Thurn, On Adversity

Posted on Mon Mar 2nd, 2015 @ 2:30am by Thane & Zrad Rezer† & Nala Sao & Bomoor Thort & Klav Thurn & Mentis & Morgo Le'Shaad & Trey†
Edited on on Wed Feb 28th, 2018 @ 12:51am

5,305 words; about a 27 minute read

Chapter: Chapter IV: Rezer's Edge
Location: Cells, Jericho
Timeline: After "Walls of Jericho"

OLD

"As my second has said," he began, now stepping back and making thrusting his arm in the direction of a large set of heavy, rusted metal doors to the rear of the hangar bay, "we have a couple of runaways that found their way into our most humble abode and are just thrilled at the notion of going home. I don't think they've found our hospitality to be quite as accommodating as they are used to."

At that, the large Mandalorian ran a tongue over his yellowed teeth, a slither of saliva left upon a cracked and scarred lip. "I've every faith, milady, you'll show them every dignity they deserve."

NEW

Designed and built as a penal colony, the scruffy and hand-scraped signs that declared 'Cells' in misspelt Mando'a were all that did anything to separate the previous corridors from the ones that actually served as some form of prison for the Exile overlords of Jericho. That and the smell, of course, which was markedly more pungent the further along Klav Thurn escorted his first's Dark Jedi guests.

From the security and facelessness of his helmet, Thurn smelt none of it, not that his expression would likely have changed anyway. Serving as an escort to these prideful and child-like minions of a greater power had left his face set in stone, although he also considered many of those who fought under Zrad's banner were as despicable as these cretins. He took some solace in the fact many of them would die with their hands clenched around the throats of these Force users, both groups bathing in each other's blood as the true and mighty stepped over their corpses towards the real victory.

He took more solace in the fact, however, that they were now entering the Force-negating field of the ysalamiri, preventing his previous thoughts from being plain to the Nautolan and her lightsaber-wielding lackeys. It was their sudden shift in demeanour that confirmed this to him, the rear-view of his HUD showing him plainly without him having to turn his head.

"Taken from Myrkr," Thurn declared to them sternly, his pace not faltering as they stepped past some scattered bones. "We often engage in raids into the False lands; they are incredibly useful when containing your kind in the cells - not that we often bother keeping such creatures. It is a waste of food." What he said was only a half-truth. After all, the field projected by the ysalamiri was usually nearly all-encompassing across Jericho, but they had been repositioned so as not to greatly concern the Dark Jedi upon their arrival.

The surprises would come later.

The sound that came from Nala's throat both was both growl and scoff as she grabbed for the lightsaber at her hip. To one who had never touched the Force like this Mandalorian goat, losing sense of it meant nothing. But to Nala and all others who fed from the Force to fuel their darkness, the sensation of being cut off was like being deafened to all sound. There had been no warning for this grave attack to her senses, and not a flicker of the Force to be felt. And so the Nautolan did what instinct demanded: defend.

Ripping the lightsaber from her hip as she stopped dead in her tracks, Nala's voice was fury itself.

"You dare bring us here?!" She ground out between her teeth as her green fingers trembled around the cold hilt of her weapon. Diplomacy meant nothing if this Exile would throw a bag over their heads like this. This changed everything. Weakened as they all were now, they could be walking straight into a trap.

Slightly behind the Nautolan, Trey and Mentis now breached the force-nulling bubble. Mentis stumbled to one side, grasping a nearby grating for support as if a carpet had been swept from beneath him. The passive techniques he used to dull his pains were stripped away. He felt a sharp pain once again across his face as if his wound had been cut afresh, pulsating with pain at every beat of his heart.

A great fear fell over his body, a fear too deep to turn into anger as he usually would. He exclaimed, "What is this, Nala? What have they done to us?"

"Silence, Mentis!" Nala hissed, as she watched the Mandalorian Exile turn to smirk from behind his helmet, no doubt. It was times like this Nala grated to reconsider the regard she held for Mentis, as she heard the fear in his voice—weakness. Before their own enemies, even! It was a brutal reminder just how deeply they all depended on the Dark Force to function, and Nala seethed. A single glance behind her saw Mentis leaning on a support, while Trey seemed to just stand there.

