Private The Sound Of Peaceful Bliss

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Zeltros, Inner Rim Territories

Zeltros was a world that offended nearly every instinct Itzhal possessed. The music never seemed to stop. The streets never truly emptied. Every hour felt like the final night of a festival that had somehow, despite all reason to the contrary, lasted beyond empires and republics alike—on the worst of days, he feared his people would be just another note in their grand parade.

Even now, nestled within a discreet booth, shrouded in the luxurious embrace of deep, dark fabric, Itzhal found himself within reach of the distant laughter and the relentless throb of the music that drifted on the sea breeze. His armoured gauntlets rested on the table beside a steaming cup, the vapour leaking into the air, illuminated by the softly glowing lantern tucked away in the corner, casting gentle shadows that danced along the walls and over the table, where his Buy'ce lay placed within reach, even here, safe as it should be.

He checked his chronometer; fifteen minutes had passed since he'd sent the call, less than five since he'd arrived here.

Another second passed before he glanced towards the stream of messages attached to his comlink—an endless barrage made all the more maddening once he considered what filters were already in place. If it were really critical, they'd contact him directly, regardless of whatever situation he was in. He'd make the time. His languid gaze drifted away from the flickering stream of numbers displayed by the ticking clock. He had the time.

For now, at least, the present was a gift he dared not squander.

As he sat in the cafe, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the sweet scent of pastries—terribly overpriced, but delicious all the same—his eyes flickered towards the display cabinet, gently halo'd by the dim light of the lantern placed against the till. Just as quickly as his attention was captured, it flitted away, drawn to the scene beyond the window. Outside, the bustling crowds flowed like a vibrant river past the cafe, their chatter a distant murmur, sealed behind the exquisite seals, sculpted in shades of gold and cast under the glow of the Lantern's Rest

Tags: Adelle Bastiel​

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Tags: Itzhal Volkihar

A call from Itzhal was unexpected, generally speaking. Both Adelle and he were busy doing the work of the Mand’alor in their respective fields. She’d stopped on Zeltros for a short rest before travelling back to Naboo from finally selling her apartment on Contruum.

But a call from Itzhal on Zeltros? That had truly been surprising. Adelle watched the waves roll in on the shore, tuning out the crowds of people and music and noise all around her. She had time enough to make it to the cafe he’d mentioned, the Lantern’s Rest. The salt on the air and the distant crash of the ocean ached in a familiar way. Adelle took one last deep breath then stepped away from the railing, weaving through the crowds.

The Lantern’s Rest was a welcome sanctuary from the outside world, the noise muting itself to more conversational levels. The door chimed as it opened and slid shut behind her. For a moment, Adelle stood in the entryway, looking around for Itzhal’s red and black buy’ce. Instead, she found his weathered face. Maybe she’d escape a lecture about her lack of buy’ce. And lack of beskar’gam, for that matter.

Adelle slid into the opposite side of the booth, noting the helm on the tabletop and his very armored form. The hope of a lecture not given died quietly.

“Ol’val,” she said, instinctively, before her brain caught up with her. “No, feth, wait. Su’cuy.”

She grimaced at herself as a waiting droid came to the table and took her order.

“Been a while,” she said as it left. “I didn’t expect you to be on Zeltros.”

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Zeltros, Inner Rim Territories

The throng of people outside shifted like a restless tide, moving without any discernible rhythm or reason. One moment, the crowd surged towards the east, while a handful of determined souls bravely fought against the overwhelming current, slipping between the cracks of chatting friends and party-goers dressed in extravagant displays of colours and styles that would have left Itzhal with a headache if he dared to examine them further. Some things just weren't worthwhile understanding. In a moment, barely a blink of his eyes, the flow reversed; as if the call of new sensations influenced the people as surely as the phase of the moon affected the tides, what had once been a stream of bodies flowing eastward surged in from the west, a wave of energy that swept past the window, carrying with it a chaotic mess of mingling bodies and fleeting moments of a world constantly in motion.

