Seated within the Glorious Jewel of the Hutts, the Winter Palace is situated on a remote island near the planet’s equator. Although blanketed with the pollution from Hutt industry, its location makes the climate hot and humid. Surrounded with trees and vines, it could be considered to be a paradise, even among the barren wasteland of Nal Hutta. Outside of the Winter Palace, a network of sewer pipes transfer the waste from the palace to wherever seems far enough to dump into the oceans surrounding the island. Flora and fauna that have adapted to the Hutt’s environmental changes thrive in the polluted forests surrounding the Winter Palace.

Stepping through its gilded gates, the lavish interior greets your presence with the main audience chamber. Once belonging to the wealth of Jiliac Desilijic Tiron, the gleaming stone of the main aisle leads up to a Hutt’s dais lined with an expensive carpet. Beautiful tapestries line the high walls, telling of the sordid histories of those who woven them, awaiting execution in Jiliac’s dungeons.

Finally, the antechamber to the throne room is illuminated from above with high-skylighted ceilings. Constructed from lightly colored stone, the antechamber might have been where the late Hutt entertained his guests before an audience with spice and exotic dancers. In the hands of the Hutt Kajidics, however, these traditions have continued as the Winter Palace now serves as a front for criminal and business ventures.

“You must be a real hit at parties.” Turel quipped to Atra as the two men stood opposite one another in a plushly decorated antechamber. They had each presented proposals for why their respective clans and represented clan protectorates should have access to hyperspace routes and spaceports belonging to a recent breakaway cartel under the control of a Twi’lek named Gul Proga. It felt like they had been waiting days for Proga to make his decision when really it had only been two hours.

The Umbaran didn’t even make eye contact with the Human to respond. “Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?”

The Odanite shrugged. “I hear that a lot.”

Atra passed the time by examining the various tapestries and pieces of artwork which filled the room, contemplating the history and story behind each. Turel on the other hand alternated between pacing around the room or sitting on one of the sofas and fiddling with a datapad. Two Weequay guards stood like silent sentinels with crossed pikes at the ornate doors which led to the throne room proper. Gul Proga had done very well for himself, few had the guts to break away from the larger cartels and even fewer lived to tell the tale. Somehow he managed to do both and acquire a former Hutt winter palace to boot. He was not someone to take lightly.

The throne room doors cracked open and polished silver protocol droid sauntered inside. Both men turned their attention to the machine with baited breath. “Master Proga will see you both now in the main chamber.” The guards pulled the chamber doors open wide and stepped aside to allow the two guests to enter. The sound of upbeat cantina music echoed from the throne room.

Turel turned to his competitor, “Well, are you ready to be disappointed?”

“We shall see.” The Sadowan replied.

As two men ascended the ramp from the audience chamber to the throne room they were taken aback by the almost cathedral-like high ceiling and skylights. The dias containing the throne rose from the floor in a semicircle in the back half of the larger circular room like a crescent moon. A teal-skinned Twi’lek male sat upon the throne with an entourage of dancers, guards and assistants gathered haphazardly around the room. “My friends, come closer.” Gul beckoned.

Turel and Atra obeyed and approached the throne, each bowing with respect as they got several paces away. They stood in the center of the room awaiting the decision of their host. “You have both presented compelling arguments for why I should go into business with your respective organizations. So compelling that I cannot decide.” The Human opened his mouth to speak but froze when the Twi’lek casually raised his right hand calling for silence. “I am old fashioned in my beliefs and I feel a contest of honor is in order. You both seem like spirited, capable warriors.” He leaned forward on his throne. “Is this agreeable to you both?”

Turel smirked. “Sure.”

Atra nodded solemnly in affirmation. “This is acceptable. What do you have in mind?”

The Twi’lek rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Excellent, I love a good contest. You each will select a contest of skill or strength which I shall judge. If there is a tie, I will name a third contest to decide the winner. The victor’s clan will have the exclusive right to do business.”

“Sounds fair enough, who goes first?” The Odanite inquired.

Gul gestured to his shiny protocol droid who approached the two men in the center of the room. “Please call heads or tails.” Atra and Turel stared at each other for a moment, wondering if the other would use the Force to alter the outcome of the coin toss.

“Heads.” The Umbaran said, breaking the tense silence.

The droid flipped the coin into the air and swiftly caught it and placed it on the back side of its palm. “Tails. Mister Sorenn selects the first challenge.”

