First Reply Passion, Peril, and a Glass of Wine

[Matthew of Valendale]

​

Atop the mountainous cityscape of Zygerria, where blood-drenched tradition and opulence intertwine, looms the Crimson Spire Arena—a bastion of savagery draped in gilded excess. Its monolithic walls of blackened durasteel gleam under the cruel light of planetary dusk, etched with the scars of battles past. Towers of glass and polished stone rise like fangs into the sky, their spires adorned with banners of conquered houses and fallen warlords alike.

Within its hollowed pit, the sands are not but grains of stone but a mosaic of pulverized bone and congealed history, eternally stained by the suffering of countless souls who dared to stand upon its hallowed ground. The air is thick, redolent with sweat, scorched metal, and the cloying perfume of burning incense—a mockery of sacred rites, for here, no gods listen, no mercy is granted.

The aristocracy reclines in hanging galleries, suspended by gravity fields, each booth a decadent theater of vice and luxury. Fine silks cascade from the balconies, woven with the house sigils of war profiteers, crime lords, and displaced monarchs who watch with passive amusement. Chalices of Solari Red wine slosh in lazy hands, their contents thick and clotted like sacramental blood. To drink from it is to partake in the suffering below, to revel in dominion over the wretched and the desperate.

A klaxon groans, deep and sonorous, reverberating through the iron bones of the arena. The gates yawn open, revealing the latest offerings to this voracious temple of carnage.

On one end—a war-beast from the edge of the Unknown Regions, a cybernetic Thal'Rokh, its six limbs plated in interlocking durasteel, its eyes burning with the false life of neural synapse implants. Steam coils from its plated spine, its breath a caustic fume of liquefied plasma, molten filaments webbing across its fanged maw. It does not fight for freedom. It fights because it has been made to—because pain is its only language, and agony, its only reward.

Opposite, a lone warrior—a fallen Mandalorian, stripped of his beskar, garbed instead in leathers that reek of damp decay and dishonor. His gauntlets crackle with stolen tech, scavenged from corpses of his 'betters'. A vibroblade hums in his grip, its edge humming with barely restrained fury.

The announcer's voice slithers through the vox amplifiers, dripping with sadistic glee.

"For the pleasure of our esteemed patrons… for the glory of the Spire… let them bleed!"


The beast strikes first—a blur of monstrous flesh and steel, its bladed arms lashing out in a cyclone of brutality. The Mandalorian twists, dodging by mere inches, but the second blow rends through his shoulder, splattering the sand with fresh crimson. He staggers, hissing through gritted teeth—not with fear, but with seething rage.

He counters. A deft roll, a flourish of his blade, and he is upon the beast's blind side—his weapon tears into cybernetic flesh, severing a hydraulic line. The monster shrieks, its agony fed directly into the auditory receptors of the arena, magnified, glorified, made into music for the depraved.

The crowd howls—some in delight, others in protest, for the Thal'Rokh's suffering is coin in their pockets, and no gambler wishes for their champion to fall too swiftly.

But the Mandalorian does not savor the fight. He is a man who has lost everything, and his eyes burn not with the joy of combat but the weary resignation of one who has only ever known battle. He lunges—his blade arcs high, plunging into the beast's primary ventral joint—and with a sickening snap, the thing crumples, thrashing as blue fire and coolant spill onto the blood-slick sand.

Silence grips the arena.

And then—uproar. A maelstrom of voices, a clash of credits exchanged, a thousand eyes weighing the blood upon the sand.

Above it all, in the private tiered seating, a lone figure reclines, his goblet tilted just enough for the light to catch the dark ruby hue of its contents. He watches, not with the fevered glee of the lesser lords, nor with the indulgent detachment of the Zygerrian elite—but with something else entirely. A silent appraisal. A calculation of worth.

For here, beneath the spires of crimson and black, the price of strength is measured in suffering… and all debts must be paid in blood.

 

[Jo'Han Felcado]

​

Things could be worse. He could've been caught before busting the Hutt Cartel's smuggling operation on Tatooine. He could've been the poor blind kid that his sister took as Padawan. He could be...

