You can either kiss the future or the past goodbye
~Ringo Starr, Weight of the World
----------------------------------------
To say that Asajj Ventress fights like a scorpion, that being dangerous from every angle, does me a disservice. And my Master Obi-Wan. And Anakin Skywalker. And Ahsoka Tano, she fought the assassin, too. Scorpions can be dealt with by professionals or those who surpass professionals like us. I think a more apt description is a tornado. No matter what side you try to attack, something will always strike you, and if you get too close, you risk getting sucked into the darkness—a great tornado of blood-red lights and elegance. There's a little more to it than that, but I stand by it.
So now, I have a good idea of where I stand. It'll be some time before I can call myself a comet or lightning in a battle, but it's not impossible.
~From the journal of Zakriahs Asher
----------------------------------------
Obi-Wan was beginning to realize tangling with the Sith might become his specialty. After the near brushes with death he's encountered(the Zabrak on Naboo, to name one), the distinction isn't entirely baseless.
Protecting people from Sith, on the other hand…
As the Jedi Master and Padawan rushed into the monastery with steady blades, Obi-Wan contemplated the past more. Briefly, the faces of four legends passed through his mind: Jon Antilles, Fay, Nico Diath, and Knol Ven'nari. Four brave Jedi, each of a level entirely different and practically invented by themselves, had lost their lives to Durge, the Gen'dai bounty hunter, and Asajj Ventress, the woman waiting ahead of them.
Five Jedi fought, and only Obi-Wan survived that ordeal. The memory of Master Fay's sacrifice still haunts his dreams. Many sacrifices, honored or left in vain, still haunt him. But that's beside the point. Zakriahs was a gifted student, that much he knew. But after a while of listening to the boy puffing his chest, Obi-Wan remembered a specific phrase.
"Anyone could have done what I did."
At first, Obi-Wan wondered where he heard that before. It was before they came out here, even before their time at the Temple— after Zakriahs had defeated those crooks from the streets of Coruscant. Now, there was a peculiarity. That statement alone was drastically different from a more recent declaration.
----------------------------------------
"If you were going to join us, you should have been here sooner!"
"I'm sorry, Master! But you know how mysterious the Force can be with all its Forcy-ness."
"I— Nevermind."
"Good boy! Now, let's rescue the tall one and the orange one! Let us teach these droids fear of the beard—"
"Are you talking about me?"
"—the mighty Clone troopers—"
"Mighty?" A Clone had said.
"Hear that, Oh-Two? I'm mighty!" Another troop had joked, followed by more snickers.
"—and Zakriahs Asher! No titles earned as of yet."
----------------------------------------
As Obi-Wan thought, distinctly different. Now the question was, what changed? Obi-Wan had yet to establish a Force-bond with his Padawan properly, and Zakriahs was, shockingly, hard to read. Not just because his expressions range from happiness to nonexistence but because of his mental shields. Whether the boy was conscious of this ambiguity was another matter, but the fact was they were there. It begged the other question: Master Yoda told him that his presence in the temple had become less prevalent this last year, but where did his skills really leave him?
Zakriahs told him about the two tanks he had destroyed; his fanciful description involved crouching on top of the hatch, knocking for attention, while being blasted from every side, and grenades were the only weapons he used. Either the droids present didn't all divert their attention to him, or his use of Soresu and his speed were impeccable. His accuracy, as well, was rather commendable. It reminded Obi-Wan of himself, of how most Masters considered him to be exceptionally powerful for a Padawan— before they found Anakin, that is.
And Obi-Wan knew that Anakin also struggled to grasp this boy's mind. The same little boy he and Anakin met long ago had only unveiled a piece of who he was, and yet, the Jedi Master felt no closer to truly understanding him. Anakin, on the other hand, hadn't changed too much from their first meeting. Over the years, Anakin hadn't made too many friends. Not that Anakin was unfriendly or unapproachable, but Obi-Wan couldn't say if Anakin made any effort to socialize.
