Beasts

[s'Il]

Many Years Ago...



Concord Dawn



They'd been here for three days now, holed up in a small hill range. Out of site and out of mind, as Dan often liked to say.

Of course, Dan wasn't here - she was. Herself, along with a small contingent of commandos. One of them, an angry looking Besalisk, kept to his own. He was one of the originals, one of the first soldiers from the conception of the White Phoenix Commando Squad. Phrexus, he'd said his name was. She had no idea how old he was, and she'd not had the desire to ask him, either. He seemed as though he'd been about long enough to have seen a good portion of the galaxy, and she was certainly not going to pry. Not that anything like that was particularly necessary to know - the White Phoenix Commandos had a tendency to die young, so when some made it past their fifth mission, they were often enough simply seen as older than time. Grizzled vets who'd seen some shit and lived through worse.

And Concord Dawn was no vacation venue, either. Any planet that was missing a not insignificant portion of its landmass was the furthest thing from a good time as a person could get.

Dan had said there was a small clan here; one that had been cast out from the rest, and he'd wanted to gain their help. It was a longshot, but he'd said that it was worth taking. He'd said that the White Phoenix, with her attached to their small numbers, could do it.

She wasn't so sure.

The refuge was a decently sized cave, fortified and well defended by the commandos who slept in shifts and passed their free time either eating or making sure that their gear was in fighting form.




"What're they called again."

The Besalisk's gravely voice cut through her thoughts as she sat just beyond the cave's yawning mouth, propped against a small rock outcropping.

"Clan Maru."

Phrexus snorted out an exhaled breath.

"Been three days. You sure Dan's intel was right?"

"He seemed confident in it."

"Confidence don't help when it comes t'our asses on the line. Enough Mandalorians on this busted-ass planet won't think twice 'bout givin' folks like us to the Empire."

Lifting a hand, she flipped her helmet-mounted macros up. A broken gaze tracked over, to meet the hard eyes boring down on her.

"Too late to get cold feet now, Sir."

There was a bare moment of silence before he smirked, lips drawing back to expose sharp teeth. He gestured back to the empty expanse that they were watching, settling himself a little bit more comfortably as one of his hands lifted, flipping down his helmet-mounted macros.

"I s'pose havin' a Jedi about gives us more'n a 15% chance of succeedin'. I reckon we got... oh, 17%, now."

An exasperated sigh, and s'Il returned to her watching.

"You're confidence in me is... astounding," she grumped, even as another of his hands reached over to give her shoulder a good-natured - if not slightly rough - pat.

[Mr. Slate]

"Come now, Slate. It would do you good to get out of this office now and again."

"You know full well that there is far too much work to be done to go gallivanting outside to smell the roses or whatever it is you have planned."

"Your work is already done. I can see from here that your working on Amber's work. There are several of us for a reason, you know. To share the workload."

"Ms. Amber's paperwork is always messy and flawed. Not all the Arbiters hold themselves to the high standards of the office, Mr. White."

The two Arbiters of the Law sat on opposite sides of the desk. One working dilligently as he dragged an old fashioned pen over equally antiquated papers while the other lounged as gracefully as possible in the rigid chairs that populated the office. The sharp contrasts between them were too numerous to count. Mr. Slate in his midnight blue suit wore only a tie for accessory while Mr. White wore an incredibly rebellious white suit and jacket, all the while trading the signature tie in for an abundance of gold jewelry. Traded his dignity, some would say. Steely blue eyes and soft golden beauties. One rigid, the other relaxed. The boy had the gall to leave the top button of his shirt undone, after all.

What they did share was a strong work ethic and a dedication to their office. Their age, like most Arbiters, was also stretching into the advanced. And while Slate was some ten year older than White, there was definitely a connection the two shared. Like two sides of a coin. Like brothers.

"Are those disciplinary requests?"

"Yes."

"And your voiding them?"

"Only the ones that show promise."

"Promise?"

With the exasperated sigh of a man who has had his personal process looked up and judged, Slate lifted one of the sheets so that his companion could see.

"For example, this one. Mr. Clay. Hunt Party Justicar. Discipline request over overzealous violence in the pursuit of a beast. He caused collateral damage that resulted in the injuries of his fellow hunters, which is regretful, but the results speak for themselves. He killed three beasts, nearly single handed. His victory should be acknowledged, and instead he is vilified. Rage is a weapon that can be honed and directed. Clearly his commander has no idea how to use him, so I am voiding the request for discipline and transferring him to the Lawbringers."

"That would explain the many transfers to the Lawbringers recently. What are you up to, old boy?"

"I am taking blunt instruments and sharpening them into swords, White. I desire the very best in my hunting party."

"To what end, old friend? There won't be Lupines to hunt forever. It's time to set our goals elsewhere."

"You'll do well to keep that sort of heretical talk out of my office. Save it for your garden parties."

Before the growing storm could fully unleash it's vitriol on the subject, a knock came at the door. A bald head stuck it's head through.

"What is it, Mr. Mags."

"A Mr. Ex is here to see you, Arbiter."

"I told you to send him in immediately. Can you do nothing right?"

The door widened to allow in the incredibly skinny and gaunt figure of Mr. Ex. Dressed in all black without so much as a tie clip or pinstripe in sight. His age was impossible to guess. He looked ancient, but could simply be young and malnourished. Whatever the case, his appearance was quite unnerving even to hardened souls the likes of Slate and White; the latter of which shifted uneasily in his chair and moved to the further edge as Ex took up residence beside him. Ex did not sit. He never sat.

"What do you have for me today?"

"A lead."

"Out with it, man!"

"A small unit of rebels has landed on Concord Dawn with a beast at it's head. I have no doubts that it is the One-eyed Witch. She has all the matching features."

"Then there isn't a moment to spare."

"Come now, Slate. You cannot just rush headlong into a confrontation. She has armed soldiers with her by the sound of it. Take a moment and think this through."

"Not now with your useless rhetoric, Mr. White. If we hesitate then she will slip away, again. Nor will I send someone else as you are about to suggest, no doubt. Mr. Feint's failure in the matter has tainted us all with is failure. I will go myself. Mr. Mags send word to the Lawbringers. We leave for Concord Dawn immediately."

[s'Il]

Another empty day.

Another unappetizing box of food to keep her muscles and mind fueled. It was one of those things that the commandos had drilled into her from those early days - it didn't really matter how it tasted, just that it kept a body in peak condition, nourished and fed. At first she'd been resistant, but after the second night of dismal hunting prospects and no fresh meat, the Lupine had essentially tucked her tail and crawled into the grudgingly acceptable box meals.