The gate rose before him and clawed hands roughly shoved him into the thunderous arena, with blood stained sand still drying from the last fight. The victor, still fresh from their last kill, was adorned in collected pieces of several other competitors. Vibroblades, gauntlets, and several small wounds from the previous rounds. Were they trying to run this guy into exhaustion?

Still, Jo'Han would have preferred anything to enter the ring with - instead he was tossed shirtless into the sand.

His opponent seemed weary - perhaps he could be reasoned with, but every viewer with a credit on the line was between Knight Felcado and any ride offworld.

The Hutt was watching, somewhere, likely savoring what they expected to be a slow execution.
Jo'Han didn't intend to go down easy, and he didn't mean to accept this lot and be a credit racket for the Cartel.

He would have to rely on the Force, empowering his limbs, hardening himself, speeding his body and mind. If he was careful, he might be able to hide his force usage for a few rounds, at least until the right moment - if the right moment ever came.

"I'm sorry, Mandalorian - I will try to make this as painless as possible" he spoke, barely above the din of the crowd. Arms outstretched and weight on his back foot to free the front in a defensive stance of an ancient martial art.

Once the announcer started the violence, Jo'Han would do what he must. It was the simple binary of kill or be killed that Felcado found himself in once more.

 

[Matthew of Valendale]

TAGS: Jo'Han Felcado ​

The Mandalorian's grip tightened around his vibroblade, the faint tremor in his fingers not from fear, but from exhaustion. The fight against the Thal'Rokh had drained him; his body ached, his wounds burned, but the arena did not allow time for reprieve.


He exhaled, slow and measured. Another opponent. Another trial.


His eyes shifted across the newcomer. A man thrown to the sands without armor, without weapons—just bare hands and a stance that spoke of discipline, not desperation. A Force-user perhaps, then. He knew the type. He had killed their kind before. Some fought like warriors, others like zealots. Some begged.


This one apologized.


The Mandalorian didn't speak. He only shifted his footing, rolling his shoulder to test the wound where the beast had torn through him. It still bled, sluggish but steady. It wouldn't be the wound that killed him. No, if he died here, it would be under the weight of the system that had already stripped him bare.


His blade hummed in his grip. The crowd roared, demanding blood, demanding entertainment, demanding that he be nothing more than another corpse in the sand.


He wasn't going to die for their amusement.


The moment the fight began, he moved. No hesitation. No wasted motion. A straight, brutal thrust aimed center mass—no flourish, no showmanship, just the efficiency of a man who had long since stopped fighting for glory.
---
Cerulean eyes, sharp and discerning, locked onto the latest combatant as he stepped onto the bloodstained sands below. From his vantage point in the hanging gallery, Matthew set his glass aside, his fingers lingering on the rim for a moment before he shifted forward. The station beneath him, suspended by unseen grav-fields, hummed with a barely perceptible energy, swaying ever so slightly under the weight of its occupants.

His wings unfurled behind him in a slow, deliberate stretch—pristine white plumes extending to their full span before curling inward, a cascade of shifting feathers. They fluffed for a brief moment, fanning outward like a bird ruffling itself against an unseen breeze, before smoothing back down, aligning into a sleek, aerodynamic silhouette. A practiced motion, done without thought, yet one that carried an instinctual sense of readiness.

With practiced ease, he reached for his cloak, pulling it up and slipping the fabric through the leather strap of his chest plate, ensuring it would not be a hindrance.


Matthew glided down into the arena. The blood-stained sands shifted beneath his boots as he landed, his shimmering white wings flaring outward in a silent declaration—not of dominance, but of intent. The crowd above roared in confusion, outrage, excitement—!

He stood between the two combatants, calm amidst the storm. His hands extended outward, palms open to each of them, a gesture of offering, of peace. An invitation. One for each of them.


The Mandalorian did not move immediately.

His grip on his vibroblade remained firm, his stance still set for war. The Jedi's arrival had changed the battlefield, but it had not changed him. The fight was not over. Not yet. His steely eyes flicked between Matthew and the Force-user he had been moments away from carving apart. The Jedi wanted something. They always did.

