A pair of massive, ancient doors loom at the entrance to the throne room. Upon opening, they give way to a large chamber with a high ceiling carved smoothly into stone. The chamber itself is the size of a professional holo-ball court but the hard-tile flooring has been sand-blasted to perfection and patterned symmetrically throughout. Tall, rounded pillars frame a center dais that forms an elevator platform. Perfectly centered on the low platform is the heart of Clan Arcona's power—the Serpentine Throne. The ornate throne stands several feet above the head of even the tallest Shadow Lords. The dais is back lit by an ever glowing wall of flame that attunes itself to the order-color of the current Consul. A sable carpet trimmed with white lays down over the shallow steps and continues all the way towards the entrance doors.

The Throne Room is completely sound-proofed, and almost feels like entering a vacuum. Voices carry easily, but never leave the chamber. A combination of alchemy and engineering allow the room to be shut off from the rest of the Citadel while maintaining proper ventilation for the unique curtain of flame. It maintains a steady if not warm room temperature, ignorant to the climate outside and throughout the Citadel's ancient walls.

Perhaps the most defining feature of the Throne Room is the wall of flames that curtain behind the throne itself. These flames tend to reflect the desires of the current Shadow Lord or lady. The current flames are white for Consul Atyiru Ceasura Entar.

Brilliant flames danced behind the Serpentine Throne. A curtain of harsh, white light that radiated throughout the room and cast long, stark shadows. Where the light could reach, it danced along the smooth stone walls and symmetrical hard-tile floor. Only a whisper could carry further than the light in the vacuum that was the Throne Room of Arcona’s Citadel.

When the massive, ornate doors that stood sentry to the entrance began to open, the sound alerted the room’s lone occupant that he was no longer alone. His tail, previously swishing back and forth, centered itself and froze. His eyes had been turned toward the wall of fire behind the Consul’s dais, so he stood blind to the darkness – his head tilting left then right – as he absently wondered whom else might be scavenging for alcohol this late at night.

The lithely built Ryn was silhouetted by the light. He stood a good head shorter than any Human in the galaxy, but his hair was tousled in an upward arc that made him appear taller. He half turned into the light and the rest of his features were revealed to the room’s new occupant. Bushy, unkempt eyebrows and a ridiculous mustache that gave way to a goatee – all snowy white – that matched his unruly shock of hair atop his head and at the tip of his muscled tail.

His grey eyes had bags underneath and projected a look of utter exhaustion, but his dark, thin lips were worked into a smile. A cigarette hung loosely from them, the tip excessively burning far beyond what a lighter would produce. Smoke rushed out as he loosed a heavy sigh, recognizing the hooded figure despite his cowl being raised, as he approached from the opposite end of the room. “What the hell do you want, Kaeth? Bothering a man during his smoke break,” he grumbled. Absentmindedly he drew another hit from the cigarette in his mouth; his body relaxing as the nicotine coursed through his body.

“Did you,” Braecen began, perplexed, “light that cigarette using Atyiru’s flames?” The Ryn shrugged dismissively. The Corellian shook his head in both amazement and disbelief. The Adept lowered the cowl of his robes and revealed a pair of piercing ice blue eyes and shock of light brown hair with natural golden highlights that cut through it irregularly. Despite the fierce gaze, Kordath could see that the Quaestor of Galeres was a hallowed out husk of his former self.

“And when are you not on break, Bleu?” The Quaestor was quite aware of the Roll Master’s distaste for anything that resembled manual labor. Having served as the Captain of the Nighthawk under Braecen’s watch during the fall of SCEPTER in the Dajorra System.

Kordath withdrew the cigarette from his mouth and licked his lips, pondering what the man was here for. He winced at the realization that this was not a chance meeting. He would be delayed from his nightly routine of whoring and boozing to satisfy some ulterior motive the Corellian was here to push onto him. ‘Always with their machinations,’ the Ryn reflected as he considered the Elders of Arcona. “Out with it, Sith,” he groused, “I haven’t all night to hear your whining.”

