Two towering, tinted, transparisteel doors slide open to grant you access to the central chamber of the Combat Training Halls. The main room is wide and open and as large as as a holoball field. Tall walls stretch towards a domed ceiling that is made up of rows of ambient lights that spread out and fill the room with soft even lighting that eliminates any shades or shadows. Those same walls are lined around the perimeter with racks and stacks of varied weaponry: everything from swords and polearms to rifles and flamethrowers.

There are two signs that hover over each weapon rack to create an alternating motif in the Combat Training Hall: “No Explosions” and “Accorded Neutral Territory”. While the first is fairly obvious, the second speaks to the single law of the Training Halls: all members of the Brotherhood are welcome, and no member is to be killed or maimed without incurring the wrath of the Grand Master and the Inquisitori.

A trio of training dummies are statically set up and spread out in a line, each made out of a blend of alloys and padding that can withstand blows from any standard weaponry with the exception of lightsaber blades. To the side of the dummies, a large sparring mat has been stretched out to create a larger footprint than the typical shockboxing ring. The padding is good for helping teach new combat students how to take a fall without injury and offers firm footing, but the hard rubber mat is hardly forgiving.

Behind the sparring area is a door that leads to a small archives that combat students can use to view holorecordings of fights and duels from the past as well as relevant information on combat tactics, techniques, and forms. On the opposite side of the archives at the far end of central room is the locker room that members can safely store their equipment.

The final and probably most important element of the Combat Training Hall is the onsite Med Ward. The maglock door is sealed off and can only be opened by an attending Medic. The Medical facilities feature state of the art bacta tanks for recovery and aftercare. A combination of observation and waiting room rests adjacent to the recovery center and features two large monitors that display a live feed of the central room.

The Combat Halls are staffed around the clock, allowing combat students and mentors alike to come and go as they please at odd or regular hours. It also reserved for members looking to prove their worth to compete in the Antei Combat Center.

[Venue Note: Weapons incorporated into your match are allowed to be used, even if not listed on your Weapon Load Out for the match itself. Skill usage and all other ACC rules and guidelines still applies.]

Everything hurt.

Such was Kordath Bleu's assessment of life, the universe, and everything as he pried open his eyes from where they'd crusted together with grime, sucked a breath through his teeth, and realized that he was not waking up in his own bed. Again.

Joy.

It felt like an entire starship construction crew was working away inside his skull, the terrible thud-thud-thudding spiking into his nerves with every beat of his heart. He groaned, tasting...eughgh, whatever fuzz that was on his tongue, and rolled onto his side, which promptly bashed his knee into something and caused a whole bunch of noise and clattering and ow ow ow ow why?

The Ryn had enough faculty about him to instinctively draw on the Force, dampening some of his agony and clearing his mind just a bit. He screwed his eyes back open and stared at fallen broom and mop handles and the wheels of buckets in front of his face. A quick if painful twist of his torso revealed a few more walls, some shelves, a glowbank on the ceiling that was dark. The space was cramped and dark, would have been almost cozy if not for the chill and the heavy smell of mop water, cleaners, and wet Ryn. Was that him? He cautiously turned to sniff under his arm and — yeah, yeah, that was him. Also, he had no shirt. Or...pants. Or shoes.

"Wha' ta bleedin' 'ell," grumbled Kordath, throat unbearably dry. He tried and failed to lick his lips, struggling to remember something, anything, that would clue him in as to why he was waking up nearly naked in some janitor's closet with a blinding hangover.

Which was about when he noticed the piece of flimsiplast stuck to the middle of his chest. He stared at it for a full minute before prying the note free, yelping when the tape did unkind things to his poor fur.

Kordath squinted, but there just wasn't enough light to read by. He would have to turn on the damn lights, which would require getting up, and that just seemed like an all around crap idea. Still, he had pants to find. And probably...someone. Zuji and Shay, or Satsi, if not his Fades...someone was usually keeping track of him, right? And given how bad he felt, like he'd been bar-hopping all night, Satsi was probably most likely. And, given she wasn't here, or naked and here, and there was a note instead...

It's a trap, the Ryn thought miserably, tail drooping, head dropping back to the floor — which he immediately regretted. He resigned himself to his new position with another sigh. There is no bloody way this turns out good, somethin's gotta be wrong, I'm gonna get blamed for something with me luck, I know it...