Flicking her head tresses over her shoulder, her tone was as vicious as an open wound, "Has the Master taught you both nothing?!" She barked behind her, "If this had been an ambush, you infants would be corpses by now!"

And yet, even as Nala went to ignite the crimson beam of her lightsaber, she paused. As her eyes roved to assess the threat of the area, the only opponent they seemed to face was the single Exile who had been escorting them. And he stood perfectly still, assessing them in turn. It was not the stance of an attacker.

Forcing her fury to heel under her will, Nala straightened and haltingly lowered her weapon. Separating the Exile's head from his shoulders would no doubt please her immeasurably. But it would end negotiations, and her Master would have their heads if they returned without the Kaiburr crystal in the dead hands of the Jedi prisoners. No, the time for battle was not now. Once the transactions had completed, Nala would eviscerate them all for their grievous presumption, but for now...

"I suppose...this Myrkr shield is how you managed to capture the Jedi who are now your prisoners?" Nala asked with purposeful hesitation as she regained her composure. The Exile had already seen her vulnerable when stripped of her powers, left with only simmering anger and instinct. If he still saw her as vulnerable now, perhaps that could be used to her benefit.

"Indeed," Thurn finally spoke. The Mandalorian had only stopped walking a few seconds after the Dark Jedi stopped when having felt the full impact of the Force-negating field. Throughout the moments they had grown agitated and brought themselves into what passed for their combat-ready postures, an instinctive response to the 'ordeal' they were now being dragged through.

"It is pleasing at least that your instincts have not been entirely dulled by your subjugation to your sorcerer's fancies," he remarked, speaking his thoughts aloud as he turned away once again, leading upon the final stretch of their sojourn through the cells of Jericho. "I confess; I am frequently impressed by the ability of some jetii to continue to function when they enter the field. Most fall quickly, surprised and unable to cope, but others... others survive, or at least fight with honour."

Almost at their destination, the footfalls of the cultists markedly different from how they had been upon their arrogant and presumptuous arrival, Thurn reflected with the most dry amusement he could muster that he had spoken more in the last few minutes to these creatures than he typically mustered for his fellow Mandalorians. "The ability to adapt in the face of adversity, particularly when that which is most integral to you is stolen, is the mark of a true warrior," he concluded, deciding not to cut short his brief stint as an orator and philosopher.

Pressing his thumb against a panel to unlock the final heavy door leading into the cells where their less recent guests resided, he turned his helmeted face back to the Nautolan and her underlings, his expression neutral beneath. His voice remained steady and neutral as he posed rhetorically: "Are you true warriors?"

Through the door, a dishevelled Human and a Trandoshan lounged lazily in the centre before numerous undersized and poorly-maintained cells. The stench was thicker than before, the air sterile and entire vicinity as unkempt as its present wardens. After a few seconds, the Human rose with the assistance of a stick, as he appeared to be heavily favouring a recently-wounded leg, before using that very stick to jab it in the direction of the newcomers.

"Who dat?" He simply demanded, the two words making clear it was not just his leg that had received aggressive treatment of late.

At hearing the jailer's broken words tumbling from his smashed and swollen mouth, a hunched but lightly shuddering figure shifted slowly in the corner of one of the cells further along, matted brown hair covering bloodied yet pale features. Bleary eyes slowly opened in an attempt to discern the new figures before them.

The second jailer quickly jumped to his feet, his unclothed feet allowing broken black claws to click onto the metallic floor. He winced, forgetting his injuries in his hurry to attention, "Be sharp," he spoke to his comrade, "Is Thurn. He comes with others."

Unlike the human, the Trandoshan's eyes had been spared during the physical punishment they had been sentenced. In fact, his thick scales had protected him from much of the bludgeoning that had crippled his partner. However, he had lost many of his scales in the attack that he feared would never grow back at his age. He stood as tall as he could under the weight of his discomfort and the shame of his punishment. Black slits in his orange eyes darted back and forth as he observed the strange group that followed his superior into the dank room. He quickly surmised that he was in the presence of the dark Jedi they were to expect. They seemed much like the Jedi prey they had already captured in the way they shifted uncomfortably under the Ysalamiris' spell.