Only to have half of her food stolen during the two days that it took her to figure out that guarding your food was just as important as actually eating it.

Out on the lines, ammunition was only barely more important than the rationed MRE's handed out.

On the third day she had doubled down on making sure that everything that'd come from her box entered her mouth, and hers only.

It was the way of things in 'this man's' Rebellion, as Dan often enough said.



Her barely-food finished, the Lupine wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, free hand crumpling up the wrapper of preserved namana berry jam and shoving it into the refuse bag with the rest of the packaging that'd once held her food. Food. If it could even be called that.

Looking across the way, her eye found Phrexus, and the Besalisk seemed perfectly in his element. He even stifled a small burp with a clenched fist at his lips.

"I'm still hungry."

His eyes met hers with a raised brow.

"Oh?"

Her shoulders slumped, and she looked to the mouth of the cave where Stiles and Nanti sat, looking out into the distance.

"I want to hunt."

Phrexus was an unreadable hunk of mass, and he looked away in apparent disinterest, shoving the remnant of his own meal's packaging to the side.

"Then go out and run about like some headless nuna, and give away our position."

For a moment she said nothing, instead taken aback by his brusque words.

"I wouldn't give us away."

"Is that so?"

"It is."

"Then go out there."

And with that, he'd dared her. Almost called her bluff, except for the inner stomach of hers that angrily growled for something that wasn't pre-packaged sloppy-seconds.

"Fine."

Her shoulders seemed to bunch up, her upper lip pulling back in a silent snarl as she rose to stand. Phrexus followed her movement, getting to his feet as well as if to intimidate her back into sitting down.

It didn't sway her, and s'Il lifted her chin in defiance, squaring against him as her stomach made its' displeasure known through a rather angry - and audible - growl.

[Mr. Slate]

There was no time to spare, and none wasted. The Lawbringers were assembled. Behind the decorum of their ashen suits was hidden reinforced fibers and energy absorbing sub-layers. War was no reason to sacrifice appearance, to let the bleak barbarism of the galaxy take from you the only thing that separated you from the very beasts you hunt. Each bore a signature weapon, and no two were the same. Swords, spears, axes, nets, and whips. Everything was a weapon in the hand of a Leh'ben Guardian. For it was not the weapon that made the man, but the man who channeled Solfar's light through his weapon.

Together they become one and the same.

With his flagship, the Simulacrum prepped and ready, the small fleet of vessels departed for the stars. Two dozen Lawbringer Hunters, and twice as many of the Templar Guard.

"What is our plan, Arbiter? The beast has an unknown amount of soldiers and resources at her disposal."

"The same plan we always use, Mr. Guile. Send the Templar in first to weaken their formation, to pick off the weak, and then we will destroy what is left. We will eliminate each and every asset she possesses, and when she is alone we will corral her and take her back to Leh'ben if possible, to be executed in Vrashn Square. If not then that god forsaken world will become her grave. Either way we will win this day. Now rest. The battle will come quicker than you think."

---

The small vessels and troop carrier slipped into the atmosphere as quietly as they could. It would never be said that Leh'ben starships packed great fire power or superior shielding technology, but what they lacked in swords and shields they made up with shadow. It would through their stealth technology that they had pacified their own sector of wild space and it was the threat of sudden attack from within that kept their enemies in check and allies weary. Leh'ben as a planet could be conquered in a day, but the ramifications could be the complete destabilization of your own empire in the process. Even if detected on this world by the peasants that called it home, they would do their best to pretend they never saw them.

"How will we know where to find her?"

Mr. Guile once again questioned the plan. Slate was beginning to regret placing the man in command after the death of his predecessor. It was not often that Slate lead the party himself, and he wondered how the man accomplished anything without him.

"Do not worry. I can feel her. There's a taint in the air; like a cloud that blocks out Solfar's light. All we have to do is follow the stench. This way, Lawbringers! Templar, push on ahead."

The Templar Guard slipped past, dressed in their green body armor and helmets. They looked more of the part of a traditional soldier found elsewhere in the galaxy. That is what they are. Just soldiers. Not hunters, not warriors. They are vermin, those born without Solfar's light and fated to be less than their betters. They marched on, armed with their powerful, single fire rifles. Capable of blasting a hole through armor, or injure the hide of a shapeshifted Lupine. The weapons were hardly designed for such conventional warfare, but they were more than capable, and the lives of the Templar more than expendable.

[s'Il]

Stiles and Nanti said nothing as she moved out from the mouth of the cave, sidling up beside their makeshift guard post. It was just as well, too, as she'd no wish to discuss what had just happened between herself and the Besalisk. What words could be said that the developing discoloration around her sightless eye did not already say? Or the thin trickle of blood that she wiped away with the cuff of her hand-me-down old Imperial-issued BDU sleeve? It wasn't often that she lowered herself to a fistfight with the commandos, but Krale's hard insistence that she be happy with what she'd already eaten... meeting the ravenous depths of her gut... it had quickly boiled over into a quick scuffle that her hulking opponent had easily won. Four arms had a tendency to overwhelm, and she was certainly not about to draw her saber. And so fists it'd been, and after five minutes of being pummeled the Lupine had relented.

Nanti kept his macros hinged down, scanning the horizon as Stiles angled his head to look at the disgruntled Jedi. His arm came up to prop against the rock ledge, and he leaned into it. His offhand shifted the macros up.

"Got the ol' one-two-three-four punch, I see."

"Shut up, Stiles," was her grumped answer, sliding in between the two.

"Oh come on now, it's not that bad. At least he didn't break your arm like he did to Jags."

Her helmet was donned in rough fashion, and she flipped the macros down.

"Yes, at least."

She changed the subject, giving a curt nod back to the cave.

"Go eat."

Stiles let out a chuckle at that, as he pushed away from the rock.

"I hope these Mandos show up soon," he started off, heading back to the rest, "... livin' in a cave is starting to seriously affect my delicate constitution."

"Core be blown Stiles, do what the lady says and go wrap your gums around some grub instead of words."

Nanti's voice was a low growl, his attentions still forward. The sun was just peaking out over the horizon, casting its' first rays over the land and the scattered cloud cover above. Any other time, it would've been thought of as a beautiful morning. On Concord Dawn, waiting for a Mandalorian Clan that had yet to show its' face, it was becoming more and more tiresome.