After a moment or two of wallowing and wishing wistfully for his comfy bed and his fiancee's much comfier, warmer chest to pillow himself on, Kordath dragged himself upright, palmed around for the nearest switch, and flinched when the lights came up. He took a second to adjust and fight off a wave of nausea before taking stock of himself and the cabinet. His clothes were not present, but he had his knuckler and a full bottle of drink. His body wanted water, and caf, and a good greasy breakfast, but at least he had something. Otherwise, it was just the maintenance essentials and his note.

He squinted to read.

Kordy, it began. While last night was fun, you should know by now that I have no frakking pity for you or anybody else feeling like kark, so I'm still expecting you to go help my little Greenie with training in the morning. I've got that crap with the next batch of Tarenti folk, and Uji can't teach him everything, so it's your turn to give a few pointers.

Oh, and just in case you decided to flake, I went ahead and stuck your fine ass in this closet at the combat center just to help you along a bit. Friends don't let friends wander off drunk, and all that jizz.

Be good or I'll hurt you. Kisses, -S.

Well. That explained everything nice and neat, now didn't it?

"Crazy karking woman..." Kordath groaned. She'd probably stolen his clothes just to be cheeky. He was going to yell at her for this later. Over the comm. Where she couldn't try to pull anything.

But for now, he apparently had a class to hold, or something, bloody karking hell.

The Ryn cracked open the door and wasn't sure whether or not to be glad it wasn't locked. The hall outside was empty save some cleaning droids but way, way too bright, all whitish-gray metal and a million glowbanks, and he hated it immediately. Arx was a horrible, horrible bloody place, and the combat center was the crown jewel of all things the Ryn hated about it. His nose ached just thinking about its overseers.

Picking a direction, he wandered down that way, hoping to find this "Greenie" person or the nearest exit, whichever came first. As he walked, he racked his brain, recalling pieces of the previous evening and also debating what his Consul had said. She had an apprentice these days, green kid, that was probably who she meant, right? From what little the Ryn could remember, the lad or lass hadn't been insane, so maybe they'd just agree to reschedule and he could be in a real bed before noon.

Surprisingly, he still didn't encounter another living soul until he reached an unfortunately familiar set of doors that lead him into the famous training area. His senses told him there was just one person inside, and while he didn't pick up anything that screamed 'darky angry smashy person ready to kill you', the aura wasn't...pleasant. In fact, Kordath mainly sensed a whole lot of pissed off.

The Ryn finally spotted the boy — and he was indeed that, shirt tied around his waist and hair pulled back, a blue lightsaber in his two-handed grip as he whaled on what remained of some poor exercise dummy — as he walked past some weapons racks. He paused to watch, scratching idly at his rear and cursing the air conditioning. The kid didn't seem to notice him at all, too wrapped up in beating on his target. Kordath frowned. They'd have to work on those senses, lad was gonna get himself killed. Just...another time.

He took pity on Greenie — and Satsi did not get any points for that nickname — and announced himself with a loud cough. The Mirialan shouted in alarm and spun around, lightning flying from his hand barely a second after it left the hilt of his weapon. The blast went wide, but Kord still dove aside on pure instinct, arms covering his head as he yelped. When he looked behind him, there was a black scorch mark high up on the wall, joining many others yet to be cleaned, probably from other training sessions.

"Oh, frang! Frang, sorry, sorry, are you okay?" There was a clatter as the kid dropped his saber and ran over, panting, dropping down beside Kordath. The Ryn waved him off.

"I'm fine, lad, m'fine. Well. Okay, no, but ya dinnae hurt me, quit fussin'," he said, standing again and grimacing when he had to crane his neck to look up at the boy, per usual.

"I'm sorry," apologized the kid again, pushing sweaty hair out of his face. He was huffing, looked like he'd been at it for ages. How early had this boy shown up? Maybe that was why no one else was around. It was some ungodly hour before dawn.

Kordath shook his head again. "Dinnae worry about it. Yer Satsi's apprentice, right?"

"Yeah, yeah. Uh." He stuck out a hand to shake, and the Ryn shrugged and returned the grip. It was a little hard. "Ruka."

"I'm Kordath."

"I know."

The apologetic expression was gone now, guilt starting to melt into something more pinched. The Ryn raised a bushy brow.

