Private A Matter of Course

[Lothaire]

Phalanx Station had been delighted when the Ashlan task force dropped out of hyperspace at the edge of the system. Their route was a travel vein between the mid and outer rim, long forgotten as faster lanes had been discovered. Folk coming through here generally only ever did business in the local system. It was a dying economy, one made worse by the slovenly owners of the station that had managed to impoverish dozens of families across generations to live as their servants. It was too expensive to leave the station, and if you wanted to eat, you had to work for the bosses.

It was all legal in this otherwise lawless sector of space, though far lacking in any semblance of liberty.

The arrival of the task force and the money that came with it was most welcome. Perhaps a few families might even afford enough to book shuttle tickets off station. Entertainers, cooks, and various other merchants watched with bated breath as the Ashlan Star Destroyed Prodigal Son extended its umbilical. Excitement gave way to disappointment as the entertainers were ignored, the comfort women shoved aside, and the drug peddlers turned away by the kinder Ashlans, or outright beaten by those of more zealous character. The cooks at least received their fill of coin.

The taskforce would be here for a day or so to refuel before continuing its expedition. The few cantinas were filled with sailors, the men of the line far less morally concerned than the soldiers of the church that served as Prince-Chaplain Lothaire's retinue.

For his part, the prince contented himself with wandering the seedy underbelly of the station. He strode through trash ridden metal streets and bright neon lights in a suit of golden armor, black cloak billowing behind him like a phantom. Two Phalanx combat droids walked a few paces behind him, though no one here dared so much as look at him let alone approach him.

"How much for that?" Lothaire asked of a humble old women dressed in worn overalls. She glanced back to the little painting he was looking at; an orange piece recounting a sunset over a beach on some far-off world.

"Twelve credits. Sister made it."

"Sure," Lothaire dug in his belt for the appropriate chip, stared at it for a moment in consideration, then retrieved two other identical chips. "I uh...think it's worth more."

"Don't need your charity." The woman scoffed, her dark eyes staring at his outstretched hand like daggers. "Come in here dressed like you own the place, think I need your help?"

The prince's brow furrowed beneath his helm. "Erhm," he drew in a short breath, "Twelve then."

"Twelve."

Cen Durron

 

[Cen Durron]

Being a sort of nomad had its ups and downs, for sure. Seeing new sights and ways of life was always of interest to Cen, but then there was the matter of actually understanding them. The Jedi Padawan was having a difficult time doing so, as he strolled along the metal streets of Phalanx Station. This place was awful. Not only did Cen have no idea where he really was, he also was unsure of why he had arrived.

Such was a mystery of the Force, Cen's plotted course through hyperspace having brought him to this juncture between the Outer and Mid Rim. He often let the Force guide his hand when it came to travel, which in turn guided him to certain destinations for certain reasons. The youth considered it a part of his Jedi trials if anything, more than content to leave it at that, lest he be accused of thrill-seeking.

A rapid series of beeps and whistles that clearly conveyed annoyance caused Cen to glance over his shoulder, frowning at the astromech that followed behind him. G5 didn't appreciate having its primary function in navigation substituted by the Force, especially when the destination was a shady space station like this.

"What do you mean? We'll be fine, my Jedi training was on a station like this, remember?"

The problem was, G5 continued, that the space station he had trained on was nothing like this one. Cen's training hadn't even been completed either. Phalanx Station was far more expansive and populated, and that was just for starters.

"That just means all the more opportunity. I'm wondering where that Star Destroyer came from, you ever seen that bird sigil before?"

Another noise from the astromech directed Cen's gaze forward, upon a golden clad figure down the street that seemed to be trading with the local market vendors. It was no fancy protocol droid, for they were flanked by two tall, mean looking combat droids as well.

Casually, Cen and G5 continued on their way along the dingy street, towards the unfurling scene between the visitors and vendor. As casual as he tried to appear, the Padawan still had his saber hilt secured upon his utility belt, displaying it for all to see without much concern or thought. Cen had already been on the station for several hours, so as likely as Lothaire was to notice, so were many other unsavory types.

 

[Lothaire]

Lothaire's lips pressed into a thin frown as he took the picture into his hands. It was a nice enough little piece, and he had a healthy appreciation of the arts, but the confrontation had left him feeling sour. The armor was ostentatious, but such was befitting of his station. Whom among the clergy would take his claim to the throne seriously if he did not look the part?