Turel thought carefully for a moment about what his challenge would be. Atra was a very physically imposing man and his strength in the Force was nothing to trifle with. The Sadowan would likely select a physical contest or outright combat. The Jedi didn’t have the impression that his opponent was terribly comfortable with word play. “I choose a Nar Shaddaa style rap battle.” The assembled crowd of onlookers gasped audibly and began to clap, as this was a popular form of entertainment on the streets of Nar Shaddaa and Nal Hutta.

Gul nodded with approval. “Excellent choice, it just so happens that Tharan our band leader can drop a mean beat. Gentlemen I assume your are both familiar with the rules? Two forty-five second verses each in alternating order.” Turel and Atra nodded. “Good. Now gentlemen if you would take your places on the stage. Challenger goes first.”

Turel grabbed the microphone from the band leader as Atra took his place on the stage beside him. ”This will be too easy,” he thought to himself as he waited for the beat to start. Tharan pressed a few buttons on his control deck and a solid rhythm emanated from the stage’s sound system. The Jedi nodded his head in time to the music for a few seconds before beginning.

“You can call me crazy T, cuz I’m the man with da plan,

To school dis wannabe thug from a second rate clan.

I keep it light side chill, cause’ you know I like to party.

Bout’ to show dis Sadow poser how we do down in Besadii

So take out your pad and jot down every letter,

Caus’ you’ve never seen a battle like dis in yo’ combat centre

And what is with your hair? Bro I’m at a loss

Caus’ you look like some kinda holo-game final boss

And that mess on your face? If it were me I’d die of shame

Maybe that’s why you’ve gone by three different names.”

The crowd went wild at the last line as Turel dropped the microphone into Atra’s hand flush with victory. There was no way the Sadowan could come back from that.

Atra signaled Tharan to restart the beat as Turel folded his arms in a smug manner.

“Is that the best you got mista “man with da plan?”

Though, what should I expect from a guy who can’t even pick a clan?

I leave pretenders in their graves, ain’t got time for a grudge.

Now all rise, cause here comes da judge.

Trying to step up to my flow is like rolling the dice.

But you don’t rap, you chatter like a Jawa strung out on spice.

When things get too tough you run to your mamma tree and hide.

You’re just a scrawny little punk who can’t handle the dark side.

No matter the contest I’ll beat you time and again.

Though from what I hear you’re used to taking it from stronger men.”

Turel’s jaw nearly hit the floor as the room erupted in raucous applause and jeering. Even Gul was applauding earnestly. Atra calmly walked to the Jedi and shoved the microphone into his chest. They had one more verse each and Turel needed to make the next one count or he’d lose at his own game.

"This is asinine," Atra thought to himself as he put distance between himself and Turel once more, "Locke should have sent Sanguinius, he's the diplomatic one." The Umbaran's nostrils flared as he took in a deep breath to calm his nerves. The musky combination of spices and sweat upon the air threatened to offend his senses, forcing the Quaestor to stifle the urge to reach up and rip his own nose off. Already he could feel the beat picking up once more, the vibrations reverberating within his chest as if a second heart.

Why couldn't it be over already?

Turel began bobbing up and down in time with the beat, embracing the flow of the rhythm the band leader was bringing to bear. Tharan had good taste, the Sadowan would give him that much. It was an easy beat that didn't fight to be heard over the words, it merely offered a means of conveyance. Logically speaking, if you followed the flow with the right word pattern, you could even use the sounds themselves as part of the encounter.

Atra twitched almost instantly in response to his own cognitive process, his train of thought derailing as it crashed into a metaphorical mountainside. He was putting entirely too much thought into the ridiculous contest, a sign that his sanity must be slipping. It was the only plausible explanation. The crowd rose in volume once more, a reminder to pay attention as Atra levelled his mismatched gaze upon his 'opponent', as it were. Turel had clearly found his rhythm and had the mic pressed to his lips once more. "Please stop," Ventus thought in vain once more.

No, there was no stopping what was happening, not even if the Quaestor had an infinite number of stars to wish upon.

"Where them strong men at, I gotta see

Caus' I know it ain't you, that's plain to me

A Judge in the centre, maybe that's true

But a mastah of verse, man you got no clue

You can drop'em on time, and play with your rhyme

But you got nothin' man, strap in for school time

I bring the smooth, the ruse, the crews, nothin' to lose

Think they here for you, nah man check out the news

Dark Side, nah, can't even handle my verse

Come into the Light so you can try on a purse."