"Ooookay. Well, lad, I'm not feelin' me best, bit wrung out, is all," he waved the bottle in his hand by way of explanation, and the Mirialan's face darkened considerably, fast. Like a storm cloud just up and appearing on a clear day. The Ryn continued, "So, ah, how's about we do this another time? I'll help ya, sure, I will, this is just not a good morning for me and you know how Satsi gets, so let's just...um. Lad? Yer looking not great."

The lad looked, really, like he was barely an inch away from committing some form of violence, his teeth grit and bared, nostrils flaring, impressive eyebrows furrowed. It was that, or maybe he was constipated. Kordath couldn't really tell, and the green kid seemed to mostly attempt to communicate with his brows when he wasn't speaking, which seemed to be a lot of the time. He crossed his arms, shifted on his feet.

"I didn't come here to deal with more damned drunks," growled the boy, actually kind of growled, and huh, Kord really needed to drink more water because that couldn't be real, "I didn't leave my franging family and mhi ahimaa to come across the galaxy and babysit pujos like you. I came to train, you kriffing..."

Now, the Ryn didn't know what language the Knight started spitting in — probably Mirialan, like those other words he'd used that were probably insults, because...well, the kid was a Mirialan — but he knew a rant when he heard one. There were probably a few choice words about his character and his mum, blah blah blah. Kordath bliked slowly, stuck a pinky in his left ear and twisted, enjoying the itch as much as the way it dampened his, uh, "student's" tirade. Too bloody loud and too bloody early for this, it was.

"Eh, uh, lad, ya done yet? It's early, we just woken up, eh, let's go to the recc room an' get some caf and whatever excuse they got for food in this prison and then we'll do some, uh, exercises or somethin' if it makes ya feel better, yeah? I'll show ya how to do, uhm...illusions. Sure. Those can be quiet. Real useful like too. We'll practice the little tricks...footsteps goin' the other way, empty hands, naked ladies, stuff like that."

Kordath thought his offer was pretty generous, and was pretty proud of himself for coming up with it considering how little caffeine was currently in his system.

Ruka-whatever-his-name-was didn't seem to agree.

"...early? EARLY? IT'S SEVEN IN THE KRIFFING EVENING, YOU SLEEMO! I'VE BEEN WAITING HERE FOR TWELVE KRIFFING HOURS!"

"Ow, ow, lad, volume, please," groaned the Ryn, wincing and rubbing at his head.

Wow, could the boy's eyebrows do all sorts of things. Was he having a stroke or composing a poem to getting up early? Looked more stroke-ish.

"You're disgusting," spat the Mirialan at last, expression finally settling on one of, well, disgust. He was flushed sort of a muddy, brownish-red that didn't go well with his green skin and made all those funny scars kinda...pop. Ruka turned deliberately away, making a gesture that, while foreign, was similar enough to others that the Ryn didn't have to guess its meaning.

Kordath felt the growing irritation in the pit of his stomach and the base of his spine — annoyance at being dragged out here, frustration with his pain, discomfort from the chill of the room on his bare self, all of it — flash up and boil over as his tail lashed.

"Oi, shut it," snapped the Ryn, jabbing a finger in the Knight's direction. "I dinnae sign up fer this kark but I'm here and you're bein' a right bloody prick just cause a man's gotten up a little rough this morning—"

"It's not even morning anymore, oh my Bogan—"

"Quit interruptin' me, kiddo, I'm tryna—"

"I'm not a kid," snarled the kid again, turning back around to stare the Ryn down, gaze dangerous. "And you, you're supposed to be what, Proconsul of the clan? Satsi said you were good, said I'd learn a lot from you, but you— You make me sick, coming in here, stinking like that, all booze and no sense, and you go home to your kid like that? Kriff off, you should be ashamed of yourself, putting that on a little girl. She's sweet, I know, I've been babysittin' her half of Satsi's shifts, and you, you..." he devolved into unintelligible growls of fury again, and Kordath got the sense that it wasn't just him the Mirialan was glaring at.

That didn't stop the fierce anger from scorching up his own throat, however. His tail lashed, and before he'd even really thought it through all the way, the appendage was grabbing up the nearest small object — a little weighted ball — and tossing it at the kid. It smacked him soundly in the hip, and Ruka swore.