A small memory came to Obi-Wan.
----------------------------------------
"What the heck are you supposed to be?" Zakriahs had said to a stupefied Anakin.
"What?" Anakin said after a moment.
Obi-Wan saw the boy restrain an eye roll and replace it with a tiny nod of forgiveness.
"I said, 'What the heck are you supposed to be?'" He looked the Padawan down and up, "You're talented. But where will that take you?"
----------------------------------------
A smile flashed on Obi-Wan's face. It was years past, and they were each different people then. But the Jedi Master couldn't help but wonder…
Then, a critical thought grabbed Obi-Wan, and before he forgot, he turned to the nervous-faced youth.
"Zakriahs," he said, "if and when we encounter Ventress, we'll take her together. Focus on defense. Use your strengths but don't abuse them."
Zakriahs turned; nervousness had visually departed and left wide-eyed curiosity, then a stern nod.
"Yes, my Master."
Not a few seconds later, and there she stood with her back to them. For Zakriahs, his mind went to 'deathly pale' before he realized that was her natural skin tone. For Obi-Wan, however, she was a confusing mesh of vile anger and pitiable anguish. She was utterly still, as a statue would ignore and observe, unbothered and unnoticed. The shadows didn't cover her completely, and the moonlight seemed to be passing on a warning to them. It was the Force that told them she was alive, and when two red blades flashed in her hands, Zakriahs knew.
And statues can be admired, thought Zakriahs with a grimace, and only put up with ogling eyes. No, this was a murderer. She could easily pluck out mine.
"Master Kenobi." She said, "You're late." It was that same slithering voice Obi-Wan had heard often.
Obi-Wan steadied his blade. "I'm looking for Anakin."
She turned around, "So I see. And I also see a new face with you."
Zakriahs remembered to steady his own blade. "Asajj Ventress..." He breathed and choked slightly. To him, her gaze was what set his instincts ablaze. He could see simply from her eyes that she was analyzing him and wondering how many ways there were to cut him up.
His eyes widened, as if from realization or from excitement. Neither side said a word, with the Jedi moving closer to the center where she stood.
"I'm sorry. I think I had something prepared." Zakriahs chuckled, then restrained his gasp to a silent shudder.
Ventress nearly snorted, ironically. "Don't annoy me, and I'll make yours painless." Her face twisted with utter contempt, "But your death, Kenobi." She pointed her blades to him, "You have much to answer for."
Then she fled into another passage like a mirage.
After that, thought Obi-Wan as they gave chase, I thought she would attack.
This monastery was old, but as they followed her into the side passage, they noticed something older. The site had a different style of construction with smooth ceilings with columns to support them, a noticeable difference from the more vast and vaulted rooms. This chamber was a forest of stone, precise lines of glittering granite permeating their surroundings in the dim light.
Obi-Wan saw this and said lowly to Zakriahs:
"We have enough cover for saber strikes and chances for feints."
Zakriahs nodded. "And nothing fancy without much room. I understand. Her advantage is hers. She uses Makashi, right?"
Obi-Wan nodded and scanned the room with his senses. She was likely hiding behind one of these columns, masking her presence and hiding her lightsabers. The rustling of their robes and their whizzing lightsabers echoed throughout.
Obi-Wan made no attempt to mask his presence. He needed the fanfare of his power to guide Ventress away from wherever Anakin was.
"We don't have to do this, Ventress," said Obi-Wan in a voice that grated Ventress' ears. He could sense her frustration, from their past bouts or this most recent mission; he couldn't tell.
He peered around a column with his blade to find nothing. Zakriahs remained silent, occasionally looking behind them in case they missed something. No, she led them here and thought she was distracting them. Obi-Wan needed her mind on them, so he spoke again.
"Jabba's son is with us." And this time, her frustration flared ever so slightly. Now, Obi-Wan knew that Anakin likely had the Huttlet, and she failed. But he let no excitement enter. He only breathed slowly and remained stolid. He peered behind another column— still nothing.
