Take Your Tyrant

[Placeholder 04]

"Your children carry the the old Lion's blood, but they will not succeed. Not on their own."

"What do I do? Our enemies could strike at any time, and I cannot always protect them."

"There are others. Call the banners. You know they will come."

- - - - - - -​

​

Lok was a long way from home. It was a world of slavers, malcontents, and savages. It was a world Graxin would have put to the torch had he the resources. Unfortunately such was not the case. He had come for another reason entirely. House Rade was formidable: boasting an army over ten thousand strong, a small fleet of formidable destroyers, and holdings in Naboo's highest peaks. Yet, for all its strength, it could not yet bring about change. You needed men to end a regime.

And so he had absconded to the slaver world without a word to his cohorts. With him came a contingent of the 501st's greatest warriors. They would serve as guardians for this little...outing. Not that he really needed them, but they helped keep up appearances all the same.

The force had granted him sight, in a way. Nothing so great as the visions his sister had received on an almost daily basis, but something to serve as guidance. There was a man here that would be of great use to the emerging Sovereignty as a whole. Never one to mistrust his gut, Graxin had gathered up a number of his people and set for the desert world.

Their ship had landed in a massive complex. The entire facility served as living quarters and a guest area for the main spectacle - a massive open arena at its center. It was here that the slavers forced their men against one another for the joy of the galaxy's higher echelons. Some came looking for servants, others raw entertainment.

House Rade was here for an army.

Flanked by stormtroopers bearing the Obsidian Crest upon their pauldrons, Graxin descended the ship's ramp to the dusty hanger floor. His retinue would follow behind.

A Zygerrian male clad in ornate robes bowed low. "Lord Rade, such an honor to receive you." The alien flashed rows of sharp teeth in a dangerous smile.

"An honor to be here. I've heard much about the great arena." Graxin nodded, "My daughter and I have had a long flight, my friend. Is there a place we could rest?"

The Zygerrian smiled and turned about. "Of course, m'lord. We've prepared accommodations that I hope will be to your liking."

"And my hunter?"

"The mercenary you mean?"

"Aye, that's the one."

The Zygerrian sighed, "He awaits in your chambers as asked. On behalf of my masters, I would ask you keep him on a short leash. We've had problems with morally inclined sellswords before."

Graxin flashed him a confident smile, "He'll behave, I assure you."

Nodding though clearly not assured, the Zygerrian strode on down the halls. Graxin followed with a wary eye, his voice falling to a low tenor as he turned to his youngest. "Stay close to me Talaya. The people here are savages. They wouldn't hesitate to put you in chains. If they had the chance."

As if he'd heard them, the Zygerrian stopped outside one of the many doors and turned to his guests. "This will serve as your room so long as you are here. There are two others for the men you've brought with you," he flashed that terrible smile again, "I will take my leave. The games start tonight. We hope to see you attend."

The alien wasted no time in rounding about the group and disappearing down one of the many corridors. Graxin lofted a brow. The Zygerrians were always a jumpy sort. Shrugging, he opened the door.

 

[Marcus Itera]

"Don't you even frakking look at me. I swear I'll gut you and clean you like a damn Grotto fish."

The Zygerrian warrior peered up at him with a fuming glare, eyes full of anger, fear, with an underlying hint of greed. These things were swine, Marcus thought. The warrior was obviously under orders not to touch him or harm him, but the Dreadguard knew what he and his people stood for. They were almost on equal grounds with the Sith - and he hated their mere name. Being in a room with one of them without taking a head off was a record for Marcus.

"Leave," Marcus snarled. "Now."

He could see the slaver's jaw grow taut with frustration but it exhaled a sigh and quickly left the room.

"Was that really necessary?" Miranda inquired, her avatar shimmering into existence on his HUD. "I don't think he meant any harm."

Marcus nodded. "Very necessary. I don't even want those creatures looking at me. Pathetic, vile, disgusting."

"You can't lump them all together like that. I'm sure there are a few nice, pleasant Zygerrians out there." The AI looked rather concerned. It wasn't like the freelancer to lose his cool at all. He'd been a fairly quiet man since he'd left the service, since he'd left behind his brothers and sisters. He really only talked to Miranda, his saving grace.

"Once you find one, let me know. Then I might change my mind." The man huffed and strode across the room to rest a shoulder against the doorway. "He landed already, didn't he? He knows I hate waiting."

"He'll be here in a second. That guard tried to tell you that but you didn't listen."

He snorted. "Everyone tells me I don't listen."

[member="Graxin Rade"]

 

[Talaya Rade]

Descended down the ship's ramp in tow, reluctantly behind her father with lightly squinted eyes panning what sights greeted her. "We're here, huh? 'Bout ti-" She paused in speech, hushed as if practiced by her father's conversation. Talaya's hands returned to the insides of her back pockets, her head cockin' to the right abit--taking a gander at the Zygerrian that greeted them--or rather Graxin. Looking the furred beast up and down, her eyes raised in interest, lowering just as quickly before she found herself being led through a corridor. "Yeah. I hear you, Pops." She replied, instinctively looking behind herself and rubbing her head. "Paranoia here we come," She partially jested.

"Mind telling me why we're here again?"

Memory certainly wasn't a strong point, her form entering through the door opened by Graxin. "..Oh yeah. Him." She thought.