The roar of the crowd became distant, a dull hum beneath the weight of his decision. He could refuse. He could stay and carve his own path, spill more blood, take his chances in the chaos. But staying meant fighting until there was nothing left of him but a husk, another name lost to the sands. The arena's masters would not forget. The slavers, the warlords—they would not forget.

And so, he made his choice.

His blade lowered, but it did not sheathe. His lips pressed into a hard line as he exhaled sharply through his nose, a quiet but unmistakable scoff.

A muttered curse in Mando'a left his lips as he stepped forward—not because he had been saved, but because he knew an open door when he saw one.

For now, he would go with them.

But the Jedi weren't his allies. They were just the next step in his war.

 

[Jo'Han Felcado]

​

Jo'Han's opponent thrust and as the Jedi prepared to evade a gust of air kicked up the sand around both of them.

A tall figure, winged and pearlescent, interrupted the fight. Unplanned, it seemed, by the reactions of the crowd. Jo'Han only hesitated but a moment before running to grip onto the hand extended - he would not look a gift Tonton in the mouth.

Any way out of this situation would not only preserve Jo'Han's hide, but would likely have the Hutt fuming, and an angry crime Lord was one that made mistakes. Jo'Han was no empath but he didn't pick up on any immediate betrayal or deceit in this mysterious benefactor's posture.

Wary of the Mandalorian still, Jo'Han kept the Force at hand and an eye on the vibroblade in his once-opponent's possession.

"I'd ask who you are and why all this, but those are questions for later!"

He hoped this angelic stranger had a plan to get them all out alive.

Matthew of Valendale

 

[Matthew of Valendale]

TAGS: Jo'Han Felcado ​

Matthew drew each of them in, his pristine wings shifting as he swept them down hard against the sand, sending up a blinding gust that tore through the the arena. The wind kicked up debris, sending plumes of dust and blood-soaked grains into the air, obscuring the vision of the guards already scrambling to respond. The Mandalorian felt his feet lift as the force of the man's wings carried them upward, momentum dragging him toward the sky whether he wanted it or not.

The Mandalorian, unprepared for the sudden ascent, let out a sharp curse in Mando'a, his instincts screaming at him to fight against the pull of gravity, to control his own trajectory. But Matthew was in control now.


Below, the arena erupted into further chaos. The announcer's voice was drowned out by the furious shouting of the warlords and slavers in the upper tiers. Some patrons leapt to their feet, roaring for the guards to shoot them down, while others, ever the gamblers, laughed at the absurdity of the spectacle. Even as the dust swirled, the crackling hum of energy weapons powering up could be heard. The guards weren't going to let them leave without a fight.

Blaster fire tore through the air.

Red-hot bolts streaked past them, cutting through the haze. One seared so close to the Mandalorian's leg that he swore he felt the heat singe his skin. Snarling, he yanked free from Matthew's grasp mid-air, twisting his body with an acrobat's precision. He dropped for half a second before catching onto one of the grav-suspended balconies, his fingers gripping the silk-draped rail as he flipped himself up onto the ledge. A noble recoiled in horror, spilling his goblet of wine, while a pair of bodyguards reached for their weapons.

The Mandalorian didn't hesitate. In one fluid motion, he yanked a discarded vibrosword from the noble's terrified grasp, slashing it across the nearest guard's throat before lunging for the second. The man barely had time to gasp before a boot caught him in the chest, sending him plummeting over the edge into the frenzied pit below.

Blaster fire followed him, but he was already moving—ripping a sidearm from a fallen guard's holster and using the noble's plush seating as makeshift cover. He glanced up, tracking Matthew and Jo'Han's flight path.

They were still exposed. Too easy a target.

Cursing under his breath, he raised the stolen blaster and fired—not at them, but at the arena's mounted turrets, the ones that had begun pivoting toward the sky. His shots struck true, one panel sparking, another outright exploding in a shower of burning metal.

The distraction bought them seconds. Seconds they would need.

Matthew's wings beat with renewed force as he surged upward, the added weight of Jo'Han slowing him slightly, but not enough to deter him. Higher now, toward the open sky, where escape was possible—if they could reach it before the arena's full defenses came online.

The Mandalorian saw it for what it was.

