Senate Guard
867 ABY
Only the oscillating, analogue sounds of outdated equipment and the maroon lights piercing through the dust-filled atmosphere of the underground pits break the monotony of captivity. Limbs bloody, bound and contorted by heavy chains, we are merely waiting for our turn to enter the field of carnage.
A sudden wave of muffled, unintelligible roars and laughs are heard from beyond the end of the tunnel entrance. I do not make a single move. About 25 meters from my position the body odor of a Neimoidian reveals the fact that a guard is approaching. Seconds later, footsteps are heard and magnetic keys rattle. The gate shrieks open, and the rumblings of other captives start to proliferate down along the corridors and cages. Growls, gasps, sighs, even beeps meld together as the whistling guard walks toward the hungering slaves, bringing along an air of immense tension.
The guard stops three meters before me and stings me with his electric pike. Almost immediately after, while still fighting the jolting spasms, the hood concealing my vision is violently torn from my head. Within a couple of seconds, I regain control of my muscles, but the slaver has already backed off. Except for the stand-by lights of rudimentary surveillance equipment, the room is completely dark, yet my vision adjusts instantaneously. As a result of my mutated pupils, I see almost perfectly.
In front of me, the Neimoidian lights a death stick and drags the dirty air through it, but immediately coughs up a hazy cloud of smoke. Still holding onto his cruel weapon, his smoke-filled exhalation is painted by the maroon-tinted particles floating in the air and the narrow cone of the flashlight attached to his helmet is pointed at my shackles. I am chained to several crudely welded alloy metals, and as my solemn gaze follows the echoes of my rattling chains I see others sharing my fate. Humans, droids, wookies and members of numerous other species are bound in this hellhole; some broken by despair, others on their way to bleeding out and catatonically counting down to the inevitable end.
- Your turn again, beast. – says the captor. Along the pits, all rumblings grind to a halt. However, outside the tunnel and from beyond the gate, a different kind of murmur begins to build. The excitement of a crowd, ready to see the main attraction.
The arena of Blood and Dust hungers. My head drops in acknowledgement. I prepare for the unknown, and pray for forgiveness for what I must do.
A sudden wave of muffled, unintelligible roars and laughs are heard from beyond the end of the tunnel entrance. I do not make a single move. About 25 meters from my position the body odor of a Neimoidian reveals the fact that a guard is approaching. Seconds later, footsteps are heard and magnetic keys rattle. The gate shrieks open, and the rumblings of other captives start to proliferate down along the corridors and cages. Growls, gasps, sighs, even beeps meld together as the whistling guard walks toward the hungering slaves, bringing along an air of immense tension.
The guard stops three meters before me and stings me with his electric pike. Almost immediately after, while still fighting the jolting spasms, the hood concealing my vision is violently torn from my head. Within a couple of seconds, I regain control of my muscles, but the slaver has already backed off. Except for the stand-by lights of rudimentary surveillance equipment, the room is completely dark, yet my vision adjusts instantaneously. As a result of my mutated pupils, I see almost perfectly.
In front of me, the Neimoidian lights a death stick and drags the dirty air through it, but immediately coughs up a hazy cloud of smoke. Still holding onto his cruel weapon, his smoke-filled exhalation is painted by the maroon-tinted particles floating in the air and the narrow cone of the flashlight attached to his helmet is pointed at my shackles. I am chained to several crudely welded alloy metals, and as my solemn gaze follows the echoes of my rattling chains I see others sharing my fate. Humans, droids, wookies and members of numerous other species are bound in this hellhole; some broken by despair, others on their way to bleeding out and catatonically counting down to the inevitable end.
- Your turn again, beast. – says the captor. Along the pits, all rumblings grind to a halt. However, outside the tunnel and from beyond the gate, a different kind of murmur begins to build. The excitement of a crowd, ready to see the main attraction.
The arena of Blood and Dust hungers. My head drops in acknowledgement. I prepare for the unknown, and pray for forgiveness for what I must do.
837-852 ABY
On every seventh dawn, we move.
My name is Gorth’alon, and I am a member of the Alonkira pride, a symbiotic tribe of about 40 to 48 Yuzzem. According to our Great Elder – who is over two hundred years of age – even before the mysterious affliction of old, our culture placed great emphasis on traditions. We honor our dead, we respect nature, we value wisdom and we all contribute to our collective knowledge. We are named after Alonkira, Goddess of Time and Fate.
Each eclipse, a group of forward-thinking elders elect a chief. The chief needs to be the representation of all facets of our isolated culture; a warrior poet who embodies our spiritual values, but also is a link to the outside, to the stars above and worlds beyond. Contact with the outside world, however, is scarce at best.
We move, because we have no other choice. Yuzzem are not on top of the food chain on Ragna III, thus we roam throughout the intertwining mazes of treetops. The trees of our home world are several kilometers tall; reportedly the planet itself has striking similarities to Kashyyyk. Although I have never met one, the elders believe we are distant relatives of the Wookies. Our leader occasionally seeks out foreigner outposts and shares information regarding the migration routes of dangerous animals and sometimes provides exotic materials only found deep within the ominous jungle planet with off-worlders in exchange for whatever the tribe may need that particular year.
My name is Gorth’alon, and I am a member of the Alonkira pride, a symbiotic tribe of about 40 to 48 Yuzzem. According to our Great Elder – who is over two hundred years of age – even before the mysterious affliction of old, our culture placed great emphasis on traditions. We honor our dead, we respect nature, we value wisdom and we all contribute to our collective knowledge. We are named after Alonkira, Goddess of Time and Fate.
Each eclipse, a group of forward-thinking elders elect a chief. The chief needs to be the representation of all facets of our isolated culture; a warrior poet who embodies our spiritual values, but also is a link to the outside, to the stars above and worlds beyond. Contact with the outside world, however, is scarce at best.
We move, because we have no other choice. Yuzzem are not on top of the food chain on Ragna III, thus we roam throughout the intertwining mazes of treetops. The trees of our home world are several kilometers tall; reportedly the planet itself has striking similarities to Kashyyyk. Although I have never met one, the elders believe we are distant relatives of the Wookies. Our leader occasionally seeks out foreigner outposts and shares information regarding the migration routes of dangerous animals and sometimes provides exotic materials only found deep within the ominous jungle planet with off-worlders in exchange for whatever the tribe may need that particular year.