They were back-to-back, with Zakriahs looking torn between scanning his own surroundings and simply spinning in place. Zakriahs could feel her frustration as well, and that enhanced his confidence. Obi-Wan felt it, and so did the assassin.
Behind the next column, a flash of red pounced. Obi-Wan's blue lightsaber caught it and tried to hide his surprise in the dim lighting, but he knew Ventress must have seen it. Zakriahs sprung forward to deliver a downward strike. Ventress blocked the green blade, and they were caught in a blade lock.
The high scraping noise resounded in the room. Zakriahs broke the lock and used a feint. She saw right through it and slashed at the boy. On her right, Obi-Wan blocked her chop and pushed her back. He made a move against her chest, forcing her to guard it. Zakriahs spun after a brief clash, to which he lunged for her legs.
She stopped both blades and slid them into a scissor action, trying to force them into the column or a wall. But they always pushed her back, leaving them at an impasse.
"Zakriahs!" Obi-Wan shouted, and both broke away in a spin. He had sent a slight push in the Force to Zakriahs' mind, and thankfully the boy felt the underlying command. It spoke of danger and the need to fall back.
The Jedi panted behind the column, fully aware Ventress was on the other side. When they heard her breath, they knew she needed to catch her breath too. Obi-Wan's pants were measured and controlled, while those of Zakriahs rang with suppressed laughter. Obi-Wan saw him press his back against the column, occasionally flicking his eyes to his right with a widemouthed, wide-eyed face. He kept himself from sliding down and looked half in disbelief and half-crazed.
Obi-Wan sent another calming wave in the Force. Zakriahs looked at his Master and nodded quickly, the gleam of fire not entirely leaving his eyes. While Obi-Wan made a mental note to look into that, and another one to strengthen their Force-bond, his focus was here—now— antagonizing Ventress.
"Still smarting from how I beat you last time, Ventress?" Obi-Wan shouted. Her anger spiked.
"YOU NEVER BEAT ME!" She snarled, "You tricked your way clear of my prisoners!"
She kept her voice perfectly venomous, not ragged. "You stole from me— humiliated me— before the Count! I will do the same to you, and then I'll see you a singed corpse!" Her eyes calmed slightly, "But first, I think I'll take something away from you..."
To Zakriahs, it promised a stolen arm or leg. But Obi-Wan knew what she meant and reminded himself to stay at his Padawan's side.
"ZAKRIAHS!" Zakriahs shouted, "That's what I meant to say! Halloa, I'm Zakriahs!"
Master and Padawan straightened and knew the acolyte had done the same. To Ventress' chagrin, Zakriahs hadn't finished.
"It's been a while since I've had a serious fight. But that was serious-er. So, you must make it serious-er-ser, Sir. Ma'am."
After that chuckle, Ventress scowled. Being a Jedi was already enough cause for hate, but that mouth. Ventress was going to loathe this boy. Before I skin him alive, I'll break his mind.
----------------------------------------
Now, Tavian Jekk was a Twi'lek. But not just any Twi'lek; an important one.
His feet were propped up on the table because he knew he was important. He drank as much wine as the cantina had because he deserved it. And he knew no one would stop him because he would kill them.
He felt his blade would always drink because his god willed it.
Tavian laughed raucously at the brawl ensuing before him. He cheered the Trandoshan, trying to bite the Gotal's arm off. He slammed his fist in wonder as the Gotal stabbed the Trandoshan repeatedly. The sweet, jaunty music of jizz had paused for a moment, so his high wasn't as fulfilling as he would like, but that was minor.
He spilled some wine on his shell-spider silk sleeve, but it didn't matter. The fight was worth it. As long as his vision wasn't blurry and his movements were still lithe, he was okay. As long as two disgusting species were killing each other, he was great.
But now, his day was about to improve because the Zeltron girl walked in.