"I don't go around Shay wasted," growled the Ryn right back. His headache still pounded, but it was getting a bit quieter than the roaring in his ears. "And it'd do you good to be a bit less o' a jackass first thing ya meet people, lad. Let that be bloody lesson one. Ya listenin' or do I have ta turn ya over a knee like the brat you're acting like?"

"I'll teach you a franging lesson, sithspitter," shouted the Mirialan, and before Kord had a chance to logically replay everything that had just been said, Ruka was swinging. It took a few seconds too long for the Ryn's slowly-swimming brain to realize just what was coming, the Force having been prickling under his skin this whole time with unease and giving him no more alert than it already had been. Even as he shifted to duck quickly aside, the blow caught his shoulder, spun him around, slammed him into the mats like a sledgehammer. His skull rang.

He swore he saw tiny mynocks flying circles around his head and wondered dimly why he hadn't just drunken the rest of his whiskey and stayed in that broom closet.

Slowly, the Ryn breathed through his fluted nose — still perfectly intact, blessedly — and pushed himself to his hands and knees only when he was mostly sure he wouldn't vomit. Ruka was still across the gym, looking like he wanted to throw another telekinetic hammer the Proconsul's way. Kordath had no intention of giving the kid the chance.

Concentrating power in his left hand, he shied it somewhat behind his body as he mimed struggling upright, letting the flow of the Force build. Ruka shifted in response, all ready and coiled to spring, eyes glowing bright, poison gold like some of the Sith the Ryn had the misfortune of knowing. Kordath lifted his free hand, palm out, placating, and "wobbled" to his feet. Possibly with more actual wobbling than he would have liked.

"Now, now, lad...no need ta make this any worse, I'll even forgive ya that one, Red won't even have ta know, we'll just patch this whole thing up..." the Ryn lifted an eyebrow, voice aiming for syrupy and getting somewhere around...something. "Just simmer down."

Electricity sparked and ran up and down the Knight's arms, and he glared at Kordath.

"Or, well, don't," sighed the man, bringing his other hand up to join its partner in the air. "Alright, welp, ya had ta make it hard."

He saw the Knight twitch and shift like he was going to tackle the Ryn, or shoot lightning out his fingertips, but Kordath was faster. He opened his palm, scrunched his eyes shut, and released a blinding supernova of light that filled the room.

It was hard to tell which made his ungodly hangover worse; the painful brightness of the flash even behind his eyelids, or the loudness of the Mirialan boy's startled scream.

“I do nae need this crap,” grumbled Kordath, staggering slowly towards the blinded boy. He paused on his way to pick up what little he’d had before the green-skinned Sith had slapped him, scooping the bottle and knuckles from the mat. Kordath threaded his fingers through the synthflesh grip, tightening and relaxing his hold while debating a drink. A darker thought came to mind as he approached his boss’s apprentice, who was starting to rub at his eyes to clear his vision. The Mirialan tensed, hands pausing as he sensed impending danger.

“What—”

Bleu kicked him in the shin with the side of his foot, wishing Satsi had at least left him his karking boots. The Sith let out a sharp yelp, more of indignity than pain, at such an assault. Ruka struck back blindly and the Ryn staggered sideways to avoid the hit, following up with another kick of his own to the back of the boy’s calf.

“Yer bleedin’ angry, ain’t ya? Ready ta throw down at a moment’s notice, eh? Gonna get yerself killed, mate, actin’ out like this.”

“Like you could kill me,” growled the Mirialan, limping back for a moment, eyes starting to focus on the disheveled Ryn.

“Never said it’d be me, lad.” Anything else Bleu wanted to say was lost in the crackle of lightning that the Sith channeled his way, forcing the Ryn to dance away. The hair on the left side of his body stood on end from the nearness of the charge. His retreat took him closer to one of the weapon racks, his back to it so he could watch the green kid. His tail fumbled at the items behind him and he slowly set his bottle down, holding both hands up. The attempt to look harmless was ruined somewhat by the set of knuckles on one hand, but it did briefly cause Ruka to stop and watch him warily.

“Drunkard and an idiot.”

“Never said I was nae either of those, kid, but ya gotta wonder if Red did nae arrange this for a reason.”

The boy rolled his shoulders and started to settle into a proper fighting stance. “To test me, obviously, against another Force User.”