My father is Moot’alon, the current chief of the Alonkira pride. My mother, Zhateel’alon, and my brother Noom’alon are both shamans and healers of our humble tribe. My destiny is yet to be revealed, but my passion for the stars and the unknown parts of our galaxy has generated ripples of unrest and disapproval among the close-knit community, seeing as I am to succeed the Chief of Progress.
Regardless of their place in the food chain, Yuzzem are still apex predators; our physiology and intelligence begins to rapidly evolve shortly after birth. Years pass quickly as every year I am tasked with mastering different skills starting from an extremely early age. Hunting of dangerous flora and fauna, celestial and terrestrial navigation, and survival are taught through harsh, year-long trials that strengthen the spirit, the mind, and the body. Although not as much emphasis is placed on skills that relate exclusively to the outside world, the Year of the Sky brought with it lessons of reasoning, diplomacy and fundamental technology use, as well as the acquisition of foreign language skills.
The Year of the Falling Star saw a strange turn of events. According to our estimations, in the year 844 ABY, just as I was studying about spirituality, philosophy and shamanism, our pride was moving towards the other side of the planet to meet with the Xen’omon tribe for the annual Star festivities, where the young adults of our small society find partners among the other tribes and the rest of the members exchange wealth both in terms of information and in any reasonable form the other party may require, all while forming bonds of friendship under the thunderous falling star. Only this year, we were left derelict. Despite the deeply engrained weekly journey all tribes must undertake to avoid danger, we have counted fourteen dawns, yet no one came. No messages, no signs, nothing. For the first time in centuries, a tribe remained absent from witnessing the Hallowed Star.
Regardless of their place in the food chain, Yuzzem are still apex predators; our physiology and intelligence begins to rapidly evolve shortly after birth. Years pass quickly as every year I am tasked with mastering different skills starting from an extremely early age. Hunting of dangerous flora and fauna, celestial and terrestrial navigation, and survival are taught through harsh, year-long trials that strengthen the spirit, the mind, and the body. Although not as much emphasis is placed on skills that relate exclusively to the outside world, the Year of the Sky brought with it lessons of reasoning, diplomacy and fundamental technology use, as well as the acquisition of foreign language skills.
The Year of the Falling Star saw a strange turn of events. According to our estimations, in the year 844 ABY, just as I was studying about spirituality, philosophy and shamanism, our pride was moving towards the other side of the planet to meet with the Xen’omon tribe for the annual Star festivities, where the young adults of our small society find partners among the other tribes and the rest of the members exchange wealth both in terms of information and in any reasonable form the other party may require, all while forming bonds of friendship under the thunderous falling star. Only this year, we were left derelict. Despite the deeply engrained weekly journey all tribes must undertake to avoid danger, we have counted fourteen dawns, yet no one came. No messages, no signs, nothing. For the first time in centuries, a tribe remained absent from witnessing the Hallowed Star.
852 ABY
More and more I dream of leaving the planet. This saddens both my family and all the others in my community. Everybody sees the next leader in me, but I long for the unknown, for I believe we know so little of our place in the galaxy. The pride is healthy, strong and the mood is bright. We gather, hunt and cook, make our own clothing and live off the forest in harmony. We have just settled for the next seven dawns, and my father has chosen an abandoned posting made of decaying metal and crude wires that happens to be just a few great leaps away from an offworlder posting. I could never have imagined how drastically my life would change, come today’s dusk.
Although vegetation can quickly retake such abandoned structures, this area has been well established, with rigid metal flooring attached firmly to the treetops. Several smaller yurts have been left behind probably by another Yuzzem pride. The canopy above had been cleared out in a spot, right above a small landing pad. The work of outsiders, no doubt.
The reason for our stay is nothing out of the ordinary; my father, the chief’s plan is to send a small group of envoys to the nearby outpost for resources. These often include modern sheltering equipment, energy containers and other tools that we cannot forge on our own. Since I have only seen fifteen wet seasons, I am not selected to accompany my father. My much older brother and three additional members of our pride follow him to conduct the exchange.
An hour passes. We are still settling in and developing the perimeter, adding the finishing touches to the makeshift settlement. Five additional hours pass. Three more hours later, the elders of our people are already seriously concerned and are convening to discuss the situation.
Out of nowhere, the sub-bass of an oncoming ship’ engine begins to silence our voices one by one. The ship appears large in my eyes, although I have not much basis for comparison. The ship hovers above the landing pad; it casts a shadow large enough to envelop most of us. The sun is shining magnificently in the background. High up in the air, a door on its side slides open and five round objects are tossed out onto the landing pad. At this point, my mother, whom I have just recognized is standing by my side, grabs me and turns me away. The five thumps are heard, albeit barely. I never see what they are.
The hovering ship’s engine roars in my ears at this point, and it sounds as if a furious Machine God has come to promulgate the judgement it has determined for us.
In my memory, the following few minutes happen almost at an instant.
The opening salvo decimates the closely packed tribe. The smell of charred flesh and burnt fur violates my snout and I am knocked from my feet. For a second, I lose my consciousness but regain it quickly, and I can see the members of my pride scramble for weapons in vain. The chaos spreads like wildfire; anger, despair and confusion stack the odds devastatingly against us. This would be the last time I ever saw my mother. Armed and armored individuals descend from the floating fortress and rain further havoc with their explosive devices.
The offensive is absolute. Overwhelming force against a technologically inferior civilization. Most are deceased, many are missing, some are gravely wounded, but none have fled. All standing members of the tribe are charging valiantly at death with ancient war cries and unflinching determination. I snap.
From a four-legged position, I leap about fifteen meters horizontally and with both legs plow straight into one of the intruding humanoids. Barely a couple of his ligaments keep the frame of the once living individual intact, yet all his other life signs instantaneously become nonexistent. His limp lifeless body slides off of the metal platform.
Amidst the chaos of gunrays and bombardment, a sudden, bright flash disorients me, and I immediately get immobilized by some sort of electric technology. My vision fades to black and I drift into oblivion among thoughts of fury, guilt, fear…. and a white hot desire for revenge.
Although vegetation can quickly retake such abandoned structures, this area has been well established, with rigid metal flooring attached firmly to the treetops. Several smaller yurts have been left behind probably by another Yuzzem pride. The canopy above had been cleared out in a spot, right above a small landing pad. The work of outsiders, no doubt.