[member="Marcus Itera"], [member="Graxin Rade"]

 

[Finger]

Following two firm knocks, the doorway into the room is pushed open, the sound of chains clanking and sliding along the ground heard as another Zygerrian man moves into the room trailed by two warriors. Following the four, ten figures shuffle into the room, wrists and ankles bound by shackle and chain, all joined together so that one and all must walk together, or fall together. They come in multiple shapes in sizes, three humans followed by a mix of species, Twi'lek, Duros, Kubaz and Gamorrean to count a few. Every one is a man, clad only in rags, each displaying a strong physique, and none free of scars. Trailing them, another two guards follow into the room, the door closing behind with a click as the chained men are herded into the center of the room, and then forced to kneel.

As the slaves are rounded up, the two Zygerrian approach Graxin and the others, great, forced smiles worn upon their faces as they bow low before them, "Greetings, my lord." One would say, addressing Graxin, "We have brought merchandise for your perusal, all fighters in our arenas, of great renown no less..." The man would say as the two lift their gazes to look at the three before them, straightening up afterwards. "Before you stand fine examples of warriors that have shed much blood in our rings, and have shed much in turn..." The Zygerrian continues, slowly shifting aside to sweep his hand off towards the slaves, wearing a wide grin, "Such is the quality that you may expect..." He would go on, pausing for a moment to snap off towards a Twi'lek girl standing at the doorway into the room. "Finger. Kelt." He hisses, causing the woman to snap into action.

The woman hurriedly makes her way to the other slaves, pausing before a Twi'lek man whom she exchanges a momentary, worried glance with, before she looks down and undoes the shackles that bind him to the rest of the group. The man stands tall for a Twi'lek, ribbed with muscle and marked with scars upon scars. He gives his wrists an idle rub as the shackles fall to the ground, staring down at the woman in silence for a moment before he would take a few steps forwards, and then kneel down, turning his gaze to the ground.

Next, the Twi'lek woman moves to a human man with short black hair and a scarred face, her brow furrowing as she removes his binds as well, whilst the man simply stares forwards without a shift in expression, simply looking distant. The two are apparently trusted with freedom of movement. His binds clatter to the ground, and the man waits for the woman to step aside before he too strides forwards and kneels down besides the Twi'lek man, taking deep, slow breaths. The human is somewhat smaller than the Twi'lek, but nontheless they both look like they were built for the singular purpose of combat, as the scars that are scattered across their bodies can attest. They stare towards the ground in silence as the Zygerrian would continue to speak.

"These are two of our finer warriors, we organized a display for your enjoyment, should you be interested." The Zygerrian says, showing sharp teeth as he gestures to the two men, grin wide, "Samples, of what it is we have to offer." He would continue, joining his companion as they offer a small bow of their heads.

The two kneeling men stare down towards the ground in silence from where they rest on their knees. The Twi'lek girl visibly cringes from where she now stands in the corner of the room. The two Zygerrian men simply continue to smile, their flowing dress contrasting with the simplicity of the slaves in the room.

[member="Graxin Rade"] [member="Talaya Rade"] [member="Marcus Itera"]

 

[Placeholder 04]

He hadn't spent as much time with his youngest as he would have liked. Duty had always called in the end, and though he dearly loved his children, their safety was more important than his presence. Now that the war was well and done and his sins atoned, he had the time to be a father again. Talaya had grown much in his absence - she was a woman now, not a child.

Still, he was going to take every precaution to keep her safe.

"We need men, Bug," he whispered, "Men to keep Naboo safe. The 501st is formidable, but we don't have the numbers to hold a world. We'll try and put a stop to this cycle of slavery in the process - two birds with one stone." He flashed the girl a reassuring smile.

"You're grown now. One day, you and your brother will lead the House. You need to see how these things work before then," he playfully elbowed her shoulder, "And I needed company. I don't thrive flying alone."

The men of the 501st took positions on either side of the door as they stepped inside. Graxin paused as he crossed through the portal. The man before him was hollow, a hole in the force, a lost child. The men of the Dreadguard had all become such amalgamations; untouched by the force's light, forever damned to walk through purgatory.

The former commander did not waste a moment in crossing the room and clapping him on the shoulder.

"Pappy," he grinned, "It's good to see you well. I'd worried you had gone and pissed off the wrong man." He stepped away and motioned toward the girl, "This is Talaya, my youngest."

His lips parted to speak more. The arrival of the Zygerrians stole his words. With them came a herd of men in chains, each barely clothed but fit all the same. These were the slaves then.

Graxin's blood ran cold as the alien spoke false niceties. They had prepared a demonstration? The patriarch of House Rade did not betray his disdain - his visage was that of stone - but he served as a beacon within the force. The overwhelming desire to cut the slavers down rattled him. It only pervaded for a moment, quickly replaced by a cold, calculating sense of calm.

They had brought the slaves here as a presentation. They expected him to pick one he liked. It was too early in the game to betray his true intentions.

"They're fine men, my friend." He finally spoke, "These warriors you've brought me." He seemed to glide as he loomed over the two men. Eventually his attentions settled on the human.

"What is your name boy?"

[member="Finger"], [member="Talaya Rade"], [member="Marcus Itera"]

 

[Marcus Itera]

Marcus knew it had been a long time since he'd seen good old Graxin Rade. It had been years since the Dreadguard crusade had nearly wiped the Sith from existence. Throes of soldiers dead to the Force marched forth, shouldering their weapons and standing against the evil of the galaxy when nobody would. They weren't the paragons of light and justice that the Jedi were - they were just men and women. Average people doing what needed to be done.

But when he caught sight of his old friend, he couldn't help but smile. Gosh it felt good to be back in good company.