He could run. Make his own way out in the chaos. Let the Jedi take their noble high ground and carve his own escape path through blood and shadow.


Or…


Or he could trust, just for a moment, that there was something worth fighting for beyond this pit.


With a grimace, he holstered the stolen blaster, braced himself—and then, with a sudden burst of movement, leapt from the balcony railing.


The wind roared in his ears. The distance was brutal, the angle treacherous. But he didn't hesitate.


His hand shot out.


Would Matthew catch him?


Would the Jedi let him fall?


For a Mandalorian who had lost everything, it was the first real gamble he had taken in a long, long time.

Matthew had re-adjusted his hold on Jo'han mid-air, drawing the man into his chest and positioning the instep of his boot beneath Jo'han's feet for stability. His strong arm wrapped securely behind the small of his back, creating a stabilizing force against the whipping winds and the weight of their shared ascent.

"Hold tight."

The Mandalorian's body twisted mid-air, plummeting fast. The weight of his own armorless form dragged him downward, his muscles tightening as the brutal speed of his fall threatened to rob him of control. The roar of the crowd became distant, drowned out by the howling winds screaming past his ears.

Below, the blood-slick sands of the arena yawned wide, a graveyard of fresh corpses, shattered weapons, and broken ambition. The scent of scorched plasma and the iron tang of spilled life clung to the updraft. Above him, the sky was open, but the freedom it promised remained too far, a cruel mirage beyond his grasp.

He had made his choice. Now it was up to the Jedi to make his.

Matthew's keen eyes caught the plummeting figure, wings angling mid-flight to adjust for the sudden maneuver. His muscles screamed in protest—carrying one already tested his endurance, but there was no time to consider that now.

A single powerful stroke of his wings sent him into a steep dive, feathers slicing through the air as he folded his form into a controlled fall.

A dagger through the sky.

The Mandalorian saw it—his outstretched hand inches from Matthew's reach. His gut twisted. Too fast. Too far.

And then—impact.

Matthew's fingers locked around his wrist in a crushing grip, the sheer force of it nearly dislocating his shoulder. The Mandalorian's body jolted, his momentum threatening to drag them both into an uncontrolled descent.

But Matthew's wings SNAPPED open with a forceful WHUMP—a massive, violent thrust that caught the air, yanking them from the jaws of gravity's embrace.

For a breathless second, they dangled, the weight of all three men dragging downward, the strain threatening to pull Matthew from the sky.

Then he beat his wings—**once, twice, three times—**each stroke an effort of pure will, fighting against the relentless pull of gravity, each movement a battle to drag them higher.

The Mandalorian's free hand clamped onto Matthew's arm, tightening instinctively, his body coiled in a warrior's tension. His muscles screamed, every fiber of his being demanding control, but for once, there was none to be had. Only trust.

They weren't falling.

The Mandalorian huffed, a dry, disbelieving chuckle escaping him despite the situation. "Not bad, Jedi."

Matthew didn't answer—his gaze had already locked onto the skyline.

Above them, turrets pivoted. Red targeting reticles flickered into place, laser-guided systems adjusting for a precise kill. The slavers and warlords weren't about to let their precious spectacle be stolen without bloodshed.

And then—blaster fire.

A storm of searing bolts screamed through the air, streaking toward them in a volley of death.

Matthew folded his wings tight and spiraled into an evasive maneuver, twisting mid-air in a controlled roll, his flight path becoming an unpredictable series of rapid shifts.

The Mandalorian gritted his teeth. His grip on the Jedi's arm was ironclad, his body adjusting instinctively as Matthew's movements threatened to sling him loose. The wind ripped at them, the air pressure fluctuating violently as they careened through the relentless crossfire.

The sky was a maelstrom of burning plasma, each bolt slicing dangerously close, their escape window closing with every second.

But then Matthew saw it—the rendezvous point.

A sleek vessel cut through the storm clouds ahead—white-hulled and gliding like a predatory beast, its thrusters glowing against the crimson-tinted horizon.

The Exonerator.

Even as they surged toward it, the ship's hangar bay doors hissed open, the yawning mouth of salvation waiting beyond the storm of blaster fire.

But the slavers were prepared.


