Despite being on the first level of the Citadel, the massive courtyard remains hidden behind towering walls of stone and sediment. An elongated central patch of neatly trimmed grass stretches out for almost fifty-meters while maintaining a twenty-meter width. At the center of the grass is a large, ovular fountain in the shape of the Arcona emblem, with water running from the tips of each pointed edge. Vegetation grows along some of the walls, and an archaic clock-face is carved into the face of one of the entryways. A small group of rotating sharpshooters are scattered across the walls as the courtyard is supposed to serve as a safe place for Arconans to enjoy some quiet time, or to meet with visitors. It has served as the venue for multiple honor-duels over time, and there is a significant crater off to the side of the grass left behind as a result of a contest between Marick Arconae and Wuntila Arconae. The duel had taken place prior to either Arconae serving as Shadow Lords and in a quieter time before all Arcona knew was warfare.

As you walk towards the back of the courtyard, closer to the base of the cliff that the Citadel is constructed upon, a tall tree shoots up from the stone, its shade guarding an entrance into the Citadel proper.

A gentle breeze carried a biting chill and falling snow into the Citadel courtyard on the Selenian winter day. The courtyard’s normally verdant trees and expanses of grass were blanketed with over a meter of fresh ivory powder. Duracrete walkways had been cleared by various Citadel servants to allow the Arconans to go about their business without hinderance.

Braecen noticed his breath visibly hanging in the frosty air as he walked through the courtyard with his Aedile. The two men had some time to kill before their next summit meeting and were traversing the courtyard to reach the Citadel’s galley. The Elder was barely paying attention to Uji as he rattled off the various logistical concerns with reopening the fabled Void Squadron. Kaeth had already anticipated and adjusted for the various contingencies long before the project launched, but wanted his subordinate to go through the thought exercise of figuring these things out for himself. He continued making mental notes of areas the Shadicar miscalculated.

As he continued along the pathway to the far side of the courtyard, an odd spectacle caught the Quaestor’s eyes. For in the center of the courtyard, just off the main fountain, he noticed the Clan Rollmaster and the Odan-Urr Proconsul building snowmen — or more accurately snowwomen, judging from their curves and generous bosoms.

“What do you think, Bleu-boy?” Turel inquired of his Ryn companion. “A spitting image of the Melons of Selen herself.”

The Rollmaster stroked his white beard for a moment as he examined the Jedi’s artwork. “Nah, needs a bigger scowl if that’s supposed to be the Ice-Queen, methinks.” He turned to his own attempt at sculpture. “Whatcha ya’ think of mah Blinky?”

The Human paced around the snow mock-up of the Shadow Lady, complete with a scarf around her face in the Miraluka style. “Not bad, not bad at all. Though, I think her tits aren’t that big.”

Kordath shrugged. “Artistic license.” Turel let out a hearty laugh in response.

By this point Uji and Braecen were a few paces away from the two buffoons playing in the snow. The Shadicar simply rolled his eyes and redirected his gaze toward the door, intent on avoiding any distractions. The Elder, on the other hand, slowed his gait to observe the Jedi closer.

Turel Sorenn had always been a bit of a curiosity for Braecen. The Jedi had served the Shadow Clan honorably during the latter campaigns of the Dark Crusade before abruptly going AWOL and later just up and leaving the Clan. But for the grace of the Shadow Lady, he would be dead. Despite all that, here he was, playing in the Citadel courtyard like he belonged there. The Sith harbored no ill will toward the Jedi, only a passing curiosity. How could one who so openly denounced the Shadow Clan and everything they stood for still be welcomed as a long lost brother upon his returning visits? For a man who prided himself on truly knowing what made those around him tick, this mystery was bothersome.

Turel called out to the passing pair, “Hey Uji! The meeting isn’t for another forty minutes, come make a snow person. A Satsi one would complete the set.”

The Ryn joined in, “Lighten up, have some fun for once!”

The Shadicar was clearly not in the mood for the misfit pair’s antics on this particular day. He gave no verbal response, dismissing the Human and Ryn with a handwave before turning back to resume his report to Bracen. The Elder cocked an eyebrow before facing forward himself to continue his journey. A few heartbeats later, Braecen heard a faint whisper through the Force telling him to dodge. He instinctively ducked low and to the left just as a snowball flew past where he was walking just a second prior.

“Oh frak, sorry, Brae. I meant to hit sourpuss over there.”

“Oh grow up, Sorenn,” Uji countered before continuing to walk.

Braecen cracked the slightest of grins. His competitive side perked up at the possibility of testing the Jedi’s reflexes. It was Life Day after all — a short contest of speed, dexterity and wit wouldn’t throw off his schedule. Time to beat the Odanite Councilor at his own game. With a continuous motion, Braecen spun to face Turel, knelt down, scooped up two snowballs and lobbed them with Force-enhanced velocity. The Jedi lept to the side in an attempt to dodge the makeshift projectiles only to get winged by one on his left shoulder.