"Brother!" The Dreadguard exclaimed before clasping hands with his old friend and clapping him on the back with a crushgaunt. "It's been far too long - and I'm always pissing off somebody, it's how I stay famous." The man almost flashed a mirthful wink, but the helmet silenced the notion.

"Let him know I'm here too!" Miranda cheerfully squeaked, barely suppressing a grin.

Marcus released the man's hand. "Miranda says hello too." Then he caught sight of a young woman's face peering from behind his comrade. "Your youngest? I swear, Rade, she must've got her looks from her momma."

Then the Tygerrians strode in. They wore colorful silks and ornate robes, dragging slaves behind them with barely anything on. Rough cloth, no shoes, and every single one of them had this glint to their eyes. He couldn't quite put a finger on it. But boy was he fuming. That guard from earlier strode back in as well, obviously making sure to steal a few amused glances at Marcus.

The mercenary opened his mouth to say something when Graxin did. Okay, fine. He'll play nice for now. Let Rade and his retinue play their diplomacy game for now. It was bad manners to dirty himself with blood in front of a friend he hadn't seen in nearly half a decade.

[member="Graxin Rade"], [member="Finger"], [member="Talaya Rade"]

 

[Talaya Rade]

Talaya couldn't help but glance at Graxin, mouth momentarily open as if in awe from the pet name. "Bug.." She thought. "He remembered, huh?" Rade couldn't help but chuckle briefly, both at the shoulder bump and his last words before they entered. "I'm guessing you 'woo'ed Mom usin' those kinda words, huh?" She returned his brief smile, the expression fading swiftly after following Graxin inside and through the door. Traditionally behind her father, she sustained a near plastered, fake smile.

"And just what in the kark is that? Wonder if this one has furry ears behind the helmet, too." She thought.

Stepping forward after brief introductions, she almost nervously chuckled, the mentioning of her mother only causing more curiosity on the Dread guard to accumulate mentally. "Nice to meet you, sir." She assured with a gentle smile, extending her hand to shake despite his almost intimidating appearance. A tingling sensation ran down the length of her back, indicating people were behind her. No spidey senses, just paranoia, boys. She stepped to the side of her father, watching as both the furred creatures and slaves came in tow. Her eyes squinted briefly, an unsettling feeling sparking from the mere sight alone. "See how things work, he says. Hope this isn't what he meant. Look at the chains on this guy.." She thought to herself, finding herself paying more attention toward the enslaved human than the others, awaiting his response from her father's usual insisting questions.

[member="Marcus Itera"], [member="Graxin Rade"], [member="Finger"]

 

[Nephos]

(wrong account)

 

[Finger]

For a few moments, the young man does not respond to Graxin's query, until one of his slavers hisses off to the side, causing the man's head to perk up ever so slightly, his gaze slowly shifting upwards so that he may stare upwards at Graxin, expression even, his dull grey eyes observing the man in silence for a moment before he would open his mouth to speak briefly, "I am Finger, master." He would state with a voice that croaks out, sounding gravelly from lack of use, and then his gaze would slowly go to shift back down towards the ground as the man continues to focus on simply breathing in and out, five seconds in, five seconds out.

"Finger has fought in our arenas since he was a boy, in fact he was one of our most celebrated until he foolishly attempted to escape alongside a little friend..." One of Zygerrian's comment, showing teeth as he grins widely.
"Usually such transgression would result in... particularly dire consequences, but alas he is simply too popular! His little friend was made to suffer instead, and now he fights in the pits he started in. Truly an entertaining watch." He would go on, snickering for a moment.

The young man shows no reaction to their words, though a momentary disturbance in the smoothness of his breathing may be noted. Besides him, the Twi'lek known as Kelt remains kneeling in similar fashion, staring down at the ground with a furrowed brow.

"Kelt on the other hand has been with us for only a year now, compared to Finger's lifetime, but nonetheless he has shown himself to be a.... most entertaining watch. Why, it was only two days ago I watched him use another man's arm to beat a fellow Twi'lek to death!" The Zyggerian cackles out, drawing boisterous, but no doubt fake laughter from their guards as well. The Twi'lek woman winces.

Looking to the other, the two Zygerrian 'businessmen' exchange smiles as they speak, "A fight to the death has been arranged, free of charge for your entertainment, it would be their pleasure to demonstrate the kind of quality one might expect from the great warriors our world has given birth to." They say, looking to Graxin with their hands draped over the other in a typical merchant way.

The two gladiators remain kneeling in silence, though Kelt casts the occasional sidelong glance towards Finger, with the kind of look that displays something akin to concern, or perhaps hesitation. Perhaps they know one another? Regardless, Finger does not lift his gaze from the ground again, focusing solely on his breathing unless addressed.

[member="Graxin Rade"] [member="Talaya Rade"] [member="Marcus Itera"]

 

[Placeholder 04]

It was always difficult when the mother was brought up. He never let it show, but the fate of his children's mother was something he'd never been comfortable with telling. Even in jest, a mention of her would send him back to earlier, darker times. With that came regret, and with regret came stagnation.

Regardless, he smiled at his daughter. The girl had no way knowing how such things effected him. He'd never given voice to his private worries, and none of his children were telepathy so far as he could tell.

"A bit more charm was used, but you have the right idea," he chuckled as they made their entrance.

Marcus was as he remembered; utterly unchanged by the trials that he'd been put through since Ession. That fit the men. He was rock solid, always the steady man his brothers could fall back on. The soldier hadn't been called 'Pappy' because it sounded special.