If the tension had not been evident before, it was palpable now. Braecen sighed heavily, his lips stuck in a perpetual frown. In the vacuum of the Throne Room, Kordath could hear his teeth grinding against one another. The hair on the back of his neck began to raise – a premonition of the forthcoming argument. Perhaps, this once, he had pushed back too strongly. His eyes began to dart back and forth as he weighed all the options available to him. Head to head with one of the Grand Master’s pet Dark Adepts was not an ideal situation, so he did what any reasonable survivor would do.

He ran.

“Damnit, Ble-“ the words of the Elder were cut short as a flashbang detonated in the center of Arcona’s most holy room. A blinding light pierced the shadows like a supernova. The Elder blinked for several long moments as the picture before him swam in and out of focus.

“I am going to murder that damn, Ryn,” he promised himself.

Bleu exhaled a plume of smoke as he pressed his back against one of the pillars surrounding the throne. This was annoying, Kaeth had interrupted one of his nocturnal walks to shake out his head. Hours of pouring over paperwork concerning the Journeyman of the Clan, not to mention his other research, lead to long nights such as this. He’d come to view the Serpentine Throne to remind himself of why he put up with all the bureaucratic nonsense, the promises he’d made to a friend. Now the Sith had to show up with his jabs about laziness and poor work ethic. So much work these days, so much red tape and nonsense as things escalated between the Iron and Serpentine Thrones. It really cut into a bloke’s downtime.

If I thought I could stick yer face in tha flames fer a bit, I’d try, he thought to himself as he listened to the Adept walk through the chamber.

“That wasn’t very nice, Kordath, nor very respectful.”

“Respectful o’ what?”

“This chamber? An Elder of your Clan? Take your choice.”

“Bit late for you, innit, Brae? How ‘bouts ya just go back ta yer quarters and get some sleep.”

He could hear the Human sneer as he spoke, the tone thick with derision, “Unlike some people who serve the Consul, I see my task’s through till the end. I have something left to accomplish this day, sleep can wait.”

“Nothin’ ya can nae deal with in tha morn?” piped up the Ryn, tired and lacking hope. A sudden arc of lightning skittered across the pillar above him, Kordath having hit the cold, stone floor when the Force had given him the impression of crispiness.

“I’ll take dat as a no,” he mumbled. “Do nae see yer problem with me, Brae! We’re both busy men, yeah? Can this no wait till a time when, ya know, the Clan isn’t in a bleedin’ war?”

“Arcona is always at war, Bleu, stop running away like a rodent and face up to your failures!”

“What bloody failures? I do nae know what we’re talkin’ about!” Kordath scrambled past another one of the pillars and dived towards the base of the dias as lightning scorched the ground near him. “Would ya bloody stop!?”

“You were a terrible Captain, entrusted with a vessel and crew that you would never have been given command of if I’d been Quaestor at the time. Not to mention--” he was cut off as Kordath shouted back at him with indignity.

“Really!? This is about tha Nighthawk? Next yer gonna tell me I’m a traitor for givin’ meself up ta save that crew, ta keep tha ship safe!”

“You were too weak of will and easily turned against the Clan, Bleu. Command never should have been yours in the first place,” spoke the Adept, his voice unwavering as he stalked towards the fuming Ryn. Kordath was glaring at him with tired, gray eyes instead of trying to run. The Human loomed over the shorter Rollmaster, cold blue gaze glaring down at his own gray ones.

“Never asked fer command, Kaeth, that was foisted on me. If you’d found somebody better, you’d have replaced me anyways. Ya still got some kind o’ problem with me, bloody well say it,” he growled, jabbing a finger into the meaty Human’s chest.

“That’s not why I’m here, Bleu. You should have quit being my problem the moment you left for Ol’val. Instead you’ve been ignoring my holocalls, memos, and messages.”

“Memos? Like I got time fer yer memos, I’m bloody busy!”

The Sith grabbed him by his jacket with one hand, his other rising to crack with electricity. Kordath gave him a tired glare, “What? Gonna ace me in tha throne room? Sure Blinky will appreciate tha mess.”

