Built from the shell of an ancient foundation, the Arx Colosseum has undergone renovations to allow multiple new configurations for battle. Its spectator setup remains largely the same, with high walls, tall enough for even the most savvy Jedi to find unscalable that lead up to spectator chairs which are divided into nearly organized sections to accommodate several thousand people. At the center, an elongated platform “box” contains a central throne of stone with various seats of smaller scale lined beside it in both directions. Two large holo-projection screens are set up on each side of the Colosseum, offering different angles of the match bia holocam drones.

Today’s setup is known as The Forge.

Inspired by the droid factories on Geonosis and the flowing lava rivers of Mustafar, the Forge is a collection of deadly heat and hard-slamming steel. In the center of the arena is a “peak” from which the lava flows downward through rivers and cliff-faces. Radiating outward is a series of tiered rings, each getting lower the further from the center you get.

Along the rivers of lava, various arteries suck out the super heated earth to melt metal. The loud clanking slamming of metal sheets heating and cooling, tempering and forging together ring clearly through the entire arena. Conveyor belts lead the metal sheets away from the arena to be used by ACE in the spaceship yards.

“No, kriff! Mates! Lads, we do nae have ta do this. We can talk bout this. I got creds! How much’ll it—”

Kordath Bleu landed hard on his rear after being bodily thrown, the obsidian unforgiving against the thin protection his boxer shorts gave. Ignoring the discomfort, he quickly scrambled to his feet, his skull ringing, and stumbled for the rapidly closing durasteel door. Reaching it centimeters before it sealed shut, the Ryn threw out a hand to catch it. Red foam thrust into the gap before being abruptly compressed until— riiip! It was torn asunder and Kord withdrew his arm with a shriek, staring down at the severed celebratory finger and knuckles just above where his own name was sprawled in Aurebesh. He flexed his own, actual fingers one by one, each popping out through the new hole, much to his relief.

That respite was short-lived as he turned around and half-slumped against the durasteel behind him.

A wicked expanse of machinery and lava spanned before him. Black basalt cliffs terraced up a peak overflowing with fiery rivers of red and orange that snaked down the slopes and cut through cliffs in lava falls. Their glow lit up the night sky, drowning out the stars above while hammering thundered across the landscape. Massive sledges rose and fell upon superheated metal, flattening it into sheets with deadly force.

It all smelled like certain death, mirrored by the sulfur stench thick in the air.

“They finally gonna off me today. Throw me ta tha fire! Oh, frak me!” Kord muttered to himself.

After multiple wars, a bloody karking purge, an assassination attempt, he should’ve known the Brotherhood would do him in like this. That he wasn’t allowed to escape free from it all and retire with his wife and kids. He glanced down and spotted a bottle in his left hand. It sloshed with a shake, so he swigged it back, the amber liquid trickling into his white goatee from the heavy draw. As he withdrew the bottle, the Ryn paused. His grey eyes fixed on a ribbon of purple wrapped around his wrist.

Zuji.

He had to get back to her; to her, their daughter and the boys. The ounce of resolve knitting his wit back together had him desperately searching for an alternative exit. His scanning gaze combed the gigantic walls blocking the horizon, then switched to the volcano before doubling back and fixing on a series of conveyor belts circling the colossus forge. Hazardous and begging for a slip into the lava rivers below, they lead away from this hellscape. So Kordath stood up, wavered a few zig-zagging steps, and started the trek into the heart of the furnace.

The closer he got to the machinery, the hotter and louder it got. The landscape undulated behind heat waves and it was as he leapt, with surprising grace for how addled his head felt from booze, that he thought he spotted two figures walking near the lifts. One was frakking tall and silver head to toe, why’d a lad painted himself like that he didn’t know. The other was shorter and sported a green bush on their head.

Wait…he knew that bush.

“Diy! Thank tha bleedin’ stars, we gotta get tha hell outta ‘ere!” he hollered over the din as he scrambled over the ledge to meet the woman.

The Kiffar stopped in her tracks, seemingly surprised to see him there before her. A look of shock passed between her and the droid. Right, that made more sense to the Ryn now.

“Kord? Well, now I feel over prepared. Too stinkin’ hot to carry this around.” A hefty thud sounded as Diy set down a large repeating blaster and its support unit onto the glossy obsidian beneath them. She sighed heavily in relief and rolled her shoulders. “Didn’t think you would’ve joined this tourney thing. Who signed you up? Sprout? He gettin’ payback for all the fertilizer you dumped on him? I’d ask where’s yer clothes but that’s less weird here…I think.”