For a second, Itzhal almost missed Adelle's approach, his blue eyes scanning for a familiar pattern of black-and-blue metallic plates amongst a display of loose fabrics and sparkling gems. It was the scar across her face that finally gathered his attention, the trademark reminder that for all her skills in diplomacy she was a fighter; one that had fought and survived battles few others could claim.

Unsurprisingly, she moved with a grace that slipped through the gaps in the sea around her, striding with purpose towards her goal, eyes sharp and keen as they reached the Lantern's Rest and stepped inside.

As she crossed the threshold, her figure momentarily fell into shadow, framed by the doorway, while the sun battled to spill its light into the dim interior, a wavering halo that swallowed Adelle's silhouette. With a resolute step, she pressed onwards, her stride carrying her past the set of tables closer to the entrance-way and the long expanse of the bar on her way towards him.

He smiled, a faint twist of amusement sparkling in his eyes as she introduced herself, then just as quickly, corrected the greeting, switching between languages with a transition that could hardly be described as smooth. He appreciated it all the same; it was no easy thing to remember so many different phrases—over a hundred years old —and he still struggled with a good dozen, which didn't help, since half of them seemed to come up with new words whenever the newest generation came about.

Regardless, he could only think of one appropriate response and replied warmly, "Ol'val, al Valle tro."

In the quiet that followed, he waited for the droid to approach so she could deliver her order in the moment between conversation.

"We're busy people," he admitted, with a soft shrug of his shoulders. "Even before I realised just how many tasks you were willing to bury yourself under, I knew there wouldn't be many times to chat in person."

Lifting up his left leg, it settled a moment later against the curve of his right knee; the ankle rested against the metal plates, as he leaned back into his chair as if it would give him a better look at the woman in front of him in her civilian clothes, "Still, holocomms can only fill in for so much. I'd heard you were in the area, and I happened to have finished a meeting with the local protectorate branch; it seemed as good a time as any."

With a purposeful arc of his arm, he adjusted his posture on the chair slightly, leaning forward again, his fingers threaded through the porcelain handle of his cup. As he lifted it towards him, the warm steam curled up from the rim, entwining in the relaxed haze of dusky lighting that enveloped the cafe, before he gently lifted the rim to his lips and took a soft sip that turned into a pleased sigh.

Tags: Adelle Bastiel​

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Tags: Itzhal Volkihar

Itzhal’s other words faded into the background as Adelle’s brain wrapped itself around the fact that he spoke Olys Corellisi and refused to let it go. She could only stare at the older Mandalorian, getting only a surface comprehension of what he said. Years had gone by since she’d last spoken Old Corellian, since she’d given up having regular ties to her birthworld, and here Itzhal was, just casually speaking a language she’d never forgotten.

“Sel prek anuda ten?” she asked, leaning forward and clutching the edge of the table. Hearing the language of her birthworld twisted an unexpected vibroblade in her chest. “Like, actually? Feth, do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve heard someone speak it?”

Adelle suddenly realized how intense she was probably being and made herself ease back into the booth, running a hand through her close-cut hair. “Sorry, it’s just… I didn’t expect to hear it from another Mandalorian.”

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Zeltros, Inner Rim Territories

The delicate porcelain cup descended gracefully, making barely a sound as it nestled comfortably upon a perfectly shaped coaster atop the cool, metallic surface of the table. His fingers enveloped the rounded form of the handle, their warmth seeping through the padded layers of his bodysuit, spreading from the curl of his fingers down through his hands as he held the handle for a few seconds longer.

In hindsight, it had been cruel of him to take a sip before the moment had settled, to leave her hanging on words that did not matter. Desperation had tinged her words, an outpouring of need that grew with every second that passed, until he was choking on the flash of guilt that washed over him, forced to watch as she packed her needs away behind an unnecessary array of apologies.

"Minmin Cnous, envushaj Il pec," softly he answered, the words cradled between the two Mandalorians as he leaned his head forward. His lips parted, a word on the edge of his tongue, then paused, a second expanding into another as his brow furrowed in contemplation, running through the words in his mind before he dared to release them into the world. "Minmin hav Bey dir, tamen, mia kompren de li Bey malprocsima pli bon ol mia lerheco al Prek li."

