Fire and Ice (3599 BBY)

[Rugs]

Tag DreadPirateMike!

---

Shatani.

The name growled within Nieraan’s skull, echoed by an quiet snarl as lightning flashed through the open roof above.

Where are you hiding?

Thunder shook the old stone temple. Fingers of dust feel from some of the stone blocks, while bits of moss and dirt drifted loose from others. The storm hadn’t yet arrived in full, not with the pounding rain that was sure to accompany the endless lightning and thunder that’d assaulted the skies for the past half hour.

Nieraan wasn’t concerned with the weather now, though. Nor did he pay mind to the litany of little cuts and bruises that littered his body from the savage fight against his Jedi foe. Even one—a lightsaber burn that bit across his side, just above the hip, from a swipe that’d nearly put him down (again) against the Jedi—couldn’t break his singular focus on one goal.

Find Jaidan. Beat Jaidan.

He’d not let the Echani escape without his own wounds, oh no. Both combatants were considerably worse for wear, but neither was out for the count. Wounds wouldn’t quell the fury burning in Nieraan’s gut. A good fight wouldn’t earn recompense for the defeat he’d suffered on Tibrin.

Nieraan had a debt, and he’d not leave this world without seeing paid in full.

A foot scratched on stone, and Nieraan turned abruptly to find it. Rather than the silver-haired Jedi, he saw a bird taking flight out to the lightning and thunder. He snorted in annoyance.

The Force was thick here, on this world littered with ancient temples. That was part of the reason he’d been sent here, to scout out points of interest on the agriworld as the Sith planned their next step in the ongoing war against the Republic. The original reason was largely irrelevant now, though, as he’d run into Shatani after a few days onworld. A brief game of cat-and-mouse ensued before Jedi and Sith found each other at the old, crumbling Temple.

Another lightning fork split the sky overhead and painted the stone around him white. Thunder followed, faster this time. The storm was closer, now.

The weight of the Force around the Temple made it hard to keep track of presences, even with the Firrerreo’s honed sensing skills. Even using Force Sight was difficult for more than a few paces away.

He suspected the Jedi knew this and was skulking about in an effort to catch him by surprise.

Nieraan, of course, attempted to do the same.

He stopped by a corner, blades deactivated to keep Jaidan from tracking him by their sound. Something stirred in the Force. Subtle, and yet…

Below.

Nieraan pressed his palm against the floor as the Force welled in him. He gave a shout as it erupted from him and blasted the stone blocks out from under him. He fell to the floor below in a cascade of rock and dust, gold and blue sabers hissing to life as he launched a renewed assault against the Echani…

[DreadPirateMike]

Well! The Force had indeed ordained that his path should intersect with Onin's again, just as he'd sensed. The revelation might, perhaps, be an encouraging sign that his development as a Jedi continued. A Jedi's training never ends, after all. Then again, he'd not thought their reunion would come quite this soon. Honestly, he'd have been entirely content to put it off a bit longer.

And this mission had seemed like such a blue milk run...

It had, once again, come his way courtesy of his associates in the intelligence branch. SIS seemed to like using Jaidan of late, and it had forced him to contemplate whether that was a relationship he wished to nurture or not. He certainly couldn't deny the work was always important, but it wasn't always something he could realistically be immediately recalled from, and there were MANY pressing calls for a Weapon Master's services. It was likely arrogance and nothing more, he conceded, to think that his presence alone would have made the slightest difference at Thila, for instance. But then, he knew PRECISELY what good he could do in his absence, and at least a man could be arrogant and still effective.

Eh, too much spent around anxious soldiers, perhaps. It would be foolish as well to think that integrating himself into the military machinery as they all had would leave no impression, Jedi or no. Even so, "chomping at the bit for some real action", as some of the more hot-blooded might put it, was an unproductive impulse by any professional standard, one that he could and WOULD move past. He had to remember, difficult as it could sometimes be, that his path would unfold as it would, and it had led here, to Cilpar. Encrypted transmissions had been detected, terminating somewhere in the jungles beyond the mountain range west of Kiidan, and while SIS was still working on trying to break said encryption, they knew it wasn't Republic, and that was cause enough for concern. Both sides in this war were always probing for weaknesses to exploit, and it had long been suspected that one or more smuggling outfits might make their home somewhere in that wilderness. If the Sith successfully made contact with even one of them, that could eventually mean a foothold beyond the Inner Rim. So, in went Shatani to seek out any such potential foothold, and remove it.

The first night, like the day leading up to it, were uneventful. The nearest he'd come to enemy contact had been a brief encounter with a prowling Ronk, attracted briefly by his fire before it was mutually agreed both parties would find their supper elsewhere. Day two, on the other hand...more interesting.

He'd actually wondered at first if he was having some sort of Force vision when he'd first sighted the Firrereo at the opposite end of that clearing. That wasn't a terribly common occurrence for him, even in the midst of dedicated meditation, but nor was such a thing entirely unheard of. Not in a place like this, where the Force pulsed so brilliantly that even those lacking Force sensitivity in the usual sense sometimes noted it. And Onin HAD been on his mind of late, more so than he'd initially expected when he lifted off from that beach, leaving his decision and its consequences behind for awhile.

But it was good that Jaidan had never taken easily to being a passive witness to the Force and its whims. VISIONS of hateful lightning bursting from a snarling darksider's outstretched hand didn't shred trees. And so it had begun again. But the character of it was different, in ways as immediately obvious as they were chilling. More than two hours into a running battle that had spanned miles, and Jaidan didn't think even a single actual word had been exchanged thus far. But if Nieraan had no mind for dialogue this time, that didn't mean he wasn't using his head. Indeed, the Sith came armed with a better understanding of his advantages this time, and seemed intent on using all of them. Jaidan had been hammered from all sides by lightning, telekinesis, and the forest itself, the aim seemingly to wear him down with raw power before engaging in close. As plans went, it was a good one, and nearly successful on repeated occasions. On one occasion in particular, singed by lightning, staggered by a piece of sharpened tree in his gut and no respite in sight, pessimism and realism were starting to blur.

Still, he hadn't shown Nieraan ALL of his tricks on Tibrin. And the Force, combined with a little common sense, had seen fit to grant him a breather. Enough for a little emergency first aid on himself, at the very least. All things in balance, of course, and this, like every time he'd held the upper hand in this fight, proved all too brief. Or maybe the Force just had a sense of humor! Like Onin, he'd recognized the danger of carrying around a humming, glowing sword while trying to stay hidden, and had returned them to his belt. He was JUST wishing for a little damn light in the pitch black passageway when the roof violently caved in, only just barely missing his head, and depositing his hunter, very much active sabers in hand.

Savage, relentless, and worst of all, CLEVER. He was man enough to admit, it was all fairly terrifying. And if Onin managed to pick up on some glimmer of that at the back of his mind, Jaidan wouldn't begrudge him the satisfaction.

There was no shame in it, after all. Even the most straight laced and proper Jedi Master had to concede, fear was a price of sentience. The only real option was what you did with it. Well, THREE options. Some men collapsed beneath it, allowed it to paralyze or rob them of their reason. Luckily, Jaidan had faced the very real prospect of his imminent demise often enough to know that would not be his fate. Not this day, and Force willing, not any day. Then, there was the Jedi way. Suppress it, eventually with such expertise that you could reasonably be said to effectively not feel it at all, and go into a fight like this with no more anxiety than you did pruning the bushes. Then, there was option three. That favored by both Dark Jedi and the honorable, valiant soldiers he fought alongside, not to mention all the best pilots, pod racers and gamblers the galaxy over.

Use it. Control was critical, of course, for a Jedi most of all, but if the animal urge to panic was harnessed properly, there was strength in it. And he'd take it all now. Setting his jaw and baring his teeth, he gathered his power, and surged forward to meet Nieraan's assault, so as to deny him time to properly process that the Echani hadn't actually ignited, or even drawn his own weapons. Instead, he thrust his right hand forward, calling upon the Force to knock the the fanged marauder backward, just out of saber reach. That hardly took his best effort, of course. Then, his left hand, flexing with the strain, came up in an underhand sweep. As the Jedi bellowed with the exertion, and all the stonework that Nieraan had just knocked loose came with it, and a bit more ripped out of the floor for good measure. The big slabs, the little shards, the chocking dust, all of it. Point blank, near muzzle velocity. In short, his best shot.

NOW it was time for the foils.  Apparently, sparing this man last time had given offense. Then he'd not offend twice if he could help it.  Or, if this WAS to be his last fight, then let it be his best.

