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.

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.

The sun was high in the sky, birds sang, and a gentle breeze passed through the courtyard. Water could be heard splashing in the nearby fountain, a quiet sound that still managed to fill the otherwise silent space. Kordath Bleu sat in the grass below one of the walls that enclosed the courtyard, his back leaning against the cool stone. Various species of ivy crawled across the rocks above him towards the patrolling marksman that marched up and down the length. It was a pleasant day on Selen, though the Ryn would have preferred to not ruin it with the task ahead of him. Next to the lounging Rollmaster was a bottle of whiskey, a good quarter of it already gone as he sat and enjoyed the peace and quiet.

He first saw his obligation approaching when the Zabrak stopped near the fountain, his crimson eyes scanning the yard. Kord sighed, Thorn had been Knighted only months before, he’d stood at the base of the Consul’s dias as she spoke the words affirming his title. None of them were certain where the former slave had popped off to afterwards, usually a newly christened Knight of Arcona would join in the festivities surrounding their ascension, not Thorn. He’d given the entire idea of ‘beers at the Rancor’ a sneer and left the Citadel, and his fellows, behind. Now with war looming, he’d shown back up, which meant Blinky had given Bleu the unpleasant job of checking up on the Sith.

With a wave of the bottle, he greeted the Zabrak and got his feet under himself, standing and stretching in the shade of the wall.

“Oi, Thorny boy.”

The Knight approached slowly, hands inside his black and red robes. His back was ramrod straight, his face impassive except for just a hint of boredom, as if the entire situation was beneath him.

“Please do not call me that. A messenger told me I was to meet someone here, upon the Consul’s orders. There are battles being fought across the system, Bleu, why would she have me waste time with you? Our journey ended when I attained my Knighthood.”

There’s that bloody haughty tone, just as cold as I recall as well, eh.

“Ya went dark on us, lad, Shadow Lady just wants ta make sure yer good ta go before ya go out, yeah?”

Kord relished the look of confusion that passed over the Sith’s face as he tried to piece together what had just been said. It was true he could speak better than that, but it was just so much more fun. The warm, fuzzy sensation from the whiskey might have been egging him on though.

“She wants you of all people to insure I’m fit for combat?” asked the Knight with incredulity. “Your about as threatening as a Loth-cat.”

Bleu shrugged in response, gently placing his bottle on the grass before stepping towards the Zabrak.

“As it is, mate, we’re at the Citadel, that means the med droids ain’t far. So, ya get ta come at me like yer serious.”

Thorn’s lip curled in disdain, “It’s beneath me to fight you, Ryn, there’s no gain in it for me.”

“Suit yerself,” Kord responded with a shrug, “you’ll find ya won’t be able ta get on a shuttle ta join the war effort though. Not until I clear ya or ya put me in tha medbay.”

Kordath reached up and gave the tall, pale man a pat on the cheek and a smirk before turning his back to him. He made it two steps towards the wall before the Force screamed it’s warning at him. Content that he’d angered the Knight well enough, the Ryn casually bent forward and scooped his bottle up from the ground. The sound of something cutting the air above him, the faint ripple of cloth moving as well, told him what the Knight had tried to do. When he turned, he took in a flushed looking Thorn, hands balled into fists and his footing unsteady, as if he’d just failed to connect with a kick.

The Ryn lifted his bottle in salute before bringing it to his lips, eyes nearly closed as he took a strong pull from it. As he wiped his mouth and mustache clean, Thorn struck, lashing out with palms set rigid seeking his throat and midsection. Kordath stumbled sideways and spun past the Zabrak, belching slightly as the whiskey settled. The next round of blows that came in were driven more by anger and frustration. With erratic, seemingly random movement more akin to drunken fumbling, Bleu evaded most of the strikes. He turned his head slightly in an attempt to avoid one of the blows and found himself a touch too slow as a pale skinned fist grazed his jaw.

There was a bit of power behind that, he get’s a solid hit in and I could be in trouble, heh.

“Oh, I’m sorry, did we start?” he asked, grinning at the taller alien.