The reason for our stay is nothing out of the ordinary; my father, the chief’s plan is to send a small group of envoys to the nearby outpost for resources. These often include modern sheltering equipment, energy containers and other tools that we cannot forge on our own. Since I have only seen fifteen wet seasons, I am not selected to accompany my father. My much older brother and three additional members of our pride follow him to conduct the exchange.
An hour passes. We are still settling in and developing the perimeter, adding the finishing touches to the makeshift settlement. Five additional hours pass. Three more hours later, the elders of our people are already seriously concerned and are convening to discuss the situation.
Out of nowhere, the sub-bass of an oncoming ship’ engine begins to silence our voices one by one. The ship appears large in my eyes, although I have not much basis for comparison. The ship hovers above the landing pad; it casts a shadow large enough to envelop most of us. The sun is shining magnificently in the background. High up in the air, a door on its side slides open and five round objects are tossed out onto the landing pad. At this point, my mother, whom I have just recognized is standing by my side, grabs me and turns me away. The five thumps are heard, albeit barely. I never see what they are.
The hovering ship’s engine roars in my ears at this point, and it sounds as if a furious Machine God has come to promulgate the judgement it has determined for us.
In my memory, the following few minutes happen almost at an instant.
The opening salvo decimates the closely packed tribe. The smell of charred flesh and burnt fur violates my snout and I am knocked from my feet. For a second, I lose my consciousness but regain it quickly, and I can see the members of my pride scramble for weapons in vain. The chaos spreads like wildfire; anger, despair and confusion stack the odds devastatingly against us. This would be the last time I ever saw my mother. Armed and armored individuals descend from the floating fortress and rain further havoc with their explosive devices.
The offensive is absolute. Overwhelming force against a technologically inferior civilization. Most are deceased, many are missing, some are gravely wounded, but none have fled. All standing members of the tribe are charging valiantly at death with ancient war cries and unflinching determination. I snap.
From a four-legged position, I leap about fifteen meters horizontally and with both legs plow straight into one of the intruding humanoids. Barely a couple of his ligaments keep the frame of the once living individual intact, yet all his other life signs instantaneously become nonexistent. His limp lifeless body slides off of the metal platform.
Amidst the chaos of gunrays and bombardment, a sudden, bright flash disorients me, and I immediately get immobilized by some sort of electric technology. My vision fades to black and I drift into oblivion among thoughts of fury, guilt, fear…. and a white hot desire for revenge.
852-866 ABY
My name is Gorth’alon, and I used to be a member of the Alonkira pride. My mother, Zhateel’alon, my brother Noom’alon, my father, Moot’alon, and every other member of my pride is either dead or has been sold off into slavery.
For the past five years I too have been a slave owned by a minor backwater gambling ring on the desolate and forgotten rock planet of(Apatros) Camazotz* - an insignificant world obscured by the remnants of a dense nebula somewhere in the Southern reaches of the Outer Rim - who call themselves the Cephoid Mining Assembly. Hiding quietly under the radar of every major stakeholder in the galaxy, they mask their activities by also operating as an oreworks company, officially extracting leftover cortosis from the mantle; but the truth is that the cortosis in the accessible zones under the crust have long been depleted.
Yet we still dig. Abyssal mining tunnels bursting with pressure and immense heat, we toil with our rudimentary, manual labor tools in the suffocating darkness. Remotely controlled explosive neck braces keep us in line and further punishments are always on the table. Every trace of cortosis found nets a comfortable addition to the wealth of the head of the Cephoid Assembly, the Twi’lek Ouro Bribu; a shrewd and dictatorial businessman and slaver. He was behind the spree of small-scale kidnappings from select sectors of the galaxy, the victims of which eventually provided the basis for the actual purpose of this forsaken place; an illegal, underground, hardcore gladiatorial arena.
By no means an illustrious or grandiose enterprise, Ouro Bribu’s operation attracts only the most contemptible and depraved of individuals from the Outer Rim. Unfair fights and irrationally dangerous combinations of opponents are a usual occurrence. The years of torment and strife have had one positive effect, however; I have become the Avatar of Survival.
All the hordes of horrifying and exotic monsters and all the specialist fighters of ever increasing number and difficulty that I killed have molded my body into an extremely dangerous weapon. My senses have been sharpened by my battle meditations. My mind’s eye viciously looks for every advantage, every weakness my enemy may have. I can metabolize almost anything, even foods of other species, but I have also learned to stoically endure long periods of hunger and thirst. I can tolerate pain that would make others faint. My skin and fur is a shield that has withstood fire, laser, freezing rain and infectious bites… of course, not without scars. Even though being exposed to and gaining considerable experience with various kinds of weaponry as a result of being pitted against other sentient opponents, I have developed a keen talent for utilizing my very environment both for offense and defense.
Still, I have learned my lesson in 857 ABY, when I have made the escape attempt that so far has been my most successful one. Burning up every favor I have accumulated during the long years of servitude, and by using the acquired hacking device I have successfully managed to scramble my neck bracer’s signal by reconfiguring it to submit a false one back to the host computer, probably located somewhere at the ashen building that towers above the arena grounds.
Dispatching the mine guards was no obstacle, yet after several days of roaming around on this prison of a planet and not finding a single settlement, I have exhausted all my chances and have eventually been found in the rocky desert. Regardless, Ouro does not have the luxury of significantly injuring or outright killing his most prized possession. Inflicting temporary, excruciating pain is another matter, however.
Alone, a Yuzzem is lost. The pride is strong when they work together and share the wisdom divined from the teachings of the Gods of Old. If I am to succeed, I must accept the fact that I cannot do it alone. I need the strength of every battle-born warrior of the Cephoid Pits. We have to stand together in order to break the shackles of tyranny. I need to place my trust in the others sharing my fate and fight for the fool’s chance of a better tomorrow. To revolt and rally against all the parasites that feed on the misery of the weak and the downtrodden. In my final moments, I shall become more. I shall become the Avatar of Revenge.
