the sensation of being a worthless pawn as senses increased in anticipation. It was something that Xavka did not miss. While the thrill of a fight was something that he always revelled in, the feeling of being some rich gunsosun toy had always grated on him. And so, even though he now found himself playing the part of a spectator, a sneer of disgust was carved onto his lips.
Moving through the crowds, his black cloak collected around his body and hid his frame from view, Xavka kept his left side, the side with the seeing eye, towards the pit. With his hood pulled back, his tattooed face was visible to all, along with his dark grey hair, tied into a top-knot ponytail and seemingly being blue from the way light hit it. He, much like his Master, [member="Darth Ophidia"], was there to keep an eye on the Jedi who was being sentenced to slavery as a fighter. However, his role was not to be as inconspicuous. His was to be more obvious than his Master, to draw attention as the obvious observer while she blended into the crowds seamlessly. But that was not to say that he did not attempt to try and hide. If he did not then it would more suspicious than if he did. As such he drew on his memories to match the energy of the crowd, to blend in as just another bloodthirsty Zabrak.
As his eyes momentarily met those of his Master, Xavka showed no recognition, knowing that to do so would neutralise the point of him being there. However, he made no attempt to hide, letting his Master know that he was there is needed.
She withdrew from the Republic front lines awhile ago, her recent emergence was brought on with questions, but only a few knew why she was missing in action. Besides that, she was one of the few abled body Jedi left standing with the Galactic Republic and so she assumed her duties once she was reinstated. Her inability to participate in The Battle of Contruum made her a reliable candidate to participate in the mission that would follow.
A padawan was captured and taken prisoner in the aftermath of the battle, and since she was closer in proximity to where the intel pointed she was dispatched along with the others, forming a task force meant to sneak behind enemy lines and retrieve the prisoner of war. This would be her first real assignment where her physical skills would be called upon since the fall of the original Sith Empire, her hand hadn't been tested in recent times, and perhaps there was reason she avoided conflicts such as these.
---------------
She was able to make her way to Cato Niemodia, as she was smuggled in alongside the others. She served as an advanced scout as well. Wearing humble robes that covered her Voice of the Force armor; a set given to her by a former Master of hers who created the piece personally, though this was something she preferred not to utilize in battle due to the sentimental value it possessed. She sat amongst the anxious crowd higher up into the colosseum, separated from the rest. Her hood was up to cover her head, and her connection to the Force slightly drowned out amongst the emotions of the crowd.
She looked around, trying to scout out the positions of the games sponsors, and any other guards they may lay camouflaged. She could tune her mind to those around hers, a natural gift granted through her heritage. As she scouted she could feel the plethora of emotions bouncing through her section, even hearing the surface thoughts of those around her. She spoke softly into her com,
"I'm positive that getting out of here won't be pleasant. We have to make sure there's an exit available to us..."
Amongst the others, she had an idea how things would turn out. Though, the future is always subject to change.
The gates opened and he was thrust inside. Only when the gates closed behind him did the Force Binders pop off. The first thing he did was rub his wrists and take a look around the pit. Lots of screaming people up at the top. He was no stranger to that. The fact that they were betting on whether he would live or not was something that he was not used to. This wasn't something he had gotten familiar with on his homeworld. After all, a noble never had to fight in the arena. That was reserved for the ne'er do wells, not the likes of him.
The pit was not going to be his friend, and neither was the Vong that entered across from him.
As he looked across, the beast came in. It was taller than him by several hands. Stronger, no doubt. It was also equipped with a shield that looked deadly, a sword that looked deadly, and an amphistaff. And all he had was the Force and the golden dagger one of the Sith had given him for whatever reason. He didn't like the odds, but he suspected that was the point. These people wanted to see their champion win, not him.
There were some things he could do, but for the moment, he chose to circle, keeping as much distance between himself and the Vong as he could. No sense in rushing in to attack, not that he would anyway. Even thought this was a foe, he did not wish to kill it. He really wished he hadn't been caught at this point.
"Tiu drepa yam," the tall man growled, orange eyes zeroing in on his foe.
The creature that had stumbled into the arena through the opposite gate was here against his will. Bought and sold. A weakling, then.
A slave.
"Kanabar." he spat.
There would be no glory in slaying this sack of meat and bone. No mettle to test in combat against a worm like this, snivelling and scared. Fear and uncertainty nearly radiated from the pinkskin as he looked around to get his bearings. As if there was some higher purpose to the crowd above, cheering and urging them on. This was where the thin veneer of civilization was stripped away, where man and beast stood abreast wearing the same colors; red and black.