These doubts and more jumbled about in his skull as he began to meander back down the path. There wasn't much point to his coming here beyond wishing to see the people. These folk were far from his lands and hardly his subjects, yet his heart still lingered with them all the same. Such poverty would never afflict his realm. Indeed, as he liked to believe, it might have well been extinguished by the church's extensive social welfare programs. Some part of mind understood that such was probably not the case, but he could believe in it anyway.

A glint of metal flashed through the din of the makeshift street. It caught Lothaire's eyes, the youth's frown melting away as realization dawned on him. A hand fell toward the stun-baton hanging from his belt, accusation bleeding into his Essonian accent. "You there," he pointed an accusatory hand at Cen Durron . "Are you a servant of the Bogan?" His tone brooked no contest. "How did you come into possession of a lightsaber. Such things are reserved for the chosen and the great enemy."

The droids peered down at the man with yellow photoreceptors, servos tensed to spring into action at the word of their lord.

 

[Cen Durron]

From the corner of his eyes, Cen watched Lothaire and his droid companions as both groups walked along the street towards each other. He didn't want to appear nosey after all, despite having the boldness to wear his saber hilt out in the open. Not everyone had favorable opinions of the Jedi, and those were ones that Cen preferred not to hear.

The droids were indeed interesting, though Cen was only able to make out a few functions before his attention was drawn to the man they followed.

The Bogan? At first mention, he couldn't recall anyone or group that went by such a name. His studies in history had been brief, to say the least. Casting a quick glance down to the hilt as it was mention, Cen continued to listen, remaining still and calm in his Jedi patience.

That was, until G5 chimed in once more. Something about 'Corposabers' in response to Lothaire's last claim, causing Cen to harshly slap the top of the droid's head in an attempt to shut it up and mask his own amusement.

"I'm a Jedi, sir. This lightsaber was gifted to me by my master," Half of it was true, since he was still but a Jedi Padawan, "I don't think he was a servant of the Bogan either."

Cen had no clue who occupied this sector of space or who the station authorities allied with, but he had a good feeling they were likely connected to the Star Destroyer and golden clad man.

 

[Lothaire]

The gold-clad prince regarded the self-proclaimed Jedi with cold curiosity. There were a few of them among the Crusade, often clinging to their knightly orders or serving as governors over small lordships. Indeed, the Jedi were wholly intertwined with the faith of the Ashla, the faith being an extension of their doctrines.

Many of the Jedi did not see things that way of course, but they would come to understand the sacred nature of the Force in due time. For Lothaire's part, he'd only ever interacted with them briefly and had little opinion beyond the obvious respect afforded by his faith.

Still, that did not mean this man was telling the truth.

"There are few Jedi this side of the rim. A handful among the trade league, or so I've heard," the prince mused. His droids tilted their heads toward him as he spoke in a pale imitation of organic interest. "And none among my retinue. I expected the lot of you back west, not here in the east." The accusation in his tone melted as he continued. After a moment's consideration, the prince-chaplain reached up to pop the enviro-seals of his helm, the phrik hissing as its artificial atmosphere was vented.

The prince-chaplain was a rather severe man, his skull free of any hair save for his eyebrows, eyes green as a tropical sea narrowed with intense scrutiny.

"I am Prince-Chaplain Lothaire Grayson of the fourteenth expeditionary crusade," he announced with no slight amount of pride. "Heir apparent to the Holy Ashlan Kaissereich," not wholly confirmed yet, but that would come in time. "From what order do you hail, Jedi?"

Cen Durron

 

[Cen Durron]

If Cen knew any better, he'd say he was being judged by the face beneath the shining round helmet upon Lothaire 's head.

Of course, he did know, but simply knew better than to make a big deal out of it. There were too many dark threats out there in the galaxy for the multiple light side sects to waste time infighting over their ideals. Might as well be Sith.

So far it didn't seem like Jedi were an enemy of these folk, so Cen was still much at ease even though his astromech was still quietly whistling a fuss. It didn't seem to like the combat droids all too well. Giving G5 a slight tap with his booted foot, Cen continued to analyze what he heard, still a bit clueless when it came to where he was.

The Outer Rim sounded right to Cen, his journey so far had seen him slowly making his way along the unoccupied sectors of the galaxy. It didn't tell him much else though.

Nothing too grandiose had happened as of yet, but this meeting was a sure contender. Cen had in fact heard of the Ashlan Crusade, a relentless campaign against the dark side, headed by even more relentlessly zealous 'Jedi-Lords' of a sort. Definitely a skewed an incomplete picture, but it was all the Padawan had at the moment, besides first impressions.