For the past five years I too have been a slave owned by a minor backwater gambling ring on the desolate and forgotten rock planet of
Yet we still dig. Abyssal mining tunnels bursting with pressure and immense heat, we toil with our rudimentary, manual labor tools in the suffocating darkness. Remotely controlled explosive neck braces keep us in line and further punishments are always on the table. Every trace of cortosis found nets a comfortable addition to the wealth of the head of the Cephoid Assembly, the Twi’lek Ouro Bribu; a shrewd and dictatorial businessman and slaver. He was behind the spree of small-scale kidnappings from select sectors of the galaxy, the victims of which eventually provided the basis for the actual purpose of this forsaken place; an illegal, underground, hardcore gladiatorial arena.
By no means an illustrious or grandiose enterprise, Ouro Bribu’s operation attracts only the most contemptible and depraved of individuals from the Outer Rim. Unfair fights and irrationally dangerous combinations of opponents are a usual occurrence. The years of torment and strife have had one positive effect, however; I have become the Avatar of Survival.
All the hordes of horrifying and exotic monsters and all the specialist fighters of ever increasing number and difficulty that I killed have molded my body into an extremely dangerous weapon. My senses have been sharpened by my battle meditations. My mind’s eye viciously looks for every advantage, every weakness my enemy may have. I can metabolize almost anything, even foods of other species, but I have also learned to stoically endure long periods of hunger and thirst. I can tolerate pain that would make others faint. My skin and fur is a shield that has withstood fire, laser, freezing rain and infectious bites… of course, not without scars. Even though being exposed to and gaining considerable experience with various kinds of weaponry as a result of being pitted against other sentient opponents, I have developed a keen talent for utilizing my very environment both for offense and defense.
Still, I have learned my lesson in 857 ABY, when I have made the escape attempt that so far has been my most successful one. Burning up every favor I have accumulated during the long years of servitude, and by using the acquired hacking device I have successfully managed to scramble my neck bracer’s signal by reconfiguring it to submit a false one back to the host computer, probably located somewhere at the ashen building that towers above the arena grounds.
Dispatching the mine guards was no obstacle, yet after several days of roaming around on this prison of a planet and not finding a single settlement, I have exhausted all my chances and have eventually been found in the rocky desert. Regardless, Ouro does not have the luxury of significantly injuring or outright killing his most prized possession. Inflicting temporary, excruciating pain is another matter, however.
Alone, a Yuzzem is lost. The pride is strong when they work together and share the wisdom divined from the teachings of the Gods of Old. If I am to succeed, I must accept the fact that I cannot do it alone. I need the strength of every battle-born warrior of the Cephoid Pits. We have to stand together in order to break the shackles of tyranny. I need to place my trust in the others sharing my fate and fight for the fool’s chance of a better tomorrow. To revolt and rally against all the parasites that feed on the misery of the weak and the downtrodden. In my final moments, I shall become more. I shall become the Avatar of Revenge.
867 ABY
The plan has been a year in the making.
Although there is considerable space ship traffic at the Cephoid Mining Assembly, it is obviously difficult to get components from off-world smuggled into the gladiatorial pits. Although one particular tech-savvy Dug named Motozuma was most ingenious in sourcing the necessary materials for my plan involving our daring escape.
My fifteen year long servitude has made me a respected member of the gladiators. By gaining the trust of a select few of the most promising individuals amongst us, I have started down a road I strangely feel I was destined to walk. Unbeknownst to the others, their future depended on two Wookies, a Dug, a Human and a Yuzzem. Our plan needed to be simple yet impactful. We have discussed the idea of an overcharged electron pulse to scramble the neck braces of all slaves in the pits, yet it was deemed insufficient for a large enough advantage. Disabling our braces was a localized solution and would quickly be solved by other means on the slavers’ part.
Be that as it may, we could copy the same tactics they used when our tribe got wiped out. A high risk, high reward plan that involved a lot of destruction. We have decided to smuggle in explosives that are easy to hide, easy to assemble and the result would create enough chaos that could shake the foundations of the Company’s premises.
But where to detonate the charges? Deep inside the mines, I have noticed that the earth is always restless. The catacombs of Camazotz have claimed many victims over the years, as cave-ins have begun to occur increasingly often. The others agree that a fault line may be lying below the compound, and that in theory, a cataclysmic chain reaction could be triggered with a precise enough set of carefully placed pressure bombs.
On the morning of the act, we have silently distributed the makeshift explosives between our small group of operatives. The design is blunt yet effective. It incorporates some kind of modified energy cells, the curious technology of which is alien to my eyes, as well as a limited amount of electronics for the internal digital timer.
The Human male, Haylen Steer was in charge of creating a distraction for the person tasked with taking a pressure bomb to the Western Mines, which is a rather hazardous mission by itself, seeing as he will still be wearing the active neck braces while creating the distraction. Haylen has become a formidable sharpshooter over the years and has always been distant yet sympathetic to my ideas. K’or, the first Wookie was in charge of smuggling in a pressure bomb to the Eastern Mine Complex by himself, while Motozuma had gotten the shortest trip, a bomb to the Southern M.C. A fair request, seeing as how he alone has managed to sort out the logistics of sourcing the kind of illegal technology we are dealing with on our mission, and he is usually assigned cleaning duty at the Southern Mine Complex anyway, largely due to his small stature. Rornik, the Wookie who has taught me Shyriwook and a terrific friend both on and outside of the battlefield, had volunteered to take his pressure bomb to the mine that has claimed the most lives over the years, the Western Mine Complex, unimaginatively nicknamed “The Skullmine.” Meanwhile, I have to stay behind for corpse duty and wait for the detonations. I will only have about 15-20 minutes to set myself free, reach and blow up the compound’s electronics building that contains the backup generators before they come online. If they do, they will quickly restore power to the machines that could initiate the neck braces’ detonation program. The building is even more heavily fortified than the boss’ tower.
We all know this might be a suicide mission. Yet after sharing a determined glance at each other, we begin to march.
Hidden in our mining tools and garments are the pieces of the bombs that the four of us are tasked to assemble, then detonate at each of the designated active zones. Since the Cephoid Assembly isn’t the most complicated of organizations, the others easily manage to get on the trams that take them to the locations that contain the most vulnerable pressure points according to our estimations – or educated guesses, more accurately.
Time is ticking. The steps I take are the pendulum for my inner countdown and I pace myself in order to be in position for when the time strikes.
Although there is considerable space ship traffic at the Cephoid Mining Assembly, it is obviously difficult to get components from off-world smuggled into the gladiatorial pits. Although one particular tech-savvy Dug named Motozuma was most ingenious in sourcing the necessary materials for my plan involving our daring escape.