[Rugs]

Dust filled the room. Nieraan saw a shock of white against the old temple’s dimness; a flash of light in the dark as his saber steamed to life. I’ve got you,a dark voice cooed in the back of his mind, fed by some savage bloodlust as a tendril of fear lanced out of the Echani’s presence.

Everything happened very quickly. Nieraan touched the ground, taking time to finish a lunging motion he’d started as he crashed down through the ceiling. His muscles coiled and released, launching him point-blank at the Jedi. For most opponents, the fight would already be over.

Shatani was not most opponents, however. Nieraan would never know if the Echani’s precognition, some primal fear of dying, or both gave the man the strength and reflex to launch the blast he did, but he did it. Nieraan barely had time to process what was happening, let alone defend himself from it.

The first blast knocked Nieraan from his attack, set him stumbling awkwardly for a heartbeat as he struggled to regain balance. The second, following from the side, sent Nieraan and all the detritus he’d brought with him from above crashing off into a wall. He heard Shatani’s roar of effort, juxtaposed sharply against his own yelp of pain as a slab slammed into him and — taking him with it — through the wall.

Silence followed, broken at first only by the sound of Nieraan’s lightsaber clattering solemnly against the ground after it slipped from his limp grip.

It took a few moments for him to fully come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t dead. The pain lancing through his ribs as he took a short, labored breath was indication enough. So too was the solid, unforgiving weight of the masonry piled atop him.

If that hadn’t been enough, the slow grooooan and breaking sound of a pillar collapsing somewhere in the vicinity, along with the rumble it sent through the floor beneath him was the third proof.

Still, he clung to consciousness by a stubborn thread, and Shatani’s attack — intentionally or not — had been particularly savage. It was tempting to lay there, and let the end come…

Something hissed in the distance. Sabers — no, the Jedi’s lightfoils, igniting. Shatani still lurked. The fight wasn’t over, and Shatani would doubtless forego the same mercy he showed at Tibrin.

Thunder boomed outside. Louder this time; the storms were closer. Something shook and fell on the floor above, but Nieraan hardly paid any mind.

Nieraan groaned, drawing strength to him as he pushed one stone slab off of him. His body ached with every movement. He’d be shocked if a rib hadn’t broken.

A footstep echoed from somewhere in the dark. Shatani approaching? Coming in for the kill? Probably. Nieraan groaned as he pushed another slab of rock from on top of him with one hand. The other searched desperately for one of his sabers, but couldn’t find it. A splash of green light broke through the fading dust. This time fear shot through Nieraan’s core.

“Kill or be killed.” His mother’s voice echoed in his mind with words long remembered from when she’d broken him. “The Galaxy is a harsher place than your father would have you think, boy. But simpler, when you look at its core…”

Killing wasn’t an unfamiliar thing to Nieraan. He’d been familiar with it long before joining the Sith, even back in his days as a youth running with the gangs on Metellos. At first it’d disgusted him. Life was sacred, Ared had taught him — you couldn’t just take it away like a toy from a misbehaving child. And yet life itself — and some stern instruction from his mother — had changed that view. Familiarity bred acceptance and now he killed as easily as a riveter placed rivets in an assembly line. It was work for him. Business.

Even still, it’d been a long time since he’d wanted to beat someone so badly as he wanted to with Shatani. There was Kamirille certainly, but she’d stolen him from a life he loved and bent him to accept a life she made for him. Cassius, perhaps, but he was the oppressive, resistant father to Nieraan’s lover.

Shatani though… They’d met on a distant world, drawn to battle by no other reason than that they were warriors fighting for opposite teams. They fought as warriors. No prior history existed between them. No previous battles. No twisted love triangles. Nothing. They’d fought as warriors and nothing else, and though their strengths tended to show in different ways, Shatani was as close a man to an equal, a peer to cross blades with Nieraan in quite some time.

Shatani had defeated him. And spared him.

For the Firrerreo, that rankled nearly as bad as anything else; he wouldn’t rest until he was put down or had repaid Shatani in kind.

Still, he could not engage Shatani close now. Not as he was. The battle had taken a toll on them both, but Nieraan was hurting, badly. He might last a time, but the Echani’s martial prowess frightened him enough when he was at full speed.

One choice then.

Nieraan pushed the last bit of rubble off of him and stood. Light from another flare of lightning leaked in cracks in the floor above to the dark basement. Thunder boomed immediately. The temple shooked, more than it perhaps should have.

Nieraan breathed in deeply, drawing the Force into him like water to a sponge as he lifted his sabers from the ground. He didn’t light them yet. If he needed them, he would, but if he needed them, he’d failed in this final, desperate effort.

He acted quickly, knowing Shatani wouldn’t grant a reprieve. He acted recklessly.

With both hands raised the Firrerreo pulled down, throwing his might to the heavy stone above their heads. He groaned with effort as he started them crashing down, with the intent to bury Shatani where he stood.

Nieraan turned his focus then, throwing the rest of his strength to ripping apart the wall behind him to send more debris crashing to the Echani. Overwhelm him with strength, and raw weight. Crush him. Destroy him. His arms swept out wide, before he brought them forward. Stone flew from behind him, dragged out of its place as if on strings.

The building rumbled around them. A piece of the roof fell startlingly close to Nieraan’s head. He looked around, breaking from his singleminded focus on absolutely destroying Shatani to see they’d pushed the ancient construct past its breaking point.

More slabs fell. He dodged around them as the rumble grew. But the cascade had started, and wouldn’t be stopped. Lightning flashed.

The last thing Nieraan remembered was something crushing down on his back before the world went black.

[DreadPirateMike]

Wow. For a moment or two, as his determined wouldbe killer went flying off into the darkness, and the thunderous crash that he could feel reverberating through his feet promised a less than graceful landing, Jaidan just stood there, silently blinking in surprise that it had worked so well. He then came to his senses, of course, thumbing his main hand foil to life as he remembered just what it had taken to put this man down and KEEP him down on Tibrin. Still, desperation had pushed him to something impressive just now. Unprecedented, actually. Not that he wasn't reasonably accomplished with the Force, as far as his natural aptitude went; he'd actually come up with some fairly sophisticated applications of telekinesis in his time. But he'd never placed much faith in his raw power. He hadn't even realized he could unleash something like that. And while both his training and his natural inclinations placed emphasis on finesse rather than pure brawn, he had to admit...it was pretty exhilirating.


Oh. And expensive.


Two, maybe three steps he'd taken before a sudden flood of dizziness and exhaustion hit him like a punch, and the stone floor came rushing up to better make his acquaintance. He managed to get his off hand in the way of it, and there he spent the NEXT few moments, taking deep breaths on all fours, waiting for his vision to focus properly and his brain to fill in what had just happened. It came to him, soon enough. Worth it or no, there was generally a price to pay for breaking past your limits. And that held true even for one who WASN'T injured to begin with. Fortunately, it seemed he wouldn't have to pay too steeply this time, provided he finished this thing now. Rising slowly but steadily back to his feet, he drew and ignited his second foil, resolved to end the fight in his accustomed fashion.


Still, the shine had somewhat come off his moment of power, as he considered just how very dead he'd have been if the attack hadn't struck home.


But struck it had, and he knew the man was hurting. And afraid. Interesting, that in a place where most of his attempts to reach out and sense his surroundings in the Force proved little more useful than staring into a bowl of soup, that detail should come to him so very clearly. He sensed it, in fact, even before he realized he was smiling at the revelation. Little unsettling, that, but hardly unfair. He'd played the good Jedi once already with this man, and bled for it; proper or not, there was a satisfaction in seeing Nieraan truly grasp at last that which the Ronk had known at once by instinct. There was a price to pay for relentlessly hounding prey that you knew bit back.


He approached unhurriedly, not wishing to draw out the other's suffering, but less eager still to engage while still feeling the the lingering effects of his over-exertion and running into some last ditch susprise himself. The caution seemed tactically sound, yet it seemed destined to be one of those decent ideas that just didn't pay off. He'd been right to worry about the damned Sith's stubornness. A split second's warning, helped by the feel of loose pebbles suddenly raining down on him were all the warning he had. A less than entirely dignified running dive barely saved him a second time from being flattened. And barely was a truly apt word for it; scrambling to his feet in an attempted dash for some sort of cover, he was jerked to an abrupt stop by the bottom of his outer robe. Not ALL of him had escaped, it seemed. A harder, more determined pull, accompanied by a barely audible tear, and THEN he was free.


Again with the karkin' robe! He really needed to look into armorweave or something.