His right palm settled upon the table, fingers splayed as his eyes trailed down towards the wisps of steam that drifted from the rim of his cup.

"I cannot claim much talent for it," He shrugged, an apology on his lips in the sad curve of his smile. "Certainly, I have more experience in Bocce or Huttesse, but you would be surprised how many smugglers know enough to speak it, at least when they believe speaking basic would be detrimental."

Tags: Adelle Bastiel​

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Tags: Itzhal Volkihar

Olys Corellisi came from Itzhal’s mouth. His accent was clearly that of a non-native speaker and he spoke with the slowness of someone having to translate first, but he did speak it. Adelle looked down at the porcelain cup that arrived with steaming black caf as she processed this information.

“You speak it well,” she said, and she meant it. Especially for someone that didn’t need to speak it on a regular basis. “And yeah, I can imagine the Corellian smugglers using it to share info they don’t want spread around. It’s a bit of a dead language and a certain dialect has been historically, infamously, gatekept by the Ensterites. But it was the smugglers and colonists that kept it alive, way back when.”

Adelle tapped the side of her cup with her fingernails, before finally deciding that sharing more wouldn’t be considered ‘too much.’

“It was one of my first languages.” She took a sip of the scalding liquid, appreciating the burn down her throat. “I learned it before I learned Basic. My mom could never confirm it, but she thinks—thought my father’s parents were ensters. He always held more… traditional Corellian beliefs. Even bought me green robes when I was inducted into my Jedi order.”

This close, with his helm off, Adelle got a better look at the elder Mandalorian. It was the same weathered face and gray beard she saw at a bar before, but now she saw his eyes were a pale blue. Like her father’s. The comparison made something in her clench, but at the same time, they were unlike her father’s. Heren Bastiel’s gaze had always been sharp, cold, and hard.

Itzhal was a friend.

“Did you learn it piece by piece, listening to the smugglers?” Adelle asked. “Or did someone teach you?”

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Zeltros, Inner Rim Territories

For a brief moment after delivering his words, Itzhal subtly stretched the tendons in his jaw, working the muscles around the rich blend of consonants and vowels that seldom found its way into his conversations. It was a language he seldom had the opportunity to use, even if the sounds from a native speaker were a strange mix of nostalgic and foreign—it was the tone that seemed off to him; usually, when people spoke around him, it was in hissed undertones or mocking drawls. The latter were always the most amusing, especially when it came time for him to inform them he'd understood the words they'd spoken.

"I appreciate the compliment," he replied, a subtle smile curving his lips, transforming the remnants of sadness into something warmer. He was determined not to diminish the kindness of her words; if Adelle felt it worth praising his pronunciation, he would not tarnish her generosity with self-doubt or modesty—let that be another fool's folly.

Piercing blue eyes strayed from the rim of his cup, landing upon the familiar face of Adelle, her expression a blend of wary focus and determination as she spoke of the language that held a special place in her heart. He knew not what an Ensterites was apart from what could be gathered from the hints in her speech; hoarders of knowledge, traditionalists of Corellia in a way that spoke of isolation and disdain for the outsider—something he noticed particularly in the way she pronounced the word 'ensters', which dripped with contempt.

Before his words could dissect the clues splayed in front of him, the conversation shifted away from the danger of a thread he sensed best not to touch, yet knew curiosity would insist on.

"I imagine it would be a little bit of both, if I stopped to reflect upon it," he admitted, buying himself a moment to think with another sip of the tea that was slowly draining from his cup. "When I was younger, my father shared some of the words and phrases, though in hindsight I can't say whether he didn't know any more or if he simply didn't have the opportunity to teach it. He was a sheriff, much like I was, I suppose I still am, only the frontier is a lot larger than it was back on Gargon."

It had been a long time since those days.