My fifteen year long servitude has made me a respected member of the gladiators. By gaining the trust of a select few of the most promising individuals amongst us, I have started down a road I strangely feel I was destined to walk. Unbeknownst to the others, their future depended on two Wookies, a Dug, a Human and a Yuzzem. Our plan needed to be simple yet impactful. We have discussed the idea of an overcharged electron pulse to scramble the neck braces of all slaves in the pits, yet it was deemed insufficient for a large enough advantage. Disabling our braces was a localized solution and would quickly be solved by other means on the slavers’ part.
Be that as it may, we could copy the same tactics they used when our tribe got wiped out. A high risk, high reward plan that involved a lot of destruction. We have decided to smuggle in explosives that are easy to hide, easy to assemble and the result would create enough chaos that could shake the foundations of the Company’s premises.
But where to detonate the charges? Deep inside the mines, I have noticed that the earth is always restless. The catacombs of Camazotz have claimed many victims over the years, as cave-ins have begun to occur increasingly often. The others agree that a fault line may be lying below the compound, and that in theory, a cataclysmic chain reaction could be triggered with a precise enough set of carefully placed pressure bombs.
On the morning of the act, we have silently distributed the makeshift explosives between our small group of operatives. The design is blunt yet effective. It incorporates some kind of modified energy cells, the curious technology of which is alien to my eyes, as well as a limited amount of electronics for the internal digital timer.
The Human male, Haylen Steer was in charge of creating a distraction for the person tasked with taking a pressure bomb to the Western Mines, which is a rather hazardous mission by itself, seeing as he will still be wearing the active neck braces while creating the distraction. Haylen has become a formidable sharpshooter over the years and has always been distant yet sympathetic to my ideas. K’or, the first Wookie was in charge of smuggling in a pressure bomb to the Eastern Mine Complex by himself, while Motozuma had gotten the shortest trip, a bomb to the Southern M.C. A fair request, seeing as how he alone has managed to sort out the logistics of sourcing the kind of illegal technology we are dealing with on our mission, and he is usually assigned cleaning duty at the Southern Mine Complex anyway, largely due to his small stature. Rornik, the Wookie who has taught me Shyriwook and a terrific friend both on and outside of the battlefield, had volunteered to take his pressure bomb to the mine that has claimed the most lives over the years, the Western Mine Complex, unimaginatively nicknamed “The Skullmine.” Meanwhile, I have to stay behind for corpse duty and wait for the detonations. I will only have about 15-20 minutes to set myself free, reach and blow up the compound’s electronics building that contains the backup generators before they come online. If they do, they will quickly restore power to the machines that could initiate the neck braces’ detonation program. The building is even more heavily fortified than the boss’ tower.
We all know this might be a suicide mission. Yet after sharing a determined glance at each other, we begin to march.
Hidden in our mining tools and garments are the pieces of the bombs that the four of us are tasked to assemble, then detonate at each of the designated active zones. Since the Cephoid Assembly isn’t the most complicated of organizations, the others easily manage to get on the trams that take them to the locations that contain the most vulnerable pressure points according to our estimations – or educated guesses, more accurately.
Time is ticking. The steps I take are the pendulum for my inner countdown and I pace myself in order to be in position for when the time strikes.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
I hear the vacuum of the first explosion from the Southern Mines. The ground begins to rumble almost immediately. Adrenaline floods my veins and my senses kick into overdrive. The idea appears to be working.
The second explosion also arrives in the form of a deep, elongated sound boom. People begin to fall over as a rapid quake sweeps through the ground. The guards are stunned and so are the captives. All operations grind to a halt and I take a few labored steps over the small embankment surrounding the dumping site outside the compound limits. A guard notices this and demands that I move back in line. The third explosion should have happened by now. Between corpse disposal and the Western Mine Complex is a few kilometers long salt flat. I see the flashes of red blaster fire filtering through the hanging clouds of dirt obscuring the mine.
The guard takes a step towards me and is reaching for his detonator. I still stand and watch as anxious thoughts wash over every shred of my being, but the flashes are not stopping. This is our only chance. The Neimoidian guard is already holding his detonator and is fumbling to open it. I take a deep breath, close my eyes and slowly open them. Our eyes meet as he places his finger on the button.
Just an instant before he presses it, an ear-splitting earthquake of cataclysmic proportions breaks open a kilometer-long ravine between the Company settlement and the Skullmine. I suddenly realize what has happened and with a mighty roar I tear the now inactive explosive from my neck. Although still baffled by what just happened, the other slaves are slowly realizing what is going on and follow my example.
I turn and ready myself for a leap just as if I was on top of the trees of Ragna III, and this time, I am going to lock eyes with the Neimoidian for the last time. I jump and land about five meters in front of him. Witnessing an apex predator ferociously advancing towards the guard deprives him of any meaningful reaction. Not fight, not flight. Death charging at ramming speed.
With a second, swift jump I close the gap. With graceful precision, and without losing momentum I swat away his pathetic attempt at using his electric pike against me, and my bite disintegrates his neck. Not stopping, I toss his body like a ragdoll between the other slaves. The ongoing quakes have stirred up a storm of sand and dust, and as if a prophecy is fulfilled, right at the moment of me letting out a bellowing roar, a colossal lightning strikes the ground behind me. The Great Slave Revolt of Camazotz has begun.
As the guards are being overrun, I take the deceased Neimoidian’s speeder and begin my race against time.
I am approaching the compound at about a hundred kilometers per hour, but the gate is locked and powered down. Needless to say, a 5 meter tall gate is not going to stop me.
About 30 meters from the gate I release the handle of the speeder and launch myself over the gate. As the air rips into my fur and shrieks in my ears, I pass over the guard post and land on the side of a ramshackled building. I quickly slide down and rush on all fours towards the generator building.
Using the ensuing chaos to my advantage, I tear through the corridors at breakneck speeds and soon locate the building. I rocket towards the only weak point this building has; a maintenance elevator just outside the building that leads down to the underground generators. Two officers are scrambling to stand their ground and shoot at me with blaster pistols. From their point of view, each flash of their weapon’s discharges show me at either to the left or to the right from where I just was. I slide towards one of them and grab him by his legs. Still in motion, I pick him up and wind him up along my own axis to finally throw and smash his body into the other officer. I stand still for a brief moment and recognize that they are both knocked out. I dart over, take one’s gun and shoot both of them in the head. I search their pockets for a keycard and sure enough I find one. I scurry over to a nearby narrow alley, dragging their bodies with me and hastily begin to assemble my own pressure bomb.
