Ever True
Nar Shadda was what he imagined Coruscant would be, if every single level was a lower level. Crime, betrayal, and cruelty lived lavishly on every inch of the rotting corpse of a world. Grisha hated it, code be damned, the place reeked. The Sith surely had plans in motion across the wretched world, the flesh trade, gladiator pits, and worse, to say nothing of the litany of crime lords that laid claim to the pieces of the planet.
He was no fool, Grisha didn’t kid himself into thinking he could make any real change on a world as lost as Nar Shadda, but he could try to at least make things a little better. One crime lord perhaps, or one Sith, either would do to win him back into the Master Sentinel’s good graces, surely. He could manage one, so long as he had his wits and his blade.
So he’d set out, clad in robes of white and gold, leaving behind his starfighter and astromech to roam the streets of the crime world, hunting corruption and evil. It didn’t take long to find the scent, a few pushers were spreading word of some arena fight set to occur that night. Bloodsport, murder for money, it was reprehensible, it was evil, it was a good start. One of the two had fled when he’d questioned them, the other pulled a blade after Grisha made it clear he wasn’t going to be buying spice from him.
He’d let the Zabrak off with a broken wrist in exchange for the information he wanted; the location of this arena, and an apology for pulling the knife on Grisha. Some part of him wondered if he should’ve done more, there was no telling when if the man might one day pull a knife on someone more ill-prepared to protect themselves. But he’d never killed anyone before, sure he’d disarmed plenty, and scrapped droids by the dozen, but he’d never taken a life.
Some half-starved spice peddler acting out of fear would not be the first he did. Grisha reminded himself that there was every chance the man might learn his lesson, change his path, and find the light again. There was hope for him still, Grisha had told him as much before he’d let them go.
When he came to the supposed arena, he was slightly disappointed. It was not a grand colosseum like the ones he’d heard tales of, it was just a bar with a few guards outside. The Gamorean and the Weequay who stood watch were thankfully not half as strong of mind as they were of body, and all it took was a simple wave and a touch of the force to gain entry.
The twin heavy doors slid open with a hiss, and the white-robed Jedi strode forth, the eyes of the patrons milling about the bar turning towards him for a moment, then returning to their drinks. The place was bigger on the inside. Beyond the bar was what he presumed was the pit where fighters would maul one another as the sort who enjoyed such savagery drank and watched. The mere thought made a wave of disgust roll over him, but Grisha shook his head with a huff and went to the bar, the long hilt of his pike hanging at his side.
“A water please.” He passed the bartender a credit chit, and in return, he received a scowl and the murkiest glass of water he’d ever seen. Grisha didn’t drink, he only looked down at it with confusion, then derision, his face tightening into a scowl. At least he wouldn’t be denying the locals any wonderful customer service when he turned this place into splinters. His hand went to his side, fingers nearly wrapping around the hilt, then suddenly freezing. Something, or rather someone, stirred the force, someone close.
He was no fool, Grisha didn’t kid himself into thinking he could make any real change on a world as lost as Nar Shadda, but he could try to at least make things a little better. One crime lord perhaps, or one Sith, either would do to win him back into the Master Sentinel’s good graces, surely. He could manage one, so long as he had his wits and his blade.
So he’d set out, clad in robes of white and gold, leaving behind his starfighter and astromech to roam the streets of the crime world, hunting corruption and evil. It didn’t take long to find the scent, a few pushers were spreading word of some arena fight set to occur that night. Bloodsport, murder for money, it was reprehensible, it was evil, it was a good start. One of the two had fled when he’d questioned them, the other pulled a blade after Grisha made it clear he wasn’t going to be buying spice from him.
He’d let the Zabrak off with a broken wrist in exchange for the information he wanted; the location of this arena, and an apology for pulling the knife on Grisha. Some part of him wondered if he should’ve done more, there was no telling when if the man might one day pull a knife on someone more ill-prepared to protect themselves. But he’d never killed anyone before, sure he’d disarmed plenty, and scrapped droids by the dozen, but he’d never taken a life.
Some half-starved spice peddler acting out of fear would not be the first he did. Grisha reminded himself that there was every chance the man might learn his lesson, change his path, and find the light again. There was hope for him still, Grisha had told him as much before he’d let them go.
When he came to the supposed arena, he was slightly disappointed. It was not a grand colosseum like the ones he’d heard tales of, it was just a bar with a few guards outside. The Gamorean and the Weequay who stood watch were thankfully not half as strong of mind as they were of body, and all it took was a simple wave and a touch of the force to gain entry.
The twin heavy doors slid open with a hiss, and the white-robed Jedi strode forth, the eyes of the patrons milling about the bar turning towards him for a moment, then returning to their drinks. The place was bigger on the inside. Beyond the bar was what he presumed was the pit where fighters would maul one another as the sort who enjoyed such savagery drank and watched. The mere thought made a wave of disgust roll over him, but Grisha shook his head with a huff and went to the bar, the long hilt of his pike hanging at his side.
“A water please.” He passed the bartender a credit chit, and in return, he received a scowl and the murkiest glass of water he’d ever seen. Grisha didn’t drink, he only looked down at it with confusion, then derision, his face tightening into a scowl. At least he wouldn’t be denying the locals any wonderful customer service when he turned this place into splinters. His hand went to his side, fingers nearly wrapping around the hilt, then suddenly freezing. Something, or rather someone, stirred the force, someone close.