"Regardless, afterwards, it was piece by piece learning from whoever wished to speak the words around me, which was easier without the beskar'gam leaving everyone speechless—after one incident, I acquired a protocol droid database; it wasn't the most intuitive of processes but shored up whatever little I knew. I needed it." His thumb drifted along the rim of his cup. "If you'd like, I'd be willing to learn more."

Tags: Adelle Bastiel​

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Tags: Itzhal Volkihar

There was something melancholic in Itzhal’s emotions before it shifted with a small smile as he thanked her. Adelle took another drink of burning caff as he answered her question: it had been both. He spoke of his father, a lawman like himself, and Adelle gave a half-smile. They had that in common, following in the footsteps of their fathers either intentionally or not. In Adelle’s case, it had been a choice: trying to recover the life she’d had before Krayt had stripped her memories from her.

If only she’d known how deep the damage had gone. Things might’ve been different.

Itzhal’s other source of Old Corellian had been piecemeal, conversations and phrases snatched here and there. Even a protocol droid database, apparently. That had to have been an interesting experience.

"If you'd like, I'd be willing to learn more."

Adelle glanced up at him before lowering her gaze to her caf, drumming her fingertips against the hot ceramic cup, as one knee bounced beneath the table. On the one hand, it’d be nice to have a conversation partner.

On the other.

“I… don’t know if that’s a good idea,” she said, before clarifying, “Me teaching you. What you’ve learned, what’s mostly spoken nowadays is either a Hoodish, Soccoran, or Vulanish dialect. It’s what smugglers and fringers would speak.”

She took a drink, letting the burn in her throat seep into her chest and easing some of the anxious knots she felt there. They were Mandalorians discussing a dead language on Zeltros, nowhere near the Corellian system.

“I didn’t learn any of those, although my girlfriend tried to get me to speak with a Soccorran accent.” Adelle sat back and looked at Itzhal. “I was taught the High Tongue. It’s distinctly aristocratic and it’s the favored dialect among the Ensters. One of the reasons my mom thought my father was raised by ensters. In your line of work, you’re better off learning something more commonplace.”

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Zeltros, Inner Rim Territories

Covered beneath insulated layers, Itzhal's thumb glided over the delicate porcelain rim of his cup, following the elusive warmth that slipped away like the traces of heat in a cool summer breeze; the last remnants of the drink pooled at the bottom. Without another word, he turned his attention to Adelle, who seemed to grapple with her own choice. Her eyes gleamed, one a familiar shade of blue that swirled in the clash of a dozen different oceans and in the other a deep shade of brown that had always sparked with warmth, now lost in the churned mud of emotions.

Quietly, Itzhal took his time, quenching his queries with a sip of his mug rather than silencing the denial that broached her lips.

Moments later, the porcelain cup settled back onto the awaiting plate with a light, melodic ding that echoed across the table and space between them, an echo in the silence that followed Adelle's words—for a second, Itzhal allowed it to linger, his thoughts shaped along the familiar lines of duty and desire. The same ideals that had turned a simple offer into something more tragic.

"Over a thousand people could listen to my offer, and only a handful would even consider to warn me about the consequences," he sighed, shaking his head from side to side as he reached up to cup his jaw, fingers trailing over the shape of his beard, covering the edges of a smile that twisted with amusement and the faintest tinge of regret. "I appreciate the warning," he admitted, the words unhurried.

With an inhale of breath, his shoulders rose high with a sharp twist that only vanished with the following exhale as his hands settled back against the table, pausing only to request another cup of tea.

"Adelle," he started, his smile slipping away as he turned his full attention towards her, "Blasphemous as this might sound, not everything I do need to be for the sake of my job. Sometimes, I can do things simply because I believe my friends would appreciate it. So, tell me honestly, if this is something you would like or if it would be more of a hassle than whatever joy it might bring."