- - -


Two hours later, and still nothing. The clouds had multiplied, scudding across the sky with the aid of a brisk wind that swept up the hillside. Nanti was still at her side, and the two remained perched in silence, occasionally shifting to afford a bit more comfort during their watch.

She looked up, her macros angled up on their hinges so that she could stare at some flightbrid that circled overhead.

"I've got movement."

"Whisperkit pups again?"

It was lighthearted enough to make him grunt a half-laugh, but in the next instant his voice grew low once more.

"No pups, Ma'am. People."

Now that was enough to bring her gaze down, and s'Il flipped the macros down before letting her sight trail across to where Nanti was staring.

She frown, catching sight of green armor over tan clothing.

"Those don't look like Mandalorians," she couldn't help but murmur in curiosity. They didn't have the look of Imperial soldiers either, which was not cause for immediate concern. Just yet.

The bodies in the far distance continued to move forward, and her brow furrowed in confusion as she scanned each one. They appeared uniform, their attire and the weapons they carried all identical.

"Hold up now... "

Nanti gave her shoulder a nudge, a finger ticking her right index finger.

"Eleven o'clock. Different ones. Wearin'... aw hells, they look like they just came outta some fancy dinner shindig."

A quick shift of her neck, and she found herself staring at her very personal problems crashing down upon her head. And the heads of the rest of the commandos.

"Fffff... "

It was a long exhalation, the rest of the word not even verbalized. Her features screwed into a deep scowl as she leaned back, flipping the macros up. The glorious shiner that Krale had given her two hours previous was more that apparent, and Nanti couldn't help but wince at her injury as he too followed her motions, turning to look at her.

"You know those people?"

"Not by choice."

Nanti at least knew enough to remain tense, and nodded.

"What's the word."

"Get Krale."

[Mr. Slate]

The hunt was not going as expected. The trail was not strong and it felt like they were wrapping around this forest for far too long. The stink of the Lupine was often lost in an instant only to be picked up an hour later with no true indication as to whether they were drawing closer or not. It reminded Slate of his hunt on Hellesmutt, tracking a particularly ferocious Loveloxx beast that had become a legend told around campfires. No one who had caught more than a glimpse of it had ever lived to tell the tale. So great were the casualties that the Council of Nine elected to erect a memorial to the victims of the beast, and it grew with time until he finally brought the beast down.

For several days he followed the path of destruction the beast left in it's wake, and when the trail came to an end relying entirely on the stink of the beast; the foul presence it gave off. Eventually it was found, chased, and routed. Dozens of Templar were killed or crippled, and even with his hunters at his back it was a fearsome fight in which the beast would run off and have to be cornered again. Eventually it's wounds lead to exhaustion, and it was Slate who gave the killing blow that finished the beast. Now it's skull sits on his desk, his only trophy.

And just like that he was cornering a fearsome beast that would run when caught and fight like hell when cornered. Only a feeling in the air lead them forward.

A bird call on the wind, something that sounded out of place among the other noises of the woods drew their attention. The counter call was given, and a nearby tree stump transformed into the shape of a man. Similarly dressed. Somehow, despite all his time spent in the woods his coat was still impeccably clean. His shoes, on the other hand. Less so.

"Mr. Gray."

"Arbiter."

"Where is this vile beast?"

"A click to the north-west, in a cave."

"Will you be participating in the hunt?"

"I'm afraid I cannot. Orders from the Council."

"Very well, Mr. Gray. Solfar's light be with you."

"And with you."

And with that the Guardian melted back into the foliage. A master of illusions, Mr. Gray was often used to track down and locate targets. A common occupation among illusionists. At least, among those who did not forsake their duties in the field to attend to books and dust. As if those things would ever change the tide of this war. Regardless, they had their target at last, and thanks to the diligent Mr. Gray they would avoid wandering the woods for several additional hours. Gathering the Templar they pushed off in the direction of their prey. Wedge pattern with the Templar as the tip of the spear shielding the hunters on the inside.

The push was through thick brush and view obscuring trees. Wherever this god damned cave was it was avoiding their eyesight. Undaunted, he pushed the Templar on in hopes that they could act the part of canary and draw the attention, and fire, of the rebel unit the blasphemous creature was with. It would give them the marker that they needed. He could feel the presence, and did his best to push them straight toward it. It was strong now. So strong he felt the need to examine his shoes to make sure he was not tripping over the very thing he was hunting for.

[s'Il]

All around them was grasslands, and further toward the horizon stood the treeline. Their vantage was a large, solitary mountain that held an outcropping. It was advantageous for a number of reasons, least of which being the cave that was a few paces higher up on the path. It had provided shelter, protection, and a tactical position that was preferable. Phrexus Krale had given a bare grunt at the first sight of it, but his men knew that the Besalisk was satisfied enough. There was no real safety to be had, but there was at least a chance to defend, even if small. And sometimes the illusion of safety was necessary.

Nanti had gotten Krale, and now the hulking commando was at her side, both looking through their macros at the group in the far distance. From their vantage, the two maintained as small a visible presence as possible from behind the jutting rockface.

The Guardians and their soldiers had just cleared the treeline and were fording their way now through the tall grass.

The magnification provided by the helmet macros was a boon, allowing her to see the would-be executioners up close. They were just like in the old picture books her real father used to keep, and the aged holosnaps that her adopted father had shown to her.

Without thinking, her hand curled around the pistol grip of the long-range sniper rifle that Nanti had passed off to her. She kept the weapon in her lap still, unwilling to raise the barrel just yet. It did not stop instincts, however, and her entire body descended into a tense knot.

"I... " she frowned, an expression that held a note of sad, desperate frustration. They had a mission; they had a duty; they couldn't let Dan down.

"I don't know what to do... "

[Phrexus Krale]

He watched as she did, this strange group of creatures that were slowly approaching. Sure as the twin suns of Tatooine rose and fell, they weren't Clan Maru. No way a Mandalorians looked like that. He looked on in silence, shifting his magnified gaze from face to face to face. They certainly weren't Imperial, that was without doubt. Besides; the Jedi had said they were... were what, Guardians? Guardians of what? That part she'd not exactly specified, and it needled up under his head-scales that there was something she wasn't saying.

"What do you mean you don't know what to do," his voice was a low, gravelly sound that seemed to vibrate through the air between them.

"You're the Jedi here, not me. Plus, you know what these people are."