Turel punched the air with his right hand, the mic still firmly grasped in his whitening knuckles. Clearly he was as enthused by his own performance as the tightly packed chamber, which was currently hooting and hollering so loud Atra could feel it like a dagger through his skull. Proga looked like he was having the time of his life, giving the Sadowan a sneaking suspicion that the cartel runner had been less than truthful about the difficulties in reaching a decision. The kriffing Twi'lek was probably just short on entertainment.

A sudden thud brought Atra's attention back to the Jedi, who had placed himself firmly within what Ventus was quickly defining as his comfort zone. Turel's outstretched hand was inches from the Umbaran's face, palm down, and an insufferable smirk spread from ear to ear as the Odanite refused to break eye contact. Atra glanced down, spying the mic as it rolled between their feet.

"Did you really just drop the mic?" Atra asked just loud enough for the other man to hear.

"My sweet summer child, it was dropped when you accepted the challenge," came the Jedi's reply.

Oh how Ventus longed to reach out and rip that grin off the other man's face — preferably with the talons of his cybernetic arm. However, the crowd was growing impatient and Atra had no patience to suffer their heckling. The tall Umbaran strode forward, intentional colliding with Turel's shoulder as he strode past and sent a nod in Tharan's direction. Again the beat started, and once more Atra was ready to fulfill the terms of their engagement. He extended his right arm out to the side, in line with his shoulder, and summoned the mic to his hand with a tug of the Force. The man spun about the instant the device made contact with his palm, bringing it to his lips and relaying the verse once more.

"Light Side, Dark Side, West Side, East Side

What're you a compass, that I cannot abide

I'm Judge, I'm Jury, man, I'm Executioner of Jedi

You're opinion, I'm fact, ain't no need to clarify,"

Atra paused for effect, measuring the emotions in the room for just a moment. He tossed the mic between his hands, gripping it firmly in his talon-fingered hand as he curled his now free arm in order to flex his bicep noticeably.

"Strongest in the room, and I'm comin' for you

Better pack up yo skirts and bid me adieu

Shoulda pulled a three-sixty when you saw this Sadowan

Cause there ain't any way you can handle what I'm flowin'."

At that, Atra brought one arm across his front and another across his back, bowing towards Turel in a less than sincere manner, punctuated by the fact the he never broke eye contact with the Jedi and rose an eyebrow sarcastically. The crowd was most certainly entertained, and Proga looked just about ready to burst. And was that really too much of him to ask for? One exploding Twi'lek with a side of get Atra the kriff out of there.

"Excellent! Most commendable, and yet there is so much more to come. I feel it best to maintain the suspense, and will withhold my declaration as to which of you is the victor of this bout," Proga called out whilst rising to his feet and quelling the noise of the room. "You there, the long haired reject—"

Atra twitched in response and fought the burning desire to choke the Twi'lek.

"The decision now falls upon you, name the second challenge," the teal-skinned pile of Sithspit declared.

Turel eyed Atra warily, no doubt suspecting that the Sadowan was about to declare war on him. Atra sighed, both audibly and mentally, as his shoulders slouched and he muttered something inaudible. "You must speak louder, representative of Sadow! I'm afraid this hall is quite large," Proga taunted from above.

"It's a dance off," Atra all but shouted, refusing to look in Turel's direction. "The second challenge will be a dance off."

Turel didn't know exactly how to respond, but he knew that he had expected just about anything but this turn of events. Atra kept his back to the Jedi as he glanced towards Tharan once more. "Give me something with kick," the Umbaran stated flatly. The band leader nodded his consent, working over his control board even as Atra worked the clasps on the series of belts that adorned his waist.

The beat came in slow at first, each bass drop filling the main chamber with vibrations. The Sadowan allowed his belts to fall away, slipping off his tunic one sleeve at a time. Once he had thrown the black fabric to the ground, he reached down and grabbed the edge of his sleeveless grey turtleneck. Pausing for a moment, he twisted his head awkwardly to the left and then the right, a loud crack announcing the completion of each movement. He slipped out of his shirt in one smooth motion revealing damp flesh — it was hot in there, you know — and a myriad of scars that carved dark ridges into his otherwise pale skin. His prosthetic arm was fitted over his shoulder, reaching across towards the middle of his back as if fitted over existing skin, rather than merging at the stump itself.

The beat paused after a rising crescendo, the atypical cue that a massive drop was about to occur. Atra closed his eyes even as he felt the space clearing behind him as Turel and the crowd stepped back. "You got this," he thought to himself confidently, "K'thri's practically a dance already."