Not that this was his top priority. Even the ominious scrape and groan overhead had to take a back seat to the directed avalanche flying his way. His swords were useful in his defense only in that the pool of light they threw outward allowed him to SEE the large chunks of flying masonry. It was an exceedingly minimal warning, MAYBE adequate were he at his best, but there was no denying his ordeal had slowed him down. He managed to duck the first major hazard, and sidestep the next, but the third dealt him a glancing blow, and by the fourth, all he could do was deactivate his sabers, throw up his arms, and brace himself. Despite the pain, he managed to keep his footing...until the FIFTH chunk of stone shattered itself on the fourth, and send Jaidan sprawling. Ironically, that might have been what saved him. With his swords out, and presenting a smaller target prone, it was unlikely Nieraan knew his exact position. Summoning what marbles he had left, he rolled out of the way, and scrambled for a pillar he'd spotted during his few moments of illumation.


It provided cover enough to start reaching for his holstered blaster before it came down on top of him. The last thing he could clearly recall was desperately trying to gain some leverage, move the stone and allow him to BREATHE.

************ 

When his eyes finally opened, gradually, reluctantly and temporarily the first thing he realized was that his desperate wish had been granted. The second realization was put off for some time, novelty taking awhile to wear off when it applied to anything that basic. Eventually though, and he couldn't yet apply a more precise time measurement to it than that, it clicked that if he could breathe, he must have freed himself somewhat after all.


No. Not "somewhat". When his eyes opened again, they actually started collecting useful information, starting with the confirmation of what his admittedly very sore body was telling him. He was entirely clear of the debris, so clear that it was nowhere to be found. That was more than a guess; there was light here. It didn't take him long to spot the source, a bluish white artificial fixture set into the ceiling off behind him. That...had most definitely not been present last time he checked. He could have missed a lot, distracted by the desperate effort to hold on to his corporeal existence, but that he'd have spotted. As a growing sense of dread began to clear his head, he swiftly began to spot other new indications that he'd lost a lot more than a few moments.


To be fair, his situation HAD improved. He was alive, after all, and even that had seemed quite a bit to hope for. In fact, it seemed he'd even been the recipient of some active medical care. Looking down to find his green robe splayed open, he patted the area where he'd suffered his earlier abdominal wound, and felt only a dull ache, as well as the characteristic itch that indicated the application of synthflesh. It was clear, then, that someone had intervened in the missing interim after the...oh, damn, the collapse. It occurred to him belatedly that he may have been premature in patting himself on the back for his display of Force power in that temple. They must have brought the thing down on themselves.


But celebration also seemed premature. So did thanks, though he suspected he'd have a chance to meet their rescuers and express SOME feeling toward them. His weapons were gone. As was his comm unit. And his satnav uplink. Even his torn outer robe was nowhere to be found. Oh, but he HAD picked up a new accessory as well. Some sort of metallic collar fastened securely around his neck. Not at all ominous, that. So, two possible theories presented themselves. Either he'd been dug out of there by a wandering pack of Squibs, or he was a prisoner. And the rather solid metallic bars which impeded further exploration seemed to suggest an answer to the riddle.


Closing his eyes once more, concentrating and reaching out with his senses for insight, he immediately found it in the form of...nothing. Not the "I sense too much, and can't pick out anything useful" that he'd been dealing with earlier, but the regular kind. He felt no life, heard no thoughts...well, that could be a problem. Pushing that concern to the back of his mind for the moment, he concentrated on what he COULD still sense. There was the smell of moss growing somewhere. Another old structure, then. Still on Cilpar, then? And...meat, mixed with ash, very faint. A cooking fire somewhere. His ears told him more still. The soft drip of water coming in through a crack in the ceiling, the soft hum of a distant generator, and...breathing. Soft, steady breathing.


Very close by, actually. Off to his left, almost outside the range of his light. He'd missed it at first. But as he concentrated, even the unaided eye could make out the two-tone hair. So, he had company. But still unconscious? Odd that he'd have recovered first, given Nieraan was the one with the super healing. Less aggressive treatment, maybe? Tempting as it was to let that drag on as long as possible, it seemed prudent to explore every opportunity for more information. With luck, the Sith would at least be able to see that they had a problem in common, if nothing else. Making his way over the the bars that separated the two of them, however, and reaching his arm as far as possible proved inadequate to the task of reaching out and shaking the man's shoulder as originally intended. His HEAD lay closer, but that brought a degree of hesitancy with it. He'd just as soon not have an angry Firrereo wake up with his hand in range of the alien's teeth.  But a Jedi's life WAS risk.


Ultimately, it proved an idle concern. Taking hold of Nieraan's jaw and jostling his head slightly proved ineffective. A few light slaps got him to stir, but for the moment, that was all. More likely, the man was under the influence of some sort of sedative, then. Well, that told him their captors were careful, at least. For the moment, there seemed only one option left for uncovering anything more illuminating. So, he closed his eyes, found the most comfortable seated position available, and he began to wait.

[Rugs]

Nieraan stirred, only dimly aware that a world existed beyond the foggy confines of his mind. His body returned to his senses before anything else, announcing its presence with aches and pains that ramped dully, but stopped well short of the subconsciously-expected plateau. He hurt, to be sure, but this was the dull, lingering hurt of a battle long past, rather than the loud, vibrant pains from a fight freshly finished.

He slipped away from consciousness again, with only a vague, fleeting glimpse of the stone floor beneath his head to bid him farewell.

He rose from the depths of sleep again some indeterminate time later. He rose more strongly this time, instantly aware of the better-but-not-ideal condition of his body. His ribs ached, but didn’t seem particularly distressed by the way he laid on them.

Awareness, as it sometimes did after a pitched battle, returned to him at once.

He remembered a desperation that clawed at his core, remembered the earth shaking round him as he brought the temple down on their heads. A flash of green, a spike of fear…

Shatani…

The name brought life to his weary body, set him to sluggish, unsure motion as his eyes slowly opened. He rolled onto his side, muscles stiffening as he stretched against pent-up discomfort from lying on the cold, hard floor. The first thing he noticed, from his floor-based vantage point, was that the rubble had been cleared away. A light peered unblinkingly at him from the wall as he rolled to his back.

The walls and ceiling were surprisingly whole; even before the forced collapse, the temple had been about two breaths and a kick away from falling over.

I’m not there… Neiraan thought, realization dawning as the wheels in his mind fought off sleep’s cobwebs. He leaned up, and the cool touch of his forearm against the floor told him his jacket was missing. A glance down confirmed that; it was missing, leaving him in the grey, form-fitting undershirt (that’d surely seen better days) he’d had on benath it.

Where is it? Where are my lightsabers? A note of panic hit his person as one very bad possibility swept through his mind. He rolled over, and the face he saw seemed to all but confirm it.

“You,” the Firrerreo growled, skin silvering deeply with fury. He didn’t bother to hide the venom in his voice that boiled up at the sight of the white-haired man. So focused was he on his ire at his obvious captor that he hardly noticed the bars between them.

Nieraan opened himself to the Force, let it flow into him like water into a valley beneath a broken dam. He extended his fingers toward the Jedi and…

Nothing.

No lightning. Or sparks.

Not even a hint of a glow between his fingertips.

Nieraan frowned and looked down at his hand as if he’d never seen it before. Now that he thought on it, the water had never rushed into the proverbial valley, and the damn didn’t seem quite so broken.

In fact, he couldn’t feel any of the Force’s familiar heat that always filled him with life at the same time the Dark Side’s touch threatened to tear it away. There wasn’t any of that; there was only silence, echoing across his mind.

He snarled at Jaidan, not yet aware of the collar strapped about his neck. “What did you do?” He demanded. “No, it couldn’t have been you. Not by yourself; you don’t have the strength...”

It was then he noticed that bars separated him from the Jedi, and not in the way bars separated a prisoner from his captor — they extended around Jaidan as much as they did himself. More telling, the Jedi hardly seemed to be in a position to do anything to him, let alone sever him from the Force. And that silver collar clamped around his neck…

Nieraan put a finger to his own neck. A metal band, clamped securely shut, greeted his touch. “A collar,” he muttered. The silver in his skin paled as he sighed, more annoyed at the world than angry. “Lovely.”

Several questions popped to mind. Why were he and the Jedi in cells next to each other? Who’d captured them? Why? How long had he been out?

Still, that didn’t quell the suspicion — or distaste — he harbored for Shatani. The look he gave the Jedi merely smoldered now, rather than burn. “What’s going on?”

As if an answer would suddenly set everything right…

[DreadPirateMike]

He had no easy way of keeping track of time in here save for actually counting out every second to himself. And having no idea how long he'd been lying there senseless before the opportunity presented itself, Jaidan could perceive no benefit in demanding such an exact accounting. At a rough guess, though, he enjoyed as much as fifteen minutes before the Sith next door stirred, and twenty before he became confident it wasn't just a fleeting thing this time. He considered trying to hurry the process along as he'd done before, alerting Nieraan to his presence, but quickly dismissed it as a waste of effort.