“Maybe,” Kordath nodded as he spoke, trying to keep a straight face as his tail wrapped around the handle of something in the rack. “Though she’d usually use me mate Uji for that, yeah?”

Ruka gave him a blank stare, his words coming out carefully.

“She wanted to test me against someone more...fit, then.”

“Oh, right, tha guy’s got a bum leg and a heart condition, bet he can still whoop your green arse,” growled the Ryn, taking exception to the implied meaning. He began to gather energy from the Force, channeling it through his muscles. “Then again, give ya ten credits ta say somethin’ like that ta Satsi sometime, should go over well.”

“Does your chattering have a purpose?” asked the exasperated Mirialan.

“Sure,” spoke Kord, his grin going lopsided as he crouched to pick up his bottle. “T’was distractin' ya, o’ course.”

“Distracting me from wh—”

Ruka cursed as something whipped past the Ryn’s head, a flash of the small man’s tail the only warning he got outside of the Force. A practice weapon, something looking like a shortsword, slammed into his raised forearms with a crack, the wooden slats making up the blade stinging on his skin. The guarded stance he’d been in saved him from an embarrassing hit to the face, and he felt rage bubbling once more as he moved his arms away to regain sight of the Proconsul. Except the fuzzy little sleemo had come charging in after the practice sword, crouched low and aided by the Force. Kordath barreled into Ruka’s legs, taking them both down to the mat.

The Ryn struggled to maintain control of the grapple he’d started, cursing as the bigger, stronger Sith fought him. Finally, Kordath managed to get himself almost eye to eye with the boy, and reared back and slammed himself into the younger man’s face. Ruka cried out in pain as the chitin nose dug in, drawing blood from his cheek. Bleu fought back the dizziness of smacking himself with another person and worked a forearm over the Mirialan’s throat, pushing with what weight he had and panting.

“Ya got anger issues, kid,” he managed to gasp out.

“Frak you!”

“Ya know why she sent ya ta test against me? Uji can put up with your crap; man’s got patience and control. Me? Not so much, but Red knows I’d never resort ta killin’ ya fer bein’ an immature little bastard about it.”

“Get off me you karking drunk, I can smell you!”

Kord snarled at the comment, his tail rising into the boy’s view, holding the bottle around its neck.

“Tha big thing here is, she’s bleedin’ Consul, coulda sent any number of badarse Siths or somethin’ ta play with ya. Instead, she got me drunk and shoved me inta a closet with a bloody note. Cause she figured I could teach ya. Cause anybody else she’d have sent,” he grit his teeth and pushed on the boy’s throat harder, feeling the Sith tense up beneath him. Ruka would buck him off soon if he didn’t get to the point before his augmented strength failed him. “Anybody else? They’d have killed ya fer bein’ an obnoxious, loud-mouthed, arrogant kid. Just cause they could. I’m more about teachin’, I am,” stated Kord, his tail lowering the bottle to by his face.

The Ryn caught the cap of the bottle in his teeth and twisted it, the smell of whiskey wafting from the opening.

“Ya need ta find a way ta relax, kiddo, this stress stuff’ll kill ya,” he stated with a grin.

If he'd been hoping a little good sense and friendly advice would work, he was disappointed.

Ruka's only response was to growl, plant his feet, and surge his whole body upwards in a sinuous movement that threw the Ryn off with a grunt. The way he tumbled into the mats wasn't the worst of it though; the real insult was the way his whiskey sloshed and splattered all down his chest, his shorts, and to the floor in an arc of amber liquid. Kordath snarled.

Oh yeah, bloody stupid little brat of a Sith, alright, learnin' all the ropes, be angry and stick yer fingers in yer ears and go la la la until the only thing ya hear is yer own damn stupid self, he thought fiercely.

"Kriff you," whined the boy as he rolled to his feet, big shoulders flexing, forearms bruised and lip bloody. He sucked up some mucus with a loud, wet snort and spat it out. "You wanna talk about how I got so many problems and you're so perfect, huh? You ever think maybe she didn't send you to teach me, she sent me to babysit your drunk franging ass? Satsi might've stuffed you in a closet but she didn't pour any of that down your throat."

He stabbed a finger accusingly at the spilled alcohol. Kordath had the sneaking suspicion that the kid had some hang ups with the good drink.

"Alright, kiddo, which drunk uncle bad touched ya where, huh?" came out of his mouth.

Maybe not so sneaking.