In the approximately thirty seconds its took to attach the components, the ground did not stop dancing beneath me. Speeders and exotic creatures have whizzed by, people have taken to their ships and the entire town has fallen into utter disarray. I run back to the maintenance elevator, use my keycard to release the magnetic lock on the grates and press the only button on the whistling device to start the countdown for the delayed blast. I drop the bomb into the elevator shaft and flee.
As I jump from one crumbling building to another, I see slaves decimating the security, while also sustaining heavy casualties themselves. Just as I fly through the air after swinging from a pole, I am blown away by the shock wave of my own pressure bomb. I slam into a wall and fall face down. My fingers twitch, and with cold determination I immediately snap back into the warrior’s mindset and slaughter many nearby slavers I recognize from the arena grounds. But there is one last thing to do before Camazotz swallows all of us whole. Take revenge for my family.
On my way to Ouro Bribu’s tower I help liberate as many slaves as I am able. Many I find dead beneath the rubble, yet my mind is still focused on defending the helpless.
Bribu’s tower is already torn open, as scorch marks around the building’s openings tell a tale of fierce battle. Amidst electrical fires and crumbling walls I climb the inner steps and glide along the corridors with unflinching conviction. Bodies of both slaves and slavers aplenty in the rooms, but a clear path of bloodshed is carved towards the penthouse at the top of the tower. When I reach the top, I finally meet a friendly face taking cover behind two large containers; it’s Haylen.
- Haylen! - I growl in excitement as I skid to a halt. – What’s the situation? Where are the others? – I ask. - I never met them. I made my way here as soon as I heard the fourth explosion. The boss is inside, but he has surrounded himself with several of his thugs. The door is open, but weapons are without a doubt trained on it.
I look around and see two outdated fire extinguishers. I quickly gather them and throw them into the room ahead. Without hesitation, Haylen takes cover on the left side of the door, while I take cover on the right and after a nod we both open fire. The foamy smoke from the extinguishers quickly fill the volume of the room and relying on my sense of smell and hearing, I pounce at the nearest enemy. A couple of stray laser projectiles hit me, but in my rage I can only focus on the blood, sweat and fear of my enemy.
But then, out of nowhere, I am kicked and flung back into the corridor with great force. As I am gasping for air and regaining my poise, I see the smoking outline of a Gamorrean guard with a two-handed battle axe advancing towards me. I barely avoid the first swing and get punched in the face, but at the same time I ready my weapon and shoot him in the side. He lets out a loud cry, drops his weapon and takes a step back. I kick his weapon away and claw at him. He deflects my attack with his armguards that to my surprise do not ever suffer a dent… They have to be made of cortosis. So I launch myself at him. As I topple him over, we exchange fierce blows. It isn’t pretty. Bones crack and blood is spilled on both sides as the gritty fight ensues. Eventually, I gather all my strength I knock him out with my elbow and tear up his neck with my two fangs.
Gasping once again for air, I get on my feet and walk inside the room where the smoke appears to have settled in the meantime. Ouro Bribu is slowly placing his seemingly empty weapon on the ground and raising his hands as my heavy steps reverberate through the room.
- So you have come to kill me, beast?
I raise him up by his neck and he begins to choke. I stare deep into his soul.
- My name is Gorth’alon, and I am –––
As I am about finish my sentence, a jolt of searing pain stabs me in the back. I drop my prey and as the grip of electricity lets go of me, I look back only to see Haylen slowly removing his cowl. The claw marks on his face reveal the magnitude of the personal sacrifice Rornik had to make to see his mission through.
Without saying a word, I am once again stabbed by the pike and after a couple of minutes lose consciousness.
Floating in nothingness, I dream of my homeworld, my family, and about Alonkira. I remember the values of my tribe and all that I could still accomplish in their name. I want to be a defender of the downtrodden, a watchful wanderer always seeking out the direst of fates; people who need help the most and have the least to offer in return.
It must have only been about 10 minutes while I was out. The fires are now vomiting smoke all throughout the rooms, but as I lie on the floor, through the large panoramic window I can see the engines of Ouro Bribu’s ship struggle to flare up in a blue ring of energy. Thinking quickly, I grab the Gamorrean’s armguards, his battleaxe and its magnetic weapon belt and tie it around my body, across my chest. I attach the weapon to my back and it clamps onto the belt perfectly. A separate grenade belt filled with explosives also lies next to him. I take it and head to the wide landscape window. I break it with my fist and easily climb on top of the tower.
Wind is howling, an acid rain begins to fall and the building is about to collapse. I stand and brood solemnly on top of the smoking roof as Bribu’s transport ship slowly lifts up vertically from the shifting ground.
With all my power, I jump. Soaring through the sky I land exactly on top of the space ship. My claws tear into the surface of the hull as I’m slowing my descent. My landing slightly dislocates the ship’s center of gravity, but the automatic stabilizers level out the ship smoothly. I take my axe and with one hand swing it high and with thunderous impact I shatter the cockpit window. Emergency alarms and lights herald the inevitable end of the occupants. I reattach the axe to my back and crawl to the front to face them. Haylen and Bribu fumble to get their blasters, as I grab onto the frame of the ship. I prime the grenades and with great vengeance and furious anger shout my last message in the faces of my two greatest enemies.
The second explosion also arrives in the form of a deep, elongated sound boom. People begin to fall over as a rapid quake sweeps through the ground. The guards are stunned and so are the captives. All operations grind to a halt and I take a few labored steps over the small embankment surrounding the dumping site outside the compound limits. A guard notices this and demands that I move back in line. The third explosion should have happened by now. Between corpse disposal and the Western Mine Complex is a few kilometers long salt flat. I see the flashes of red blaster fire filtering through the hanging clouds of dirt obscuring the mine.
The guard takes a step towards me and is reaching for his detonator. I still stand and watch as anxious thoughts wash over every shred of my being, but the flashes are not stopping. This is our only chance. The Neimoidian guard is already holding his detonator and is fumbling to open it. I take a deep breath, close my eyes and slowly open them. Our eyes meet as he places his finger on the button.