“Wut? Tourney? Lass, this ain’t dat, they tryin’ ta kill us!” the Ryn exclaimed, his desperation increasing with certainty as his bare feet seared on the rocks, causing him to shift his weight back and forth. “Look, Diyby, luv, need ya ta help me up on dere belt. I’ll give ya a hand after and then we can escape, yeah?”

Diyrian turned to look above her to the conveyor her best friend’s husband was pointing at and was taking too damn long to understand. The burning of the soles of his feet was becoming unbearable and he could see surveillance droids zooming around them, tracking their position. Kord swore, “Sorry, lemme just—”

He leapt onto her, his hands unceremoniously finding any purchase they could as the shorter man struggled to clamber up onto her shoulders with a bottle in one hand and half a foam mitt on the other. His foot felt something give way with a tear just before getting pushed off. He fell onto his arse.

“What the kark!? Calm yer tail, Kord!” Diy glared down at him, brow fixed in exasperation. She stepped closer to him and reached down — the Ryn instinctively scurried to get on his feet, kicking something across the ground as he did. They both twisted to watch as a blaster pistol stuck in a broken holster skidded a few meters away to a halt, teetering on a ledge above lava…

Then fell in.

Diyrian went quiet. Dead quiet.

“Was that…? Hey, I’m sorry, Diy, truly. I’ll…buy ya a new lady, what’s their names? Whinny? Jhyell—”

“That was Whynnetta.”

A flash of chrome and a click answered him as the Kiffar drew and pointed the surviving twin pistol to the night sky. Her aquamarine gaze hardened like gemstone and ice.

“You got to the count of three, Bleu. Run.”

“Diy—” The grey-furred Ryn froze as he processed what the hell was happening, the whiplash from the Brotherhood trying to off him to now one of his closest mates. It was all so wild he thought maybe it was just a bad dream. A pinch and a forceful attempt to wake up left him standing in the same spot. Not a dream. Kriff.

“One…two…”

Kord didn’t delay any longer and took off running, beelining for the lowest conveyer belt he could find. The third count dropped, then the volley of bolts descended upon him.

What tha bleedin' 'ell did I do ta deserve this!? thought the Ryn as he scrambled up the conveyor belt. Scarlet bolts hit with...concerning accuracy, singing the fur of his legs as he trusted in the Force to guide his steps as he ran up into the mess of machinery above.

He'd come to Arx to see a few folks. A rare trip off Selen...a few drinks, and some laughs. That turned into a few more drinks. With no recollection of signing up for a bloody tournament of death, the perpetually hungover Ryn was not a happy camper. Squeezing between a few metal struts, sweating, and wincing from the heat of them, the ringing sound of metal pounded into shape filling his ears. He crouched in a corner and panted, the heat, the booze, the fear...he was not in shape for this.

Diyrian Grivna was livid. It wasn't often she got angry, but more than once the man known as Kordath Bleu had driven her to it. Seeing the scruffy little nerf herder reverting to his old ways, practically naked with a bottle in hand, wasn't helping her mood. Zujenia really deserved better...and as one of her best friends, maybe today was the day to relieve her good buddy of the problems of a good-for-nothing, drunkard of a husband.

Gripping the handle of Whyell tightly, she mounted the conveyor belt and began walking up at a steady pace, glancing over at 4R and nodding, gesturing upwards. The KX droid gave a minute nod and began clambering up the sides of the forging facility with surprising agileness, its pike mounted on their back.

Passing burnt-through holes from her armor-piercing pistol, she tracked her 'friend', Kordath, up towards the banging sound of metal sheets being shaped. She paused, trusting the slight innate Force ability she'd been honing as her freehand brushed over the walls, eyes half closed, until one showed her a mental image of sweaty fur pressing against one of them, brushing over it. She shuddered, able to smell, and feel the memory.

"That boy needs a shower," she sighed, squeezing through the gap, pistol first. With the sounds of machinery and pounding metal filling the air, she winced, having to rely on her eyes alone to try and track down the furry little rat-man. A flash of movement caught her eye, and for a brief moment, she regretted it as the mangled foam hand was thrown across her line of sight, distracting her just long enough for her not to be able to bring the pistol in line when she saw the Ryn invade her personal space.