"They all favor their mother, truth be told," he shook his head, "Thank the force. I'd rather not stick them with my curse of a face." He turned fell silent as the slave spoke his name.

"Finger?" He lofted a brow, "I'm sure you've earned that name through some interesting story." He clapped a gloved hand on the boy's shoulder and turned to the Zygerrians.

His voice was even and friendly, his gaze betraying none of the malice that burned underneath. "Excellent. Have them prepare. We'll attend shortly." He flashed the slavers a pleasant smile and turned dismissively back to his daughter.

He winked.

 

[Marcus Itera]

It had been far too long since someone had called him Pappy. Too long indeed. He'd earned the nickname simply because he was the oldest of all of the current Dreadguard. He honestly wasn't too old, twenty nine standard years, but being that old in a profession where men die young was something rather remarkable and saddening at the same. They liked to make fun of him because of that, calling him 'pops' or 'pappy,' looking up to him to fill that empty void as a father figure for men and women who had no choice but to abandon their families and past lives.

It broke his heart to watch them struggle, to toil, to die in a war they weren't meant to fight in. Yet they all did. Sons and daughters, brothers and sisters. They all lived together, fought together, and died on some hellhole of a planet together - and Marcus was the last of his kind. A father shouldn't outlive his children. It just wasn't right.

But the appearance of the slaves and their masters threw him back into reality.

"Control yourself this time. I think Graxin's up to something again - you know he doesn't stand for this." Miranda urged him. "Watch it play through first."

Marcus couldn't reply. His teeth were being ground together, his jaw growing taut with tension and anxiousness. He just wanted to put a blaster bolt on each of their smug faces and free these poor men, to grant them the freedom to live and build their own future. But he couldn't and he knew that, so he remained stock still and quiet as their pleasantries continued.

Silent. Watching. Waiting.

[member="Graxin Rade"], [member="Finger"], [member="Talaya Rade"]

 

[Talaya Rade]

Found herself gawking at Finger still. Both silent and in an almost awkward fashion. Questions accumulated alike her curiosity on who exactly [member="Marcus Itera"] was, more or less how he knew of her mother. Shaking her head abit, she looked over, finding her father not only facing her, but offering a wink. She'd flash a half-attempted grin, brows raising as if she'd been caught.

"Here's for hoping he doesn't wanna have the 'talk'.." She thought.

Her hip shifted to the left as her hands near-naturally slid into her back pockets. "Can't.. wait...heh.." She nervously assured.

[member="Marcus Itera"], [member="Graxin Rade"], [member="Finger"]

 

[Finger]

As Graxin's hand clamps down on his shoulder, Finger's gaze would lift ever so slightly, grey eyes shifting over to the hand to stare down at it for a moment, registering some level of confusion at the act. He does not reply in any fashion, causing one of the Zygerrian's to hiss and then answer for him, "Insolence...-!" The slaver would begin, before he would pause and breathe a sigh, slowly giving his head a shake as if he were dealing with a dog that accidentally knocked over a plate. "Finger earned his name upon his first success in the arena, the fight was meant to end in his death after a certain transgression of his, but he proved himself to be quite determined. Was it five, six years ago, now? It matters not, his insolence was not unnoticed, his hand flayed as punishment. This is how he earned in his name." The Zygerrian explains in a self-satisfied tone, idly gesturing to the young mans right hand, where the skin is pale and leathery compared to the rest of his flesh. "An interesting namesake, no?"

The two Zygerrian slavers exchange a glance and a smile after the explanation, and then bow low as Graxin turns away, "As you wish. You may join us in the chamber across the hall when you are ready." One says, before each of them straighten up and gesture to the guards. The men approach and grasp Kelt and Finger by the shoulder, re-securing their shackles and then dragging them to their feet. One of the guards brandishes an electro-whip, slamming it into Finger's back. He tenses up violently, teeth gritting as the whip slams into him again, once and then twice more, causing him to stumble forwards, pain coursing through his body. Punishment for his transgression. The man seems more than used to it however, fist clenching as he takes in a calming breath, barely finding time to recover as he and Kelt are shoved forwards forwards, not rejoining the other slaves in the line, instead being led back out into the hall and across into the other room. Kelt exchanges a glance with the Twi'lek woman who was trying to hide her concern, and failing at it. Their eyes speak a thousand words, but soon Kelt is forced to look away. Finger keeps his gaze directed down at the ground.

It is a circular chamber, a closed arena with stairs leading up to a small viewing area with chairs, overlooking the center of the chamber which is all marble and stone pillars, rather high-quality for a gladiatorial match, no doubt the Zygerrian were trying to impress.

Various melee weapons adorn the walls of the room, spears, swords, daggers, all primitive and coming from a large variety of cultures. The two men are harried into the center of the room whilst the rest of the slaves never enter, instead finding themselves herded down the halls of the establishment, back to where they came from perhaps, their purpose apparently fulfilled.

Once more, Kelt and Finger are forced to their knees, this time in the center of the room, directly opposite of one another. Kelt stares towards Finger, whilst the human does not lift his gaze from the ground again. It was simply a matter of waiting for them now, they had done this before. Their shackles are undone and taken away, leaving them simply kneeling there. The aggression can practically be seen rising from Kelt, he wanted to win, he had to win, but at the same time he was hesitating, almost looking as if he were in pain. On the other hand, Finger slowly closed his eyes, hands slowly shifting to rest on his knees as he would focus on breathing, five seconds in and five seconds out. He was at peace.