Finally, he angled back a small bit, rolling one shoulder, then the other.

"Are they here to help us."

[s'Il]

"No."

The word slipped out like oil, as though it oozed from her lips. Was she afraid? It was a safe bet to make, to say that there was a spike of fear that'd begun in the deepest part of her gut. She'd heard stories, from her adopted father... terrible stories. Tales of carnage and brutal death.

"They will not help you."

She remembered him telling her a story of a Hunt... of when he himself had put down a Loveloxx. It returned in vivid detail as she stared at the Guardians in the distance.

"But... "

Another memory tugged at her, and she suddenly felt her body sit up straight, one hand moving to flip up the macros on their hinge.

"Verede'k Praat- "

"What."

"Tell them you wish for Verede'k Praat."

[Phrexus Krale]

His lips curled back to expose sharp teeth, and Krale let his eyes move from the Guardians to the Jedi, his hand moving to lower the macros. Unlike the other soldiers, he had yet to find a helmet comfortable enough to wear with the things, and so he simply had relegated himself to constantly carrying a pair on an old canvas strap around his neck.

"And just what the hell does that mean."

[s'Il]

She met his stern gaze for only a moment before turning to look back out at the grasslands.

"It's... it's a formal request for discourse."

She bit her lip then, hoping her gamble would pay off.

"They're honor-bound to comply."

At least, for however long it took until the first blow came about; but in that time maybe - just maybe - she could talk her way out of this. Or at least, have Krale talk her out of it. Whether he liked it or not, he'd now become her voice.

And in that moment of realization, the Lupine sorely wished that Dan was at her side.

[Phrexus Krale]

"Request for discourse... ?"

The Jedi had been as vague as ever about this new intrusion into their mission, and it was beginning to irritate him.

"Girl, I will black that sightless eye of yours to match the other if you do not start speaking plainly."

[s'Il]

Her grip on the rifle tightened, and she let her free hand shift downward to the kingwood barrel grip, pulling it close to her chest.

"Just trust me," she hissed.

"That's not the Empire, and it's not the Sith. They're something else, and they will kill me."

A deep breath, and she willed the tension to drain from her shoulders. She needed calm now, and her awareness drove inward, seeking the peace that only the Force could give.

"We have to go out there. We have to meet on the same ground."

[Phrexus Krale]

He watched her, finding a large amount of discomfort in the words she spoke, but if they were to weather this new annoyance, then so be it.

With a hrrrfff, Krale rose from his crouch to stand tall. Broad-chested and thickly-built, the Besalisk stood like a sentinel, waiting for the Jedi. She soon followed, though her own body was easily dwarfed by his own. She stood at his side still clutching that sniper rifle as though it would bestow eternal life upon her. The two stared out into the distance, to the grasslands and the approaching bodies before he sidestepped around the outcropping.

The two began the winding journey down.

[Mr. Slate]

"Movement."

"Where?"

"One Thirty."

"I don't see it."

"Between the rocks."

"Confirmed. I count two. A reptoid and humanoid. They are heading straight for us. They are armed but loose. Orders, sir?"

"This is most unusual. Perhaps the beast realizes it's end and has come to us. Form up, defensive circle. I will kill the beast myself."

The Templar form up, creating an wide crescent that would put the approaching pair in the midst of them without any overlapping fields of fire. They had learned years ago that too right a circle could result in a crafty Lupine using their fields of fire against them. Templar armor was light, meant for the movement and wide range of motion necessary to battle and keep pace with a blood thirsty beast. It would not withstand even a single round from the high powered Purifier Rifle (https://cdnb.artstation.com/p/assets/images/images/003/313/127/large/adrian-mihai-marchidan-1436002735.jpg?1472313684). Two combatants was hardly a match from an entire unit of Templar Guard and all of the Lawbringers. The Guard took up their posts, rifles buzzing; ready but not raised.

The Lawbringers formed at the center of the crescent; a collection of black suits, gray waistcoats, and several different forms of gentlemanly headgear. Weapons were drawn. On display was many of the more traditional weapons of the Guardians; axes, whips, and spears. There were some exceptions. A torch and pitchfork, a great sword, and at Slate own side rested a silver handled rapier in a decorative scabbard etched with a scene depicting the death of lupines at spear point. The cleansing of Nabal, to be exact.

Slate said nothing, instead watching as the pair approaching through the grass. A true gentleman did not strike first. Rather, he waited and looked for the right opportunity. One hand rested on the hilt of his blade, and the other was bent behind his back; ready to pluck Yu'nalia's black fangs from the realm of shadows.

[s'Il]

She'd held fast to the sniper rifle, keeping it close against her chest, pointed downward. The damned thing was nearly as tall as she was, but her poise and appearance at least dispelled any doubts of whether she knew how to use the thing. The lightsaber clipped to her wide leather belt was obvious enough, and s'Il made sure that it was easily seen, dangling from its' carabiner. She still wore her helmet, the macros flipped up; she didn't need them so close to their unwanted guests.

Krale huffed in dissatisfaction at the display, and he was certainly not happy about being surrounded in such a fashion.

Biting her lip, s'Il stayed close behind him, covering his back should it come to blows before he could rumble out the call for civilized parlay. She did venture a peak past him though, to the Guardians that stood at the center of the flanking crescent. She blinked owlishly, and when Krale had still not said anything, gave his side a forceful nudge.

[Phrexus Krale]

The elbow in his side was tiny and jabbing, and elicited an angry snarl as he looked down to her momentarily. He bared his teeth at her, then snorted out a long breath before turning to look back at the suits. Suits. How in the hells of Corellia were such bits of clothing conducive to, well, to anything?

He gave a long, throaty grumble before officially clearing his throat. His massive shoulders squared as he stared at the head suit, a pale, bald elder who looked more wound up than the Jedi herself. And Core be blown, she looked a sight. The shiner she wore around her single good eye didn't help her appearance, either.

"I'm told that if I call for Verede'k Praat, you're supposed to talk, and not use all of... " one of his meaty hands came up to wave at the rifles of those assembled, "... those."

[Mr. Slate]

The nerve of this creature. First he harbors a fugitive and then he has the audacity to attempt to speak in our tongue; and to say Verede'k Praat of all things! A lesser man would have been moved to anger. Rage, even. At his back he could feel the discomfort and bitterness rising in the other hunters. Even the most hot headed of the lot knew better than to say or do anything. There were rules and customs to observe, that went back to the very dawn of their civilization. They were the superior creature; better than the beasts in every way. They would not lower themselves to the level of the very beasts they hunt.