Despite the intense appearance and initially accusatory demeanor, this Prince didn't seem half bad. Such a chance encounter amidst the space station streets could be claimed as a work of the Force, so Cen saw no reason to disengage. As long as he wasn't brought in for questioning or anything.

"Well met Prince Lothaire, I'm Cen Durron. I'm pledged to no Jedi Order of note, but my master hailed from the Republic's and Grandmaster Kiskla Grayson's leadership."

Was he talking differently now? Checking himself mentally and clearing his throat, Cen continued.

"So, you're an actual Prince, huh? Must have been your Star Destroyer that arrived earlier. Why bother with this place?"

As much as Cen wanted to be jealous, having grown up as a humble fisherman with his family, he did his best to push such trivialities aside. He was a Jedi after all, and perhaps through the Prince's respond, Cen might see just how Jedi-like the older man truly was.

 

[Lothaire]

The Prince-Chaplain regarded Cen Durron with an uncomfortable silence. Despite his titles and supposed faith in the Ashla, Lothaire knew very little of control when it came to the Force, and often left matters of the empyrean to his priests and tutors. His faith was young and zealous as any other Essonian man's, but his talents were raw and uncultivated. He could only judge whether this Cen fellow was lying from his physicality, and that much spoke to him of the truth.

The name was familiar enough, "Ah yes," a light smile graced his otherwise severe face. "Miss Grayson. My father spoke well of her. I do believe he trained her daughter." There were other matters with the girl too if his father's writings were anything to go off of, but none of them were pleasant or worth mentioning with new company. Only private, insignificant little heartbreaks.

His droids seemed to relax with the warming of the Prince's tone. "It has been a long time since the days of that order. Before the days of my own father, even." Legacy was a funny thing. The Graysons were heavily tied to the successors of the old order and the republic in itself, though they did well to ignore such links. There was more bad blood there than either side would have liked to admit.

"An actual prince," the prince-chaplain snorted at that, "Some would say otherwise. I am, technically, not even landed nobility. My father had me with a sorceress during his earliest campaigns against the Sith, back when those devils had our people in chains along with the rest of the Stygian Caldera. I was born out of wedlock, a bastard, wasn't intended to inherit anything and many among the clergy and landed gentry continue to see me as such."

He spoke more than he intended, but he found the opportunity to do so plainly welcome. Few on this station had given him any time of day, and his constituents treated him more as a resource and less as a person. Such was to be expected of course, men were self-serving at their cores, and yet he found himself yearning for company that did not seek to marry him off to one of their daughters, or to remind him of whatever debt his line owed to some other forgotten family.

He glanced down at the whistling astromech, amusement giving way to confusion, "Honestly I have no idea what you're saying little creature."

 

[Cen Durron]

The momentary silence was to be expected, one that Cen met with the usual calm and confident gaze he had upon his face. There were many unscrupulous people in the galaxy, and it never hurt to be cautious. Even now, there were likely envious eyes watching the group that had gathered in the middle of the street.

Still, something told the Padawan that Lothaire wasn't totally sure either way. It was almost a normal thing for those who possessed control over the Force to reach out with it, using their senses to separate lies from truth. It wasn't a practice he employed often, as he saw it as far too invasive.

Besides, considering his parents from the story just told, it was highly doubtful to Cen that the armored Prince wasn't a Force-sensitive at the very least. This Kaissereich especially sounded interesting, and Cen had to ponder on the last name connection of Lothaire's to the Grandmaster of old. Probably coincidence.

"Don't mind G5, he's just jealous," Cen remarked, shaking his head at the astromech.

All this talk had him thinking of his own past, momentarily. He understood why he had had to leave his family behind, for the most part. He only had a small inkling of the pressure that weighed down upon Lothaire, but saw it wholly irrelevant in his naïve Jedi wisdom. Such things had garnered a bad name for the Jedi in the past, and though Cen was mostly unaware of such specific dramas, he still had faith in his ideals.

"It sounds like your people have been through a lot. The more beacons of light across the galaxy, the better to hold off the inevitable darkness. If many of your people act as obstacles to you, have you ever thought of finding a different path? Is that why you're here?"

He maintained the typical Jedi politeness, oblivious to the implications of the question.