The pause brook as the drop came in with a vengeance, the force of the sudden percussion adding to the fire stoked within his gut. Atra threw his arms back, kicking off the floor as he did so. He flipped through the air, bringing his arms in to force a spin as he did. His feet remained on the ground for less than a heartbeat before he was catapulting once more, stretching out fully at the top of the arc. He landed with a single knee down, his head bobbing in time to the beat as he fought to maintain the fluid motion.

Using his hands as platforms, Atra spun his legs around several times, shifting his arms out of the way as needed. Planting his feet firmly once more, he let out an audible whoop before diving forward. Catching himself with a single hand he held the inverted pose and contorted his legs in the air, grabbing one knee and working it in a hammer motion.

At least somewhat satisfied with his display, Atra hopped to his full height and spread his arms wide in a taunting 'come at me' stance towards Turel. The effort was clearly written over Atra's face even as he held his mouth closed in a tight line. Still, his nostrils flared as his chest heaved up and down from exertion, beads of sweat working their way down his exposed flesh.

“Wow! I’m gonna have to pull out all the stops for this one.” The Jedi thought as he tried to work himself up for the challenge ahead. He could feel all the eyes in the room on him, especially those of his opponent who stood off to the side of the stage with arms folded over his bare chest. “I’ve watched enough strippers in my life, I should be able to pull this off. How hard could it be?

The ex-gangster slowly started bobbing his head in time with the beat. His shoulders and torso slowly joined as he flowed from left to right. Inhibitions slowly melted away as the Human let himself get lost in the beat. The rest of the room melted away, there was only him and his very attractive opponent. “Dance is seduction.” The Guardian repeated to himself to get into the right mindset. His face grew a little flush as he remembered the smoldering Zeltron who used to say that to him.

The Jedi continued to gyrate his hips and shoulders in a near seamless flow as he grabbed both sides of his jacket. He thrust his chest forward as he removed the outer garment from his shoulders in a sensual manner. The pulsing of the music coursed through him like the flow of the Force as he let the jacket slide off his arms. Turel slowly rubbed his torso as he shifted behind his jacket in time to the thumping bass. As the beat struck a hard note, the Jedi kicked the jacket directly at Atra who quickly batted it away. The crowed cheered at the defiant gesture.

The growing energy of the crowd and corresponding discomfort of his opponent fed the Human’s unorthodox performance. He could feel all the eyes on him, fixated on every gesture and fluid movement. The Jedi slowly moved his hands up his thighs to his torso as he works his hips to the music. As the beat sped up he tugged at the edges of his undershirt, lifting it just enough to whet the audience’s appetite before quickly peeling it off. With the shirt in his right hand Turel bent his knees slightly, stuck out his left hand and stated rotating the shirt in the air with his right like he was riding a bucking dewback. The room exploded.

After discarding the undershirtTurel placed both hands in front of him and rotated both and all his digits toward himself in a beckoning gesture aimed at Atra. He flowed across the stage toward his opponent, shaking his hips in exaggerated movements. Once he got within arm’s reach of the Sadowan, he placed his left hand on his hip and began brushing his right up and down Atra’s sweat glistened chest. The Umbaran stiffened, clearly conflicted on how to react to the Human’s touch.

The Jedi then turned his back to the Sadowan and began to gyrate his whole body on the larger man like a waterfall flowing over a rock. Much to Atra’s surprise Turel bent forward and ground his hips into the stun Umbaran’s.

Atra jumped back. “Enough! You can have this one, I will not sit here and tolerate this, this, display!” The music came to a halt after the Umbaran’s concession of defeat.

Turel stood up, licked his finger and touched it to his own sweat covered chest while making a sizzling sound with his mouth. “Guess I’m too hot for you to handle.”

The Umbaran rolled his eyes, “You wish. Where’d you learn that ‘routine’ anyway?”

“I wasn’t always a Jedi ya know.” He paused for an awkward moment. “Look I was young and needed the money.” The Umbaran gave a look of disgust which send he didn’t want to know any more details.

“Gentlemen! Since you each have won one challenge it’s time for the tiebreaker. But what to make the third challenge?” Gul inquired as he stroke his chin in thought.

Atra allowed himself an audible groan as he glanced towards Gul with his mismatched eyes. His brow was furrowed in concentration, only partly due to restraining himself from making the supremely unwise decision of attacking the leader of the cartel. Sweat ran over his exposed figure, causing his waistband to cling uncomfortably to his skin while stinging viciously in his eyes. That was the other part for his intense concentration. The Umbaran didn't want to show any weakness in front of the boisterous crowd, let alone the Jedi. With a slow, carefully controlled movement, Atra raised his right arm and drew his wrist across his forehead. Momentarily alleviated from the offending liquid, the Sadowan turned his gaze back to Turel with a curious expression painted over his features.