He'd fought with this man, and almost gotten his head ripped off. He'd talked to this man, and almost gotten his head ripped off. He'd shown this man mercy, and almost gotten his head ripped off. If all known paths converged on a single road, and that road was blocked off, then really, what could you do but sit back and focus on the scenery? In other words, he resolved to simply relax, let the cage work to his advantage for a moment, and wait out the initial explosion likely to be imminent.

He SORT of stuck with that plan, yet he found he couldn't refrain from engaging the Sith entirely. He didn't move from his meditation position, but when he saw that hand thrust out toward him...the lightning. Again. With out of the box thinking like that, it was a wonder the Firrereo hadn't escaped his cell already. His head never turned, but his own left hand slowly came up, pointed off to side, and took on the vague shape of a gun, after which point he silently jerked it back a bit in imitation of a real weapon's recoil.

Good morning to you too, best friend.

The comment about his inadequate strength DID get a little volume out of him in the form of an amused snort. Maybe his memory had been made suspect by oxygen deprivation, but he was fairly certain Nieraan had come rather close to having thrown his last lightning bolt on several occasions now. That he'd been in equally dire straits, and frankly considered the outcome of that last fight very much in doubt even now was, of course, as good a reason as any not to bring it up. Anyway, it wasn't too long before Nieraan finally caught up, and calmed down enough to give hope that a more or less civil exchange might be possible.

"Unfortunately, you have access to the same information I do, which isn't much. But I believe we're still on Cilpar. That smells like the same jungle out there. My guess would be that our hosts have been here for some time, if they've taken to hunting. As for what they want with us, I couldn't say. Given the rather elaborate means they've employed to secure our 'cooperation', however...I'll hazard another guess that we won't like it."

Only now did Jaidan rise unhurriedly to his feet and approach a bit closer to lean against the bars separating them.

"I suppose I may as well ask if any imminently useful skills remain available to you. I could believe this wasn't your first cell."

[Rugs]

The Jedi’s little gesture at Nieraan’s realization of his missing powers didn’t go unnoticed. The Firrerreo sneered, baring his fangs for a moment like a petulant child. He snorted, then scooted to lean at the rough stone wall a pace or two behind him. Though they were obviously contained, what with bars between them and lack of Force powers, his yellow eyes never left the Jedi.

Laugh it up, Shatani. Won’t be so funny when this damned collar is off of me.

Nieraan felt like sulking, in a way he hadn’t since… well, it probably hadn’t really been that long. But the annoyance of being captured by some unknown foe, added to intimate knowledge that he’d been very fearful for his life only a little while ago — these did not combine to make a happy Firrerreo.

Nor did being stuck in a cell next to his new favorite Jedi.

"Unfortunately, you have access to the same information I do, which isn't much,” Shatani said, before going on to further confirm they both knew a grand total of nothing about their situation.

“Great,” Nieraan said, still fiddling subconsciously at the collar around his neck. The metal was cool, and smooth; tight enough to be a firm reminder of its presence without being overly uncomfortable. It didn’t yield an inch to his struggling.

“No, it’s not my first time, is it yours?” Nieraan said, shooting the Jedi a half-amused, half-annoyed smirk. “But seeing as I’ve got…” he made an over-exaggerated show of looking around the cell, which was about as empty a brothel in the Jedi Temple might be, “my hands, feet and a whole lot ofnothing, there’s not a lot I can do about this cell right now.”

Abruptly, he gave up on his efforts with the collar and leaned his full weight against the wall with a sigh. He longed for the Force again. Not because he was helpless without it — far from it, though he was far from comfortable about facing the Echani in unarmed combat if things came to that — but because it was a part of him. He felt… broken, somehow, without it. Unfinished. Incomplete.

“I’d wager you’re not much better,” he muttered. “Unless you’ve got a saw or a lightsaber hidden somewhere, those fists aren’t gonna be worth much against these bars anyway — not that I should be worried about help from you anyway. So we’re stuck here, for now.”

The last comment, unintentionally, reawakened an old thread that’d buried itself deep in Nieraan’s psyche. He’d honestly been surprised when he awake on Tibrin to the sight of stars stretched out across the sky above him. Shatani had bested him that day — there wasn’t any doubt of that. Yet, he’d left him to draw breath still, to continue fighting in the war, maybe even to come back and kill him.

For days, weeks after the skirmish, he’d wondered at the Jedi’s decision. It might not have surprised him, if he’d believed Jedi showed mercy to all their fallen foes. But he’d seen Jedi fight on the front lines; he’d seen them cut Sith down with the same savagery that the Sith themselves employed.

And yet, Jaidan had not.

“You didn’t kill me on Tibrin,” he said, voice soft for once, eyes directly ahead, rather than at the Jedi. “Why?”

[DreadPirateMike]

"This is my first time in captivity, actually." Jaidan replied with a light and somewhat inappropriately cheerful tone, judging an equal exchange of information only fair. Technically, he supposed he HAD found himself getting a bit desperate for escape toward the end of that's weeks stay in the Anchorhead kolto tank 18 years ago, but being raised at the Jedi temple was a poor foundation for a prospective desperado. And up until now, actual capture by the enemy was a trial he'd not yet faced. It seemed the time had come to see how well he endured such an unequal struggle. And novice though he was, he suspected that maintaining a calm and positive outlook was a good first step.

"I must admit, I'm a little excited to experience my first real prison escape."

He also had to admit, of course, that Nieraan's assessment of their practical limitations was both damning, and pretty much in line with his inspection of the cage earlier. But it was always possible, however unlikely, that he'd missed some weakness the first time around. No, neither his fists, nor feet, nor anything else at his disposal would damage those cage bars, but what about the old stonework they were embedded in? If that had eroded at all, then it was possible that with enough patience and persistence, he might eventually be able to pry one loose. That wouldn't be quite enough of a gap to squeeze through, but if he used that bar as a lever...well, perhaps he was being VERY optimistic. But all his training in the true nature of the universe told him that a physical barrier, no matter how daunting, was always outmatched against an unyielding spirit pitted against it.

He was walking down the row, systematically checking for a possible candidate when the Sith's next words gave him pause.

“You didn’t kill me on Tibrin. Why?”

"I see you gave my parting question all its due consideration before using it as fuel to try and kill me." he answered with a sigh, his own gaze initially not focused on the other man either. But that changed after a moment. It seemed rather ludicrous to have a conversation like this with the far wall. "Alright, why not? We've got some time."

Leaving his long-term escape attempt alone for the moment, he crossed his cell again, and slid back against the wall, as close to the Firrereo as their circumstances allowed.

"I'm honestly not sure how much of our conversation on Tibrin you remember; your blood was certainly up at the time. But I told you then, I've come across well more than my share of your ilk, enough to discern differences between one and the next. Perhaps you're acquainted with Jessoin Zarander? Had he found himself in your position, I assure you, I'd never have stayed that final stroke."

Jaidan paused a moment, then, shutting his eyes in mild frustration and resting his head against the cold stone. He didn't necessarily hold himself to the stereotypical image of the serene and laconic Jedi monk, but it wasn't like him to talk this much without actually answering the damn question. But then, he'd been wrestling with this question himself, after all, and come to no quick and satisfactory answers. But after a few moments, he at least found a good point to begin again.

"Your own words were also interesting. And contradictory. You purported to know my true nature, as a warrior, as a Jedi. But by your own admission, you've never really known the Jedi. You were never a part of the Order, and you never really had a chance to learn why the Order operates at it does...or, indeed, how universally accurate your perception of us is. All you have is stories...some of them, it would seem, passed on by a woman who'd already come to hate us. From that, you have your impression of us, and it's led you to blithely slaughter us. So, quite simply, I decided to defy your expectations. If you were wrong about one thing, you could be wrong about others, and if you had the will to consider that...well, perhaps there was still some hope for you. Foolish, perhaps. But there it is."

He ended there, pondering for a moment if there was anything else worth adding. Soon, after a short internal debate on the wisdom of it terminated with a soft chuckle, he did think of ONE addendum.

"If it's any balm to wounded pride, I still haven't made up my mind whether it was actually the right choice. A Jedi must always question what his devotion asks of him, and at the time, sparing you was my answer. But it certainly wasn't my finest moment as a soldier. You're rather troublesome in a fight."

[Rugs]

"I see you gave my parting question all its due consideration before using it as fuel to try and kill me."

