The Violence

[Cedric Grayson]

Things had gotten violent before Darius could make sense of the situation.

Warm vitae dripped down the open wound in the side of his head. His shirty had been shorn away, and the pale skin beneath had suffered a similar fate in certain places. His hands were marred with tiny cuts and bruises, and they clung to his lightsaber hilt as if it were his source of life. In a way, it certainly was.

Borga the Razor had heard of Darius' travels from the various merchants the Jedi had worked with. Greed had been the first thought for Borga to followed after hearing of the Jedi, and the Trandoshan had begun a hunt for the errant knight shortly thereafter.

The ambush was brief but violent. Many of Borga's pirates had died in the struggle, but in the end Darius Sedaire had been detained, his relics stashed away in Borga's private vault. The Jedi had been put to work since in Borga's fighting pits on Lok, which was where he yet remained.

The afternoon sun pierced through the darkness of his cell as the door parted. A click from his slave collar indicated that Darius step forward, and he did so. The Jedi found himself in a round fighting pit with two other humans and a wookie. Each was armed with vibroweapons, though they carried energy shields whereas Darius did not.

Borga rumbled with monstrous laughter as the palace's music stopped. He gestured with a clawed hand toward a group of women - either slaves, thieves, or debtors, and then motioned down toward the ring.

"One woman at a time for judgement." A line was made, one woman after the other. The first spoke her crime; her judgement was a bolt to the skull. The second was absolved entirely of her crimes.

Darius could only watch the proceedings in confusion as the ring bell rang and his opponents charged him. It only took a millisecond for the lightsaber to ignite.

 

[Quinn Silk]

Things hadn't exactly gone to plan.

Or rather.

The sheer lack of a plan had been a massive oversight from one particularly flustered swindler. There Quinn stood, shackled to similarly unclothed women in a sweltering box that stunk of sweat, piss and spice. It was as uncomfortable as it was degrading, the sort of cage that would be better suited for mongrels or nexu. It was, however, an utterly unsurprising choice of accommodation for the women unlucky enough to scorn the petty Hutt that commissioned their transport. Like the rest of the soft and fleshy cattle chained together, Quinn had been hunted down by the Razor's cabal and quickly stripped, tagged and collared like it was a paid performance.

Her crime? A day late on her debt. A single day. A day where she could've slipped into the quickest cargo ship and disappeared into the galaxy, far away from Borga's grubby hands. Alas, his reach far exceeded her resources and the woman was swiftly caught like a bug in a web.

"You have to beg for forgive, Borga like pretty cry." A nearby Gamorrean grunted at the sweat stained parcel of women, his sour breath wafting through the narrow slits of the metal box. Keeling backwards from his morbid warning, a young Twi'lek heaved and coughed up the remnants of her breakfast. The Gamorrean snorted at the display, a booted leg kicking the cage where the whimpering girl feebly wobbled.

"Oh for kark's sake..." Quinn uttered, clenching her eyes shut and sharply inhaling through her mouth as she felt the nauseous wave begin to throb in the back of her mind. She'd been standing for several hours, the cuffs on her ankles having chafed her ankles raw. Whatever make up she'd been wearing the night before was naught but slick paint that dripped down her features, the taste of copper and dust coating her tongue in a bitter cocktail.

Swallowing the bile in the back of her throat, the woman tensed her legs as the box slid forward, a rising tide of sound shaking the metal confines. She could barely make out what was happening outside, the blur of movement and the riotous cacophony of screams and bellows only adding to the chaos.

"We're going to die...I-I didn't...I-I don't want to..." A ragged woman behind Quinn began to sputter, the warmth of her breath brushing against the skin of the swindler's neck. Every panicked motion jingled the chains the bound the women's wrists, the tug and pull wrenching Quinn's wrists too and fro.

Biting her tongue, Quinn held back the instinct to cuss at the creature. "Hey. Hey, Listen! Stop panicking and shut up, focus on my words." The dark haired woman ordered, her typically melodic voice marred by dryness and exhaustion. "Borga likes it when you panic. He's a karked up slug and you need to show him why you're useful for him to keep you around." Quinn rambled quickly, hoping to whatever fragment of sense existed that the woman behind her was actually paying attention. "If you want to stay alive, you better bargain hard. There's no more ego. If that means you have a night with all of his pirates then that's that. Suck it up and let it happen. Better than being dead in a ditch right?" Quinn cooed rasply, her throat burning from the attempt at eloquence.

"I worked in his kitchen, I'm innocent..." The woman wept quietly. But her admittance was drowned out, lost in the immediate sea of sound that thundered through the box as the door was slid open.

Time was up.

[member="Darius Sedaire"]

 

[Cedric Grayson]

Words of pity were spilled into the blood soaked air, but Darius knew there would be no mercy. Yes, the women may very well bargain for their lives, but they were all going to have to give something for them in return. Their general lack of clothing made that purpose rather obvious. The Jedi Knight's stomach rolled with disgust as he watched the Trandoshan meet out his judgement; a cadaverous show if there ever was one. The sound of another blaster bolt rang out, and the battered body of a young Togorian fell in a steaming heap into the arena. The other combatants watched the corpse crash into the dirt with apathy; Darius bid himself to ignore it.

He tried to reach out with the force, find his place of centering, but all that responded to him was something he could only describe as screaming. The force was there, but this place had twisted it with its vile outpouring of hedonism and emotion. Even still, such corruption should not have stopped him from achieving oneness with the force. For reasons unknown to the Jedi Knight, he could not call upon his connection to the force, nor could he string his thoughts together long enough to form a coherent plan.

He saw a face in the mass of women. She looked to have been carved from porcelain, then left suffer under the effects of the elements. Beneath the caked up mess that was her makeup, Darius could see genuine beauty in that face, and more importantly the same sort of fire he'd seen in Mediha's eyes. Where the other women cowered, she stood firm. Where the others turned to strangers for a savior, she accepted her fate for what it was. Darius found that he could take some comfort in that. At least someone else here was trying to survive.

The Wookie's roar drowned out any further thoughts. The crowd's roar that followed only served to drive Darius to further desperation. The vibro-axe passed through the air he'd just been occupying a moment later, the mottled Wookie snarling something unintelligible as Darius circled around his body.

The sound of his lightsaber sparking to life silenced the room. Then came the cheering once again, this time chiefly from Borga. Many had come here to watch a Jedi die.

The Wookie whirled, so did Darius. The axe's blade bounced off the bright green beam of Darius' weapon, but before the Jedi could strike out, the Wookie was slamming him in the chest with a closed fist. Pain wracked the knight's body as he went tumbling through the sand, the air having long since left his lungs.

From the corner of his eyes, he could make out the other contestants fighting. Then the Wookie was on him again, monstrous blade sailing down to carve him to ribbons, and he was on the move again.

"He's a slippery one," Borga snickered, "Can't use his magic though. He's all spiced up!" the warlord barked a raspy laugh, and his retinue of sycophants did the same. "Bring me the kitchen girl. I want to see her dance, and," the alien paused, reptilian eyes narrowing as he peered at the cook's new friend. His toothy maw split in a savage grin. "Who's your friend, kitchen girl?"

[member="Quinn Silk"]