One for blood, that came first, and the other for death, which inevitably spralled into pools of red like ink. Even small droplets were enough to consume everything else, just like the brush of death against this broken man would be enough to make him kneel.
Kur-gal reeled, roaring his battle cry at the filthy infidel as he charged, surprsingly fast for his bulk. The Shapers had grafted countless biots into his body, biots that had even the proud and mighty Yuuzhan Vong dying in droves as they tried and failed to merge with them.
But not the Dragon. He was strong, and he would crush this weakling like a bug, reducing him to little more than a smear of flesh and bone in the dust.
Location: By the arena door, stairs below [member="Xavka Duquo"] | [member="Darth Ophidia"]
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7cN3Rvlxzsc
Roaring cheering crowds as they began, thriving and swaying to their own unfolding destiny. Watching their match square off inside. Sera moved upward but stayed near their arena door, finding her small window on the stairs to look through, why she had given him her knife, was all a mystery, like someone who walked in dreams and lost herself within her visions, she seemed that way often to outsiders. Only [member="Vengeance"] seemed to be able to see her, flaws and all, inside her shifting sense of what was real and what was not. So much for an acolyte to handle, she did so with little control, pulled by the strings of others.
Somewhere below [member="Xavka Duquo"] on the stairs, Sera made no real attempt to blend in, crowds did that more or less for her, her traditional garb stood out but not overly much as her clothing wasn’t expensive, simple, practical, and gracefully cut to just brush ground, unless she lifted her hem with each passing step.
One hand holding her robes, another resting her hand on her chin, she lean forward to the arena wall’s stone, to see destiny revealed, if her predictions were right, she wanted to bear witness, for her destiny and the role of this place in what would come within its unfolding, was at hand. His voice in her ears, and in her chest, swaying within her [member="Raien Keth"], she could barely breathe.
A series of corridors, rows of squat cages lining each wall. Too short to stand in, two small to stretch knotted and cramped limbs comfortably. As Six-O and Vhuul Zhaalb gad the center aisle, the Neimoidian brought an embroidered handkerchief to it's face, attempting vainly to shield the smell receptors under his eyes from the stench of organic feculence.
So many to choose from, all weak and pale. Their awful flesh stretched tight over bones, and stained black with grime and filth. Hair greasy and matted, knotted and tyrannized by scores of crawling lice. This was their natural state, this was where all Organics belonged, Six-O could not help but reflect. The weak ones, anyway, he would rapidly digress. He did find much amenity in those of a more callous cut -- especially if they had the bait of knowledge to lure his eager memory banks with.
"Go on, you pick which dish to serve our Champion. Who else would give you such an honor, yeah? No one, mutzh. Only Vhuul Zhaalb!"
Choices, choices.
The Droid roved admist the begs and sobs, doom were the echoes of his foot falls, torment the murmur of his servos as joints bent and clawed fingers snapped and clicked. He examined all of them. Mute machine, only the red glow of his photoreceptors would reconnoiter them with it's unfeeling indifference.
Clack, clack, clack.
Six-O had found a heavy piece of durasteel rebar ungraciously discarded in a bin of stale, rock-solid protein biscuits -- simple food, for meaningless rabble. But this? This tool? The Droid could not fathom why it had been treated with such disgrace.
Did the obtuse intellect of the organic mind not understand the art of accelerating technologies? Of extending the capacity to which a wonderful object such as this could exercise it's will for bloodshed? The orgasm of death that it could bestow? How with a resurrection of purpose this tool could abolish all the desires of an organic sentient with the violent pornography of ruination on the delicate soft tissues of mortal flesh and primitive bone?
Clack, clack, clack.
Six-O stopped, turning slowly towards a cage.
Clack, clack.
He pulled the rebar against the confining cell, the human woman inside recoiled backwards in to the small prison as far as she could, pulling bare legs to nude chest before wiping grungy strands of hair from her weeping face.
Clack.
"Please. . . " Her sickly voice grated Six-O's circuitry. How DARE she, a slave, speak to him!
His view screens flickered.
Was his malignity not exquisite? Six-O pondered, thrusting the rebar through gaps in the cage. Biting weak flesh with strong jabs that tore skin and thudded bone dangerously. Because he most certainly thought so! The woman, blood beginning to well and drain from knees, thigh and shoulder, tried to curl away from the jarring stabs of the blunt instrument.
"S. . . stop! STOP! P. . please!" She begged the Droid, voice cracking with each spur.