 

[Lothaire]

The prince-chaplain huffed a quiet chuckle at the droid, "I've met few droids capable of such complex emotions as jealousy, though that is one of the easier ones to feel." He'd read intently of the ties to sentient life that some droids supposedly held. More than a few Jedi Masters of the Old Republic held the belief that such things could even use the Force in rare cases. Still, they felt more like fairytales than proper research and Lothaire had not met a droid yet to change his opinion on such things.

The youth didn't carry himself the way Lothaire would have expected. The lords and ladies of Greater Essonia carried themselves with a regal disposition, a rare few embracing a humbler state of mind. Cen Durron carried no such bearing, and suddenly the Jedi of the core seemed far less intimidating than they had been.

"We have suffered much, that is true," he breathed a quiet sigh, "Yet we find ourselves at the precipice of a golden age, trapped between warring juggernauts. The difficult times are not yet over, and so I must answer no, I've not thought of anything else since the priests came to my workplace and informed me of my duties."

There wasn't an ounce of doubt in Lothaire's mind: not an inkling of malcontent with his destiny. "The only path for me, Master Durron, is forward."

The prince folded his arms about his chest and looked toward his droid bodyguards. "Return to the ship and deal with any would-be thieves. I'm sure helmsman Craich will enjoy your company."

The two droids grumbled in binary before turning back the way they had come. Lothaire's attentions returned to Cen once more. "Were it that I had my way, life would be simpler," he admitted once the droids were out of earshot, "But I am called by the Ashla and one does not ignore the advice of God, whether they wish to or otherwise."

 

[Cen Durron]

"G5's had enough time to develop such emotions, that's for sure," Cen remarked, wondering when the last time G5 had gotten a memory-wipe was. The astromech was a fairly old model, but it had been a free gift. "I'd send him back to my ship too, but he's likely to get scrapped along the way."

As for the rest of what Lothaire spoke, Cen found himself nodding briefly in response, understanding exactly what the armored Prince meant.

The Padawan's new duty as a Jedi wasn't much different in principle, and while Lothaire likely had more on his plate, who was truly to say? The Force, or Ashla as these people referred to it as, was bound to guide them regardless of origin or status. The fight against the darkness was a call heard by all in the warring galaxy, and it was up to them whether they answered or not.

"I don't know much about your people, but I believe I understand. In the end, we all have responsibilities we must uphold."

After all, Cen had been a simple fisherman. It had taken a lot of convincing, but he had answered that call in hopes of serving something greater than himself. Whether he had made much of a difference in doing so was yet to be seen, but Cen would continue to follow and listen to the Force's guidance either way, something that the two shared in common.

"Does the Ashla call you to this station too, or have you been here before? I imagine showing up unannounced in a Star Destroyer might startle some."

Third time's the charm. Cen had a feeling their paths were meant to cross in some way since the Force had guided him here, but he was unsure if anything more sinister was brewing upon the space station.

 

[Lothaire]

"I'd imagine he'd be a rather tempting target for the folk here," Lothaire mused, haze darting from one end of the street to the other. The abject poverty was impossible to deny, yet his inability to do much about it was equally as obviously frustrating. Perhaps inaction was not the better path, even after the warnings of his advisers.

"There is much to learn of us, and often I find the greater galaxy has a rather archaic picture of us," he replied plainly. The Prince-Chaplain did not carry the same reservations his superiors did for public opinion. They dithered about and worried themselves senseless over galactic opinion, but Lothaire knew the unpleasant labels and the lies would follow no matter what path they took. One might liberate all of Sith space and bring civil rights to folk that had been living under oppression for decades, but all his foes see of it is the conquering tyrant brainwashing the people to serve his own ends.

"In a sense she has called us, yes," Loothaire muttered, "Truth be told I am leading a small crusading contingent in search of worth. My claim will never be recognized if my ability to lead is not proven, nor will it be paid any note if my list of accomplishments is an empty one. We are mostly second sons and volunteers, traveling across the stars in search of things with which to test ourselves. We have no particularly great mission beyond helping where we see it is needed."

It was a vague plan and one the clergy had disliked, but he wasn't going to prove himself attending tourneys and listening to dignitaries back home. That would only win the hearts of the landed gentry, not the people.

"We only stopped here to refuel, truth be told," he admitted, "Though I am a bit...overwhelmed by the poverty of this place. I might have suggested that we liberate the lower class here from their shackles, but my helmsman has advised against it. Too much chaos he says, too many might be killed in the crossfire."

Lothaire sighed.

"And so, we must only stare at them with pity and hope their lot improves, I suppose."

Cen Durron