The Mirialan's face turned interesting colors when he got really mad. Looked like a vein in his forehead might be popping too. Unhealthy, that was. He couldn't be more than what, twenty? Nobody under sixty should be popping veins, if you asked the Ryn. Boy took things way too seriously.

"You sleemo," shouted the Knight, eyes bright gold, and thrust his fist out again in a repeat of his earlier Force-fueled punch. The next two heartbeats were a mess of motion: the Proconsul raised his hands and willed a protective corona into existence with barely a thought; the kid launched himself into the air with unnatural strength, springing high and raising his other arm; and the telekinetic blow crashed into Kordath's barrier, shattering the bubble and staggering him. The Ryn's mind and Force-attuned senses reeled, his body trying to react fast enough to scamper back from the man falling towards him, but there was just no time. By the third heartbeat, a tangle of bones and muscle were slamming into him even as he backpedaled, and everything sort of hurt and spun with stars.

There was a crunch somewhere.

Kordath gasped and dragged himself to his feet without even really realizing he was moving, a habit from years of experience with bar room brawls and being more than a little out of it during them. His body ached, but he breathed just fine; nothing broken. What, then—?

Oh, blast.

Gray eyes darted over to where Ruka was picking himself up, nursing his hand like he might have landed on it wrong — deserved it, the little frakker. There where they'd collided laid the sad remains of his bottle, crushed and bleeding all its lovely nectar. The Ryn's hand was stinging like it was probably cut up, and there was definitely some green glass lodged in the Mirialan's torso that would've been hard to see if not for the blood speckled around it. Kord hoped it hurt.

"See? An' this here is what I mean! Karkin' gonna kill yourself if someone don't do it for you," growled the Proconsul, rolling his eyes and gritting his teeth. Ruka shook himself and sneered.

"I am so sick of you!" he snarled, and then something else in his native tongue, probably building towards another rant while he healed himself. Or didn't? Those cuts weren't closing and he was still holding his hand funny. Bloody 'ell, this is borked all out, punk doesn't even know how to take care of himself, does he? "...nd so why don't you just KRIFF. OFF. And sober up?!"

Kordath took the brief seconds to concentrate, forming an image in his mind and drawing the Force to him like an old friend. He waited for a pause for breath between Ruka's sentences, then spoke himself. "Look, kid, Ruka, ya got to calm yer bloody self—"

"Excuse us," interrupted a feminine voice, just on cue with the Ryn's intentional stutter. Both men looked over to see two figures coming towards them from the entrance. Both were women, both dressed in tight-fitting workout gear. One was a lovely green Twi'lek, taller and curvaceous, while her blonde Human companion was shorter and slimmer, sportier. Both of them bore friendly smiles and curious eyes as they sashayed closer. "You guys really seem to be going at it, wow," said the Twi'lek. "Can we train with you too?"

"It'd be really good practice. I need to work on my grappling. Please?" asked the Human, biting her lip.

A pause. Kord pretended to consider. "Well, ladies, I, um, I wouldn't mind, really, dunno about my friend here..." he trailed off meaningfully, casting a hopeful glance at Ruka, but the lad wasn't looking at the girls. He was instead staring straight at Kordath with something between disgust and annoyance on his face. Smug disgust. How did that even work?

"You're not just hailing the wrong port, you're not even in the right star system," scathed the Mirialan with a flat tone and a curl of his nose. "And you said like ten minutes ago that you'd teach me kriffing illusions and kark. How dumb do you think I am?"

"Oh, pretty dumb," grumbled the Ryn, disgruntled that he'd missed his mark. He let the apparition drop, and the conjured eye candy disappeared. "Worth a shot though. Ya done bein' a jerk yet?"

"Me? You're the frangface here."

"That's a no then, eh?"

Ruka fisted his hands at his sides — the one he could, anyway, oh where those knuckles ever popped, eesh — and bared his teeth again, eyes flashing once more. "Oh that is it, kriff it, sorry, Cor," he said.

Kordath didn't know who 'Cor' was or what was being apologized for, but a moment later his already-agitated senses were rankling again, and then the Knight lifted his fingers and made a sort of snapping motion at the ground, electricity leaping from their tips.

The puddle of whiskey ignited. The flashfire puffed over the glass and raced along various thin trails of the splatter, one of them heading...right for the Ryn.