About the room, guards move to take positions of over watch, looking over the proceedings as a few spectators make their way up the stairs and take seats, it is a private showing, but nonetheless it seems a few were invited for show. The two Zygerrian slave masters make their way up the stairs as well, stepping up to the edge of the viewing platform where a pedestal has been placed for an announcer, around which a variety of seats have been placed so that their guests may watch from above comfortably. They await the arrival of the others, muttering quietly among themselves by the pedestal as the two gladiators remain kneeling in the center of the chamber. The Twi'lek woman makes her way into the room as well, hiding herself in the back of the room to overlook the combat, fear apparent in the gaze she casts towards the two men.

[member="Graxin Rade"] [member="Talaya Rade"] [member="Marcus Itera"]

 

[Placeholder 04]

There was a certain kinship Graxin had with the enslaved that he found hard to explain to those closest to him. As a small child, the former Jedi Master had been taken by Vulcanus to serve as his apprentice and second. That life had been a horrid one; one that he fought to atone for with every breath he dared to take.

Such was part of the reason why he was here.

He watched with dispassion as Finger was whipped. His visage betrayed thing, naught but the slightest sign of interest flitting across his features. The boy did not flinch. Clearly this was not something new. It was only when the abuse stopped that Graxin turned to speak to the Zygerrian captors.

"We'll attend shortly. No need to wait for us." He offered an assuring smile and turned toward his compatriots as the doors were closed.

His false calm gave way to disdain now that they had a bit of privacy. He shook his head, a string of curses falling in quiet whispers from his lips.

"The men are worming their way into the facility, but it will take time for them to prepare themselves," he sighed, "Marcus, we're here to free the people here. It's the right thing to do."

He withheld their concerns about needing soldiers for the time being. The Dreadguard did not need to know that Graxin had come looking for warriors as much as he had come to free the captives. It made a better example for his daughter.

"We only need to play nice for now. Once preparations are in place, we'll set this place to the torch," he cracked a thin smile and looked down to his daughter. Before she could inquire as to his look, he slapped a DC-15s into her hand. The pistol was well taken care of and remarkably deadly despite its meager size.

"Keep this close to you. I trust you remember how to use it?" He lofted a brow as he motioned toward the doors. It wouldn't do to keep their hosts waiting.

He would continue on to his seat in the arena from there.

[member="Finger"], [member="Talaya Rade"], [member="Marcus Itera"]

 

[Marcus Itera]

Marcus had been a free man his entire life, so he shared no common past of suffering with the slaves before them, but he knew that feeling of feeling captured and then being beaten all too well. He still couldn't shake those memories from his deepest core and often opted to flush them away with enormous sums of liquor, but even then they still came creeping back to haunt him of his past regressions.

It was hard to stand still while that young man was whipped. He'd caught himself nearly instinctively reaching for his sidearm to end the lives of these worthless slavers before them. It took every fiber of his being - along with Miranda's predatory glare - to keep him from doing just that. The human part of him hated to admit that she pulled the strings sometimes. She knew a lot more than he did; they both knew it, but she still found that nice little niche between sheer modesty and pride.

"Looks like I was right." Miranda joyously remarked, "Again."

She was. Graxin would never stand for slavery or even indentured servitude. A wide smile spread his features behind that gleaming visor and he clapped both Rades on their shoulders.

"Let's get this show on the road then. I'll do what I do best: destroy, maim, and kill." He sent a look towards his daughter. "Little Rade, aim true and try not to shoot me with that thing."

Then they were off.

[member="Graxin Rade"], [member="Finger"], [member="Talaya Rade"]

 

[Talaya Rade]

Thus far had taken the scenario she'd be thrown in quite casually. Offering looks of curiosity, and plastered glee. However, this tendency fell short to its knee after a D-15 was practically slapped into her hand. A mere thought of, "Well..let's see what dad does for a living.." swiftly shifted into, "Well kark. I'm about to get shot at by furry beasts. Talk about Father, Daughter bonding." as swiftly as the moods shifted inside the room. She'd stare at the D-15, accepting it as if practiced, recalling her upcomings upon the summit of the mountains of naboo, trained to not only handle herself in physical confrontation, be it with a blaster or not, but handle herself diplomatically. Seems the latter would be reserved for later. Her curious gaze towards her father lowered into a half-cocked grin.

"Yeah, Pops. More than I care to admit.." She chuckled briefly, nodding toward Marcus' words. "No promises, bub." Thus, she allowed herself a calming breath, the simulations of combat and lessons previously instilled into her was being tested, or rather would be sooner than she'd expected. Shivering with glee, and a hint a doubt, she'd follow after her father and Marcus. "Name's Finger, huh? Heh..they sure do make 'em 'unique' out here..I guess." Whilst following, she looked towards Marcus, herself presumably positioned at the back of the two more experienced combatants, eyes trailing down the length of his suit. "Dude must be baking in that suit. Sheesh.."

[member="Marcus Itera"], [member="Graxin Rade"], [member="Finger"]

 

[Finger]

The trio join the Zygerrian at the viewing platform overlooking the marble arena they found themselves in. Their two hosts turn with wide smiles, bowing low to their guests, "The bout shall begin shortly." One would comment, gesturing for them to take a seat. A number of slave women carry platters, walking among the guests as the last few spectators trail on into the room and take a seat in the viewing area, discussing their own business among themselves. It seems they had more than just one client for the day.