“Oh, so it’s gonna be like that, huh?” the Odanite taunted as he picked himself up from the cold ground. He quickly formed his own missile of packed ivory powder and stood up to take aim. Before he could launch a counter-attack, Braecen had already thrown another round his way. Turel lifted his free hand up, palm facing outward, and summoned a translucent wall of pure Force energy. The speeding ball of ice shattered against the invisible barricade. “Hah!” the Jedi exclaimed before counter-attacking with a volley of his own.

Braecen smiled and calmly lifted his own hand into the air, sending violet tendrils of Force energy to shatter the snowball in mid-flight. Kordath stood mouth agape at the Elder’s display of raw power.

Turel scrambled behind a nearby tree for cover. “That’s a little overkill, don’t you think?” He began furiously making snowballs for a rapid fire assault. This was quickly becoming a more protracted battle than he bargained for.

“Mercy is for the weak, Sorenn,” the Sith taunted as he scooped up more of the white precipitation to press the attack. “You could always surrender.”

The Jedi’s mind raced for ways to gain a quick advantage. “Now why would I do a thing like that? I have you right where I want you.” A plan began to coalesce in Turel’s mind. He never expected to find himself in a snowball fight with a Sith Adept, but he was going to make the most of it.

The snow was a hollow cold, neither soggy nor soft to the touch. Its bite chilled the fingers of the Adept. The kind of chill that permeates to the bone and works itself through the muscles to the heart. Had the Force not raged like a furnace within him, it might have even chilled his displeasure.

The Jedi tumbled forward into a somersault underneath the Adept’s assault. Snow was tossed into the air by his maneuver before lazily falling back into place. Turel came up throwing, a volley of white missiles homing in on the Elder, as he continued to move forward. Braecen’s feet moved in tune with the Force. Long ago, he had entered into a relationship with the Dark Side. She would sing to him and he would obey her will. Each note a step. Each chord a direction. Her harmony rang out and he followed in unison. Their dance perfect.

Thus, as the projectiles arced from Turel’s hand and clipped the Elder’s shoulder and chin, he was stunned to a standstill. The Corellian felt betrayed. His lady had lead him astray. He reflected on the previous moments with terrifying efficiency, his synapses firing as he internalized the data and came to one conclusion: the Jedi had used an illusion on him. Braecen laughed once. It was a strangled, mutilated thing that turned the eyes of the bystanders to the Adept. Then laughter came tumultuously all at once - a landslide. The odd sound obviously unnerved both Kordath and Uji, whom had taken positions on the sideline of the battle. They had never heard the man be mirthful.

Emboldened by the sound, Turel changed his gait and began to saunter towards the man. Obviously, his friends had misinformed him of the Elder Sith’s nature. Here he was sharing in the exuberance and uplifting emotions of Life Day. The Proconsul had even gotten him to laugh. Turel felt a smile forming as the corners of his lips began to arch upward. Then his smile, and demeanor, faltered in a heartbeat. The eerie sound of a lightsaber activating - snap-hiss - cracked through the Citadel’s courtyard. Vmm, vmmm. The thrum of power echoed throughout the makeshift arena as it bounced off the stone structure without summertime foliage to dampen it. If the first sound had killed the Proconsul’s smile, the sound of a second lightsaber activating made him visibly frown.

“Are those your lightsabers,” the Proconsul quipped, “or are you just happy to see me?” When the Adept did not answer, Turel retreated in harmony. Or rather, to ‘Harmony’, his right hand gripping the familiar weapon with both trust and devotion. He thumbed the activation switch and a purple flame erupted - snap-hiss - from the emitter. The Jedi’s saber stood defiant and ready against the two lifeless, white blades of the Sith. Braecen came forward, each step carefully meted out in preparation for Turel’s punishment. The snowballs he could forgive. The illusion and discord between the Adept and the Dark Side of the Force, he could not.

The Elder wholly embraced the Force. It swirled about him – a tempest of destructive power. He recoiled from its oily touchy and ground his teeth as he manipulated it to do his bidding. It burned his blood as hot as fire and left his muscles glacially cold as it moved through him. Weakness was replaced with strength, doubt with determination. Lazily, Braecen looped one of his blades in an absentminded circle as he closed the distance with his combatant. Turel carefully moved his feet and kept an iron-willed composure before him. The Proconsul was maneuvering the battle towards the center of the courtyard to give himself a myriad of options.