The Proconsul yelped and jumped back from the trail he'd dripped, but the tiny blaze burnt fast. It caught up, heating his toes and singeing the tips of his fur quickly with little pain but a strong stink of burnt hair. He felt only a moment of mixed alarm and relief before his bloody drawers, soaked in the stuff, caught flame and actually stayed that way.

Kordath yelped again, more shrilly this time, and yanked his undergarments off in record time, nearly faceplanting as he stumbled and pulled his tail and foot out and cast them away. The fabric caught on his heel and he did trip then, momentum unkind to him as he kissed the mats.

Ruka was laughing.

Ruffled but unharmed, the Ryn pushed himself up onto his elbows and glared at the kid. "Ya bloody...Wee now kong bantha poodoo," he snarled, fingers tightening around his knuckler.

Just then, blaring klaxons filled the arena, making both of them flinch inwards. Seconds later, the ceiling opened up and let loose a downpour on both of them. Ruka sputtered and choked, gaping up at the sprinklers as the alarms grew, somehow, so much louder. Over the din, a voice issued on repeat, "No Explosions. Accorded Neutral Territory. No Explosions. Accorded Neutral Territory.”

"And now even the damn bot is yelling at you, great," Kord snapped. He could really smell himself, and now stank like drunk, burnt, wet Ryn. Kark.

"It's yelling at us," muttered the Mirialan defiantly. The Ryn found himself chuckling despite everything.

"Ahh, what else is new? Can nae get me a break."

The medical bay was open and a line of droids came buzzing in, along with security droids from the hall and, down from the observation area, a very annoyed looking tech. The two Arconans met the man's furious face with sheepish looks.

"Hey, look, I'm sorry. I'll clean everything up," offered Ruka solemnly, while Kordath barely resisted rolling his eyes out of his head and darted over. He grabbed the boy's good wrist and tugged him along, the Miralan tripping after him at a jog. "Wait, what—"

"Shut up, ya moron. Ya gotta learn when to quit!" crowed the Ryn, glancing back at the growing army of angry droids and pissy Combat Center personnel. "And if I'm teachin' ya anything, it's when to git gone!"

"But—"

Of course the kid had some chivalry streak on top of his temper. Stars, it was like someone mashed Satsi and Strong together, and not even in a fun way.

"Run," insisted the Proconsul as one of the meaner security units swiped for his tail.

Thankfully, the boy finally took the hint, speeding up as they both gasped and pounded down the hall, klaxons following their every step.

Kordath’s tail upturned the bottle over the struggling Mirialan’s face, who was grunting and pushing to remove the offending Ryn from atop him. Ruka’s cry of alarm turned to coughing and choking as the whiskey splashed across his face, filling his mouth and nostrils as he flailed under the Ryn.

“Come on, lad, have a drink! It’ll help ya deal with all this frustration, or at least forget yer stress a bit, eh?”

Bleu tried to sound cheerful as the Knight’s struggling abruptly ceased. Then the bottle exploded in the Proconsul’s hand, peppering the side of his face with glass and alcohol, making it sting and burn.

Frak me, kids got a temper, he thought, before finding himself flung back through the air by the younger man’s telekinetic talents. Frak, frak, frak!

Ruka struggled to his feet, eyes burning with rage as he coughed and spat out whiskey.

“Well now that’s just a waste, son,” mumbled Kordath from his resting place, tangled in a rack full of practice weapons.

“SHUT UP!” screamed the Sith. “And don’t call me ‘son’, you drunk sleemo bastard!”

“Lookin’ a bit green there, mate, ya gonna be sick?”

The glib remark did little to calm the fires raging inside the boy, which overflowed and erupted in a stream of purple and blue energy towards the Ryn. The Scion of Arcona had felt it coming, focusing his energy as he gave up extricating himself from his current situation and pushed outward instead. The lightning crackled across the shield he’d erected before him with the Force, dancing in scintillating patterns and threatening to overwhelm the Augur.

It let up without warning, causing the Kordath to breathe a sigh of relief, but the sensation of danger failed to relent. The barrier shattered under an unseen blow, the energy and momentum knocking him back into the fallen weapon rack with a grunt. He groped blindly at the various practice weapons around him as he caught his breath, hands closing on a pair of cylindrical objects.