Just an instant before he presses it, an ear-splitting earthquake of cataclysmic proportions breaks open a kilometer-long ravine between the Company settlement and the Skullmine. I suddenly realize what has happened and with a mighty roar I tear the now inactive explosive from my neck. Although still baffled by what just happened, the other slaves are slowly realizing what is going on and follow my example.
I turn and ready myself for a leap just as if I was on top of the trees of Ragna III, and this time, I am going to lock eyes with the Neimoidian for the last time. I jump and land about five meters in front of him. Witnessing an apex predator ferociously advancing towards the guard deprives him of any meaningful reaction. Not fight, not flight. Death charging at ramming speed.
With a second, swift jump I close the gap. With graceful precision, and without losing momentum I swat away his pathetic attempt at using his electric pike against me, and my bite disintegrates his neck. Not stopping, I toss his body like a ragdoll between the other slaves. The ongoing quakes have stirred up a storm of sand and dust, and as if a prophecy is fulfilled, right at the moment of me letting out a bellowing roar, a colossal lightning strikes the ground behind me. The Great Slave Revolt of Camazotz has begun.
As the guards are being overrun, I take the deceased Neimoidian’s speeder and begin my race against time.
I am approaching the compound at about a hundred kilometers per hour, but the gate is locked and powered down. Needless to say, a 5 meter tall gate is not going to stop me.
About 30 meters from the gate I release the handle of the speeder and launch myself over the gate. As the air rips into my fur and shrieks in my ears, I pass over the guard post and land on the side of a ramshackled building. I quickly slide down and rush on all fours towards the generator building.
Using the ensuing chaos to my advantage, I tear through the corridors at breakneck speeds and soon locate the building. I rocket towards the only weak point this building has; a maintenance elevator just outside the building that leads down to the underground generators. Two officers are scrambling to stand their ground and shoot at me with blaster pistols. From their point of view, each flash of their weapon’s discharges show me at either to the left or to the right from where I just was. I slide towards one of them and grab him by his legs. Still in motion, I pick him up and wind him up along my own axis to finally throw and smash his body into the other officer. I stand still for a brief moment and recognize that they are both knocked out. I dart over, take one’s gun and shoot both of them in the head. I search their pockets for a keycard and sure enough I find one. I scurry over to a nearby narrow alley, dragging their bodies with me and hastily begin to assemble my own pressure bomb.
In the approximately thirty seconds its took to attach the components, the ground did not stop dancing beneath me. Speeders and exotic creatures have whizzed by, people have taken to their ships and the entire town has fallen into utter disarray. I run back to the maintenance elevator, use my keycard to release the magnetic lock on the grates and press the only button on the whistling device to start the countdown for the delayed blast. I drop the bomb into the elevator shaft and flee.
As I jump from one crumbling building to another, I see slaves decimating the security, while also sustaining heavy casualties themselves. Just as I fly through the air after swinging from a pole, I am blown away by the shock wave of my own pressure bomb. I slam into a wall and fall face down. My fingers twitch, and with cold determination I immediately snap back into the warrior’s mindset and slaughter many nearby slavers I recognize from the arena grounds. But there is one last thing to do before Camazotz swallows all of us whole. Take revenge for my family.
On my way to Ouro Bribu’s tower I help liberate as many slaves as I am able. Many I find dead beneath the rubble, yet my mind is still focused on defending the helpless.
Bribu’s tower is already torn open, as scorch marks around the building’s openings tell a tale of fierce battle. Amidst electrical fires and crumbling walls I climb the inner steps and glide along the corridors with unflinching conviction. Bodies of both slaves and slavers aplenty in the rooms, but a clear path of bloodshed is carved towards the penthouse at the top of the tower. When I reach the top, I finally meet a friendly face taking cover behind two large containers; it’s Haylen.
- Haylen! - I growl in excitement as I skid to a halt. – What’s the situation? Where are the others? – I ask. - I never met them. I made my way here as soon as I heard the fourth explosion. The boss is inside, but he has surrounded himself with several of his thugs. The door is open, but weapons are without a doubt trained on it.
I look around and see two outdated fire extinguishers. I quickly gather them and throw them into the room ahead. Without hesitation, Haylen takes cover on the left side of the door, while I take cover on the right and after a nod we both open fire. The foamy smoke from the extinguishers quickly fill the volume of the room and relying on my sense of smell and hearing, I pounce at the nearest enemy. A couple of stray laser projectiles hit me, but in my rage I can only focus on the blood, sweat and fear of my enemy.
But then, out of nowhere, I am kicked and flung back into the corridor with great force. As I am gasping for air and regaining my poise, I see the smoking outline of a Gamorrean guard with a two-handed battle axe advancing towards me. I barely avoid the first swing and get punched in the face, but at the same time I ready my weapon and shoot him in the side. He lets out a loud cry, drops his weapon and takes a step back. I kick his weapon away and claw at him. He deflects my attack with his armguards that to my surprise do not ever suffer a dent… They have to be made of cortosis. So I launch myself at him. As I topple him over, we exchange fierce blows. It isn’t pretty. Bones crack and blood is spilled on both sides as the gritty fight ensues. Eventually, I gather all my strength I knock him out with my elbow and tear up his neck with my two fangs.
Gasping once again for air, I get on my feet and walk inside the room where the smoke appears to have settled in the meantime. Ouro Bribu is slowly placing his seemingly empty weapon on the ground and raising his hands as my heavy steps reverberate through the room.
- So you have come to kill me, beast?
I raise him up by his neck and he begins to choke. I stare deep into his soul.
- My name is Gorth’alon, and I am –––
As I am about finish my sentence, a jolt of searing pain stabs me in the back. I drop my prey and as the grip of electricity lets go of me, I look back only to see Haylen slowly removing his cowl. The claw marks on his face reveal the magnitude of the personal sacrifice Rornik had to make to see his mission through.
Without saying a word, I am once again stabbed by the pike and after a couple of minutes lose consciousness.
Floating in nothingness, I dream of my homeworld, my family, and about Alonkira. I remember the values of my tribe and all that I could still accomplish in their name. I want to be a defender of the downtrodden, a watchful wanderer always seeking out the direst of fates; people who need help the most and have the least to offer in return.