Tags: Adelle Bastiel​

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Tags: Itzhal Volkihar

Itzhal was quiet for a while, the clink of his cup against its saucer nearly lost in the low drone of conversations around them and the ringing in Adelle’s own ears. His expression was thoughtful as he spoke again, slowly, but something like amusement colored his emotions, even as he stroked his beard. Adelle kept her hands around her cup, still and calm, while her knee bounced under the table. Her nerves were on fire: it didn’t seem like Itzhal knew about the Ensterites. It made sense, but most Corellians out in the galaxy did and unless they were one, the reception of even being related to the Ensters wasn’t great, much less keeping their traditions alive, even unintentionally. Adelle hadn’t been lying when she said Rishii had tried to get her to change her accent. Whenever she spoke Olys Corellisi back in CorSec, the best reception she’d gotten was a sneer.

His hands set firmly on the table with a deep breath but no verdict came. Maddeningly, that was when Itzhal chose to order a second cup of tea. Adelle took her own cup of caff in hand and drank, the bitter earthiness grounding her. If Phantom hadn’t stayed on the ship, the spukami would have already been working to ease her anxiety.

"Adelle," he started, his smile slipping away as he turned his full attention towards her, "Blasphemous as this might sound, not everything I do need to be for the sake of my job. Sometimes, I can do things simply because I believe my friends would appreciate it. So, tell me honestly, if this is something you would like or if it would be more of a hassle than whatever joy it might bring."

Her brain snagged on the word ‘friend’ more than Adelle expected. It both filled her with an easy warmth and a cold dread. Her friends were always in danger and not from someone they expected.

Still, that was part of why she joined the Mandalorians, wasn’t it. They could handle themselves and they wouldn’t hesitate if it came down to it.

“It would be nice to hear it more often,” Adelle admitted slowly. “I just… Your job is already hard enough without additional complications. I didn’t want to add to them. But being able to speak it again… That’d be nice.”

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Zeltros, Inner Rim Territories

Making something more of the finer details required patience if one wished to sift through the series of anomalous actions and subtle adjustments that, when combined, produced more than their lesser parts. By themselves, they often seemed insignificant on their own—and if one reached too quickly, they could so easily stumble across a false trail—yet when pieced together, they formed a compelling narrative that led to the facts buried beneath the surface.

By now, the skill was a force of habit; trained over years until it was another part of himself, even when he wished it wasn't quite so ingrained.

Stillness settled over Adelle like a veil, wrapping her in a masquerade of tranquillity. She held the steaming cup with tender fingers, the warmth fading with every sip, yet it was not heat she searched for in the way her fingers anchored themselves. Her eyes gleamed in a way that reminded him of the seas, thoughts crashing against each other in tumultuous times. The language she cherished—the final piece of a treasure that time and distance had done their best to discard—was spoken of like a dirty little secret. Subtle tremors radiated across the wooden slats, up through the base of Itzhal's boots, an incessant tick that flowed like the thump of a rushing heartbeat.

Everyone grew scared—fear, though; fear had a different stench. And it should not be accompanied by words like 'friends'.

Observations were simple, clues left behind in the shape of actions and words, details painted across a world that so rarely realised it was a work of art. Not all questions, however, were so easily pried from the clues that one left behind, nor was he so crude as to intentionally dig beneath the surface—not when the surface was a friend that he dared not harm in the unearthing. In time, perhaps, it would be a necessity, but today he would spare them further pain if he could.

He smiled, a little piece of him charmed at the way she moved to remind him of the risk that such lessons could take, even when they both knew of the sheer painful want that such a denial brought. Sometimes, he wondered what had placed such a terrible burden on the young woman's shoulders, but thoughts like that always landed on the question whether a blaster bolt would have any help in fixing the problem.

"I assure you, it's not something that comes up often," speaking only after his cup had arrived, a new wisp of steam pouring from the boiling surface. "And on the rare occasions that I happened to be speaking it, it's usually for the sake of taunting whatever idiot thought they could get away with using it as their secret code of the week. In that regard, it sounds like whatever you can teach me might be better than the usual words."

Wrapping his fingers around the handle, he lifted the cup not to drink but to toast towards his fellow Mandalorian, "Any swear words should, of course, be mandatory in the first lessons."

Tags: Adelle Bastiel​