“Drunken disgrace,” he heard Ruka bark at him, the boy pulling something from his belt and stalking towards him. “I’ll apologize to Zujenia, beg for her understanding but not her forgiveness. But your daughter will be far better off without the likes of you!”

The snap-hiss of a lightsaber filled Kordath’s hearing, and he groaned as the blue blade came to life. He threw whatever he’d grasped with his left hand, a stick with a handle mounted on the side, which the Sith batted away with contemptuous ease. With his right, he began to throw as well, before his eyes focused on what he held.

Aw hells, it’s been a long time. See if I recall anythin’ Nath taught me ta stay alive till he’s done, he thought, trying to recall his old master’s teachings on the subject.

The object in Kordath’s hand came to life as he hit the stud on the side, a sickly yellow beam of energy that managed to hold off Ruka’s first strike. The Sith looked surprised, and the mostly naked Ryn capitalized on that by lashing out, kicking the boy in the shin again and scrambling to his feet.

“You’re scrappy, I’ll give you that,” growled the Mirialan, favoring his leg momentarily. He watched as the Proconsul held the training saber up with both hands tight on the grip, the older man’s unfamiliarity with the weapon obvious.

“Just waitin’ fer ya ta calm down, son,” spoke Kordath, grinning despite his situation.

“I said do not call me ‘son’!” yelled Ruka, throwing his arm out once more, power flowing through it. Bleu caught the lightning on the saber, watching in worry as the low powered weapon tried to ground it. Luckily for him, the Sith’s assault was shorter than the last, and the broad-shouldered boy seemed to be sweating.

Good, almost there, he thought, feeling the first inklings of fatigue himself. Come on, kiddo, keep pushing.

The Ryn fell into the Force, hoping his talent with a blade would at least keep him alive while on the defensive.The Sith’s style was aggression incarnate, blows raining down from every angle that the Proconsul did his best to dodge and weave away from. He was forced to parry on occasion and watched in alarm when the glow of the training weapon’s blade seemed to flicker and fade from repeated hits. That it wasn’t made to stand up to a proper lightsaber was obvious to him. When an opening to attack presented itself, he kicked Ruka just above the knee and scampered backward out of reach.

“Coward,” hissed the Mirialan, gesturing for the Ryn to return with a pull from the Force. Kordath strained against it, feet sliding across the mat, watching his so-called sparring partner’s sweat dripping down. The grip on him relented, and Ruka took a deep breath, his eyes closing for a moment before shaking his head.

“What…”

“There it is,” sighed Kordath, smirking and shutting off the saber, tossing it away and holding his hands up. “This was a lesson, yeah?”

“What could I possibly learn from you?” Even through the disdain, Kordath could hear, and sense, the mental fatigue of the boy before him.

“Restraint,” stated the Proconsul, simply, lowering his hands. “Yer angry, ya got somethin’ against me cause I indulge in a bit of tha drink. And comin’ here like this,” he gestured at himself, “was yer master’s doin’, not me own. She’s tha one who got me out on tha sauce last night, blast it. And I think she did it ta get ya as riled as ya could.”

From the way the green-skinned man was watching him it was apparent he didn’t get it yet.

“Yer fit, yeah, and ya got power, but power’s got limits, yeah? Tossin’ ‘round lightnin’ and them big telekinetic hits, one after ‘nother after ‘nother? Do nae matter how tough ya is, ya got limits, yeah? Get someone pacin’ themselves and able ta get ya pissed off and exhaustin’ yerself, make yerself easy pickin’s. That’s what Satsi wanted me ta teach ya, I think. Restraint, mate, otherwise yer gonna get yerself killed. And methinks from what Red has told me, ya got people relyin’ on ya.” Ruka lowered his saber, slowly, before shutting it off, brow furrowing as he took in the Ryn’s words. He knew he had a temper, and as annoying as it was to hear it from Bleu, he could recognize truth as well.

“Guess you learn things if you get as old as you do.” “Oi! I’ve got all of five bleedin’ years on ya!”

“Looks closer to ten, from the way you treat yourself.”

“Kark off and find me a cloak or somethin’, I’m gettin’ cold. And you do nae want ta explain to port security why ya got a naked Ryn with ya, yeah? Gotta get home to Zuji and Shay, give yer master a piece o’ me mind as well fer shovin’ me inta a closet on bleedin’ Arx of all places.”