Thorn wasted no time on words, his right forearm twisting to release the blade hidden within his bracer before charging at the Rollmaster. The intoxicated Arconan yawned as he fell backwards towards the grass, watching with seemingly idle interest as the thin dagger stabbed the air where he’d been. His tail acting as a counter weight, Kordath was bent back almost parallel to the ground. It was with great amusement that he saw the color rise further in the pale Zabrak’s face before, with a deep and sad sigh, he swung his bottle up to smack the Knight in the face with it.

He righted himself, inspecting his bottle for cracks with one squinted eye as the Sith rolled away from him. A bruise could be seen already forming on the ghostly face and his red eyes screamed for blood. Kordath gave him a little mock bow, bottle still firmly held in his hand, pleased that it hadn’t broken yet. As he straightened and took another pull from it, the signature snap-hiss of a lightsaber filled the quiet courtyard.

“Oh, gettin’ serious now, are we? Good, hate ta see ya miss out on tha whole bleedin’ war.”

Thorn did not answer that. His strong jaws were already set. On one side of his face, a bruise was forming. Although he could not see it, it stung. Now he knew what he must do. Without a second thought, he activated his lightsaber. It's sharp hiss echoed throughout the large scenic courtyard as a herald of something sinister to come.

They were at the Citadel's courtyard, which had large patches of grass broken by dry, bald areas devoid of any. It was a peaceful and secure place. Thorn closed his eyes and took it all in, knowing that his Rollmaster would not be the one to attack first. As he breathed in, he became attuned to the environment around him: the crisp and slightly chilly morning air, the fresh breeze coming down from the mountains bringing the scent of various trees, the sound of birds chirping joyfully and the rhythmic beating of their wings. He could even hear the low footfall on stone from above: a sharpshooter.

To anyone looking at the scene, especially to Kordath, this seemed naturally strange. "Whatever is Thorny boy doing?", he wondered incredulously, the bottle still clutched in his hands as he swayed slightly due to intoxication.

Unknown to him or to anyone else, Thorn was preparing for something sinister, shocking, devastating and yet effective: his own version of Hate Meditation. It was as if the spirit of his past whispered from beyond the mortal world.

"You...are...worthless. You...are...weak. Weak...worthless..."

He began recalling phrases and events from his past which he hated, which hurt but which gave rise to boiling white hot rage. He continued until the anger throbbed inside his head and his heart, while his eyes became feverishly heated. His lightsaber trembled in his hands momentarily.

"You ok there, Thorn?", came in the voice of his Roll Master, with a hint of concern there.

With a sudden yell, without any warning, he lunged at Kordath. The Zabrak started raining blows on his opponent without mercy. His attacks were now not just fueled by hatred, but with a malignant and sinister intent to confuse, unsettle, terrify and then destroy his adversary. The offense came in as quick as lightening, fueled with a murderous rage. It was all the Ryn could do to keep out of his way, slightly regretting his intoxication. He would dodge and roll away every time, but only in the nick of time, the Force aiding him.

Thorn rained blows on him, hardly giving him time for offense. Like a fierce animal, or like a force of nature such as a whirlwind, he slashed at his foe: sometimes to his torso, sometimes his feet, and at times his head. The offense was seemingly erratic and unconnected, but they were. The Zabrak noticed that his Rollmaster's feet were light and swift. Therefore, the attacks to his torso and upper body were just a trick. With his opponent guarding his upper body, he would slash as his legs to hew them off.

This kept the Ryn on edge continuously. He now had milliseconds to react and get out of harm's way each time. What made it worse for him was that Thorn lightsaber had two finger-length crimson lightsaber blades on either side of the hilt. Thorn utilized his fully, with uppercuts in between thrusts and slashes. He successfully dodged the attacks each time, but could not move away too far. Each attack was followed by another in quick succession. At one time, he almost had his right-hand hewed off, but thankfully moved it away just in time, ending up with only a badly burnt off and tattered clothing around the arm.

Kordath now noticed the wall was closing up fast behind. The Knight's offense was strong enough to make him move back. This was getting serious in a hurry, but he had more than tricks up his sleeve.