“I’m not here because you were a useless commander or because you were so weak that an enemy turned you against the Clan.”

The Ryn felt his feet lifted off the floor as the Human raised him by his coat. Mouth in a tight line he simply stared at Braecen. “Yeah? Why, then?”

“Expenses.”

“Huh?”

“I have over a dozen expense forms from your time as Captain that I need to either get explanations or signatures for.”

“You’re bloody throwin’ lightning at me because of book keepin’!?” Kordath used both hands to grab the muscular Human’s arm as he kicked above the floor.

“It’s important to have orderly accounts, Kordath, Arcona is not made of money. There’s many questionable invoices and receipts from your time as Captain. Your ship seemed to take on a lot of ‘Corellian brand solvents’, though the Nighthawk’s quartermaster claims to have no idea what that is.”

“Uhh, that’s, uhh, explainable…”

“Also a ‘miscellaneous fund’ which was outlined as being for the ‘entertaining of dignitaries.’ It seems you were involved in a large number of unsanctioned diplomatic missions that the Clan has no record of.”

“Well, I mean, it was an Intelligence ship, yeah? Ya don’t got records for everything we did, eh?”

“Missions that took you to Zeltros and Nar Shaddaa?”

“Uhhh…” Kord quit struggling and gave the Sith a tired grin. “Ship got around, eh? Had ta make sure tha crew had some proper rest and relaxation. Keep morale up.”

“Ah, yes the ‘morale fund’ is also an intriguing read. All in all the Nighthawk went over budget by about thirty thousand credits while you were in command. The DIA and myself both would like to know how that happened, and arrange a wage garnishment on whomever was responsible.” The piercing blue eyes told the Ryn exactly who the Sith thought was responsible.

Kordath gaped, his brain having stopped at the word ‘thousand’. How had he spent that much money while in command? Sure, he’d expanded his wardrobe a bit, getting clothes with tail holes tailored into them wasn’t cheap. Maybe he’d been a bit excessive on his medical whiskey for surviving space flight, but surely that couldn’t have been that big of an expense. As for Zeltros...well, he grinned as he recalled the planet full of red skinned, pheromone emitting aliens. Worth it.

“So. We’re clearing this up, tonight. While I’ve got a firm grip on you, Kordath,” stated the Elder.

“Heh, about that….”

He felt the cold prickle of danger sense as it raced down his spine. Braecen reached for his lightsaber – only to find Kordath’s prehensile tail already there. The item pilfered in the course of their discussion about his expenses. He chastised himself for not recognizing the charade for what it had been: a ruse to disarm the Elder.

“Don’t attempt to steal the other, Kordath. I won’t hesitate to kill you.”

“You just did.”

The ironclad grip on the Equite evaporated in the blink of an eye. Braecen left holding only a black coat of Nerf leather where the Ryn had been. Frustrated beyond belief, he discarded the clothing with a growl, his focus redirected on the apprehension of the former Captain.

“Bad idea,” Kordath cooed a pace behind the Elder. Before he placed a firm hand on the Corellian’s shoulder.

Braecen spun toward the hand on his shoulder, bringing an arm up and smashing his elbow into the side of Kordath’s head. He started to tell him he talked too much, then heard the snap-hiss of an igniting lightsaber and realized he had just made the same mistake. A line of scalding pain erupted across his lower back, and he saw the bright glow of his own blade tip shining beside and a little behind him in the Seer’s hand. When his body did not fall to the Throne Room’s polished floor, he guessed that he was still alive and continued his spin, bringing his hand around in a reverse knife hand strike that would have caught Kordath just below the ear and almost certainly knocked him unconscious – had he not blocked.

As Braecen’s head snapped back, he caught a glimpse of a beak-like nose, then felt his teeth biting through his tongue and his feet flying out from beneath him and realized Kordath had caught him beneath the chin. A fist or an elbow or a small shuttle, and it hardly mattered which, because all he could feel was the inescapable darkness of a black hole drawing him down in to the singularity of unconsciousness, into helplessness, defeat, and death. Braecen refused to go. He lashed out in the Force, grabbed at the swimming light and clawed his way back towards awareness.

