First Reply Bought and Sold

[Xeykard]

Rorak 4 | Bootana Da Shag | Slave Market​

"Best spice pickers! Four arms, very nimble!" "Stronger than a Wookiee and twice as docile!" "Sweet as blumfruit and you won't gain weight, Blorbo's guarantee!"

Slavers called out in Huttese, Rodese, Bocce, and a dozen other trade languages trying to flag down anyone who'd listen. Lots of people listened; lots of people haggled. Half the slavers shouting didn't have what they offered, the other half had nothing of value. Everything ever could be found, bought, traded here -- but it was most importantly people.

Xeykard was here for one person only; he would be lucky if it was simple as buying them.

He ignored the hecklers and merchants, cloaked form pushing his way through the crowds on this strip of the market. Slaves, too, tried to sell themselves; leers and advances of workers of every sort tried to pull him aside. A Togruta grabbed him, pulled him aside like he weighed a quarter as much, tried to bring him to the slaver's side, only to be pushed as Xeykard set back on his path. Strange, that in this place of festering weakness, there were yet things that could sidetrack him.

But the galaxy reminded him of what he was. Another Barabel, a shockboxer from the looks of it, found his gaze. She sissed a greeting at first, only to have her eyes narrow. There was no freedom to be won from her kin. Not him, at least. She looked away. He did as well.

In time he arrived, one of the 'quieter' corners, still packed enough that he couldn't take a step without bumping into someone, but he managed to get to the side, slip into an alley where a man sat hunched. For all his instincts, Xeykard couldn't tell if he was alive or not; he smelled of excrement and pus.

Another wretch to ignore. He moved to the door halfway down -- behind, a private building, supposedly not connected to the markets outside. He tried the door once. Then, he broke it down.

 

[Nefaron]

Rage was only so strong a gift.

Nefaron's hateful spree to escape his Master had resulted in the death of many, but not himself. No, suddenly he was even more valuable of an asset for the fighting ring. Not that it was without punishment. New scars had formed on his body. Wounds that should've killed him, but sheer hate and anger alone kept him alive. His opponents were armed now, almost always. He, however, was not. The lightsaber he'd tried to keep for himself had been taken back. He was left there, left in that fighting pit.

And now he was just in another. Fight until he died. That was going to be his fate. His only use. They'd gotten more daring in the recent fights. It was a public execution, pure and simple. Multiple opponents. Knives were upgraded to swords. The last one even had a blaster given to one of the other slaves.

He hated everything. It was sheer defiance that kept him alive now. He sat in his squalor within his cell, seething. He lived only for the fight, he'd kill them all. He feasted on the rodents that thought him dead. He drained water from whatever he could. He would not die here. He would make them all regret everything.

Then the door was kicked down. He blinked, staring towards where the door had been shattered. His guards stood, immediately drawing blasters.

"Hey! What the hell are you doing? This is private property!"

Xeykard

 

[Xeykard]

Nefaron ​

The first guard crumpled in a single strike, chest caved in from a steel fist. The second's blaster flew from his hand, crushed in Xeykard's a moment later. He had his throat torn out half a second later. The last managed to get a shot off, straight into the Inquisitor's chest. Xeykard glared at him. He coughed up blood and fell over, limp.

He tossed aside the metal blaster-pieces. A look to the Zabrak. A child, a hateful little thing, pathetic in every way. Rabid as he had been in his youth, lacking any ounce of control or discipline, a rat ripping up the floor not even realizing he had been caged.

"Up, wretch. This one has use for you."

 

[Nefaron]

​

Nefaron watched. He could feel it, the danger. It reminded him of her. Teresa Zambrano | Darth Pellax . He'd never learned just what the black winged woman was, but this figure that walked in, that slaughtered the guards around him with such ease and seemingly with thought alone, was similar. Nefaron didn't know what it was, but he could unconsciously feel the danger the Inquisitor posed.

He stood as ordered, hatefullt glaring up at the figure. Fists cletched in that pure hate. But an animal knew when not to bare their fangs at a threat greater than them, and so Nefaron complied.

Xeykard

 

[Xeykard]

Nefaron
​

Xeykard snorted. "Smart. Like a dog."

Nefaron's rage scarred him, physically and mentally. The child was stunted, strong only because he was surrounded by the weak and had enough will to kill them. Faced with true strength, he was cowed into obedience. Xeykard watched himself rise same as the Zabrak. But their paths would be different.

He threw the wretch a ration bar. "Sith run on hate. Soldiers, their stomachs. You will become both."

The Barabel squatted, still nearly as tall as the guards when they'd stood. "Where is your master? He must be a fool, to give you guards."

 

[Nefaron]

Nefaron didn't hesitate to tear into the offered ration. It was tacky, hard, and typical nutrition over flavor. For the Zabrak, though? A feast. He had no manners as he tore into it, chewing rapidly as if it would be taken away. He even shifted back as Xeykard crouched, protective of the meal he'd been given. He hadn't earned it, no, but he wasn't going to let it get taken away. He didn't even bother snarling at the notion of being a dog.

Food was just that good.

"Above. Killed his brother. Wants me to die fighting. Won't die."

He spoke with his mouth full, taking bites between each until the bar was gone. He settled, then, hateful eyes staring up at the figure regardless of how much they towered over him.

"I won't die."

Xeykard

 

[Xeykard]

Nefaron
​

His dark eyes glinted in the low light of their little hovel, studying the boy. The ration bar gone, Xeykard once more provided -- a canteen, a second bar, tossed over again.

"Through Victory, my chains are Broken," he recited. "There is no victory here. You merely prolong the inevitable. Death comes -- it is merely a matter for whom. You must choose: you, or your jailor?"