After a few minutes of idle conversation, spectators cease to trail into the room and one of the Zygerrian hosts would arise, smiling as he steps up to the podium just ahead from where he was seated. He steps up, clearing his throat as he looks over the slaves below. And then he raises his voice, speaking in a surprisingly firm tone, broadcasted all across the room. "Today we have the pleasure of observing some of our most talented warriors in a fight to the death. On one side stands Kelt, well known for his feats in our recent games. And on the other, Finger, one of our longest surviving fighters... who live, and who shall die?" The Zygerrian calls, grinning in a fashion that could almost be called bright were it not for his yellow teeth. "...Then, without further delay..."

Raising a single hand into the air, the Zygerrian's lips would shift into a thin smile, and then the hand would swipe down through the air as he shouts out, "Begin!" His voice echoing throughout the room.

Kelt moves first, rising to his feet and launching himself off to the side, he'd sprint for the wall farthest from the spectators, heading for the weapons that can be found there mounted upon the wall, jaw clenching and brow furrowing violently as he runs.

In contrast, Finger slowly rises to his feet from his kneeling position and then stands in silence, gaze calmly following the Twi'lek as he goes for the wall, hands hanging loosely at his sides.

The Twi'lek wraps his fingers about the grip of a sabre, ripping it free of the wall and whipping about to face Finger. Seeing that his opponent had yet to make any moves, his gaze narrows and he grits his teeth, kicking off his back foot to launch himself into a sprint towards the younger human man.

Slowly, Finger begins to take in a breath as Kelt closes ground, gradually sliding his left foot back and distributing the majority of his weight onto it, shifting his torso to the side whilst his hips remain facing forwards. A simple enough movement to the eyes of the inexperienced, but in hand to hand combat the simple act would significantly decrease the number of vital points available for targeting. Of course, that was in hand to hand combat.

Kelt takes in a sharp breath through his nose as he closes the ground, eyes shooting wide as he flourishes his blade off to the side, and then lowers his stance, slamming a foot down into the ground to halt his approach as he comes into range. He uses the momentum to bring his blade about and around behind his back, then over his shoulder to swing straight down towards Finger's neck region, exhaling sharply through his teeth with a hiss as the blade arcs through the air audibly. It never reaches its mark.

Standing entirely still until Kelt is almost upon him, Finger leans forwards slightly as the other man comes to a halt, exploiting the momentary gap in movement to take a sharp step in towards his opponent, eyes wide as the blade swings down towards him. In that instant, it was all or nothing. Finger right hand balls into a fist. The sudden close in distance causes Kelt's forearm to slam down into Finger's shoulder, blade extended uselessly past its desired target, killing the momentum of the strike. Finger exhales sharply through his nose as his fist flies towards Kelt's throat, pushing off his back foot and twisting through his hips for momentum whilst his other hand would go to push Kelt's sword arm upwards from beneath his elbow.

The Twi'lek's eyes shoot wide as the human fist slams into his throat, stopping all of his momentum at once. He begins to stumble back as his sword arm is pushed upwards, balling up his opposite fist to wildly swing towards Finger's face, desperately striking out despite his inability to breathe.

Sadly for the Twi'lek, Finger already had the momentum. He lifts up his right bicep to cover his face, his opponent's fist slamming uselessly into his wrist rather than his face, and then he sharply twists to the side, and slides a foot in closer to the Twi'lek to close just a bit more ground before he would turn about entirely, back facing to the man. It is at this point that the human grasps the Twi'lek by the wrist of his sword-arm with both hands, and then violently jerks his arm down, snapping the limb at the elbow over his own shoulder.

The Twi'lek screams out, eyes shooting wide in panic as his arm is snapped like a twig, the bone snapping out of his flesh through his bicep, causing him to lose the grip on his sword. The man tries to throw another wild punch with his remaining good arm, but it barely skims Finger as the man ducks low, the fist bouncing off the hard bone of his forehead. The Twi'lek woman in the corner of the room drops the dishes she is holding, but nobody pays her any heed.

As the sword falls through the air before him, Finger's hand would shoot out and grasp it by the grip tightly as he takes in a sharp breath, and then he would lower his stance before twisting to the right, bringing the blade about and running it along his opponents thigh, cutting through muscle and vitals with a sharp exhale through his teeth. He would not stop moving, feet sliding about with strange, circular movements as he would glide about the Twi'lek, getting behind him.

Kelt screams out in pain, dropping to a knee as blood spurts from his wound, his leg all but useless. Wildly, he'd flail an arm out towards Finger, panic evident on his face, eyes wide with confusion and fear.

But once again, Finger anticipates his opponents movements, stepping in and slamming his foot into the back of Kelt's only remaining good knee, forcing the Twi'lek to drop to the ground, the man's arm batting at air. And then Finger steps forwards, twirling the blade about in hand with a flourish before bringing it to a rest against Kelt's throat, hand going to rest atop the Twi'lek's head to hold him firmly in place.

Kelt freezes, the blade drawing blood as it digs into his throat, his eyes are wide, breath coming panicked, but nonetheless he understood. It was over. Panicked eyes shift wildly about the scene, the pure shock of what had just occurred yet rendering him numb to the pain.

For a few seconds, silence persists as the spectators in the room process what just occured, but Finger simply stares silently towards Graxin, steadying out his breathing gradually as he awaits a decision.

A few seconds later, applause resounds throughout the room as it is realized that the match had been won, excited chatter goes up throughout the room, some seem confused by how quickly it ended, maybe even disappointed. The degree of brutality they had just witnessed however, silenced any complaints.