"They are here to inspect the jetii prisoners," Thurn declared, his mouth forming an unseen grimace from behind his visor, although he was certain some of his displeasure at sighting the two ingrates bled into voice. The Trandoshan was less of a beast, ironically, than the overweight Human, but he had a strong disdain for them both. That had only been further incensed by their decision to pump their prisoners with enough stims and chemicals to convince a vhe'viin it was match enough for a mythosaur.

Giving the jetii the opportunity to 'redeem their score', at least in the eyes of the Trandoshan's Scorekeeper goddess - a belief and ideology Thurn actually respected and appreciated; it was why he found many Trandoshan to be acceptable and often laudable entrants to Mando'a ways - was something he approved of. After their successes in killing or subduing so many of their accomplished numbers even when diminished by the ysalamiri, the least they deserved was an honourable death. However, forcing them to face each other, their bodies and minds addled with the unnatural to pervert them far from the self-aware beings they were was not honourable.

And it was in violation of what Zrad had ordered them to do.

He paid the Human no further heed as he shoved him back down onto his chair, eliciting a reverberating cry of pain from the Mandalorian hopeful (a laughable notion) as the True Mandalorian second position himself before the Ithorian's cell. Noting the rotten meat beside the herbivore, his anger flashed, but not visibly to any others. It was Thurn's sincere hope that these wardens met their demise quickly in the coming glory.

"These injuries were not inflicted by us," he explained to Nala, his voice remaining entirely level, "but I have been assured they will survive, dependent on their ongoing treatment. That is," Thurn continued, his eyes having wandered down to the remnants of the Human prisoner's right hand, "should you elect to preserve their existence."

Those on Jericho that had anything closely resembling medical experience had done a passable job of removing the final two digits. Considering they were usually intoxicated by their own drugs and that said experience usually surmounted to little more than having hacking a limb or two off, it was not a poor performance, but Thurn suspected further work would need to be done should the man survive Jericho.

Probably not.

Angered by how Thurn had treated him and the pain coursing through him, the Human guard belligerently jabbed his stun baton into the side of the one he knew to be Thane. A brief shout accented Thane's eyes widening fully, the jolt resulting in recognition flooding to the fore now that he was able to bring some actual attention to the newcomers.

Only to avoid breaking face further with their guests did Thurn not berate or attack the guard, his malicious actions unnecessary, but interest was soon piqued by a husky, whispered tone finally seeping from Thane's mouth. Looking at the jetii, his clothes tattered, he was impressed that both he and his ally continued. They should have been permitted to die.

"Ax..." Thane attempted, his mouth clearly dry from his ordeal and lack of speaking. A few seconds later, pushing himself slightly upwards with his undamaged hand, his expression shifted as his eyes did not depart from Nala. "Axi-" He tried again, but interrupted himself with a rasping cough that sent him slumping back to his previous position, although his blue eyes never wavered.

His Ithorian companion, who had been drifted in and out of consciousness, was roused somewhat by his companion’s cry. He lay as flat on his back as the small cell would allow with the end of his trunk curled up slightly against the wall. It was extremely uncomfortable for a species of his size but not as painful as moving.

A deep soreness shot through him as he tried to lift himself up further. Some of their captors had treated the stab wounds he had received to the back during his fight and had thrown enough alcohol on it to prevent serious infection but it was terribly painful to the touch.

He heard more people but could not see much through the darkness.

He angled his eyes towards Thane, “Wha...?” His normally-rich voice dulled by more swelling around his mouths, “What… is… i…t?”

The tinkling sound of Nala’s laughter was a stark contrast to the vicious glee across her features. Without the Force to glamour herself with, a crack of the ugly cruelty within her reared its head before she hid it behind a pale, green hand. Her wide, dark eyes took on a glint of distinct hunger as they roved over the slumped, pathetic forms of the imprisoned Jedi.

Slowing to a stop, the heavy dark robes she wore lapped at her heels like black liquid, the dust whispering around her as it settled. Sliding her fingers around the fat bars of the cage, Nala pressed herself against the cold metal, not caring for the rusted filth encrusted on it. No, she was far too entranced at the sight before her. Closing her eyes, Nala inhaled deeply, almost tasting the stench of their filth. And it was glorious.

Nala did not need the Force to feel just how much agony the wretched Jedi were languishing in, but oh, how she wished she could! Her body would never care for the feeling of being separated from the Dark Force, but Nala had other ways in which to sense their misery. And as her head tresses shivered as they picked up the overwhelming distress of the Jedi, Nala smiled.