Nieraan wasn’t quite sure if that was a bit of disappointment in the Jedi’s voice before the sigh that followed. The Firrerreo smiled in spite of himself, a half-turn crooking his lips just so before he huffed a laugh. “Nothin’ personal, Shatani,” he said, and for once he dropped the barely-concealed malice from his voice, “but you’ll have to do a whole lot more than ask once if you want me to consider anything.”

Still, the Jedi acquiesced to Nieraan’s roundabout request for conversation. It wasn’t as if the duo had much choice, other than silence. And the chance to pick a Jedi’s brain without the worry of a lightsaber being run through his own was a rare chance for Nieraan. He wondered, as Jaidan sat down on the other side of the bars that separated them, if the Jedi felt the same.

Jaidan spoke, laying out his take on their encounter and the bits of truth Nieraan had revealed during the fight on Tibrin. He supposed some points were fair, but he huffed a bit at the Echani’s assumption that his only knowledge of the Jedi Order came from Kamirille’s instruction and, presumably, his own encounters with Jedi I the field.

It was hardly an unfair assumption, Nieraan assumed, but his experiences were more complex than that. Or they had been. Before Kamirille.

“…I still haven't made up my mind whether it was actually the right choice,” Jaidan said. Nieraan showed a half-smile at that, but only slightly. The compliment, for what it was worth, still didn’t sooth the burn of knowing his life had this man been any more hawkish, he’d be quite dead. “…You're rather troublesome in a fight."

“Likewise,” Nieraan muttered to the last. Here, there was no wounded pride — they were both well aware of what happened in that temple... some indeterminate time before now. He could deny it, he supposed, but that’d be childish and petty.

While Nieraan was perfectly capable of being childish and petty, those talents were better put to use in other situations.

“It’s been some time since I found a Jedi that could give me the challenge you do,” he said, staring at the bars and wall in front of him rather than the Echani a few feet away. “I wondered, in the days and weeks since Tibrin if it my loss might have been a fluke. But, well…” Now he glanced a moment at Jaidan, sidelong, without moving his head, “you’re a dangerous opponent.

“I don’t worship battle like the Mandalorians do,” he went on, pulling his legs up to rest arms on his knees while he settled his weight against the wall behind him, “but when I find such an opponent as yourself, well, I can almost see why they do.”

He fell silent for a moment, then shook his head with a grunt.

“Anyway, I know more of the Jedi than I let on, I think,” Nieraan said. He spoke slowly, choosing his next words carefully. Normally, he was hesitant to reveal anything about his past, but Jaidan was already his enemy. What more harm could possibly come from a few select bits of information? “My… father was a good man. He’s the one who started my training, when I was a boy. Anyway, I could never be a Jedi, but he wanted me to live that life.” He looked at Jaidan from the corner of a yellow eye, but the gaze held this time as he kept speaking. “Without some of the restrictions, I guess, but the basics were there. I guess.”

Nieraan shrugged. “By my own words, I don’t know much about it anyway. But perhaps… in another world, we could have been brothers. If your Order allowed love instead of pushing it away.” A bit of heat colored his words, as anger surfaced at the chain of events that, ultimately, lead to those long years suffering under Kamirille. “But it’s too late for any of that.”

Nieraan sighed quietly and pushed the anger away. He tilted his head back against the wall behind him and closed his eyes. “You’ve answered my question. Do you have one?”

[DreadPirateMike]

He absorbed the Firrereo's words in silence at first, albeit with a bit of a half smile to match his rival's, even as he allowed his eyes to close, half his attention on the conversation as he calmly reviewed their situation once more in the back of his mind, training demanding of him that he not dismiss the possibility of an answer simply on the basis that he'd missed it the first, second, even the third time. So long as he had time to think - And for the moment, that appeared to be the one resource he appeared to possess in abundance. - then it would almost always be the best approach. A benefit, perhaps, of a mind that served its purpose but could never quite equal the fiery brilliance of some colleagues AND enemies he'd known. He could think and think, yet usually avoid the trap of OVER-thinking.

Even Onin's admission of his martial prowess elicited nothing more than a silent nod of thanks, an admission of the compliment. No more seemed warranted. He WAS dangerous, and not particularly abashed to admit it. He'd worked far too long and hard at it to waste effort on excessive humility. And conversely, he'd already admitted his own admiration for Nieraan's skill, tenacity, and clever adaptability, in the midst of their first fight no less. Rather, it was the mention of Mandalorians that broke his placid silence with a sudden chuckle.

"Ah, yes, your Crusader allies. I imagine you must have to sit through a good deal of what they deem rhetoric. Us Jedi, cowards for calling upon the Force to do our fighting for us, while they valiantly go to war with nothing more than an indestructable metal shell for protection, only their warrior spirit, their big guns and their killer droids with which to fight. And then, of course, sing songs of their courage, skill and tenacity. No, Onin, I do not think a Mandalorian should have had nearly the easy time of it you have, gaining my respect."

Again, the purity of the fight was a thing to be cherished. Only with a handful of Jedi whom he knew very well would he ever openly voice something so impolitic as disdain. But he'd already tried to kill this man. More likely than not, he'd eventually wind up giving it a third attempt. It was hard to get worked up about whether the man who knew that knew of some holes in the assumed righteous Jedi mindset.

"Perhaps you'll do me a kindness, should we both somehow find our way clear of this world. Tell the next Mandalorian you meet, in whatever specific wording pleases you, that they can stop all the chest pounding. They don't need to raze cities and go sifting through the rubble for challenges. Jaidan Shatani is the Jedi they seek; just ask after him. Echani, don't forget. That'll get their attention. Not only will his death, should they manage it, earn them the renown they seek, but it would be his honor to die by the hands of a true warrior, provided they can furnish one."

Just as quickly as his sudden impetus toward chatter appeared, however, it then soon dissipated. That had often been the way with him, with his various passions. Much of the time, perhaps, he had found it prudent to deal with these sudden, unbidden influences in the typical Jedi fashion. He paid it no mind, and soon enough, it passed as did most transient thoughts. But sometimes, when there was no harm in it, simply indulging an impulse was the faster and easier way to deal with it. In any case, he fell silent, and didn't break his silence again until it seemed as though the Sith had said his piece.

"I'm no sage, Onin. That should be obvious by now. Should be, could have been...all I've ever gotten from trying to trudge my way through any of that stuff was a headache and a rotten mood. But if it's worth anything, I wish things were different, too. Your passion is certainly impressive. It would have been something to see it directed to a cause I could call just. As for how the Order behaved in all this, I imagine that Sage would tell you it's not love that the Order opposes. Only the exclusivity that most people mean when they use that word. When someone gives themselves over to a mate, to a family, then it's natural that their care and compassion is for them, more than for the rest. We don't find any fault with that. But we're asked to offer our compassion to anyone we find who may need it, even our most bitter enemies. That borders on, sometimes crosses over into the impossible to begin with; your love can't be for all, AND for the one, and only anguish can come from trying to pull yourself in two directions. A choice needs to be made. Neither choice is wrong, but one of them can't involve the Jedi."

And for his grand conclusion to that profound offer of cosmic wisdom? A lazy shrug of the shoulders, as he brushed a strand of hair which had come loose from his eyes.

"That's the idea in a nutshell, anyway. And it seems to work well for some. For others...who knows? Maybe it IS nonsense. The Corellian Jedi often choose to walk that line. Personally, I've always thought the Council I'm unlikely to ever sit on could stand to be a little less unbending about it. But I CAN tell you this. If the only worthy philosophy is a truly unassailable one, then we may as well just eat ourselves to death watching poorly written holo-thrillers with lots of explosions; thinking only betrays us. And I intend to go on thinking."

To think with his hands, anyway. Pushing himself back to his feet, he began methodically testing each bar, one by one. If brute force was the best he could come up with until a better option presented itself, he could at least be smart about how he tried to apply it. Hopefully, there's be a bit of looseness somewhere. Ah, but he'd never taken advantage of the man's final offer, had he? Thinking on it a moment, he realized that he did have a question, actually.

"So. Does Kamirille still haunt your steps, as well as your memories?"

[Rugs]

Footfalls echoed across the silent sanctuary.

Melchizedek’s followers bowed, head to ground, before him, lined in perfect rows on either side of the brick-lined walkway that led to a circular, slightly elevated dais at the room’s far end. The temple’s ceiling stretched high above, nearly lost from the flickering touch of the light from countless candles that lined the far walls. It arched overhead, into a dome, the oculus — which was presently shut against the receding storm — barely visible.

Not a soul moved, saved Melchizedek, with his halting, purposed stride. His metal feet clanked against the stone floor. The rueful whir, whir, whir of his prosthetic limbs voiced a haunting echo into the quiet.