Me jacket! Loved this coat. Good Nerf hide, it is, and he had ta go and do somethin’ like dat.

Kordath staggered back towards the wall as stray thoughts crossed his mind despite the need to focus on the task at hand. Part of him blamed the whiskey. The rest of him told that bit of sense to shut up, the bottle had been there for him when nobody else had been. Another near hit from the scorching plasma of Thorn’s saber brought him back into the movement as he stumbled over his own feet to avoid the blow. He managed to pull his tail out of the way before his rear hit the grass in a rather ungraceful manner. The Zabrak pulled his blade back for a thrust at his downed foe who looked uncharacteristically glum about the whole thing.

With a mental farewell of fondness to his faithful bottle the Ryn hurled it at his pale assailant. Reflexes and combat training caused Thorn to pull his own strike to block the heavy glass bottle, swatting the projectile with a wild stroke and squeezing his eyes shut as what whiskey that didn’t evaporate from the intense heat spattered across his face. He’d looked angry before, now he looked annoyed as well. In apparent effort not to soil his custom tailored robes, the Zabrak didn’t even move to wipe the alcohol from his pale countenance, instead turning his head to locate the spry little Ryn. For a drunk, he moved surprisingly fast. Kordath hadn’t been idle after sacrificing that which had always been there for him and had taken to his feet. A Sith dagger was pulled out from under the back of his now singed and burnt Nerf hide coat, the deep blue blade tucked against his forearm in an effort to make it less noticeable.

Thorn came at him with a grim and furious determination, his weapon making erratic and confusing patterns as it sought the Ryn’s gray and fuzzy hide. If not for his innate precognitive abilities and the looseness the booze had granted him, Kord was sure he’d have been skewered by now. Still, this was wearing the diminutive alcoholic out. A close shave from the brilliant crimson blade forced him to knock a blow aside with his dagger blade, sacrificing more of his jacket in the process. The smell of burnt leather and ozone filled the Ryn’s fluted nose, reminding him that hair and flesh would smell even worse if he didn’t put an end to this. He’d managed to spin out from the attack with the momentum of the blocked strike, his own dagger reaching out to cut a swath through Thorn’s robes. A lack of wetness suggested he’d missed the pale flesh, but the Knight looked somehow even angrier. The Sith would wear him down and either wound, dismember, or outright kill him at this point from the wild light in the Knight’s red eyes.

The Ryn felt as if he was performing the most convoluted dance of his life as he ducked, dodged, and hopped over blows that came at him, the logic behind them lost on him. Sweat rolled down the Seer’s face, causing his eyes to sting, even his beard and mustaches felt saturated. The sun which had seemed so pleasant earlier, now seemed overbearing and hot, and his clothes clung to his upper body as he twisted and moved to avoid being turned into a Ryn kebab. Desperation was forcing Kord to review the decisions he’d made up to this point, goading the Zabrak, a much more enduring fighter, into a confrontation no longer struck him as a bright move.

Course, it had been orders, if he could get the Knight to slow it down for a minute, he might be able to give Thorn his clearance for combat. He’d certainly proved he was still capable, if a bit unstable. But what Sith wasn’t? With a grunt of exertion, he pushed another crashing saber stroke away from him and used the momentum to push himself back. He took advantage of the extra space to collect himself momentarily, flexing his left hand as he fought past the fading buzz and oncoming dehydration to gather energy within it with the Force. Thorn came on again with another yell, his blade making an arc over his shoulder as Kordath threw himself sideways and directed his open palm at the Zabrak. The blinding flash of Force conjured light lit the shadows of the wall up, causing both men to shout out in pain. Kordath hadn’t had the footing or time to properly prepare himself as to avoid the effects of his own attack. He struck the ground and rolled back up to his feet, stumbling a few more steps as he tried to gain his bearings without the benefit of sight.

“Ya still with me, Thorny? I think we can call it fair, eh, ya seem ta be able ta dish it out still. Be happy ta give ya clearance now, let ya go fight tha enemy out wherever. Alright? Ya calmed down?”