He rose again, beckoning the wretch with a nod. "Come, pet. You will not be allowed into the galaxy until you free yourself."

 

[Nefaron]

Confusion filled the otherwise malice filled gaze he had. Nefaron didn't hesitate to tear into the second bar, taking large chugs of the water from the canteen between each hasty bite. Food and water. Clean water. He didn't expect to ever have clean water, ever, in his life. It wasn't until the bar was gone and the water was completely drained that he stopped to think about what was said. Kill or be killed was nothing new.

Kill his jailor, though? And be free?

Suspicion filled his gaze, but given the dead bodies here he didn't see any reason for doubt. He grumbled, stepping to one of the corpses to pull free a vibroknife. He'd take the gun, but they never saw fit to teach him how to use one of those. The knife, though? That he did. He stepped ahead, nodding to a staircase. Footsteps above could be heard now. The commotion below hadn't gone unnoticed, and now the whole facility was aware.

Not that it mattered to Nefaron. Kill his jailor. Be free.

"Above."

Xeykard

 

[Xeykard]

Nefaron
​

They went. Death followed.

Xeykard walked in silence, floorboards creaking under his weight. He let the young Zabrak do his work, letting him loose on the enemy like the rabid dog he was. The Grand Inquisitor killed few by his own hand, only moving when attacked, shattering weapons and bones in quick strikes. But this was the boy's time. He left him to his hate.

Their path took them up several floors, passing thugs and slaves cowering in corners. Nefaron's master was a local slave lord, styling himself a connoisseur of 'breaking' sentient beings. But he was no Sith. His strength was a facsimile of the true thing.

In time they reached a grand hall leading forward -- if his mental map was correct, they'd arrive in one of the many boxes of the arenas where so many fought and died. A Houk, taller than Xeykard and just as bulky, raised a massive electro-club upon their arrival.

"Look at him. Strong as he can get. Go on, prove yourself."

 

[Nefaron]

And a rabid dog he was.

There was no fineness, no though, just pure instinct drilled in to the Zabrak from numerous fights to the death. It didn't matter if they had a gun or a blade to Nefaron, he ran through the hallways in ways to avoid getting shot, including using bodies as shields without any hesitation or care. The dagger he weilded carved flesh, finding gaps between armor.

Prove himself.

Nefaron stared up at Xeykard with the same spiteful stare he'd had. Prove himself. He tightened the grip on his blade as he against stared up at the Houk. Strength and reach were clear in the man's favor, but the boy didn't relent. He was going to live. Xeykard was his best way out.

The fight, if it could be called that, seemed to be over quick. Nefaron's ferocity was tempered with hesitation that the Houk seemed to capitalize on to full on torture. Never going for a quick kill, just battering around the boy who continued to get up, each time seemingly more sluggish than the last.

It seemed to be when Nefaron was unable to stand that the Houk picked him up. Laughed at the Sith as he looked towards Xykard. "I dunno who you are, but you're fucked now if you think this pipsqueek is w-" He was cut off into a scream as the dagger Nefaron had been using had cut off his hand. Make them think he's weak. Make them forget.

It was a simple enough tactic. The hammer came back around as Nefaron fell, and he was immediately in the man's guard, dagger stabbing again and again until the giant of an alient finally fell.

"Will not die." He spit lit the blood that had been pooling in his mouth before resching down to pick up the hammer, truggling only briefly with it's weight before seeming to figure it out. It wasn't a weapon he'd had before.

But it'd work. He made his way to the stairs. To the penthouse. He would escape here, by any means.

"Above."

Xeykard

 

[Xeykard]

Nefaron
​

Xeykard walked over to the corpse as the young Sith appropriated his weapon. He studied the boy's work. In time, he turned to him and said gravely, "Well done."

They went through the doors, across a little walkway that looked down on one of the constant fights below, cheers and jeers floating up, along with screams and the smell of gory death. The sand of the arena floor was kicked up high; Xeykard only spared a brief glance to the fighters, but they were directed above, and so they went.

In time, the penthouse suite, yet two more extravagant floors, high above in a tower, away from the grime and feces and blood and everything of the market. Here he stopped Nefaron.

"You sensed this one's strength. Now, sense their weakness. Then strike."

 

[Nefaron]

It was clean here.

Nefaron stared around the high floors of this tower he'd been living in. It was a completely different world for the Zabrak, who'd lived in squaller all this time. It felt weak. Like a bloated pig. He tightened his grip on his hammer as he approached the doors that housed the man behind this all. The brother of his original master. Cruel, and undeserving of all of this. He was soft, untried, unbloodied.

He kicked open the door as he charged forward. The guards in the room were there, ready to fire, but the Zabrak was just too fast. All his seething hate and rage had him moving faster than he'd ever had before, but he wasn't paying attention to that at all. He brought the hammer down, fully intending to crush the human right where he stood. It was instant. A slquesh as far too much strength was behind the blow.

Xeykard

 

[Xeykard]

Nefaron
​

The little slave-master was crushed with a single blow, shocking the guards that remained. Silence took the room by the throat, but it was Xeykard who held it tight.

"Enough," it was a low snarl, but his tone took the room. He hadn't moved from the doorway, yet his menace was a match for the acolyte who'd just crushed their boss. "You won't survive. Flee now."

And they did, by any exit available; some threw away their weapons, other slipped out of side doors. Xeykard went to the corpse. Whoever Nefaron's master had been, they were nothing now, an incomprehensible mass of gore. His gaze went to the Zabrak again. "Hm. Time to leave, boy."