Her hands grabbed at the bar, trying to fend off the blows. But her strength was massively eclipsed, her arms merely bent towards her with the force, she took another sting, this one on the side of ribs that sat outlined underneath taut, white flesh. There was a gasp, and strident pop. Organics were so easy to break apart.
The Droid continued on, poking and prodding like a disturbed child with a weak animal. This was like a work of Art, Six-O silently speculated. A piece worthy of recognition and display in some great, vast Museum or Temple. The woman writhed, and cried louder. Rolling one way, and then the other as she was continuously menaced by the machine and his new toy.
The One Sith needed to study this, he felt. They needed to examine the sumptuous and simple elementary contours of this particular rebar, and as an extension himself. They should have entire classes held in the study of the Droid and the fastidious methods he used when wielding this admirable device of suffering. It defied nature, like he defied nature.
This Rebar was hard. It was metal, it was durasteel. It was him. It would not break, or weaken. Six-O obsessed strongly. Stroking the poor organic female in the eye, another crack, the swelling happened almost instantly. He pulled back and thrust again, it cleft her lip and rattled teeth from her jaw.
So sleek, so threatening, so deadly. Ode's would be written of it. Ballads sung for it. Wars would be waged over it, and entire factions would fall because of it. Yes! Yes! It offended him that such a sublime device had been discarded as mere trash.
"Os vai, mutzh!" Vhuul interrupted, putting a hand on to the Droid's shoulder, holding the handkerchief tighter to his face. "You're a true virtuoso, droi'chek! But let's save some of her for our Champion. . . yeah?" With a snap of his fingers he pointed down at the battered and bloody girl. "This one, to the Gamorrean."
It arose climbing. Above and though, it pulsed. The mighty roar of the mob. It was such the experience Bix could feel the shuddering of noise in her. It vibrated through her. The steady thump of words the mob called out in unison. From this distance Barrien looked so small. Bix quickly imagine what would happen if she tossed someone over the railing. From the frantic screams the victim falling to the hard impact of flesh hitting the ground? Yes she could easily imagine the victim becoming a smear of flesh and bone on the ground.
Chool Zhaald, he and some other guests that were gathered at a table behind Bix. Bix far more interested in what was happening on the area floor. Chool’s words of the business with the other guests was deemed not of importance. Even though they did not outwardly say, Bix was curtain it was about the spice trade.
“Yes the game begins”,Chool Zhaald finely noticed the next victim of the pit was being introduced. “Come my friends”, Chool greedily rubbed his hands together. He had motioned with his body for the guests to join him. It was time for blood to flow in The Pit once more.
The civilian ship would be an easy target for a full blown attack. Its hull almost archaic in comparison to modern war ships.
But for this extraction the Misty Haven served as a perfect means to have launched the operation.
Mantic folded his hands in front of him and peered through the thick and somewhat dirty window of the command bridge. He was staring at Neimoida bellow.
Memories of Contruum were still fresh in his mind. He had faced both sith and machines especially programmed to kill jedi.
He had given it all to defend the world, so many by his side had done the same. But in the end the darkness had dug its claws too deep into the planets soil and the Republic had been forced to retreat.
He was still not fully healed but this extraction was important.
Baron Siegfried of Oaken Dawn held not only a position as a jedi, but was the padawan of the Grand Master herself. More so he represented a nobility on a planet where the sith had not yet reached. Both these facts added up with him being a loyal and trustworthy member of the Galactic Republic.
Their intel suggested that they did not expect a rescue and with fairly good odds on their side a rescue team had been scrambled.
Mantic leaned forward and pressed both hands against the window. Reports about how the pit was preparing its next dreadful spectacle came in and Mantic knew the time had come.
His padawan, [member="Aston Jacobs"] , was down there preparing the diversion that should give the others enough time to surprise the pit security. At least enough to get the Baron away from there.
The Misty Haven was on stand by to pick them all up.
"To the digger," he spoke into his com. "the soil is soft. Dig us a hole."
he instructed [member="Aston Jacobs"]
"Extractors - engage and retrieve objective." he then pressed to the others in the strike team.
By the force, he hoped everyone was in positions to pull this off properly.
"I think I'm going to get you flying lessons." Aston said as the ship made a small abrupt landing in the hangar bay. The Jedi Padawan, donned in a smugglers outfit, blaster pistol at his side. However his lightsaber was tucked inside his jacket pocket, unseen and out of the way. Aston removed the straps over his shoulders thus stood up and moved to the side his co pilot pressing the button and the landing pad opened up and the ramp moved down towards the floor. "Well, lets get these crates unloaded, hopefully this will help." The Jedi Padawan moved down the ramp as he looked for his contact..