It must have only been about 10 minutes while I was out. The fires are now vomiting smoke all throughout the rooms, but as I lie on the floor, through the large panoramic window I can see the engines of Ouro Bribu’s ship struggle to flare up in a blue ring of energy. Thinking quickly, I grab the Gamorrean’s armguards, his battleaxe and its magnetic weapon belt and tie it around my body, across my chest. I attach the weapon to my back and it clamps onto the belt perfectly. A separate grenade belt filled with explosives also lies next to him. I take it and head to the wide landscape window. I break it with my fist and easily climb on top of the tower.
Wind is howling, an acid rain begins to fall and the building is about to collapse. I stand and brood solemnly on top of the smoking roof as Bribu’s transport ship slowly lifts up vertically from the shifting ground.
With all my power, I jump. Soaring through the sky I land exactly on top of the space ship. My claws tear into the surface of the hull as I’m slowing my descent. My landing slightly dislocates the ship’s center of gravity, but the automatic stabilizers level out the ship smoothly. I take my axe and with one hand swing it high and with thunderous impact I shatter the cockpit window. Emergency alarms and lights herald the inevitable end of the occupants. I reattach the axe to my back and crawl to the front to face them. Haylen and Bribu fumble to get their blasters, as I grab onto the frame of the ship. I prime the grenades and with great vengeance and furious anger shout my last message in the faces of my two greatest enemies.
My name, is Gorth’alon. And I am the Revenge of the Alonkira.
I toss the grenades in the cockpit and let go of the frame. I witness the explosion as I am approaching the ground with ever increasing velocity. The ship immediately tilts and spirals towards the desert. But I am not afraid. I feel … content.
867 ABY
I wake up wrapped in bandages in the large cargo hold of a ship. Around me I see many of the former slaves also on their backs, slowly breathing, but alive and finally free. A door opens. With a slight smile on my face I look toward the sound and see the back-lit silhouettes of K’or and Motozuma in the doorframe. I breathe a sigh of relief and drift back into the darkness.
After many years spent in the Galactic Alliance Defense Force as its only Yuzzem pathfinder,
Gorthalon has been selected to serve as a member of the senate guard.
GAMORREAN GREATAXE
CORTOSIS FOREARM-GUARDS
SERRATED SURVIVAL KNIFE
DC-15A BLASTER RIFLE
SCATTER PISTOL
GUARD'S BLUE DURAPLAST SHOULDERPLATE & CHESTPLATE
TWO GROUND-DEPLOYABLE ENERGY SPHERE GENERATORS
PERSONAL ENERGY SHIELD
THREE FLASHBANG GRENADES
TRIBAL LEATHER UNDERGARMENTS
BLUE CEREMONIAL CLOAK
VOICE SAMPLE
(Spoiler alert for Mass Effect's Lair of the Shadow Broker DLC.)
Gorth’alon is a stoic tribal warrior with altruistic ambitions. His often brooding demeanor and clear-headed approach to problems and situations despite his hulking stature lends respect even at first glance. His incredibly deep, raspy voice further cements his confident disposition. In battle, however, he is an indomitable killing machine. Capable of both calculated precision and raging onslaught, he is a spectacle to behold when in a fight. He is wary but his ideals push him over the boundaries of his social anxiety. He is a guardian of the abysmally downtrodden and a watchful wanderer and thinker. A true and even emotional friend to those closest to him.
***
Yuzz, Galactic Basic, Shyriwook.
Low-level Binary.
Yuzz, Galactic Basic, Shyriwook.
Low-level Binary.
Survival skills | Growing up on a jungle planet where their race was not on top of the food chain sharpened his survival skills, and being a gladiator for fifteen years further honed these attributes of his. He has also developed a talent for picking up tells, and is able to digest foods of other species, or even raw meat.
Yuzzem gifts | Incredible physical strength. Keen sense of smell, hearing and sight, especially at dawn and dusk – the result of a mutation manifesting in the colony over the last four hundred years. Sharp and strong claws. Contrary to the Wookies, in Yuzzem culture, the use of claws isn’t shunned. Four-legged running speed of up to 60 km/h. Very thick skin and fur protecting from elements. High endurance. Sharp fangs protruding from the lower jaw. High predatory intelligence. Capable of 15 meter jumps because of forest dwelling. Acquiring new skills quickly.
Empathic | Appearances are often deceiving, and it couldn’t be more true in Gorth’alon’s case. His spiritual and tribal background has been the foundation on which he established his interpersonal empathy.
Weapons expert | He has encountered a wide array of weapons throughout his years of servitude, and although he prefers to use melee weapons, he has met many of the galaxy’s weapons in the arena.
Yuzzem gifts | Incredible physical strength. Keen sense of smell, hearing and sight, especially at dawn and dusk – the result of a mutation manifesting in the colony over the last four hundred years. Sharp and strong claws. Contrary to the Wookies, in Yuzzem culture, the use of claws isn’t shunned. Four-legged running speed of up to 60 km/h. Very thick skin and fur protecting from elements. High endurance. Sharp fangs protruding from the lower jaw. High predatory intelligence. Capable of 15 meter jumps because of forest dwelling. Acquiring new skills quickly.
Empathic | Appearances are often deceiving, and it couldn’t be more true in Gorth’alon’s case. His spiritual and tribal background has been the foundation on which he established his interpersonal empathy.
Weapons expert | He has encountered a wide array of weapons throughout his years of servitude, and although he prefers to use melee weapons, he has met many of the galaxy’s weapons in the arena.
Basic technological knowledge | Except for simple ground transports and speeders, he is not able to fly any ships. His knowledge of slicing and activities involving any computer technology is elementary at best.
Social anxiety | He can become anxious in large urban crowds; although his size and demeanor can inspire courage in those around him, he is almost completely unable to blend into crowds, in which case his stature lends him unwanted attention.
Duelist | The gladiatorial arena awards those that are good at taking down foes that are in the relative vicinity. Waging war as part of a large-scale military unit however is an experience he had none of.
Social anxiety | He can become anxious in large urban crowds; although his size and demeanor can inspire courage in those around him, he is almost completely unable to blend into crowds, in which case his stature lends him unwanted attention.
Duelist | The gladiatorial arena awards those that are good at taking down foes that are in the relative vicinity. Waging war as part of a large-scale military unit however is an experience he had none of.
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