His body teemed with the Dark Side and he desperately wanted to exact revenge. He indiscriminately unleashed the pent up energy outward in multiple directions, the blue-white lightning danced across the makeshift battlefield. He was rewarded for his quick actions, hearing Kordath scream in anger or pain or maybe just surprise. A dull thud echoed throughout the chamber as the Rollmaster hit the ground, and the darkness started to retreat from Braecen’s head.

He sensed another body lying at his feet, just as flat on the ground as he was. The Ryn swore, profaned what he would do to Braecen’s mother and promised to make him pay for making this so hard, then he saw his stolen lightsaber lying on the symmetrical floor not far from his hand. He rolled onto his belly and crawled toward the weapon before him. He subdued the pain as he temporarily pushed it from his mind.

Kordath reached out in the Force. Braecen cried out in astonishment as the weapon bounced out of his proximity and arrived in the outstretched hand of his foe. It was pointed in the wrong direction – the emitter facing the Ryn’s face – and he hastened to flip it around in his hand. The weapon was clumsy in his hands.

“That is it!” he cried. The Quaestor splayed his fingers and raised his hands in the direction of his opponent. He wove the Dark Side of the Force around his foe, tied the noose about his connection to the Force, and pulled to tighten the knot. In the span of a heartbeat, the Ryn’s normally tired eyes grew wide as recognized his river to the mystical power of the Force was being dammed by the Elder.

“Now, let’s not get hasty,” the drifter barked. “I might have a few of those documents you were looking for in my quarters. We can be reasonable men, yea?”

The Elder spat blood onto the holy room’s floor. His teeth had not severed, but severely damaged his tongue during the Seer’s bar room brawling. “As long as you are leading me to your room, Kordath. I’ve heard the stories about how you sent unsuspecting members of the Nighthawk into Arcia’s quarters in the past.”

The Rollmaster sighed. It was going to be another long night.

“Well?” questioned the Sith, hand wreathed in Force conjured lightning.

Kordath felt his feet dangling below from him, subconsciously peddling air as he tried to find some kind of purchase. His coat was still firmly in the hand of the masterful bureaucratic Adept despite his efforts to pry the man’s grip lose. The Ryn’s mind was aflame with ideas and excuses as he tried to narrow down on an answer to the budget inquiry that wouldn’t involve him being fried to a crisp. With a cough, an attempt to point out to Kaeth that breathing was an important function and that the twisted up coat was restricting it, he gave the man a weak smile.

“Perfectly...reasonable...explanation, yeah. Just lemme...breath...maybe?”

The Sith leaned in closer, “I am not letting you go, Kordath, explain before I apply...shock measures.”

“Well ya know how it goes, yer out in a ship fer months at a time, yeah? Gotta keep morale up, keep the uhh, stocks stored, all that good stuff. There’s gonna be expenses, they ya know, add up, because they’re numbers. And stuff.” Bleu’s face was a sick rictus of a broken grin as he babbled.

“Months at a time?” balked the Human, recoiling from the smells of alcohol and stale cigarettes from the Ryn. “Your area of operations was almost exclusively the Dajorra system! You made port at Selen, Eldar, and Port Ol’val two to three times a week. Do not try and claim logistics on me, Bleu.”

Kordath’s grin faded as he tried his best to shrug with his restricted movements and muttered, “Felt a lot longer, most of tha time.” He was getting tired of this. He’d left his offices for a few minutes to stretch his legs and have a smoke in the quiet of the throne room. Nobody came in here when the Consul wasn’t conducting court, the Journeymen that constantly had questions and needs were scared of the chamber, which allowed Kordath some time to himself. Now this sleemo smooth skin was giving him flak over something that had happened months ago like it still mattered!

“I wonder, if I asked the Shadow Lady, if she’d let me review your purchases as Rollmaster. Perhaps you’ve been using Clan funds to purchase gifts for your little half-rat girlfriend,” spoke Braecen, sounding flippant as he lifted Kordath higher up into the air.