The ugly Ithorian Jedi, slow and useless, lay on the ground like a slug, too swollen and too tired to do much else than fester in his cell. His defeat was little more than an expected inevitability. The human Jedi though…

Nala tilted her head as she held his grey-blue eye, a strange intensity within it, as he tried to stammer out the name of her Master, Axion. A fire yet burned in his eye, and Nala craved to snuff it out. The Ithorian could be useful in achieving that end...if he survived.

Turning from the destitute Jedi pair, Nala peered at the Mandalorian Exile that had escorted them here.

“I hope you will be able to adapt a new head to your shoulders, Exile.” Nala purred, mocking his earlier words about what it meant to be a “true” warrior in the face of adversity, “For if the red crystal you intend to trade to us is in equally poor state as these half-dead, useless Jedi...”

Stepping forward towards the Exile, Nala’s fingers idly toyed with a tress before flinging it over her shoulder, “…I might have to tell my Master that you Mandalorians have yet to adapt to losing all honor.”

For as much as Nala enjoyed the suffering of the Jedi pair, Zrad had promised them to her relatively unspoiled. Axion had much planned for the Ithorian and the Human, and she seethed with rage at the thought of having to nurse them back to health before the Cult could have their way with them. It spoke poorly of the Mandalorian’s knack for business if they could not even keep their own in check.

Trey smirked. He rarely used the Force for anything except fighting or picking the odd pocket or two. And he would never complain from being in pain—or seeing others in it. The tang of blood and sweat in the air reeked of suffering. He couldn't help but be amused at Nala's love-hate feelings over the Jedi's situation. Try as Trey might, he could never find the discipline to stick to the proper emotion. And that's why he didn't lead.

Thurn considered the alien creature before him for a few careful moments, assessing all that she said and represented at this moment. Undoubtedly, in his mind at least, she was little better than a typical politician or crime lord. To Zrad's second, there was little difference between the two; they both made empty promises and threats and were always elegant in their dress and manner of speaking. As with politicians, all this Nautolan cared for was getting her own way, with whatever words she used - venomous or otherwise - all a ploy on her part, particularly now that she was as good as unarmed.

Instinctively, Thurn let his hand drop to his side-arm, slowly so that he would cause no alarm, eyes narrowing behind his blackened visor. "Some of our less scrupulous cohorts saw fit to pit the jetii against one another against our wishes," he decided to declare, honestly. "The affair was quickly settled and those responsible punished, but it was the belief of some that they should be given the opportunity to prove their mettle in combat, and earn an honourable demise. At least, that was the notion used to excuse the misdemeanour."

The Exile shifted his weight slightly and angled his body towards Nala and her companions, only to the slightest extent that indicated he was almost putting himself between them and the prisoners, despite the fact bars already separated them.

"Tell me, Nautolan: what is it you plan to do to them?" Although Thurn cared little for the allegiances of either the jetii or the dar'jetii, he had nevertheless developed a modicum of respect for their prisoners, believing them deserving of a clean death. Whilst he would capitulate to Zrad's wishes - after all, he had the plan to see glory brought to the True Mandalorians - he had reservations over what this feigned alliance with the newcomers could mean for their future dealings.

As much as the coming fires would burn a path to victory, a beacon for all Mandalorians to flock to their banner, Thurn feared the reputation they were forging may be wrought with dishonesty and distrust. Without honour.

There were many in the galaxy that found the relentless staring of the Nautolan species to be unsettling, unblinking in their gazes. Nala wagered that there was very little their inflated Exile escort found unsettling. But even she did not think him completely unaffected by the intensity within the maroon depth of her eyes as he asked, like a naïve child, what the Dark Cult had planned to do with the Jedi pair.

If Thurn had looked closer within the misty swirls of her eyes, he would have seen the stirrings of a dark, grotesque dream. He would have seen pain, pleasure, and a wanton thrill. He would have seen madness.

Nala bit her lip as she stepped towards the Exile, chin tilted upwards in coy defiance, “What do you think I will do with them, Mandalorian?” She asked in a low voice, a promise in the particular sway of her hips, “When you purchase meat off the market, do you not sink your teeth into the flesh you’ve bought?”