"We have a winner!" Announces one of the Zygerrian, turning to Graxin and the others with a wide smile. The other Zygerrian grins in turn, flourishing a hand out in the direction of Finger, "Thus is the quality that one may expect from our fighters. And it seems that our gladiator is leaving the fate of the defeated to you, milord, how shall you choose? Life, or death?" He states, grin widening to display brown teeth. The commotion among the guests continues for a time, but eventually a relative silence returns to the room as they await Graxin's decision.

In the corner of the room, the Twi'lek woman watches with a look of pure horror, the shattered glass at her feet yet unnoticed because of the excitement, she does however register surprise as Finger does not immediately end Kelt's life, hope begins to claw its way up her spine, she watches with wide eyes.

And then they wait.

[member="Graxin Rade"] [member="Talaya Rade"] [member="Marcus Itera"]

 

[Placeholder 04]

Graxin watched the display with dispassion. He had experienced the thrill of combat more times than most. He understood it: the adrenaline thundering through your veins, the promise of death if you did not best your opponents, the way your heart swelled in your breast when your enemy fell and lay begging at your feet. Too many times he'd succumbed to it during his time with the Sith. When he met his mother and began to learn the Jedi way, he had eschewed such desires. Battle had become a cold inconvenience rather than something to look forward to.

He couldn't tell if the men below felt one way or the other.

"An impressive show. Regardless of the outcome, I'd say you've both proven admirable," he spoke through a wide smile and allowed the force to infuse his natural charisma. "You won't be killing him Finger. I'll be buying you both - as well as every gladiator here."

A stunned silence followed. Graxin's smile grew ever-larger as he exchanged glances with [member="Marcus Itera"] and [member="Talaya Rade"]. The Zygerrian who had done the speaking seemed to regain his bearing and offered a reply.

"All of them m'lord?"

"Every soul."

"That would be several million credits."

"So it would."

"You can pay?"

"Aye."

The Zygerrian and his cohorts fell quiet as they spoke. After a few moments, their speaker rose to his feet. With a wave of his hand, the doors on either side of the arena creaked open. Out came hundreds of men dressed similarly to Finger in chains.

"Finger will serve as my lieutenant with these men. Give him the key to their bindings." The force's power laced his words. The statement would have been ridiculous, had he not enforced his will via the ethereal powers. Before the Zygerrians could say otherwise, one of the guardsmen below had moved to give the keys to Finger.

"Finger, my warriors, your first order is this: kill the masters."

Almost immediately the sound of blaster fire thundered through the arena. A score of the Zygerrian slavers were slaughtered by two of their guardsmen - warriors oft he 501st clad the the uniform of their protectors. All around the palace, similar situations were arising. A stray blaster bolt flew toward Talaya and found itself sent back to its point of origin by Graxin's lightsaber.

The battle had begun.

"We don't have the forces to take this place. Marcus, you take Finger to the docking bay. Find ships to transport them to our capital ship. Bug, I want you to stay close to me. We're going to free whoever we can before reinforcements arrive."

[member="Finger"]

 

[Marcus Itera]

It was best assumed that Graxin hadn't just arrived to the party without a little show of force, and it was in the old Dreadguard's best interests to just naturally presume that his old commander had brought along throes of men and women determined to liberate these poor people. He was a father as well, so bringing his most beloved daughter into the middle of a firefight without any sort of backup was ballsy. Damn ballsy - which was why Marcus was praying that he wasn't their backup. Granted, those cybernetics were wonderful things but he was no superhero whatsoever.

"Look at that Finger-man fight. Aggressive, tenacious, and bloodthirsty. Even if Graxin does manage to free them, it's going to be hard enough integrating them back into society." Miranda duly noted, instantaneously analyzing and rummaging through thousands of intelligence and psychological files all at once. "Warriors have a hard enough time adapting to civilian life as it is - and I've seen that first hand."

"Hey," Marcus interjected. "I'm doing pretty well for myself. Got a nice pad, got a fat paycheck coming in twice a month, and all the good food and booze I'll ever want." He shrugged and patted his sidearm, still holstered as he watched Graxin speak to the slave's master. "It's just a nice change of pace to get involved in serious stuff like this. And," he cocked his head towards his guard rival, "I get to end the lives of people like him."

"That's not exactly something you should be proud of."

Another shrug. "I can live knowing I saved good people by killing one bad person."

Then came that long and drawn out pause as both Miranda and Marcus caught on to what Papa Rade was doing. His force mind trick doo-dad. He couldn't feel it at all, as he was nothing but a black hole in their Force, but he had worked long enough with Jedi to know when it happened. Things happened exactly how they wanted them to, and Marcus leapt straight into action Graxin signalled the attack.

"Miranda, patch me in with his forces. Start tagging hostiles and put them into the IFF relays; mark the slaves too so we minimize civvies casualties." He barked, drawing his sidearm in a millisecond and placing a pair of well-aimed rounds into the skull of the closest guard before vaulting over a ledge and dropping to get Finger and bug out.

[member="Graxin Rade"], [member="Finger"], [member="Talaya Rade"]

 

[Finger]

For a few moments, Finger stares forwards in silence as the guard approaches with the key, gaze shifting back and forth between his slaver and Graxin, blade still held loosely to Kelt's throat. Listening to the words of Graxin, his gaze would momentarily shift down to the guards key ring, a hand tensing up and then relaxing. His mind races at the speed of light as he processes the situation, but soon he comes to realize one, simple fact. He had purpose.