"Very well."

Weapons were further lowered or sheathed. Slate's own hands came forward to be clasped at his front.

"I commend your bravery, but I fear it is misplaced. I am not here for you or your men. I am here for her." He let his eyes turn ever so slightly to look at the woman peaking out from behind the large soldier. There was no doubt that it was she they were after. Her stink was almost choking. The light of Solfar burned away all illusions and through his power Slate could see her own twisted light. Like a tether that connected her to the cosmos. So delicate. It would be a shame if something were to happen to it.

"If you surrender her to us we will leave with no further intrusion."

[Phrexus Krale]

The hulking Besalisk took in what was said with an almost disinterested, half-lidded gaze. Whatever manner of 'proper etiquette' this was, it was foreign and far more subtle than what he was used to. Beneath his BDU shirt, his wide chest rose and fell. Still not sure exactly the relationship between these people and Dan's Jedi girl, his plated head began to gently shake.

"I might think she's a damned goraau graash ur ghaau, but she's still a Jedi."

Lips peeled back to expose sharp teeth as he continued to mull over the hairless one's words.

"Can't let you have her..."

He angled his head then, to look down at s'Il as she continued to practically use his larger bulk as a body-shield. It was enough to elicit a dissatisfied grumble.

"... much as I wish I could. How about we all just go our separate ways."






Gor'aau graash ur ghaau - 'grumbling creature that prattles on' in Ojom

[s'Il]

She gave a frown at that, already knowing the answer to that silly bit of proposition. A hrmph, and she gingerly eased herself around the larger Krale. The rifle she held was still aimed to the ground.

"Will you permit Arani Govore'k."

If the speaker chose to accept her offer, then he would speak directly to her. If not, he'd answer the same, only to Krale.








Arani Govore'k - Direct Speech, when a Guardian and a Lupine agree to speak to one another without a mediator.

[Mr. Slate]

"Only if you are offering your surrender personally."

Slate's reply was spoken in a casual tone like a parent replying to a child who just said something nonsensical. For the briefest of moment he cast his eyes at the creature, held her gaze intently and then immediately broke it off to resume speaking to the Reptoid. It was clear the large alien was the one in charge of this unit of soldiers. A man of authority can spot another, even if their perches in society vary considerably. There was a weight to responsibility, and it could be seen in the shoulders of those who bare it.

"There will be no negotiations. You are currently harboring an enemy of the Holy Leh'beni Empire. A war criminal, no less. I am Mister Slate, Forty-Seventh Arbiter. I have the authority bestowed upon me by the Council of Nine, The Huntmaster's Lodge, the office of the Arbiters, and by the Will of Solfar; Lord of Light. You will hand her over to me, and if you do not than I shall kill every last soldier under your command, yourself, and the girl. There is no salvation for the monster. She will pay for her crimes. It is Solfar's will."

[Phrexus Krale]

The only answer was silence, as Krale cast his beady eyes downward to the pale man before him.

Finally, a strange tug at his lips which revealed the barest hint of a toothy maw.

"That's a lot of fancy words to say a lot of nothing, Pale One. Of course she's a war criminal - she's a Jedi. I don't know anything about her being a monster, but she certainly does have a monstrous temper."

His chest swelled then, and all four shoulders rolled back, eliciting a series of cracks and pops. Two of his hands rounded into fists, the skin over his knuckles creaking in anticipation.

"Now. You and yours best be setting back the way you came. Me and mine have a job to do, and if I go back to my General without his little lady, you'd best bet your bottom credit that he'd come for you."

One fist pounded into the open palm of a hand, and Krale opened his mouth to continue, but a rough shove from behind caused any further words to die away. The shove was forceful enough to give him enough pause, and the arms of one side lifted to allow the Jedi woman room to duck under and through.

[s'Il]

Moving around the Besalisk, s'Il drew up to stand before him, her diminutive stature a strange sight with the backdrop of the four-armed Phrexus Krale. Her rifle shouldered, the Lupine swiftly unclipped her saber from the clip on her belt. She didn't ignite it - no. That would be improper. Rather, she simply pointed the emitter at the Guardian.

Mr. Slate.

"A'ta'ek o'ka'seh. I challenge you, A'kha'ru."

While he'd spoken directly to her in answer of her previous question, there was still the immediate return to Krale as the go-between. It was a non-answer and an insult. As such, she returned the slight with the age-old name that her people had long ago given the Leh'beni.

A'kha'ru.

Slave.

"We will settle this as it is supposed to be settled."

[Mr. Slate]

"A'kha'ru!?"

The air crackled suddenly and violently between them like a thunderclap. Slate's hand reared back above his shoulder, and between his fingers the faintest silhouette could be seen. Like fog on the mirror floating in the air, between his fingers, stretching in both directions to form a long, thin object and an unmistakable point. A spear. Made of nothing and everything.

Every fiber of his being demanded that this bitch be destroyed on the spot for her gross disrespect. How dare she stand there in the sinful wake of her people and still act with such insolence. Everything he had ever believed was proven true. The Lupines were indeed simply evil beasts who had learned nothing and would never rise above their station. Truly, they existed only to destroy and be destroyed. Restricted by their nature.

Nothing but an animal with a pretty face masquerading as a person.

"You deserve no such honor, beast."

Slate's voice was composed once more, as if his outburst had never happened. The intangible weapon disappeared from his hand and it lowered back down to begin unbuttoning his jacket. One by one the simple yet elegant buttons were unfastened and the coat removed to reveal the matching vest and cream shirt underneath.

"You are not my equal."

Stepping back the coat was carefully handed over to a Templar Guard. Turning back he locked his eyes on the creature as he rolled up one sleeve, and then the other. Carefully tucking it one roll at a time until it was neatly pleated above his elbows. No creases. No wrinkles. Mimicking his opponent he pulled his sheath from his belt and held it in front of him as he made his way back to where she stood with her white knight; holding the sheath up for her to see the slaughter depicted beautifully in it's body.

"You are but an insolent whelp that must be taught a lesson. I accept."

[s'Il]

Was there a small bit of satisfaction that welled up within her? That she had managed to cause this Guardian to lose himself for even just a moment? Yes. Yes, there was. She found herself inwardly content at his brief flicker of unhinged reaction. It was... it was as it should be. Even despite her foster father, there were ingrained feelings that could not be denied.