“Our time is nigh,” he said. His vocoder picked up most of the work from his actual vocal cords, which had been ruined long ago. Still, they were not completely useless, and it sounded as if two beings spoke every time he uttered a word — one cold and mechanical, the other a tortured, dying man.

“The Bogan has offered brought us two sacrifices, whose blood is thick with power!” He lifted an arm as he spoke. Metal fingers peeked form the end of his dark robe as his sleeve fell. “Just as the storm has washed away the dirt and dust away from our sacred temple, so too shall this night wash away this weakness that has cursed me. And I shall lead you, my followers, to ascend with me.”

A lone disciple waited for him at the sanctuary’s end. He crouched before a trio of ceremonial tables, with one hand resting on his knee, the other closed in a fist on the ground. He kept his gaze on the ground as was a motionless as the others as Melchizedek approached him.

Melchizedek stopped before the dais. He crouched, motors whirring against the motion and extended a metal hand to lift his disciple’s chin.

“And you, Annas… You will ascend before us all.” His voices went quiet, almost reverently so as he spoke to the young black-haired man. “You have put your faith in me from the very start! You have followed since I was naught but a broken shell of a man.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Annas, trembling.

Melchizedek turned from the boy, robes flaring as he motioned his hand wide across the room. “Did we not find a home, as I foretold?” His voices boomed across the darkness.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Followers, as I foresaw?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Have we not found two sacrifices for the ascendance, one of light, and one of dark?” Melchizedek’s voices suddenly dropped, near to a whisper. “Exactly as I foresaw?”

Annas answered as always, voice shaking. “Yes, my lord.” He lifted his head, and the yellow eye unhidden by his dark bangs glinted in the candlelight. “Exactly as you foresaw.”

“And now we have but one final step,” Melchizedek said, stepping down from the dais to stand before his other followers. He spread his hands wide, voices rising to a bellow again. “Bring me the sacrifices. Our ascendance shall soon be at hand!”

---

Nieraan shrugged at Jaidan’s answer. “It it what it is,” he said as way of the most non-responding non-response he could give. “Whatever the truth of the Jedi’s love, I know how they put it in practice.” He paused, thoughtful, then turned a teasing smile to his Echani rival. “Though I guess it doesn’t matter much. After all, I doubt your order will survive much longer with the way the war is going.”

A taunt if a relatively gentle one for the Firrerreo. But what point was there to putting his claws out now?

He adjusted himself against the wall, trying to find some morsel of comfort on the hard floor. Whatever bit of it he may have found evaporated at the Echani’s question.

Kamirille. The name alone summoned an uncomfortable melding of fear and fury that he struggled to push down. A long silence followed Jaidan’s question as Nieraan suddenly seemed more interested in a vein on the inside of his forearm than the conversation they’d struck up.

“No,” he said, finally, after the Jedi had gone to fiddling with the cell bars as if they’d comply with his desire for freedom. Another pause followed, so that it seemed that was all Nieraan had to say, but the Firrerreo eventually offered more.

“She still lives.” He would not tell Jaidan that fact that she still drew breath had come as a horrifying surprise. Nor would he mention that her last visit had left him barely clinging to life and with the sudden knowledge of the two children — his children — that Danica soon birth.

“She shouldn’t be, but fate’s a schuta,” he muttered almost petulantly.

He rose, stretching his back and turned his attention to the cell. “We need to find a way out of here,” he said, indicating in no uncertain terms that that line of conversation was quite done.

[DreadPirateMike]

"Good thinking." Jaidan replied in a perfectly casual deadpan, trusting the naturally implied sarcasm of the statement to stand elegantly without any embellishment of tone. Honestly, what did Onin think he'd been trying to do all this time?

Alas, those efforts had yet to see fruit, the old stonework proving as unyielding as the bars themselves. Whatever their purpose, he had to admit a grudging admiration for the masons. With brute force eliminated from consideration, and no tools readily at hand, it seemed Nieraan's observation was spot on in its use of the word "we".

"Those overhead lights, perhaps? If I give you a boost, you may be able to reach yours and find something long and fine enough inside to-"

Damn. Up until then, they'd at least counted time among their assets, but now, the sound of approaching footsteps announced they'd lost even that much. That still left the optimistic mindset, of course, and he could hope they were exchanging time for something far more valuable. Those who had put them in these cells had the means to get them out, and while the collars were a far from encouraging sign, these mysterious captors HAD saved their lives. Negotiation may yet be possible...though judging by the fact that all four of these newcomers were armed in one way or another, chances likely weren't stellar. Even so, he chose to try, electing himself spokesman on the grounds that of the two prisoners, only he was on this planet legally.

"My name is Jaidan Shatani. I am a Jedi Knight, on a mission for the Republic. I presume we have you to thank for the medical attention, which is very much appreciated. Our accommodations, less so."

"We know what you are. What you both are." The leader of this little band, human like the rest, did not convey any particular air of menace, save that imparted by the stun baton and binders hanging from his belt, but the feeling of dread his presence inspired was only amplified for it. He'd expected no uniform, for no legal authority on this planet would make a prisoner of a Jedi, but here was no ordinary thug of hard face and utilitarian garb. Like his fellows, this man wore a simple grey robe, like that of some religious acolyte, though he couldn't place the order. He certainly didn't know of any such organization that would have access to Force blocking collars. The technology was not exactly unknown; the Republic used them on Belsavis and other such ultra-high security facilities, and he knew from Locke's accounts that the Empire possessed them as well. He'd even heard rumors that derivative versions existed in dark corners of the black market, but to see them here suggested some very specific and deliberate purpose. And yet, the smile on the man's face seemed the most foreboding of all. Friendly, even mirthful it seemed, and yet hollow, backed only by some vapid, empty serenity. Not unlike what their harsher critics accused the Jedi of, actually.

"But know that none of that matters anymore. Your quarrels may at long last be laid to rest. A greater, nobler purpose awaits you."

"And I am curious to hear all about it." Jaidan offered with more than a bit of audible reservation. "...sans duress. Nevertheless, whatever else you have in mind, this is an unlawful detention. And it won't stay hidden long. As I said, I am here at the behest of others. I strongly suggest we put a stop to this while that remains the sole charge to be levied against you."

That managed to displace the smile, at least, but Jaidan had not even managed his planned offer of leniency in exchange for their cooperation before the robed man shook his head violently and broke in.

"You do not understand, friend. You can't, not yet. None of that will matter long. But please, be at peace, and do not resist. There is no profit in it; to us, the future is formless and unknown, and so we speak of it thus. Even your famed Council contents itself with the vaguest, the murkiest of glimpses, or else this war of yours would be over already. But nothing cheats great Melchizedek's gaze, and he has already seen all this come to pass. Our course is set, and the destination wondrous."

Well, there was optimism, and there was willful, fingers in ears stupidity. And to believe there was any hope of rational discourse with these people would clearly represent a running leap over that line.

"Very well." Jaidan replied after a moment, shooting Nieraan a quick look from the corner of his eye. "Then perhaps we should speak with this Melchizedek ourselves. By all means, lead the way."

And so, as their jailers advanced, he had time to gauge their methods, which he found entirely sensible, if maybe not quite professional. The leader advanced with his flankers, batons drawn and humming with power, while the fourth man stayed by the entryway with the only blaster. Obviously, they intended to secure the Jedi and Sith one at a time, and at least proceeding on the assumption that suppressed powers rendered either of them an "ordinary" prisoner, they were adequately prepared.

And yet, with the possible exception of their spokesman, these did not look to him like men who felt in control. The man at the door in particular stood out as an odd contradiction to him. Jaidan had spent a good deal of time around gunslingers of all sorts, everything from hardened professional riflemen to those awkwardly handling the things for the first time. The man by the door seemed to defy easy placement on that spectrum; the smooth, continuous motion which had seen the pistol drawn from its holster and the safety disengaged suggested familiarity, yet the set of the gunman's jaw and the overly tight grip on his weapon belonged to a raw amateur, literally afraid rather than simply respectful of his weapon and the destructive power it could unleash. It didn't initially strike Jaidan as all that odd on his own; the group was small enough to avoid really crowding each other, but if this was only a competent rather than an expert marksman, there was still a very real risk of hitting the wrong target, especially if the prisoners chose to resist.

And of course, he realized a moment later, there was the greater fear, not of, but FOR their prisoners; after the trouble taken to bring them here alive and whole, it stood to reason this glorious purpose required they stay that way. Whether that survival was to be temporary of long-term was of no consequence. They had an advantage, and with that, he could start work on an actual plan.