The Jedi seemed completely comfortable in his own skin, despite what had just transpired. Atra instantly turned his thoughts towards more trivial concepts, such as waste disposal... or a conversation with his oh so riveting Consul. Anything at all to keep his thoughts off of the second challenge, and to what extent Turel might go for credits.

During his distraction, the Umbaran didn't notice that Turel had waltzed his way over to him while keeping his gaze focused on Gul and his arms crossed. The Twi'lek seemed to be lost in discussion with his nearby cohorts, more than likely weighing options for the possible third option. Turel tilted his head slightly towards Atra and a cheshire grin spread across his face. "Wanna make things interesting?" he queried.

If it were physically possible, Atra's eyebrow would most certainly have lifted beyond the limits of his scalp, arching high in response to the Jedi. "More interesting than," the Sadowan paused a moment to gesture towards Turel with his talon-fingered left hand, "all this?"

"Yup," Turel's teeth all but gleamed in the lights of the room. "Just a bet—"

"What kind of bet," the Sadowan interjected.

"—if you would let me finish," the Jedi muttered something that sounded an awful lot like 'rude' under his breath, "nothing damaging. I'm just thinking, whoever wins in the end should get a night full of drinks at the establishment of their choice... on the losers account, of course."

Gul was still mulling over his decision, despite the party goers themselves growing somewhat impatient and muttering among themselves. How impossibly obscure could the options for the third challenge be that it would take such intense discussion?

With a sigh, Atra leaned closer to Turel, the pale flesh of his shoulder pressing against Turel's and halting his movement. "The chance to completely forget this night ever happened, on your dime? Sounds fair."

"We'll see who's dime it is, Sadowan," Turel remarked before clasping Atra's hand in his own as they unofficially sealed the terms of their arrangement.

"Ah hah!"

Both men snapped their gaze back to the leader of the cartel, who seemed at long last ready to reveal his decision. With all the pompous and air he could muster, the teal skinned Twi'lek quieted the room and leaned forward, a strange glint in his eyes. "Tell me, how fares your humour?" Proga asked.

Atra's face went utterly deadpan, his lips barely moving even as he managed to mutter a soft, "excuse me?"

On the other hand, Turel's eyebrows raised up and his lips twisted back and forth in confusion. He reached up, scratching the tightly cropped hair on the side of his head before running his fingers through the longer expanse on top. As was evident from the first challenge, the pair of men were rather inventive at word play, but could they be funny?

Somewhat of a different type of intelligence, that.

The Human opened his mouth to respond but was cut off when the Umbaran at his side suddenly flung both hands skyward. "That's it," Atra declared, not bothering to look at Proga. "I'm out, have fun." The Sadowan put his back to the center of the throne room, making a tugging gesture with his right hand that caused a lashing thread of Force energy to retrieve his discarded clothing. The material flung through the air and into his waiting grasp.

"Mister Ventus? You would forfeit the final challenge," Gul intoned with a suddenly more serious note to his voice, "and the trade rights with it?"

"Yup," Atra responded without even a pause, his long legs taking him towards the exit and well away from the very confused looking Jedi. The Umbaran suddenly stopped, growling under his breath before pivoting about on his hind leg. "You," he suddenly shouted over the growing quiet of the room — other than the steady cantina beat that remained in the background. "You are a child playing at a cartel, lacking both the intelligence and stature to keep it for long. I look forward to when this is all taken from you," Atra's tone was entirely frigid and even, cutting as if it were a tangible thing as opposed to sound waves. "And you," he continued, "know how to reach me... Name the time and place, I hope you can hold your liquor."

The Umbaran's facade was broken as he made a 'call me' gesture with his right hand, hidden from view for the majority of those in attendance. Leaving Turel with an expression of utter incredulity locked upon his face, the Sadowan stormed from the hall and out of sight. The room was equally still, though Sorenn would have sworn up and down that an agonizing creak echoed through the room as each head swivelled so that the crowd could focus their gaze upon him. He laughed nervously, seeming to shrink three sizes smaller as he turned slowly to face Proga.

"So," he managed between shaky breaths, "a Light and Dark Jedi walk into the Winter Palace..." Turel eyed the Twi'lek as an awkward smile spread across his face. He really hoped the Sadowan hadn't pissed off the locals to the point that things were going to get rather uncomfortable for any outsiders remaining.

He was going to make sure Ventus' account was overdrawn by the time he was done cashing in on their bet.