Stepping away from Krale and forward to meet the Guardian, she lowered her own saber hilt.

A long breath, and her eyes traveled over the sheath that was presented to her. She forced herself to show at least a modicum of respect to the weapon that was meant to end her life. It was as the ritual demanded, after all.

<"A presumptuous depiction despite the artistry,"> she lapsed fully into Dev'eni Bast'ek. The Divine Tongue. The high speech.

<"We do not live in the old days of the Black Crusades, and there is no Kantür here to flay your young and wear their bones as armor.">

She paused for only a moment, as her broken, mismatched gaze swept up from the sheath to the eyes of Mr. Slate.

<"Tell me, which of your silly gods shall I send you to, today? Is it Solfar still? Or maybe one of the lesser pantheon?">

[Mr. Slate]

"Solfar is the one and only God. Show some respect and you may yet get the chance to beg for your salvation before his golden throne."

The blade was pulled from the sheath and pointed directly at her face, slowly twisting in place as he imagined carving her pretty face from her skull. The empty scabbard remained in his off hand.

"No Leh'ben child will ever have to fear your savagery ever again. I will finish what Balog Vrashn started. Solfar's Light is my shield and my weapon."

Taking a step back he assumed his form, a classic duelist stance with legs apart and one hand held wide for counter balance and reserve. The sabre was held out, ready for the quick strikes and flicks that the weapon was designed for.

As Slate's eyes focused upon his enemy, the blade began to glow a faint, ghostly blue. Like ethereal energy radiating from the steel.

"Prepare yourself."

[s'Il]

<"Balog was a weakling,"> she spat, her eye finally straying from the blade to the eyes of the man that held it.

<"A hopeless revolutionary,"> the pale violet of her saber flared to life, held slightly to her side as her feet shifted, affording her a half-step back from the extended blade of the Guardian.

She watched him, watched his reactions. Did she feel as strongly as her words made her seem? Not... exactly. She needed to gauge him. Needed to understand him. If she could goad him or elicit some response, she could know more.

A slight pivot, and she brought her saber up to swat aside his own weapon.

<"There are no gods to pray to, A'kha'ru; surely you are not so foolish as to believe such false tales of existential hope. There are neither deities upon glittering thrones, nor saints to send missives to. Only the dead and rotting hear your praises, and they care little - if at all - for what the living do.">

[Mr. Slate]

The moment their blades connected the battle was on. The attack was pressed in measured strikes never intended to do more than to force his opponent to respond by parrying each flick and when he was satisfied he halted, their blade tips touching.

"An uncivil beast such as yourself could never know the significance of Balog and Solfar. Your kind has no heroes. Only butchers. No Gods. Only demons. Solfar's light powers me, powers my blade."

To emphasize he dragged the blade's edge across that of her's. He was well aware of the existence of the Lightsabre, and how it would otherwise melt through the metallic body of his blade if not for the Light of Solfar that was channeled through his body and into the weapon.

"It is by Solfar's will that your kind has withered, childless and barren, to the point of extinction. You have no place in his Light."

[s'Il]

Their brief spar was a testing ground of sorts, a way for each to gain an initial understanding of the other. He was skilled, his motions and technique swift and precise, and for the briefest of moments she had to admire his talent.

As they came apart, she gave an almost lazy twirl of her amethyst blade, her chest rising and falling.

<"What you call Solfar's light... "> her body moved as a fluid wave, twisting around in languid fashion. She felt fresh and renewed, invigorated by the sort of duel that she'd only ever read about. To experience though! It was freeing! Every bit of prose she'd devoured on the subject only fueled the lust for more.

<"... it is the Force, you fool.">

And as if to punctuate her words, her free arm came around, palm up as she called to the Force. It answered in the way that it always did, bending to her desires eagerly, as the loose soil and small stones around Slate's feet swirl up to engulf his legs in a small storm of detritus.

<"If you still believe in your old gods, then the fate of your people is far more tragic than mine.">

[Mr. Slate]

"And yet it is my people who bask in the sunlight, and yours nears it's twilight."

Even as the ground shifted beneath him, as stone and soil latched to his body, he was already swinging the silver-bladed sabre downward, raking the blade through the dirt at the tips of his shoes. A blast of energy released from the blade and sent the gathering detritus flying. The battle was declared. The klaxon struck. The time for talk was over, and he intended on ending this fight immediately. Spinning with the swing of his blade, Slate let the motion spin him around completely, further dislodging himself from her lackluster trap.

As he finished his pirouette, he struck. Driving forward, his sabre held aggressively forward as he shuffle stepped, his off hand held behind his back. True to it's form, the sabre was used to slash, and even then he knew all he had to land was the top of the blade to release the devastating energy channeled through the blade. He made no motion to drive deep with the blade, but attacked at maximum range instead.

[s'Il]

She gave ground, backing away from his advance with a feral glint in her eye and a wolfish grin touching her lips. She was mindful of his saber, shoulders hunching as she allowed her own amethyst blade to rest in a loose grip, out to her side.

He was relentless, and she surrendered her footing with calculated, measured steps. The surety in his movements was admirable, the fire in his own eyes telling her that he fully intended upon ending her this day.

It was something that she would endeavor to deny him.

Heels suddenly digging into the earth, the Lupine surge ahead, her body twisting in a fluid motion to travel past the length of his weapon. Her elbow shifted as she invaded his immediate space, and s'Il made contact just below his ribcage, driving in.

In the same motion, she viciously brought her saber around, intending to connect the pommel of her hilt to his temple.

[Mr. Slate]

He had not expected such aggression from the cowardly creature. Then again, all the beasts knew how to do was destroy. A miscalculated risk on his part, and it would hardly be the last. Pain echoed between his ribs as her elbow connected and as he looked sideways at her he could see her weapon coming for him. He had a choice and he chose the high risk, high reward path once more by turning his head and allowing the cylinder of metal to impact and drag along his skull.

Even as he felt his flesh tearing and his senses dulling, he pulled his sabre hand back. She was so close now. Reversing his grip on the blade he plunged it diagonally toward her retreating body hoping to score even the slightest cut to offset the cost and even this trade.

It was all about cost, and he was willing to pay any price to see her dead.

[s'Il]

There was a moment of clarity that seemed to descend upon her, as she disengaged. Her feet moved in a staccato beat to bring her fully out of range. This one, he was calculating and taking risks. Men who did that were dangerous. They were relentless, and they were deadly. The look in his eyes was a match to his actions, and though she still drank up the conflict between them as though she was a parched wanderer at an oasis, the notes of caution played in her ears.

