The Godless Matron was once a Trade Federation battleship, crewed by countless droid workers. Since then, many sections of the ship have fallen into disrepair due to the sheer amount of manpower involved in its maintenance. As a result, parts of the central sphere of the Lucrehulk-class battleship has been left to the ravages of time and the scars of the Clone War itself.

The crew has come to refer to this section of the Matron as The Gauntlet, largely due to the danger it represents. Located in the lower regions of the command sphere, it is a crosshatched network of ruined and damaged hallways, repair bays, and even crew quarters. While most power has been shut off to this section — save for critical systems such as life support — the systems and circuitry still require occasional maintenance in order to keep the entire framework operational. Such tech runs have become a matter of betting amongst the crew, earning it the nickname: running the gauntlet.

A heavy layer of dust sits mostly undisturbed along the debris of the halls, save for the footprints of the few crew that have tread the path before. These previously walked paths are a safety net for those who venture into The Gauntlet unknowingly. It is also thought that the remaining Separatist forces staged a last ditch defense within this area of the ship, and did so by any means necessary. Many traps, ranging from explosives to spring-loaded mechanisms, are littered throughout the untravelled pathways — or even still undisturbed within the known sections. Further still, malfunctioning B1 droids and even semi-active Spy Drones remain, ready to ambush the unsuspecting observer and adding to the dangers of the dark, debris filled tomb The Gauntlet has become.

While not actually sealed off from entrance, access to the Gauntlet was heavily regulated and guarded. Those without the skills, resources or demanding jobs that required time spent therein religiously avoided the Gauntlet. And very few -- if any -- chose this as a place to meet away from prying eyes.

Vodo Biask had already been waiting for more than an hour amidst the disrepair and wreckage of the place. He'd received a cryptic message promising a pair of slavers in exchange for a three hour time span for a meeting. While there hadn't been exact names within the message, the Warlord had had a distinct vision, an idea of his childhood. He'd decided within moments that he'd attend this little meeting. Yet, he was not about to go in blindly. He'd arrived well ahead of schedule to scout out the meeting location. He'd heard about the Godless Matron from allies and contacts. There were traps here, of course, but this seemed to be one of the relatively safer areas of the Gauntlet.

Vodo had taken time to mentally map out what traps he could find. Then, he'd spent longer moments preparing mental images and concepts for illusions and tricks he might use against whomever it was he was here to meet. Vodo was a veteran warrior and sorcerer, and would not be caught off guard. He checked his chronometer. It was just approaching the agreed-upon meeting time. He closed his eyes and drew out to the Force, centering himself upon his emotions. Rage. Anger. Passion. Fear.

Fear.

Coldness.

The skin on the back of Vodo’s neck began to crawl. It was a familiar sensation. Anyone who had known darkness, who had lived darkness such as he would intimately know that sensation. Fear. It started to crawl along his skin, deep into his muscles. It felt as though it was making his muscles stiff. He forced his fingers open and closed. He flexed his muscles as best he could. It was still there. He felt it crawling along his body, threatening his resolve, driving away the focus he needed to maintain his connection with the Force, and continue to build his illusions. Vodo let go of his concepts, dispelled his attempts at illusions and focused instead on the Force. He reached out, attempting to direct himself towards where this fear was coming from. Something. Someone. There was a threat approaching him. The Dark Side was letting him know there was trouble. Whomever it was… this person was come to meet him.

Vodo cast his eyes about slowly, intentionally. Whether his fears continued to mount, he was going to meet them with cold, rational logic. The Twi’lek was no newcomer to the Dark Side. He was a Warlord, and had been a powerful member of both Taldryan as well as the Dark Council. Others trembled at his presence. Plebes quaked in his midst. The Taldrya did not shover. The former Voice of the Grand Master would not be cowed. Yet, still, the fear continued to mount. Vodo began to doubt himself. He began to doubt his power. To doubt his illusions. To doubt his control over the minds of others.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Vodo turned to the sound of the slow, measured footsteps. A man robed in what seemed to be pure darkness was several meters from him. It would’ve been impossible in other circumstances to get so close to the Warlord had he not been distracted by the nuisance of palpable fear. Rage boiled up in the Twi’lek, so palpable, so real, that for a brief moment, Vodo sought to attack. His hand grabbed hold of his lightsaber, and nearly activated the long-handled weapon, until that palpable terror reinforced itself as the person drew nearer.

Would that just lead to my death? Conflict has not even ensued, and the darkness seems to withdraw. How could I assail one such as… this?

Vodo relaxed, but only slightly, forcing himself to breathe. Conscious, precise effort forced breaths in. Then, slowly, out. Light shown upon the robed person, and the Twi’lek partially relaxed. He knew the man. And it was indeed a man. A Master of the Sith. One that he had not known personally, but he was familiar with him.

“Sith Bloodfyre,” Vodo hailed the Shaevalian. “I presume you are who I am here to meet.”

“You are indeed, Vodo Biask,” the Sith Master responded. “And I see that you at least considered meeting me with weapons drawn. Intelligent. You are certainly not in a place of peace, nor of safety. And at the moment, though we are not enemies, it may come to that. However, I bring a gift.”

The Shaevalian’s words did nothing to assuage Vodo’s concerns. In fact, Vodo felt his rage seeping through once more. The former head of the now-dead Clan had not ruled out being enemy combatants. The Warlord glanced around slowly, very specifically looking for other assailants.

“You and I are alone, Warlord,” Bloodfyre seemed to guess Vodo’s thoughts. “Your gift is not betrayal. I was led to believe that you would be interested in a pair of slavers that have… come into my ownership. Depending on your intentions with that weapon, you may be able to leave this place with an avenue for vengeance upon them.”