Really?

Kordath felt himself rising to the bait despite recognizing it. He was tired, he was angry, and frankly he was annoyed with the Quaestor. With his jaw set in determination, he channeled the Force towards his right hand, releasing it from the Adept’s arm.

“Ya leave Zuj outta this, boyo,” he growled before shoving his palm in the man’s face and releasing the build up of energy. A brilliant, bright flash of light filled the shadowy chamber, even with his eyes squeezed shut, Kordath saw spots. He blinked a few times, perturbed by the Elder still having a hold of his coat.

Usually they drop me when I do that, mused the diminutive Ryn, having found himself in similar situations more often than he could count. When you were short, everyone felt the need to lift you to eye level instead of stooping, something to do with power, he figured. When his vision cleared Bleu saw a scowl of disapproval on the Adept’s face. “Uhh…that, uh, didn’t work, eh? What, did ya blink?”

“Ineffective and loudly broadcasted, Kordath, you’re as poor a fighter as you are a leader,” sighed the man before he spun and tossed the Ryn. His attempt to roll with the throw was thwarted by the low dais the Throne sat upon, causing him to smack against the edge and knocking the breath from his lungs.

With a groan, he watched Braecen approach, shadows playing over the Elder’s features as he moved between the pillars. The Seer began to get to his feet despite his shortness of breath and the pain he felt from his hip’s awkward meeting with the dais lip. He was interrupted by a surge of power, the Force screaming at him to move but his body just didn’t have the ability. The Elder had lifted a hand and unleashed his lightning, this time hitting his mark and causing the Ryn’s body to ball up even as Bleu tried to scream. Words failed him, his throat refused to make sound, and his lungs burned as they refused to do their job. The Force summoned electricity played over his muscles, causing them to twitch at random and his body to writhe without direction.

This is worse than gettin’ stunned, oh gods

When the assault stopped, he curled back in upon himself, hugging his own body through the aches for lack of better options. He shivered and felt nerves firing off, tugging at his muscle groups and sucking in air while he could. A nudge from a boot caused him to glance up, Kaeth standing above him with a cold smirk as he pushed the Ryn flat against the floor.

“So. About that thirty thousand credits. We’re going to arrange a slight down payment, I found a collector not far from the Dajorra system who’s willing to part with around ten thousand for a specific item.”

Kordath croaked as he tried to speak, working his mouth a few times to get some kind of moisture back into it. He made another attempt, “Ya needed me ta steal somethin’, ya shoulda just said so, Kaeth.”

Braecen patted him on the head, an odd gesture for certain. A thrumming sound filled the otherwise quiet throne room and new shadows could be seen in the periphery of Kordath’s vision. “You don’t have to steal anything, this time, Bleu. After all,” stated the Adept as the Rollmaster felt a cold hand grasp his tail not far from the base, pulling it straight up. “What I need is in hand.”

“Wait, what? No! Kaeth!”

“Now, please, don’t struggle. I’d hate to make a mess here in the throne room, as you said, the Consul wouldn’t appreciate it. That and a clean cut would be preferable for both the collector and yourself, much easier to find a prosthetic that fits.”

“Do nae do this! I can bloody well find ya tha money, ya sick Sith bastard!”

“Tsk, we’re past that stage of the negotiations, I’m afraid, Kordath, now. Hold still.”

The brilliant white blade pressed against the Ryn’s muscular tail, the first smell to fill the Adept’s nostrils was that of burnt hair. Kordath wailed in agony, every attempt to reach the Force blocked by the immense pain that kept him from focusing. Braecen hadn’t lied about being meticulous in his task, he took his time, insuring that the saber cauterized the cut so as to avoid a mess of blood. By the time the Sith was halfway through the cut, Kordath was unconscious, his body twitching as the pain continued even as his waking mind gave up on it.

When the Elder finished, he stood and inspected his work, nodded in satisfaction. A good cut.

He left the Ryn where he lay with a small receipt that listed the remainder of what he owed on the debt, pleased with himself.