Aided by the Dark Side, Braecen closed the distance with mindboggling alacrity, his two blades uncoiling to strike much like a snake. A breathtaking flash was quickly followed by a thunderous crack throughout the Citadel’s snow laden courtyard. Turel’s blade defiantly held both of Braecen’s lightsaber blades at bay. The Ranger threw off the weaker, one handed attacks and created a breath of space between him and his foe. Neither stopped moving, though. Racing back towards one another, their blades whirled through an exchange of give and take in a heartbeat. Only those with the Force to aid them saw the battle in slow motion; for the rest, it was a blur of seemingly well-practiced choreography — the Elder forcing the Equite backward, the Proconsul turning the tide against the Quaestor, the battle moving across the length of the arena. The blades made horrible, thunderous noise like waves on jagged rocks as they collided.

The Elder backed off. He had sought a quick resolution to the matter, but had found no purchase against the Jedi’s defenses. Now, he began slowly, trying to take a proper measure of his opponent before attempting any daring offensive strikes. In only a moment, the ice blue eyes of the Sith realized his rival handled his weapon well. Not knowing the makeup of the man, Braecen could hardly believe that Jedi had reestablished themselves so powerfully – and well prepared – within the Brotherhood. He wondered if this single incident hadn’t been planned from the start. An attempt to bait the Sith into open hostility against the Jedi. All of these thoughts bounced around in Braecen’s head as his continued his cautious approach.

Tentatively, the Elder slapped one of his blades against the defenses of the Equite. The Ranger responded with a proper parry and the correct alignment of his feet. Braecen stalled his next attack due to the prim tactics of his opponent. He had hoped to catch him overextended and sneak past his inner defenses. “Not easy,” the Quaestor growled. A charming smile from Turel parried the words as easily as he had the previous attack.

The Patriarch of the Kaeths launched into a furious assault, wanting to dictate the tempo once again. Turel gracefully ducked to the side and behind a well-breasted snowwoman. Braecen’s blade unintentionally lopped off the head of the facsimile of Arcia Cortel. “No!” a Ryn cried out in the background. Steam rose from the melted snow as the head rolled into the outstretched hands of Turel. He juggled the snow woman’s head and his weapon for a moment before he reeled it in. As he cradled it, he made a grim face - regret mixed with resignation. Turning his bright green eyes toward the Elder, the expression turned into a mischievous smile.

He lobbed Arcia’s head toward Braecen and shouted, “Catch!”

The makeshift snow sculpture of the Shadow Scion evaporated midair in a downward slash from one of the Quaestor’s silver blades. He held the blazing saber steady for as the steam rose from the brief moment of contact between plasma and ice.

“Not a fan of ice sculpture I take it,” Turel quipped as he brought his amethyst saber back up into a ready position. “You going to murder the snowy Shadow Lady as well?” He inquired with a smirk. Braecen could dance around with his sabers all he wanted, not even an elder would defy the Serpentine Throne so blatantly as to actually harm an honored ally, at least not in front of so many witnesses. Additional onlookers continued to peer through windows and pour into the courtyard to gawk at the unfolding contest between the two warriors.

Both men stood silent for a moment as their heavy breathing visibly billowed past them in the cold air. Turel was nearly spent and he knew it. It had taken nearly all he had just to keep up with the elder and absent some kind of trick he was in for some painful humiliation, even if his opponent was bound by diplomacy and convention. The Jedi could feel the Krath adherent stoke his carefully controlled anger as he breathed deep and drew the Force to him.

With a quick, continuous motion, the Jedi shifted his saber to his left hand and made a low scooping motion with his right hand. The Force obeyed his command and a large chunk of snow flew up from his feet and toward the Sith elder’s head. The amount snow was larger than one person could possibly throw in a single volley. Braecen swung his sabers wildy to no avail as his face and torso were dusted with white powder, which only served to fuel his growing irritation.

When the Sith looked up he saw Turel standing next to the decapitated Arcia snowperson laughing at him. He charged the equite with as much Force-enhanced speed as he could muster, sabers held high behind their opposite shoulders, ready to execute a devastating scissor attack upon his opponent. To Kaeth’s surprise, Turel made no effort to move out of the way or do anything beyond tokening raising his saber while still laughing.

Bracen completed the attack and his silver blades found little resistance as they sliced the smug Jedi. Instead of hitting the Jedi’s saber or spreading his blood across the courtyard, steam and stray particles of slow were flung in a wide arc opposite the elder. The Quaestor had been tricked into destroying the sculpture of Atyiru.

A familiar voice taunted from behind the fountain, “Oh come on, Kord’s snow-Atty wasn’t that bad.” He shook his head. “Everyone’s a critic I guess.”

Braecen slowly turned his head to face the Jedi, the time for tricks was quickly drawing to close. His lesson in respect could be postponed no longer.