Kordath was taking a pretty desperate gamble, diving in to try and strip the Kiffar hybrid of her remaining pistol, hand striking at her wrist. Trying not to actually harm his wife's bestie was going to cost him, as she jerked a knee up into his gut, pulling the pistol away, before slamming the grip down into the side of his face, sending him sprawling, head ringing. Between the head blow and the stomach strike, Kord found himself on hand and knees…he could sense the pistol pointed at the back of his head, and the hesitation behind it, despite the anger Diy felt. He suspected she was trying to rationalize shooting her friend’s husband in the head, how she’d explain it…or he just looked so pathetic that she wasn’t sure if she could.

Diy sighed as her finger tightened on the firing stud of her blaster, teeth grinding as she tried to work up the anger to finish him off. A dozen scenarios ran through her head, of how she’d tell Zujenia that she shot her husband in a moment of anger and passion. The pistol started to drop down as she sighed again, realizing she might not be able to pull this off, despite her anger about Whynnetta. And then the hit to his head, the knee to the gut all came together with all the whiskey filling the drunkard of a Ryn, and he threw up all over her boots. She looked down, eye twitching, and began to lift the blaster once more. As she pulled the trigger the man flopped over onto his back, the shot burning through the puddle of vomit he’d left behind.

“Oh gods,” he moaned on the floor, clutching his gut. The noise from the machines was so loud that he didn’t even hear the shot that punched a deep gouge in the metal plating beside him. Or the next one that hit the ground as the Force urged him to move, prompting him to sit up. Swaying, he stood, stumbling to the side, avoiding a couple more angry blaster bolts that should have by all rights skewered him. His eyes tried to focus, the burning feeling in his throat from throwing up distracting him as he staggered towards a wall to lean against it, yelping when he found it to be hotter than hell.

He blinked as a scorch mark appeared on the wall in a flash of light…he turned and realized Diy was holding her pistol on him once more.

“Oh…right…” he mumbled, holding his hands up and wincing as she aimed for him once more, a shot lining up on his gut bursting into a cascade of light around the field of Force energy he’d managed to put between them. Eyes darting around, he spotted another opening in the walls, and dove through it with desperation, hitting the ground and rolling.

“Ow…ow…ow!” he muttered as he rolled across hot rocks, almost dumping himself into another stream of lava. Scrambling to his feet, he ran in the direction opposite of where he could feel Diy, rounding a rock and running into a silver and gold metal chest of a KX security droid, face first, sending the Ryn back on to the hot rocks with a dazed look in his eyes.

“Target intercepted as requested, Lady Diyrian.”

With his head lolling still from the sudden impact, and the heat and alcohol mixing, Kordath swore he recognized that voice. It sounded off though, some familiar tone put through a modulator or comm, something. The Ryn shook his head lightly a couple of times and looked up. For a moment there, he could have sworn his unfocused gaze saw the rippling, blue-skinned muscles of Strong looming over him, as if poised to lecture. And in that split second, he thought, Thank the bloody gods!

“Strong, buddy, I done right pissed off Diy, yeah? Could ya maybe talk tha lass down? Two of ya was bedfellows ‘fore, ya know how she is—Frack.”

A force pike interrupted his quick-tongued plea and slammed down into the basalt. Kord rolled out of the way in the nick of time. The flare and uptick in adrenaline sobered his head a fraction to focus on the pursuing droid. The weapon arched toward him again with a loud buzzing. The Ryn scrambled to his feet in time to dodge backward, his body arched around the polearm with his tail maintaining his balance. He bobbed and weaved, then backpedaled with a hop in his step because the ground was still bloody hot.

Then his foot slipped.

Kord regained a foothold on the ledge that overlooked a stream of lava. His breath caught in his throat with a curse. He looked to the advancing 4R-7H3R to the lava, and then to the half-empty whiskey bottle still clasped in his left hand. “A damn shame.”

He threw the flagon at the droid and the KX-series swung without question. Glass shattered and amber liquid painted the metallic figure from polearm to body. Static charge from the pike’s stun settings crackled up the shaft, through the soaked alcohol, and shocked the droid’s carapace. 4R-7H3R stuttered, jerked and slowed as it dropped its weapon in mid-step. With a warning whirring sound of malfunctioning bits, the Ryn gave a brief exhale of relief. However, it was cut short when the groaning tin can, which stood a meter taller than him, came crashing down.

“Frack!” Kord cried out as he plummeted backwards into open air. And abruptly stopped. Painfully. Something grabbed his tail hard and left him dangling meters above molten hot lava.

“Karkin’ hell, Bleu,” Diyrian’s voice sounded from above, strained.

Eyes tearing with the discomfort and blistering heat, head starting to get woozy, Kord tucked his chin in and looked up past his dangling legs. The Kiffar was leaning over the edge, grasping his tail with a constipated-looking face, tethered by the barely functioning KX-series that nearly teetered on the edge himself.