"Ah, there you are, quite an uneventful trip."
"I just hope for your sake the weapons are up to par." The Twi'lek exclaimed in his own language
"I assure you, the weapons are top notch, from the hilt up to the tip of the blade. Along with the various other specifications you asked for." Aston glance back as the crates were being unloaded by his co pilot and several others in his crew, who were in fact members of the Galactic Republic playing the part just as he was.
"How long have you been smuggling?" The Twi'lek inquired.
"Too long." The Padawan said with a small smirk as six crates were being scanned and accepted by the Twi'lek's own company. Which he hoped that he would have come up with a better answer then that. The Twi'lek gave him a puzzled look and seemed like he was going to ask another question but was distracted by one of his own clearing the cache for departure to the arena.
"These will be put to good use today, there is lots of killing to be done."
"Good." Aston said as he turned to his crew as they walked back towards the ship. Aston winked at his co-pilot as the bait was taken. These weapons were to be used in the arena today. The Jedi Padawan watched as the crates were on their way and he received payment for them, just then he heard the go ahead in his ear, the comlink device and the order had been given from Master Dorn. At which, the Padawan got a little worried, while the arena was close.
He wasn't sure if they would make it there in time. Towards the bottom of the crates, a small section where several thermal detonators were rigged to blow, in each crate. He wasn't looking for shock and awe with a massive explosion to wipe out millions, but enough to where it was catch the attention of those that it needed to. Aston pocketed the monetary value that was received and thus nodded his head as they walked away and in turn the Jedi padawan walked back up the ramp to the front of the ship. A small feed had been installed that would look similar to a small bolt, was placed on the 1st crate, giving a small yet clear narrow visual of what was ahead of him.
"Is it close?" Aston inquired as he checked the location, still outside the arena, probably about 100 yards away from the entrance, as soon as it got within range, they would press the trigger.
"1 minute, if you can spare!" Aston said back in his comlink, which they probably couldn't do. Barrien's life was on the line, he could only imagine what he was facing in those dreaded pits of hell. If Aston had too, he would detonate early. Hopefully this escort wouldn't be stopped along its trek towards the arena.
Barrien might not want to kill the hulking beast, but that didn't mean he wanted to die, either. Fear was healthy. Fear kept you from freezing. Having a healthy dose of fear was a good way to remind yourself that you still had emotions that you needed to keep under control, lest you fall to the darkside. He had no intention of that, and he took a brief second to calm himself. He could survive this, and he knew he could. It was just a matter of whether or not he would survive it in one piece.
Then it charged and he acted. His training with Master Raaf was good training. She might not have defeated many opponents in battle, but it wasn't from a lack of skill. The woman was quite possibly the most skilled combatant he'd ever seen or heard of. She even made his father seem tame.
But one of the sure things she'd told him was never to stop moving. When you stopped moving, you lost. So as the Vong came at him, he went right at the Vong. As he did so, he drew on the Force and used it to strengthen his leg muscles. Just when he was dangerously close to likely impalement, or worse, he jumped. But he didn't just jump over the Vong, an anti-climactic and useless maneuver as it would have just wasted energy, he instead jumped at the beasts head with the intent of planting his foot upon it, with sufficient force, before vaulting back and away. The intent was to send the beast tumbling backwards, sending a clear message that, armed or not, he was not a force to be trifled with, but also to get him a few more minutes to figure out how to beat this monstrosity.
He didn't have time to look towards the stands now, and it wasn't likely he would have known anyone there, aside from Bix, if he did.
From her position she was a spectator, or at least she appeared that way. The energy was building in this place, and the strong emotions opened up her mind. She jumped very subtly, her body not moving too far from the seat she sat in. Her ability of foresight manifested itself in the form of a sudden premonition of the slight future. She saw the the world through her minds eye, as it wandered through the crevices of the stadium until she saw the room of the luxury box, laying her eyes of the subjugator of the meek. Seeing the neimodian prosper in his own glory, she saw his acquaintances and one of them...with a strong, and corrupted presence. It was much as she expected, of course their strike team wouldn't be alone and seeing a member of the sith there she knew others weren't far off either.
Her vision broke and she returned to the excitement of the crowd, though by that time command from above had been given orders for them to initiate the the extracting objective. But she wanted to inform the others.
"Make no mistake...darkness has joined us. We are not alone, they are probably observing us as we speak. Stay alert." she spoke before she stood up and lowered her hood.
She was in the upper parts of the stadium, and she firmly maneuvered herself through the crowd to make her way towards the edge so she could jump down into the actual pit.
