Erected along the banks of the Solleu River and the Virdugo Plunge of Naboo, the refinery complex is a model of Neo-Classical design and exacts an efficient but elegant form. Large blocks of sandstone-like stone are sheltered by a ribbed roof and inlaid with a high-tensile durasteel support webbing. The stone construction boasts rigid, durable design and is lined with blast-proof green plates so the the roof is defended against bombardment.

The Plasma Refinery Complex is a triple-domed structure and located alongside the city's main hangar. Within the first of the three domed structures closest to the hangar lies the seemingly-bottomless extracting shaft. A hemispherical chamber with black paneled walls that constantly monitors and compensates for pressure changes, the shaft is crisscrossed by several concentric rings of catwalks. A series of twelve, evenly-spaced acceleration shafts extend from the bottom of the pit to disappear into the ceiling. A thermal carbon membrane contains the plasma that is forced out of the core and upward through vacuum suction.

The city’s power generator rests on the other side of the acceleration shaft and is located under the ground floor of the first domed building. Above it, the facility's main activator and purification chamber sits below a corridor of laser gates. The corridor, comprising of several doors that lock into position and hold back potentially dangerous quantities of power outputs, leads into the generator’s core.

Another massive shaft plummets into the heart of the reactor at the center of the generator’s core and is surrounded by a circular catwalk that extends to the walls of the smaller, cylindrical building. Along the sides of the shaft, high-energy particle coils are employed when excessive plasma slough needs to be curtailed.

The central building is, in fact, a drum-shaped holding tank of refined plasma. Mass amounts of energy is gathered below the recirculation lid at the top of the tank, this reduces the oxygen levels in the chamber in order to preserve the vacuum maintained in the tank.

The B-Wing touched down in the relatively quiet hanger, groaning and hissing as it settled onto laboured landing struts. The canopy popped open, and a lanky individual squeezed himself out. The pilot pulled off a helmet marked with a strange logo and gold-rimmed studs across the temples and brow. It revealed a young face etched with disapproval lines. One eye green, the other glowing blue, a crude facsimile of nature swept across the scene, mouth already downturned at the scene before him.

One of his Erinos brethren had sent him here, a job for family rather than clan, as they knew the naval officer did not do anything to aid those gifted with the Force within his clan. The parasites that needed the support of the mundane to function, yet treated them like disposable cogs in a machine.

An underworld broker had agreed the trade of a useful Force artefact, some focus of power or something. It would advance the Family. The Family would advance Arcona. True Arcona, not the current mess of identity politics and degeneracy that the current sorry group that claimed the First Clan’s name espoused. However, he was still not willing to fully throw his lot behind one side or the other, in case his intuition was wrong. There is nothing wrong with playing both sides after all.

Valtiere’s head snapped up as a masked individual in expensive robes strode across the bay, making a beeline for the Lieutenant-Colonel. Valtiere looked down at the Force User, for only such an individual would stride up to another with no propriety, lips twisting into a sneer already.

“May I help you, Brother?” Valtiere asked, the last word twisted from fraternity to animosity. He already knew that the individual was from Arcona, a Force user at that. The chancre eating away at the Clan he had loved once.

“I had been directed to a traitor. If you haven’t chosen a side, you are against our Clan. If you aren’t with us, you’re against us. Declare, or face my wrath as a coward.”

Valtiere made a choked noise of faux anger, blowing out his cheeks,

“Us? You mean your fellow children who stopped developing as beings when you were gifted with the powers of gods? Take your hardline stance, turn ever inward, forgetting any success is built on the bodies of my brethren. Continue to revel in your power, good sir! I’ve met and fought Force Users that would make you soil your oh-so-fancy robes. Now, you accuse me of being a coward for standing aside from the petty theatrics of children. Well, I rebuff you, sir! Your confidence only comes from the fact you have powers that I will never know! I will meet your words with steel! Only a coward would use the advantages of lightsaber and the Force against a mundane like my poor self.” Valtiere replied with a sneer and a mocking bow, his body taut with his anger.

The Sephi’s face was still masked, but he could see in the tension and set of his shoulders that there was a war going on in his mind. The honourable thing to do was a duel; even without his powers, he could beat this whipcord-thin pilot. A breeze could blow him over! But then why would he try for a duel? Finally, a nod. And the Arconan pulled off his mask. The harsh fluorescent light caused the pale flesh of Tamashi’s face to glow, the scars marring the Sephi’s elfin features.

Valtiere turned back to the cockpit, pulling out a case. He stripped the life support equipment of his suit away, placing it on his seat, pulling a long case from the compartment. He belted on weaponry, drawing the curved blade of his sabre, the patterned metal glimmering as he tested the range of motion.

“I know the perfect...setting for our quarrel. Meet me as an equal and prove your superiority. No Force powers, just two men.”

The Sephi acquiesced, indicating with a forward jut of the chin to proceed. Valtiere turned, showing his trust in his opponent’s honour code, leading him down a pathway that thrummed with power, opening up to an expanse filled with pillars of light. Small walkways webbed between these colossal beams, just enough to spin about each other, allowing the pair to face each other as men of honour. Valtiere dropped a pair of blades to the walkway, the clatters lost in the basso thrum of the room. Tamashi took the signal, turning, kneeling. He placed his lightsabers, vibroblade and energy bow in a neat pile behind himself, before standing again, face impassive.

Both drew their blades. The light shimmered of the curved blades, Tamashi’s held in both hands, Valtiere’s in one. He noted the ready stance of the Battlemaster, storing the information in his mind, analysing it.

Two handed. Strong. But a forward arc of attack. And smaller. Keep moving.

The two fighters stood opposite each other. The Sephi stood body facing forward, feet shoulder width apart, right foot forward, on the front of his feet. Valtiere on the other hand nearly lounged, stood side on, leaning back, off hand tucked away, with knees bent. Even in this position, the Human towered over the Sephi, his impressive height giving him a notable advantage.

Valtiere moved first, blade flashing high, for the face, a mortal wound. Tamashi moved quickly, adeptly. He brought his curved blade up, to block the blow.

But Valtiere kept moving, the blade already twisting away from the feint, pushing forward. The blade tucked in, the point of Valtiere’s elbow leading as he stepped past, the satisfying pull of blade against flesh slowing him marginally. It was a light cut, nothing more than a flesh wound, but telling in its own way. Both spun back to face each other, their ready poses reproduced perfectly, testament to their training. Valtiere’s sneer kinked slightly, becoming a condescending smile. The curved sabre flourished in mock salute.

“You have been weighed, measured, and found wanting.”