He didn't need to worry about the gunslinger right away, he decided. He wouldn't pull the trigger save as an absolute last resort; it wouldn't even surprise Jaidan to learn the man's orders specified him as being there for show. But all the same, he controlled the only exit, and other than other bodies, there was no cover on the approach. And the nearer guards presented a bigger problem. The same concern may have been present, but they carried weapons unlikely to inflict any lasting harm, and their anxiety seemed likely to leave them over-zealous. Any obvious resistance on his part would inspire them to err on the side of bludgeoning with weapons capable of putting him on his ass with even a brief glancing blow.

In short, unarmed and powerless, these were not the sort of odds he'd prefer for what he had to assume would be his sole opportunity. He needed to gain the element of surprise, and while it was hardly ideal, he had soon decided upon his plan. He remained calm as he was led out of his cell and surrounded, he obeyed wordlessly when asked to present his hands, and he offered no resistance when his wrists were shackled together by the leader's heavy manacle. Then, and only then did he note the tension depart his captors' muscles, the release of breath, and most importantly, the lowering of their weapons.

Time to get started.

Abruptly, he allowed his body to go slack, and the floor began its rush upward to meet him. As Jaidan had gambled, it didn't go far; yielding to reflex instead of reasoned thought, the man behind him, who'd unlocked his cell, rushed forward to steady him. The Echani's thanks were, by his admission, less than gracious; with his legs steady beneath him once more, he snapped his head backward into the guard's nose, producing a muted crunch, and a significantly less muted shout of agony. The second minion came in swinging, but had been too slow in recovering from his surprise. The weapon met only air as the Jedi ducked, then clobbered his attacker with his durasteel restraints to the side of his head. There was one crazed zealot, at least, he'd not need to worry about again any time soon.

That had all been relatively simple. Now came the part of this little stunt that Jaidan wasn't sure would work. A shame Melchizedek wasn't on hand to ask, but as Arik used to say, sooner or later even the savviest Pazaak player just had to take the hit and hope the cards were on your side. The leader, with his blind faith and his crazed smile, had his own baton drawn, and now aimed a much less sloppy blow. Rather than simply shift to try and avoid this strike, Jaidan skipped straight to the counter, jumping straight up into the air, and lashing out with both booted feet to the cultist's chest.

He paid the price for this unorthodox tactic, in the form of a sharp stab of pain followed by total numbness in the right arm which the baton had brushed and spreading into his chest. But even so, the maneuver was not a failure. Not only did the senior cultist land flat on his back, but the force of Jaidan's jumping kick shot him back into the first guard, who in turn was sent crashing back into the bars of Nieraan's cell.

In other words, within arms' reach. With keys.

He only hoped the Sith wasn't feeling TOO slowed down by the damned collar.

[Rugs]

Four men came to their cells. Nieraan exhaled loudly, in annoyance at already being interrupted before even having a chance to search for a way out — the Jedi had been offering some ideas, but they didn’t seem likely to bear fruit — so quickly.

Jaidan took point on talking to their visitors, and that suited the Firrerreo just fine, as he had nothing to say to the robed weirdos. Nieraan’s golden eyes narrowed as the leader spoke. A greater, nobler purpose? Melchizedek?

Who in the fuck is Melchizedek?

The gate swung open to Shatani’s cell. Nieraan stayed as he was, leaning against the wall with arms folded across his chest. But even completely cut off from his senses, he could tell that something was about to erupt. Shatani surely wasn’t going to allow himself to be dragged off to whatever their captors wanted to do. Even if the Echani was feeling suddenly pacifistic, Nieraan sure as hell was not.

But sure enough, the eruption came. Nieraan prowled to the front of his cell as Shatani allowed himself to be cuffed, and then the fighting started. The Echani suckered one of the jailors into broken nose, the clobbered a second over the head. Their leader rushed the Jedi down, only to land a glancing blow with his baton and get sent staggering into the first jailer, who found himself stumbling back to Nieraan’s cell.

Nieraan snatched forward to grab the man’s arm and yanked it back through the gap in the bars which was just wide enough. He reached at the same time to the belt wrapped around the rough grey robes, where the keys hung from a thin cord. “I’m gonna take these off your hands,” he said matter of factly.

“Wait--no you can’t have those!” the jailer shouted as he attempted to pull his arm away from the Sith.

Nieraan responded by jerking hard on the arm--hard enough to bash the side of jailer’s head into the metal with a dull thunk. “Nuh, uh, uhh,” Nieraan said with three clacks of his tongue as he fished at the keys. The cord broke easily enough with a hard pull, now that he had the man up against the bars. “I would say do that again and I’ll hurt you.”

He twisted the jailor’s elbow so that it was turned sideways and brought his free arm down on it with a sickening crunch. The man wailed and hollered and flailed with his good arm as Nieraan let him go. “But that’d be a lie because I was going to hurt you anyway.”

As the door to his own cell creaked open, Nieraan glanced at Shatani, who by this point had subdued the ringleader. He scooped one of the dropped batons off the ground and batted at it the air, getting a feel for the weight. It wasn’t a lightsaber, but it’d do.

“S-stop. I-it doesn’t have to go like th-this.” Nieraan looked at the source of the words from the corner of his eye. It was the gunman, who seemed completely at a loss for what to do. He was a afraid. Nieraan didn’t need to sense him, see him, or even hear him. He could almost smell it. It was a sense one picked up, after running with gangs murderers for long enough.

“You and I both know you aren’t about to shoot me with that,” he said, bending over to offer Jaidan the key to release the cuffs. “If you do, you’re gonna end up like him.”

Nieraan began to approach the trembling man, who pressed himself back against the wall. They couldn’t afford to let him run off, either. “Now, if you tell us what you know, things might not go so bad for you, pal.”

[DreadPirateMike]

Well, he supposed he could put that down as a qualified success. And Jaidan would probably have been foolish to expect much better. As much as it was always the ideal outcome, sometimes the necessary one for survival, one should never go into a fight expecting not to get hit back. Under these circumstances, with this list of unfamiliarity liabilities...yes, he’d paid a more than fair price for what these past few moments had profited him.

Which didn’t make getting hit with a stun baton any less irritating, of course. Not that he’d admit it aloud, but the arcing kick that broke the head guard’s wrist as he attempted a second swing may have been just a little more vindictive than usual, even if the man gained a quick reprieve from the pain when the second kick connected with his head. And speaking of sadism, it seemed the OTHER variable that lay beyond his control had also turned out in his favor. Onin had been paying attention for his opportunity, and hadn’t simply left him to fend for himself.

He still watched the Firrereo’s approach with a certain healthy skepticism as he climbed to his feet, of course. The Sith had been rather emphatically determined to kill him earlier, after all. And now, with his hands still bound and Nieraan’s clutching a weapon, his enemy certainly had an opportunity to try again. But the wariness was brief; Force or no Force, Jaidan would know it by now if that was his intent. And whatever else Onin May have been, he wasn’t an idiot. So long as they shared a common goal and a common ignorance as to what they were up against, it seemed their feud was on hold.

Onin might just be waiting until he could flash fry him with an outstretched hand, of course. But right now, he could love with that.

“Thank you,” he offered in exchange as he accepted the key and commenced the rather awkward operation of unlocking the cuffs while still wearing them and lacking any feeling in one hand. As much concentration as that required, though, he didn’t miss the panicked look that the gunman shot past the advancing Sith in his direction.

“Hoping the Jedi will feel compelled to stop him from hurting you? He might, past a point. But I share Lord Aurelius’ curiosity, and his desire to be elsewhere. Still, I think you’ll find even a Sith capable of pragmatism. Sadism is time-consuming.”

Ah, at last. The durasteel manacles came free with a most satisfying click before dropping to the stone floor with a muted thud.

“Melchizedek’s vision-“

“Cannot be cheated? Yes, your associate mentioned that. Did Melchizedek happen to mention your specific fate in his grand design?”

To the shooter’s credit, he finally found the nerve for decisive action. A few resigned nods, and then Jaidan had only time to shout a brief warning before the blaster barrel came up, the business end swiftly lining up with the side of the cultist’s head.

[Rugs]

Nieraan gladly let Jaidan take the lead in talking to the terrified cultist. He had little else to offer himself save threats and clubbing of the baton to the side of the head. But the cultist, it seemed was committed to this “Melchizedek” and whatever the hell he had planned here.

So committed that he pulled the gun from the Sith and put it to the side of his head.

“So that’s what we’re doing huh?” Nieraan motioned at the cultist with his baton and a snort. “Go for it, champ.”

He resisted the urge to flick a glance at Shatani. The cultist could be of use to them--they needed someone to wrangle information out of, preferably. The man before them wouldn’t be any good to them with a blaster hole in the side of his head.