High above, a front of stormclouds scudded across the sky on an inexorable path. The sun still shone, but for how long? Already a stiff, cool breeze whipped through the tall grasses, sending the whisper-thin stalks to slap against shins.

Her saber crossed to the side, swatting at his own blade to drive it away and out. Her free hand came up call at the earth. A handful of pebbles zipped up, dancing around each other above her palm and the slender fingers that directed their seemingly impossible movements.

<"You're no fool,"> she kept her distance constant, her eye watching him as a redrazor hawkbird would watch its prey, <"... You see what I'm doing... you know what it is.">

[Mr. Slate]

"What I see..."

His hand leisurely traced the length of his skull, attempting to wipe whatever blood had no doubt spilled from his injury.

"...is a heretic profaning the light. If you think for even a moment that your ability to manipulate Solfar's light absolves you of your sin, than you are more lost than I could ever imagine."

His hand drifted before his sight. Blood on his gloves. The sight filled him with rage. Her blood should be the one spilt. Not his. Blood so valuable had no place upon the ground. He could spill all the blood in her body and it would not equal a drop of his own. She and everything she is was worthless. Trash. Garbage to be incinerated.

It filled him with holy rage.

"Your manipulation of the Light causes all of nature to cry out in anguish. Can you not hear it? No. I doubt so simple a beast could ever understand the impact of what you do. How could you? Your people have always been destroyers. TAKING what you want. BREAKING what you CAN'T! The galaxy has suffered for their existence. They have not left even a SINGLE. THING. OF VALUE in their wake. You are a disease. I am the cure."

His impeccable stance broke; taking his sabre in both hands as he darted forward and swinging the blade in a upward strike from below, intent on forcing her to block, intent on knocking her blade upward and away with the power of the strike, and then he would have her. A spin and a flick and she would be gutted.

[s'Il]

His reaction was a bit more ferocious than she'd expected, and s'Il backtracked as he came in. The blood he wore matched the expression he held, and the Lupine lifted her saber up to deflect the strike. He moved like a madman, with the force of a small army at his back and yet the driving need to meet her alone. It was honorable and proper, and in a split second she felt a spark of respect flair up. As close as she herself still held the old ways, so too did he.

The realization caused her to blink, and as he blade was swatted up and away, it also made her pause.

Only at the last moment did she react, and as he spun about, his blade came around. She saw it, as though in slow motion... the tracking arc as it neared.

The edge cut into her BDU top, the thick, canvas-like material splitting to allow the weapon's tip access to the lighter undershirt beneath; and under that, skin.

She gasped, feeling that burning, razor's edge slice across her ribcage to leave a blackened stripe in its wake.

[Mr. Slate]

In this moment, in this small victory, he allowed himself a moment to smile. A tiny, cruel thing that tugged at the corner of his lip. A strike, any strike, was an injury that would slow her down. If he had to he would wear her down one injury at a time until she could not go on until she was bloody and exhausted; begging for a swift end that he would not give her if he had any say in it.

People get treated with civility. Animals do not.

It was time to end this. Pressing forward he abandoned all safety, hedging everything on her being too shaken by her injury to keep up. He would give her no quarter as he rushed with another attack. No stab or nick would suffice. He could not deny the call for theatrics as he threw his arms up to bring his blade crashing down; the steel glowing blue as he channeled all of Solfar's Light into this strike.

Fly true. Fly deep. My enemies defeat.

[s'Il]

He was expecting for her to stand against his crashing blow, to offer some manner of block that would no doubt end in his blade cutting her down. She could see it in his eyes, and in that moment her entire body fell into old habits and exercises. She felt transported back to Pakuuni, reliving those countless sparring lessons with Zem and the constant spars that usually ended with her either on the ground or bested in some fashion.

The Guardian's blade continued to come down, and the Lupine felt her body brace for only a fraction of a second before shifting at the last second. Her stance slid easily to one side, and the blade passed harmlessly through the air that she had once occupied. Her own saber, with its brilliant amethyst blade, extinguished as she darted forward. With his balance momentarily dislodged, she gripped the hilt tightly, bringing it up and around like a warclub on a vicious trajectory that would send the silent emitter into contact with his brow.

[Mr. Slate]

The gambit foiled, the risk taken. There was nowhere to go. No way to pull the heavy blade in any other direction. She stepped away from it like all of his speed and power meant nothing, and as his blade crashed into the earth and kicked up rocks and dirt, he was forced to look up into her descending weapon. He did not give her the satisfaction of a look of surprise or defeat, instead he looked it face on and accepted his fate. He was ready to die. He had always been ready to die. Ready to return to Solfar, to become one of the brightest rays in his heavenly tapestry. There was no shame in that end, in a life lived pure and dedicated.

And then the metal struck him across his forehead, and the force of the blow sent him twisting away. Whipping around he brought his sabre with him, insulted that she had not taken the killing blow. Now she was not just an animal, but a barbarian too. There was an honor to a duel, and she had spat on all the decorum that separated them from the uncivilized masses. She continued to prove her animal nature, and he hated himself for thinking that he could elevate her by his presence alone.

His forehead throbbed, he could feel the blood beginning to drop down his face. He was already on his back foot, stumbling backward in the loose mud as he tried to regain his footing and his stance, his weapon loose in his hands. He needed just a moment, the merest fraction of reprieve to find his place again. Then, yes then he would dispose of this beast. If he was not the better person he would spear her to death right here and now. She deserved no better.

[s'Il]

She allowed no quarter, rushing him in the beat that followed her sabrehilt connecting with his forehead. She barreled into him, checking his chest with a leading shoulder and sending him further back. It was a trick that she'd learned from the commandos; never let the other guy come back for a breath. Go in, keep going in. Dont. Stop.

And for all that she was worth, she did not stop. Her legs drove her against him, and she wrapped her arms around his neck as her entire body crashed into his. She was like a violent wave of determination.

Their noses were nearly touching, and the Lupine hitched herself up further to wrap her legs around his midsection in a jarring collision that sent the both of them down to the ground.