“What the kark’ we doin’, Kord?” she huffed. “Tryin’ ta kill each other. It’s just a bloody gun, right?”

“Uh, heh,...yes? Maybe?” The Ryn was incredibly uncertain whether to agree or disagree here— not when he was dangling over lava! Still, his mouth kept going. “Donnae know, lass, seemed a bit more personal—”

“Kord.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

“Shutting up.”

A bit of grunting and the both of them scrabbling, had the two collapsing onto the heated rocks, safely away from the precipice. They panted, taking a moment to embrace the relief of avoiding a fiery death. Diyrian was the first to stand. She offered a hand over to the Ryn, then added with a sense of his hesitation, “Ay, I’m not gonna kill you.”

Pausing a moment longer, Kordath grasped her hand and allowed the assist to his feet. No sooner did he straighten up did hands grasped his head and brought it down to collide with a knee. He stumbled backwards, clutching his bleeding nose.

“I never said I was finished teachin’ you a lesson though.”

“Frack me!” shouted the Ryn, clutching his chitinous beak of a nose, feeling it for new cracks. Mostly he just came away with blood on his fingers. “Ow.”

The Force said to move but the concussion he was suffering after multiple hits to the head said don’t bother. While this mental debate raged on, a boot connected with his chest and sent him sprawling back onto the hot obsidian ground. Heat suffused his backside, drawing a whimper of discomfort and then pain as some of the spots thinner on the fur began to get searingly hot. Kordath tried to scramble to his feet, his head ringing from the multiple blows he’d taken today and the danger sense of the Force he’d relied on most of his life. It was just tough to tell which was blaring across his mind right now as that same blasted boot stomped down on his tail in anger.

His entire body went rigid and his mouth opened in a soundless cry of pain, eyes watering and drying out from the intense heat around them. A moment later, he went limp, a groan of pain slipping out of his lips as he started to cook again. He swore he smelled burning hair. Kordath grunted and tried to stand again, planting his palms on the ground despite the intense heat radiating from it, and pushed up. A swift kick to his side sent him back down, and he forced himself to roll over and away. Something felt broken to the fuzzy little man, probably a rib, his breathing becoming more difficult.

“Diy,” he croaked, clutching his chest and looking up at the angry Kiffar, “M’sorry, lass, I should nae be so rough wit’ yer stuff. I’ll get ya a new pistol…good as tha ol’ one, luv.”

The faux-Zelosian pinched the bridge of her nose in annoyance and sighed, glaring down at the mewling Ryn.

“This ain’t about Whynnetta anymore…well a little bit but that’s not the point! Look at you!” she gestured at the mess in front of her, a grown man in his…oh gods there was at least one streak on those boxers…half-drunk and battered. “You left Selen for five blasted minutes and fell back into this!? Zujenia deserves better than this, she deserves better than you if you can’t even keep it together for a short trip to Arx.”

Kordath looked as if the words hurt him more than the beating had, wincing and looking away in shame.

“I know,” he whispered.

“What was that?” Diy held a hand up to her ear and turned it towards the downed man. “Didn’t quite hear that.”

“Yer right! She do deserve better! I can nae be away from her and tha’ kiddos fer more than a day or so and I’m right back ta this poodoo. Drinkin’, losin’ me trousers, not knowin’ how I got volunteered ta bloody deathmatches….”

He sighed and let his head fall back to the ground. “At least I did nae sleep with anyone last night,” he finished with a tired sigh, eyes closing as he felt his back slowing cooking on the rocks. “...far as I know? We did nae hang out last night did we, Diy?”

He cracked an eye open to look up at her, in a manner that might have been considered leering by some.

The implication was enough to make Diy draw her remaining pistol and clock him across the head with the grip again, sending the drunken Ryn down for the count.

“...what does our Zujibean see in you?” she asked with a sigh, gesturing for the recovering KX droid to gather up the Ryn.

She turned back to see the silver and gold-plated droid heft the broken, bruised, bloody, pantless body of her best friend’s husband up in one metal hand. She also saw it glance at the nearby lava as if doing calculations. She hesitated for a moment, seeing the droid turn its photoreceptors towards her in an unspoken question.

“...no. Bad.”

The KX-series unit seemed to sag in the shoulders and instead jerkily followed her, the damage done to its servos from the earlier whiskey assault making it move without the usual smoothness.

“You so owe me one, Zuji,” she muttered.