Suddenly, the heavy metal door that had provided Nala and the others access shifted lazily open, metal scraping loudly, serving to interrupt and as a stark contrast to the silky yet venomous tones of the lithe Nautolan. The sound of mismatched footsteps belonging to three very different owners was soon married to the appearance of two Mandalorians, both garbed in full armour typical of Zrad's True Mandalorian elite, and a Human woman between them.

Fresh blood and dried was caked about her elegant features, the clothing she wore tattered but also recently damaged, the marks on her shoes indicative of her rough journey to the cells. Her two escorts showed little regard for her as they threw her to the ground beside Nala and the cultists and before Thurn, who immediately stepped forward, irate at the unexpected intrusion and newcomer.

"Who is this?" He demanded immediately, pushing past Nala with little care to address his junior. Glancing behind his visor at the blonde-haired woman, familiarity crossed his mind momentarily. Unable to place it and far more preoccupied with the interruption, he focused upon the man before him.

"A prisoner," one guard responded curtly, "courtesy of Sev Rezer." Without reason, he raised his gauntleted fist before then bringing it down at some speed towards the woman, smashing it into the side of her head. His own face unmasked, a youthful and handsome face that was marred only by the lack of a second eye, a sick grin danced across his angled features. "Chakaar," he hissed afterwards.

Her other, more-unsightly monocular escort slumped slightly as he observed Morgo's head collapsing against the sodden floor with the force of the blow, "I can't say she's as pleasant manners-wise as she is ta' look at," he grunted, turning his nose up to an even greater angle than it normally sat, "Tried to take a swing at me a few times hence the state we're deliverin' er' in."

He scanned his eye over the dim room and was slightly surprised when he saw it was Thurn who had spoken and not one of the pathetic guards. He straightened up again, not taking in the other visitors, "Look... uh, Zrad told us to bring this prisoner here. She's a medic or somethin'. Said we could do what we wanted with er'... but I guess it's up to you since you're here."

Thurn stayed his tongue, partly out of surprise at hearing his first's clan name uttered. He knew that Sev, the bounty hunter cousin Zrad claimed to be a relative of his, was due for Jericho. He had not expected, however, that the man was going to be bringing prisoners of his own. Not turning to the dar'jetii but instead regarding them through the use of his helmet's multi-faceted HUD, the True Mandalorian considered the situation and his actions. Things were progressing quickly, and for their leader's plan to play out as intended, the Nautolan and her lackeys would have to be ushered to the centre of events unfolding.

"Put her in one of the cells," he said finally, voice unwavering and demeanour unchanging, stepping to one side to allow them to pass. Knowing full well what would likely become of such an attractive specimen, regardless of the damage done to her striking face, he mused that the jetii would have had a better fate, had Zrad any true intention of allowing this alien and her cult to take them away.

Morgo’s vision swam as the iron fingers of the Exiles bit into her arms as they lifted her from the ground and threw her. She hit the floor in mute pain, the tang of blood filing her mouth as she rolled to the far end of the cell. When momentum finally settled her on her stomach, Morgo lifted her head with a difficulty she did not have to feign, feeling resistance from her hair dragging along the wet filth caking to the floor. Squeezing her eyes shut, Morgo willed her vision to steady and sucked in a breath through her clenched teeth. As she dipped her head forward to relieve the dizziness, Morgo eventually opened a single, pale eye.

In that particular manner of looking without looking that all those of the high nobility practiced, Morgo’s attention fell first upon the bodies that shared her cell. The distinctive outline Ithorians presented was enough to identify the pair as Bomoor and Thane, though they were nearly unrecognizable in their pathetic state. Their stench was a ripe smell, half-dead and defeated as they were. But the slow and steady rise and fall of their chests was enough to confirm them alive and stable enough to last at least at least 24 hours. Scoffing under her breath, Morgo surreptitiously turned her attention away to focus upon the large figure of a Mandalorian Exile, from beneath her lashes. She had not missed that the foot soldiers, eager to brutalize her, shrank under his steady gaze, deferring her fate to his whim. Yet he had waved away Morgo’s life off like a speck of blood on a glove, and turned his attention back to a trio of figures, clad in black. Morgo’s careful eye followed.