[Mr. Slate]

The blow had jarred his focus more than he would ever admit, and before he knew it he was hit again, pushed back, and then thrown violently to the floor. He had no defense against it. Neither the Templar nor the Hunters trained much in the art of fisticuffs unless choosing to specialize as such. They always preferred a weapon of any kind. There was no way to defeated a beast with less. Their technology and weapons had always been their advantage against the savage, strong beasts. Whatever sorcery she had pulled had sent him to earth, and his only thought as he rolled over was that she had been so close, had touched him so many times to do so. He felt tainted. Dirty. A foulness that no wash would ever clean. Should his eternal soul be tarnished for it, there was no wrath he would visit upon her head, and that of her kin.

The fiery rage built in his belly as he rolled toward instead of away from his target, intent on grappling her on the ground. A foolish idea perhaps but he wanted the personal satisfaction of dominating her upon the ground, to look her in the eye, and then kill her. His blade was lost in the mud somewhere, his hands would have to do. First he would need to restrain her arm so to stop her attack, and then choke her to death with his other hand.

Solfar give me strength, that I might purge this monster in your name.

[s'Il]

He rolled toward her, and she accepted him with the sort of hunger born from battle. The sort of eagerness that beckoned strife and retribution. His motions were enough to give her hesitation in her own actions however. For as ready as she was to accept an adversary bent on meeting her face to face, to match her blow for blow... it was strangely different when that body was belonging to a Guardian. A being dedicated to proper dealings and etiquette.

And yet, the field was met, and she accepted the approach of her adversary.

He collided into her, and she absorbed the crash of their bodies as best as she could. His weight upon her, as they both struggled in the dirt and mud, was oppressive. He gave no quarter, and neither did she as her own hands traveled up across the finely-clad trappings of his clothing, one fist gripping his collar and the other grasping angrily at his ear.
He was relentless, and she felt his hand close around her neck even as she pushed herself against his own body.

"You dirty yourself, Leh'beni," she gasped out, "... are you ready -hrk- to kill your beast in such filth... ?"

[Phrexus Krale]

Watching from what constituted the 'sidelines', Krale had just about had enough. This whole thing was closing in on the most bizarre set of situations that he'd ever encountered and witnessed. The Besalisk hurffed, cast a glance over his shoulder to the promontory that he and the Jedi had come from, and let out another rumble of dissatisfaction. This was tiresome, watching these two clucking nuna hens peck at each other. And now they rolled about in the mud, grappling like angry Dugs after a podrace.

Grumbling to himself, Krale took a step forward, his voice rising in gravelly volume to sound out his displeasure and intentions to end what he saw as a most asinine affair.

"Enough now, the both of you... "

Before he could move ahead further, three bodies were swift to intercept him, and another three joined in to hold his massive bulk at bay. The muzzle of no less than four blaster rifles were shoved into his face.

His frustration and patience reaching the end, the burly Phrexus Krale tensed his bulk, eyes infuriated.

"What in the seven hells is all this?! Are you people mad??!!"

[Mr. Slate]

She was younger and stronger, but he had the advantage of leverage. It made their efforts infuriatingly even. With one hand on her throat, one hand on the wrist that held his collar, he continued to press in hopes of tipping the scale back in his favor. Even then, he could not help but move his face closer to hers, until their noses nearly touched.

"Your death. Will absolve me. Of your taint. You will be. Forgotten. My faith. Is eternal."

[s'Il]

"Your faith... " she felt his grip on her throat further constrict, and yet despite it all she fed upon the contact they shared.

Their closeness.

He exuded an aroma that was intoxicating in its' own way. So clean, so crisp. So... proper. It was the sort of scent that she had been missing for so long. Since the onset of Order 66, she had only known stale grime, old oil, and rank body odor. Smells that were synonymous with desperation and barely-hanging-on. He was a last link to cleanliness and civilization despite the dirt and mud that they now both wallowed in.

"... I take comfort in it."

She could feel the slight pause, the surprised hesitation in his grip, and she used that moment to release his collar. Her now-free hand slid down to the sheath at her hip, and with a flick of her thumb, she wrapped her fingers around the hilt of the survival knife held nestled within.

The blade came free with an unsung song, and she exhaled as she brought the tip to his brow, over his right eye.

And without any sort of fanfare or ceremony, she applied pressure a split-second before jerking the blade down, through his right eye.

[Mr. Slate]

She released his collar and he could feel the triumph surging through his heart. She was blacking out from the lack of oxygen. Victory was assured. Once she was unconscious it was a simple matter to retrieve his blade and remove her head. There was no other way to be sure a Beast was dead. Dispatched in record time but still a story worth retelling. It would be brandy and tea for everyone all the way back to Leh'ben.

"As it shou-AAAUUGH!"

Victory turned to sand in his mouth as his words of triumph were snatched away by the suddenly blinding pain across his face. Both hands released her neck, one clutching his face while the other found her wrist and held her hand at bay from a second attack. This was not a position he could maintain. The witch was deceitful and crass and he wasted no time standing and retreating back. He looked for his sword, but the pain made it difficult to focus. Already he could feel the blood soaking in through his glove. A million hateful words bubbled from deep within but he only let an annoying hiss out.

"I should never have expected more from an honorless animal. Crude. Despicable."

His rage was the only thing keeping the pain from overwhelming him entirely. A lesser man would have fainted. Slate could feel his rage manifesting in his hand; a distortion in the air, a crinkling of the air that formed the silhouette of a long shard of glass that was equal parts composed as if of mirrors while simultaneously invisible. If Solfar's bright light gave them their incredible powers, than this was the shadows he cast.

The pain came surging back in, breaking his concentration, and the darkshear disappeared back into the nothing it was spawned from. Slate clutched his eye harder. The blood was slopping down his face and staining his neck and collar.

[Phrexus Krale]

It was the grim break that he had been waiting for, and Krale drew himself up to stand above those around him. The rifles were pushed aside as he lifted one hand to his lips, thumb and forefinger pushing into his mouth just a small bit before an ear-splitting shriek of a whistle cut through the air all around them. It was a harsh and angry sound, and the burly Besalisk snarled to the guards surrounding him as his hand lowered.

Behind him, from the direction that he and the Jedi had come, the sounds of scrabbling bootsteps could now be heard. His small band of soldiers knew that whistle, and knew that it meant to form up.

Turning his narrowed gaze to the bald-headed leader, Krale growled out his displeasure as he lumbered forward. One arm came out to shove the stricken man to the side, and another went out to grasp the General's Jedi woman roughly by the arm, hauling her up and out of the muck. He handled her as though she was a rag doll, pulling her close to his side. A third hand relieved her of her blade, and he pointed it at Slate.

"My men are coming down, Hairless One. You and yours would be best served by leaving here. Now."