At the same time, Nieraan had little patience for trying to coax the man out of a suicide. Push come to the shove, they still had some live cultists on the ground in various states of disrepair who could probably be coerced into answering some questions.

He narrowed his eyes. The man’s hand holding the gun was still trembling. He was nervous, but he was holding a damned gun to the side of his head. If Nieraan advanced, there was no guarantee he’d pull the trigger. But there was no guarantee he wouldn’t, either.

Nieraan cursed the stupid collar at his neck. He couldn’t get a read on the cultist without the Force, and physical signs weren’t enough to tell alone. Well aren’t you lucky? He thought with an over-the-shoulder look at Shatani.

If I throw act quick enough I could knock the gun down, he thought. Throw the baton. Hit the gun so it wouldn’t go off into the cultist’s brain. Tackle him. If his aim was good enough and the cultist’s reaction slow enough, it could work.

If it didn’t, things could get messy.

“So what do you think of this,” he asked Shatani with a casual motion at the cultist. Might as well make use of the Echani while he could.

[DreadPirateMike]

True enough, Jaidan possessed at least one tool that Nieraan lacked. Only fair, really, as he lacked his Sith counterpart’s stupidly fast healing at a time when such a thing would have been quite lovely to list among his scant assets. And now more than ever, he was grateful that he not only possessed the enhanced awareness that his people were famous for, but had made a point of regularly using it even at times when he DID have the Force to fall back on. Combined with the blindfolded training he’d done, aimed at building the habit of truly paying attention to what all his mundane senses were telling him, the result certainly wasn’t as versatile or far reaching as the Force, but it was enough to confidently get by. Bereft of any such fallback, as sharply acute as he knew this man’s senses to be normally...dear, Onin must have been feeling deaf and blind at the moment.

Truly, his heart bled for the man.

Still, noticing more didn’t mean that he wasn’t subject to confusion himself. While he saw the cultist’s shift in aim coming, for instance, he wasn’t immediately sure why the gunman had stopped short. That wasn’t a complaint, of course; he had no wish to witness another sentient being’s self-destruction, and even with his warning, he’d known it was doubtful that Nieraan could have closed the gap fast enough to prevent that outcome. But the trigger was never pulled, and that proved a momentary quandary. Nevertheless, the answer was there, disconcerting as it was.

He was watching a battle of sorts unfold. The man WAS still trying to pull the trigger. He could see all the right muscles shifting. But with equal desperation, he was also trying to stop himself, to point the blaster away from his head, but to no avail. It was frustrating, not having the ability to verify the suspicion with a moment’s concentration, but it looked suspiciously like telepathic compulsion at work.

Was it active? Was this omniscient Melchizedek watching all this right now, and working to stall or protect his secrets? Again, Jaidan couldn’t know for sure, but based on what little he knew, he thought not. Somehow, they were of value, and so frustrating their escape would be a priority. The puppeteer should be here himself, or at least dispatching reinforcements, and yet Jaidan’s ears could detect no shouts of alarm or rushing footsteps...at least not yet. More likely, this was just long indoctrination at work, the slave’s programmed need to fulfill his function butting up against his instinctive desire to live.

Regardless, the alien compulsion was winning. With every battle of tension and intent he could see, the resistance was waning. If they were going to do something, they’d best do it soon. But what, with their currently diminished capabilities?

“I think you should take this man very seriously,” Jaidan finally answered, experimentally taking a few steps forward until he was side by side with the Firrereo. So far so good. As he’d hoped, that represented no new intrusion into the terrified cultist’s space, and so it produced no notable change. Now, it was time to see how much they could press their luck. Tapping Nieraan lightly at the base of the back, hoping he’d simply understand the signal to follow his lead, he took a tentative step forward. It definitely provoked a response in the form of a fresh attempt to shoot himself, but the fight wasn’t over yet. And so, with some hope left, he pressed on.

“He doesn’t want to kill himself. He wants to take another breath, savor another meal...see this grand design they keep talking about. But ultimately, he WILL do his duty. The only thing in question is whether this actually satisfies duty.”

There it was. A momentary flicker of confusion, a brief pause in the battle between preservation and annihilation. And that answered his earlier question. He wasn’t being actively compelled. Otherwise, his words would have had no effect, at least not like this. It was the man in front of them that they were dealing with, and whatever had been done to him, but no more. If they could reach him, even for a heartbeat, that could do it.

“Melchizedek, you say, sees all. But he doesn’t DO all. He chooses to act through his followers. And you obviously didn’t see this difficulty coming. If you die here, you can’t warn anyone else that we’ve escaped. Isn’t that frustrating your master’s will?”

That wouldn’t be enough. By his own private admission, the assertion had some logical holes in it. But nevertheless, they’d gotten closer. Maybe close enough to touch the man...but not before he could pull that trigger. He needed something else. But he could sense that another step could send the cultist over the edge. Even an attempted feint would probably startle him into his life’s final action. They needed something that would really distract the gunman for a moment. Something....

Oh. Hmm. Yeah, that could work. A bit shitty of him, but it could work. Ah, what the hell.

“For what it’s worth, I AM sorry,” he pledged, just before his right hand flew up off the the side and closed into a fist for the sucker punch that impacted on Nieraan’s cheek. He had no time to gauge anyone’s reaction. If anyone other than him had a chance to process that little stunt, someone was dead. Surging forward a step, he launched into a full force leaping sidekick that took the cultist in the gut. A hell of a risk, but if there was any scenario that didn’t involve one, he just wasn’t clever enough to see it.

To his relief, the attack was NOT immediately followed up by the tell tale sign of a blaster going off. Instead, his eyes showed him precisely what he’d hoped to see. A human male, desperately trying to breathe, and a blaster pistol still in hand but knocked out of alignment with his head. Seizing the weapon hand by the wrist to keep it that way, he followed up with a right hook that sent the man crashing dazed to the stone floor.

[Rugs]

Nieraan, for his part, was perfectly content to let the Jedi take the lead in talking to the man who was standing with a blaster pointed at the side of his own head. Personally, the Firrerreo cared little for if their impromptu prisoner-of-sorts offed himself or not; the information they might wring out of him would be useful, sure, but there were surely more cultists. Hell, some of the ones on the ground could probably be roused and compelled to talk.

But why waste a wavering foe?

“For what it’s worth, I AM sorry?”

Hm?” Nieraan asked, a brow starting to rise. “For wha-” Speech gave way to a wordless yell as Shatani punched him in the face. Nieraan’s vision swam briefly and his head seemed to fill with cobwebs as he struggled to process what just happened.

“Oh fuck off Shatani,” he growled as he watched their cult friend fall to the ground from a pale-handed right hook. “I’m not your damn prop.” He rubbed his face. It stung but could’ve been worse. He’d had worse from Shatani before, admittedly. It was the gall of it all that had him raising his hackles. “No wonder so many of you Jedi come to us if this is how you treat your allies,” he grumbled as he stalked over to the fallen cultist.

Allies. A Jedi and a Sith. Funny thought. But the strange situation they found themselves in called for strange alliances if they wanted to get out. Nieraan swallowed the urge to kick Shatani in the head and leaned down to grab the cultist the by the front of his collar instead.

“Alright pal, listen,” he said. At least he didn’t have to fake the barley-withheld fury in his voice. “I just got hit in the face and I’m pissed out about it. Unfortunately for you, I need Mr. Snow Hair over there to get out of here and the rest of your weird friends are knocked out. So that leaves you.”

“I... I can’t do it,” the man stammered. “Lord Melch-

Nieraan pulled the cultist, who protested with frightened, halting breaths, closer to hif face, exposing his fangs with a twisted sneer. “You got four arms and 20 fingers and toes, bud,” he said quietly, golden eyes narrow, “so you better start talkin’ before I start breaking shit.”

The cultist looked frantically at the Jedi, as if asking for help. Something in his mind seemed to click, and he looked back to Nieraan. “What do y-you want to know?”

“Who the fuck is Melchizedek and why are we here?”

The cultist smiled weakly. “The Binding,” he said. “He needs you for the Binding.”

Nieraan looked at Shatani, incredulous, then back at the cultist. “The what?”

“You don’t know?” The cultist laughed. Something about it was disturbing, in the way a crazed man laughs. “One of light. One of dark. That is what Lord Melchizedek needs to give new life to his carnal form and ascend. Well... not you.” Now the cultist was smiling. “He needs your blood. He will have your blood.”

“You’re awful bold for someone who’s prisoner to two prisoners,” Nieraan muttered.

“Lord Melchizedek has seen his triumph. No matter what you say, no matter what you do to me, he will succeed.” A look of reverence passed over the man’s face. “It is inevitable.”