"Hold on," Matthew ordered. And then—he poured everything into his wings.

The Mandalorian barely had time to brace before the Jedi shot forward like a missile, the sheer force of acceleration nearly tearing his grip loose.

The world became a blur. The wind roared.

Matthew was pushing himself past his limits, his entire frame burning from exertion, but his trajectory remained unwavering—straight toward the open hangar.

The hangar bay loomed ahead.

And then—they were inside.

The moment they crossed the threshold, the hangar doors slammed shut behind them, sealing them off from the chaos beyond.

The sudden change in pressure made the Mandalorian's ears pop, the external noise instantly muffled, replaced only by the steady, rhythmic hum of the Exonerator's atmospheric stabilizers.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then—impact.

Matthew released them, his frame sagging from sheer exhaustion as he let go, wings trembling before finally folding in against his back.

The Mandalorian hit the deck in a crouch, rolling on impact before bracing his stance. His fingers went immediately to his weapons. Not in aggression—in instinct. His eyes swept the hangar, scanning for threats, his pulse still hammering from the adrenaline.

They had made it.

For now.

 

[Jo'Han Felcado]

​

Jo'Han fell to the ground, still dizzy from the flight. He had been focusing on placing a barrier around them to absorb bolts that grew too close, but the rapid changes in g-forces made the world spin for a moment.

Back on solid ground, at least, he was able to rise to his feet, clutching his head as his legs grew less wobbly. When he finally was able to observe what was going on the Mandalorian had his weapons drawn, but the only thing Jo'Han saw was the inside of the Exonerator.

He looked between the Mandalorian and the Divinarie, though he wasn't familiar with the species specifically.

"Is it safe to assume this is not part of the arena?" Jo'Han asked, raising a palm to the Mandalorian to try urge them to lower the weapons.

This stranger had put himself through strenuous exertion to rescue two people moments from death.

Jo'Han placed a hand upon the Divinarie's chest, radiating with Revitalizing Force to soothe the strains that the winged benefactor may have and said, "Whatever your motivations - thank you, stranger"

" I am Jo'Han, Jedi Knight" formerly of Naboo, of the Felcado family - a detail he'd prefer unknown for now. He didn't know when or if his sister's acts had caught up with her, but he didn't want to be associated with her when they did.

Matthew of Valendale

 

[Matthew of Valendale]

TAGS: Jo'Han Felcado

The Mandalorian stayed crouched for a moment, steadying his breath, fingers still clenched around the hilt of his stolen blade. His muscles ached, his wounds throbbed, but he forced himself to his feet, rolling his shoulder with a quiet grunt.

His eyes flicked to Jo'Han, then to Matthew, then to the sealed hangar doors. Trapped for now, but better than bleeding out in the sand.

He finally exhaled through his nose, muttering in Mando'a before tucking the vibroblade into his belt. Not sheathing it—just keeping it ready.

"Where are we going?" he asked, voice rough from exhaustion, but steady. No thanks, no relief, just the question that mattered. If he was in a cage again, he wanted to know what kind.

Matthew took a few moments to breathe in deeply, letting out heavy breaths, his chest heaving with every inhale. His large wings had been drooping down, fanned open and low, sweeping across the floor. He drew a few more breaths as they raised up and adjusted out of synchronization before finally folding back up neatly against his back.

He didn't seem to shy away from Jo'Han's touch and perked up, feeling his energy reserves refilled.

He swallowed, looking to the Mandalorian. "Coruscant."

The Mandolorian's eyes flicked to Matthew, watching the winged figure steady himself, then to Jo'Han, whose presence still radiated with the soft afterglow of whatever revitalizing trick he had pulled. The Jedi had strength yet, and that made him unpredictable.

But it was Matthew's words that settled in his mind.

The Mandalorian exhaled sharply through his nose, his gaze narrowing ever so slightly. Of course it would be Coruscant.

A Jedi world. A place where men like him were either ignored or put under a watchful eye. A place of rules and structure, none of which had ever done him a damn bit of good.

His fingers curled and uncurled at his side, tension settling in his shoulders. No cage, no chains—at least not yet. But he wasn't blind. He knew the situation he was in. Rescued or captured, the difference was as thin as a blade's edge.