Releasing his hold on Kelt, Finger inhales smoothly through his nose, lifting the blade from the Twi'lek man's throat and stepping by him with a smooth movement. Spinning his blade about between his fingers, he raises it and then violently buries it into the guards throat, hissing air through his teeth. Letting go of the blade's grip, he would then step by, reaching for the guard's blaster with one hand and hooking a finger about the key ring with the other. He calmly steps by as the guard falls, lifeless, lifting the blaster and taking aim at the next closest enemy and pulling the trigger. Plasma bursts forth from the blaster. The guard falls to the ground lifeless, a hole sizzling where his eye once was.

And then, Finger would take in a deep breath before turning to look towards his fellow slaves throwing the key to the nearest of them and then turning to re-engage the enemy. The slaves free themselves one-by-one from their bindings as the others take out the guards in the room. Several fall dead under blaster fire from the remaining Zygerrian in the room, but two replace each fallen, trampling the guards with pure numbers with the assistance of their would-be saviors, taking weapons from their corpses. Finger whips his gaze about the room until he spots the men he is looking for, shouting out in a voice gravelly from lack of use, "Maleris! It is time. Take some men and sweep the western part of the facility, free everyone you find and then make way for the hangars, take weapons from their corpses. Protect the young." The man shouts, drawing a nod from the subject of his attentions, a human man with red hair whom quickly waves for a number of men to follow him out of the western entrance of the room to head for other parts of the facility.

With that done, Finger then turns aside, looking to the eastern entrance of the room. His mind races, gaze coming to rest upon a Duros, whom he takes a step towards, "Kazuk, you take the eastern part of the facility, try and gain access into the armory, otherwise free as many of the others as you can and join with us at the hangar!" The scarred man states, voice firm, growing stronger through use. The Duros turns about to some of their comrades, pointing to a few before waving his way towards the eastern entrance, filing out into the hall with the weapons of their slavers in hand.

Finally, Finger would turn to the main bulk of the force they had, taking in a sharp breath before shouting out, "Everyone else, we head for the hangars, today we gain our freedom!" He screams out, throwing a hand forwards. All of the would-be escapees roar out in their frenzy, adrenaline and the first taste of freedom many of them had ever experienced driving the men and women to extremes as they charge forth towards the exits. Finger looks off towards Graxin and the others for but a moment, before he would turn away and run out into the eastern halls soon after Kazuk, tailed by his comrades. He decided that their saviors could handle themselves, and he would not leave his fellow slaves to fight without him.

Pouring out into the halls, blaster fire rains down upon the slaves from the directions of their objectives. Finger runs at the forefront, heading for the densely-populated hangar whilst the others move to fulfill their objectives. The electro-whips that their slave masters had used upon them for so long had been all but thrown aside in favor of more lethal options. Step by step the slave force fights their way through the halls, making use of their former masters' lack of preparation to carve through the facility like a knife does through butter.

Blaster fire flies about in every direction, Finger does not look back even as his fellow slaves fall one by one. Most of the fighters joining them were gladiators experienced in combat, but even the servant girls ran with them now, driven on by bitter hatred and thirst for that which they had never had. For every slave that perished, he ensured himself that the Zygerrian would pay in kind.

Eventually, Finger bursts out into the hangar, where all of the ships, including presumably the one that Graxin used to reach them, were kept. His head whips about as his comrades run out besides him. Then he watches a woman jerk back violently, a hole the size of a fist blown through her chest, flesh sizzling from the impact of a large plasma round. "Get to cover!" Finger shouts, diving for the nearest outcropping as automatic turrets are trained towards them, raining plasma on their position. Many slaves are gunned down as they exit out into the hangar, the rest are forced to keep low and find cover as blaster fire from both turrets and Zygerrian foot soldiers drills their position.

Peeking out of cover for a moment, Finger is immediately forced to duck as blaster fire explodes near his head, he hisses through his teeth. "Return fire!" He would shout, swiveling out of cover a moment to fire a few plasma rounds off towards some distant Zygerrian guard. Slaves pop out of cover in similar fashion, drilling the enemy positions with plasma fire. The enemy, however, does so in turn, with significantly greater force and better training. The turrets rain a hail of fire upon their positions as well, the plasma the escaping slaves fire back harmlessly ricocheting off armor and shield, forcing many into cover as the Zygerrian and their turrets put myriad others into a slumber they never wake from.

Finger alternates between firing at the enemy and changing positions, raining fire down upon the enemy with a plasma rifle he picked up from a corpse, surveying the area with a furrowed brow every chance he gets. They had to figure out some way to get rid of the turrets at the very least, lest they find themselves pinned and unable to move forwards. Kazuk and Maleris had yet to join them with the backup he hoped they had, but remaining where they were was not an option. At the very least, however, he knew he must wait for opportunity to present itself, pinned as they currently were.

Besides, they were not alone. It had been a long time since he had last attempted escape, but the others had been awaiting another round with bated breath. The situation was more advantageous than he had ever expected it could be. They would not back down now, and they had friends now.

There was was no longer any choice left to them, and certainly not Finger himself. Taking a steadying breath, the scarred man turns the corner once more, dropping a Zygerrian with a well-placed shot from his blaster, looking away as the man tumbles from the platform he stands upon, twirling through the air before slamming into hard ground below. He needed to focus, he forced himself to do so, the sacrifices made in their escape could not be allowed to be in vain.

[member="Graxin Rade"] [member="Talaya Rade"] [member="Marcus Itera"]