With the unmistakable gleam of metal hilts hanging at their hips and the general constipated expressions upon their pale faces, Morgo knew she looked upon Dark Force practitioners. With her hands bracing her body from making full contact with the floor, scum and muck collected under Morgo’s sharp fingernails as she scratched at the floor, seeking purchase as she lifted herself to steal a better glance at the Dark Jedi.

There would always be pockets of Dark Force practitioners scattered about the galaxy, some in smaller number than others. But as Morgo studied these ones in particular—a Human, a Ratattaki, and a Nautolan—Morgo knew exactly which brand of Dark Jedi she was watching. Axion’s Cultists.

And the Dark Jedi watched back.

Nala peered curiously down at the newcomer, more than a little surprised that the new prisoner was a woman, of all things. The Nautolan ran her eyes over the fallen form of the human woman with something like fascination. For though Nala was deaf to the Force within these walls, there was something undeniably…off about the woman with the fair hair—something empty. Something as hollow as the limpid eyes set within that pretty face, which lifted from the ground to meet her own gaze. The new prisoner wore her own blood like crimson warpaint, and even beaten into the ground, Nala watched the woman turn away with beautiful disdain. Like she had gotten what she had wanted from the single glance she’d stolen from them, and deemed further scrutiny a waste of time.

Nala was still staring at the new prisoner when the garbled voice of their Exile escort cut through her speculations.

"You have seen your trophies, Nautolan," Thurn then declared in his bold voice, distorted as it was into synthetic tones by his helmet, "it is time you see the trinket you have come so far to claim." Gesturing the exit, he said, "My first has prepared a lavish banquet in honour of your master and our partnership. Your powers diminished and his temperament as it is, it would be both rude and foolish to leave him waiting, such delicacies going to waste."

Turning his head back to now regard the new prisoner alongside the two defenceless jetii, the hardened Mandalorian second, tempered by conflicts both on and off the battlefield, was certain a flicker of recognition had passed between them, at least between the two Humans who now shared a cell. For a moment, he considered demanding the female be moved to another cell, but thought better of it when considering the dar'jetii that continued to plague him - the true matter at hand.

Nala glanced behind her shoulder and shared a look with Mentis, before turning back to the Exile leader, sighing dramatically with a roll of her small shoulders, “Yes, well, for your sake, the state of this crystal had better not upset my appetite. I have little hope for what delicacies you can afford on this abandoned rock.”

And looking back towards the cell that held her two, dear Jedi, Nala spared a smile in their direction, “I’ve seen how the delicate wilt within Jericho, when not handled properly. And I might say…” she intoned lightly, dragging the last word with a flirtatious lilt that did little to dull the edge in her tone, “…there is very little in this place I have seen handled properly, as of yet.”

Whilst all of the instincts that came together to make Thurn the man he was urged him to respond to the taunt, he quelled the mounting desire to bring his back hand across the delicate, sickly pale green visage of the Nautolan. If but for no other reason, it would be dishonourable to strike a creature typically so formidable in its weakened state. Muscles in his concealed face tightened as he considered what it would be to engage her in true combat.

"Your assessment of us is insignificant," he decided aloud, retaining his stoic, near-apathetic baritone, “as is your ability to affect change in regards to it at this time.” Zrad’s plans for this vermin aside, Thurn was eager to leave both this place and see this day reach its ruinous, triumphant conclusion. It would be a day in which their glory cascaded forth from Jericho in a virulent display of violence and glory; they would exult in their victory, vindicated as the ardent warriors of Mandalore came forth to be unified under one, True leader, cleansing all of the impure, dishonourable and misguided in Zrad’s crusade.

Suffering the taunts of the dar’jetii and sighting the miserable creatures about him – not distinguishing between the languishing jetii or the chakaar lazing before their cells – subdued the beauteous mental imagery with impressive effect, souring his mood and deepening his caution further.

"Proceed," he said, gesturing out from the prison. A couple of drops of an unknown dark, viscous liquid landed upon his raised, armoured limb, evoking a hidden grimace from Thurn. Not for the first time, he noted that Jericho, whilst imposing and a terrible cell for in which to be held, did little to boast of their powers or honour. Indeed, very little of what had been revealed to their guests succeeded in that manner, the Nautolan and her slaves seemingly buoyed and defiant even in their terribly weakened state as a result.

With a final glance to their prisoners, Klav Thurn vowed finally and firmly that things were to change for their aliit. One way or another.

TBC

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