He blinked a few times, hoping his words hadn’t fallen upon enraged and deafened ears. The spots swam before his eyes still, purple and black splotches filled his vision and gave him a sensation of dizziness. A darker splotch was approaching him, a red blur in hand that was buzzing loudly in the silence of the courtyard.

“Thorn? Mate? I’m sayin’ it’s done, yeah? I, uhh, yield, or whatever, yeah.” Kord felt a creeping sensation up his spine, the Force conveying danger and uncertainty. He didn’t move to attack or defend, he associated this kind of warning with a possible misstep, not with impending doom. Better not to set it off, he figured, right up until the red blur, which had started to sharpen into a proper lightsaber in his vision. It stabbed forward and burnt a hole through his left thigh, sending the Ryn to the ground. He tried to howl in pain, the sound catching in his throat as he gasped and clutched at his leg.

“You gave me the option of clearance or the medbay. Consider this repayment for my robes, Ryn,” spoke the Zabrak, his visage calmer now than it had been. The Knight shut off his weapon and tucked it into his belt, hand running over the slash in his robes the Rollmaster had left him with. Kordath gritted his teeth and held his leg while he watched Thorn walk past the fountain and out of view.

At least he was combat ready. The Ryn lay in the grass in pain, glaring up at the sky.

Karkin’ Sith and their karkin’ pride and where tha hell is that bloody med droid?

"He is good with a lightsaber. Let's see how good Thorny boy is up there", thought the Seer and he started to concentrate in the middle of the battle. It was risky. The Sith's blades were never far away. They came with a renewed fury after a brief pause.

Suddenly, as Thorn "connected" his blow, he saw to his surprise that his lightsaber was not in his hands. Puzzled, he took a few steps back and saw that it was on the ground. But how could it? It was in his hands a moment ago! A few seconds more and maybe his Roll Master would have been sliced in twain.

"And that is why, dear boy, is why you should never train in martial feats only. It pays to train your mind as well," said Kordath with a wide smile.

"As you wish!" sneered the Knight. He was somewhat exhausted after that the last bout using Juyo. However, now he knew what he needed to do. Thorn was now breathing heavily, but with the goal so near, he knew that he needed to give one more push. With the wicked sneer still on his face, he took a few steps back, turned broke into a run towards the fountain. He used the Force to make the dash seem almost instant.

"What the...?! The fight's not over yet!", exclaimed the now-confused Seer.

Safely behind the fountains, he concentrated on becoming invisible to the naked eye with the help of the Force. Within moments, all that could be seen was the translucent form of the Zabrak that once stood there. From there he could see Kordath advancing carefully towards the fountain.

Thorn squatted down and lay flat against the green grass. Then slowly, but steadily, he started to crawl over the ground like a stealthy reptile, aiming to get behind his opponent and finish the fight. With the Seer advancing, it was made easier. He would advance one hand forward, clutch the ground carefully, and then using his the opposite foot, push himself forward. Being so close to the ground, it was almost impossible to see him. Kordath, meanwhile, knew that his adversary had used the Force Cloak, but still believed that he was standing upright. Thus, he was still looking for the translucent figure of a man.

Meanwhile, Thorn slid ever forward, until he was behind his back. Then he took his dart gun out carefully and noiselessly, in his left hand. Slowly, with his opponent's back still turned, the Shadow started to raise himself upwards still wrapped in the Force Cloak. Then he struck.

He meant to strike with the dart gun from point blank range, but somehow the Seer knew he was coming from behind. He struck off the gun with a swipe of his tail and turned around to face Thorn. "Dear me, you really need more lessons in stealth. You missed!"

"No, I did not. Look down!"

Kordath looked down and noticed a tiny puncture over the fabric of his left foot. No blood was oozing out of it thankfully, but the limb felt strangely numb. "What did you...?"

Taking a few steps back, Thorn watched as the Seer slumped on his left leg. The poison started to have its effect. Soon he would have no feelings on that limb.

"Type II poison. I knew you'd strike off the weapon in plain sight. You knew that I was coming from behind you. That is I kept my wrist blade ready. But don't worry, Sir. I shall go and summon the medics." With his face devoid of emotion, he bowed curtly at his Rollmaster, turned around and strode off.