Before he could speak, movement at the far end of the hangar caught his attention.

A set of doors parted with a whisper of hydraulics, and a trio of well-dressed attendants stepped inside. Their uniforms were immaculate, pressed to perfection, each bearing the crest of the ship's ownership. They carried themselves with practiced grace, every motion deliberate, every step measured.

One, a pale Twi'lek with deep cerulean skin, inclined his head slightly as she approached. "Sir," he addressed Matthew with smooth professionalism, his eyes flitting briefly to the Mandalorian. "You and your guests must be exhausted after such an ordeal. I would recommend seeing to your wounds immediately."

He gestured subtly, and the other two attendants—one a human man with neatly combed hair, the other a droid in a polished bronze casing—stepped forward, their movements fluid and non-intrusive.

The Mandalorian's grip tightened on his weapon. His posture shifted ever so slightly, weight distributing evenly between both feet, shoulders squaring. He didn't like being approached—especially not like this. Too formal. Too well-rehearsed.

The human attendant, perhaps sensing the tension, cleared his throat lightly. "The medical bay is fully equipped to handle combat injuries. It would be in your best interest to—"

The Mandalorian scoffed. "I'm fine." The words came clipped, instinctive. A rejection, not a consideration.

The Twi'lek arched a perfectly sculpted brow. "With all due respect, sir, you are bleeding."

His jaw tightened. He glanced down at himself. His leathers were torn, blood seeping sluggishly from the gash across his shoulder. Other wounds peppered his body—some fresh, some barely scabbed over from past fights. He looked exactly like what he was—a man who had spent far too long clawing his way through violence.

Still, he made no move toward the attendants.

The droid took a step forward, its voice smooth and clinical. "The longer untreated, the greater risk of infection. If you are resistant to traditional aid, I can administer bacta via aerosol dispersion."

The Mandalorian rolled his shoulders, testing the pain. A muscle in his jaw twitched, but he exhaled through his nose. It wasn't that he was opposed to getting patched up. It was the handholding. The feeling of being handled.

His eyes flicked to Matthew.

He was still watching him. Observing. Measuring. The Mandalorian wasn't sure if he was waiting for him to comply or expecting him to resist.

Fine.

He shifted his weight, expression neutral, then finally grunted, "Lead the way."

The Twi'lek nodded approvingly, turning on his heel with the same fluid grace he had entered with. The droid and human attendant moved to flank him—not as guards, but as escorts.

The Mandalorian cast one last glance toward Jo'Han and Matthew. The Jedi had business to discuss, clearly. Fine by him. He wasn't part of their cause. Not yet.

Without another word, he followed the attendants out of the hangar, leaving them to whatever conversation awaited.
Matthew watched as the Mandalorian disappeared through the doorway, his posture relaxed but his gaze lingering for a moment longer, as if weighing something unspoken. When the doors finally hissed shut behind his departing guest, he shifted his focus back to Jo'Han.

He exhaled softly, a subtle release of tension, and offered a faint nod.

"Thank you… Ah…" A brief pause, as if considering formality before discarding it. "You can call me Matthew."

His fingers brushed against the small earring at his temple, tapping it with practiced ease.

"We're clear. Take us out." His voice was calm, controlled, a quiet authority woven into the command. Somewhere deep within the ship, the engines would be coming to life, the hum of departure soon to resonate through its steel bones.

When he looked back at Jo'Han, his gaze was steady, assessing. There was no scrutiny, only the weight of quiet observation—the way a man measures another not by words, but by presence.


"My motivations are my own," he said evenly, neither dismissive nor secretive, just a simple statement of fact. "You're a guest here—free to leave at your leisure. Allow me to welcome you aboard the Exhonerator. "

His tone softened slightly as he continued.

"If you have injuries that need tending, the medical bay is open to you. If you'd prefer a bath and fresh clothes, I can show you to a room." He gestured subtly, an invitation rather than an expectation. "I imagine you might want a moment to recompose yourself after such… trying times."

There was no pressure in his words, no insistence. Just quiet understanding, the kind that came from someone well acquainted with exhaustion, with the need to put oneself back together after survival had demanded too much.