Carmine walked into the cantina and became the literal main attraction. The swagger expected of scantily-clad heat. She knew who she was, and everyone approved. He could see a small woman of his species behind her, trailing in a robe beyond her size, hiding her pale-pink skin. Her head was down, eyes frequently shifting at the den of professional killers and freaks, and seeming to shiver underneath.
Ah, he thought, another one. We never end.
He drank as much wine as possible before Carmine snatched his third bottle.
"Ah, come on!" Tavian said, "I'm close to breaking my limit!"
"You can break it when we get back," Carmine flipped the glass to Dia, who fumbled with it while trying to keep her robe on. Sadly, some of her bare skin slipped through.
Carmine smiled and pinched her cheeks, much to the Twi'lek's embarrassment. The other Twi'lek paid no mind; his attention was on the Gotal's corpse being carried off to the exit while the Trandoshan slumped on his chair. The lizard humanoid's dark eyes found his own, but all Tavian could do was shrug.
Never a good Wookie around when you need him. All I had was a pitiful Gotal—at least the music's back.
"So, where is he?" Tavian asked, using a nail to get something out of his sharpened teeth.
"With the slug," Carmine replied with more derision than intended. A malformed human and his posse of two stared at her at the worst possible moment.
Dia followed her glance and felt cold despite the heated temperature of the room. Everything that has happened so far felt otherworldly, but only now does she feel so much like an outsider.
She spoke, her voice to her ears sounded so far away.
"Miss Carmine, I—"
"Dia, it's Mrs. Carmine."
She blinked. "I— Mrs. Carmine—"
"Also, no need for that. Call me Carmine."
Okay, now that was getting a bit annoying.
"Carmine—!"
"And don't," the Zeltron added sternly, "stare."
Dia gulped, withholding any more glances at the strange setting, and shrank into her coat.
"So, Diomeni dropped you off?" Tavian asked.
Carmine nodded. "Literally, too."
Tavian chuckled, "Nice!"
"That reminds me," Carmine placed a hand on Dia, her eyes filled with concern, "you feeling better?"
"I—" Dia stuttered, "... Could complain."
"There you go!" Carmine pinched the woman's cheeks again, "Now, you're being more honest!"
A loud snort grabbed Carmine's eyes to a lazing Tavian. His right leg crossed over his left knee, and he bounced his foot carelessly.
"Diomeni wants to know how many." She said, pretending not to notice the men walking toward them.
"I wanna say," He counted on his fingers, his hand covering the approaching Trandoshan, "A good twelve."
She hummed with satisfaction and allowed her voice and pheromones to soothe Dia— for what came next wouldn't be pretty. She held her hand out beneath the table and caught what Tavian had discreetly thrown.
"Hey, hey," said the leader, a tall, wide-faced, unremarkable excuse for a man. Is that a birthmark or a tattoo? Carmine wondered how such a face could ever be loved.
"Pretty, pretty," said the other man, a decent-looking guy hanging behind his leader. If he survives, he could probably be a model.
Dia stiffened when a hand fell on her cloaked back. She gazed upward into a blue humanoid's young, eager eyes.
"Uh, where did you…girls come from?" The kid said in a voice that Dia could strangely relate to. He didn't appear as confident as the other humans and humanoids surrounding him. The leader's eyes twitched, and he glared at the youth.
The Trandoshan had marched in front of Tavian and cursed him in his language; he made a fierce and imposing sight, what with him pushing past his pain. He jabbed a blood-covered claw at the Twi'lek, and Tavaian was confident that he was being blamed for the whole scuffle. Tavian didn't blame the lizard; he was bored.
"So," Tavian drawled, "can I assume M'Lord Diomeni wants my services?"
"He wants," Carmine began casually and paying no heed to their audience, "you and three others at Jabba's palace."
"Ah, see here, missy, I—"
"Does he want the good ones or the terrible ones?" Tavian stretched his hand for the satisfying mechanical kinks to drown the Trandoshan's impatient growls.
"Doesn't matter." Carmine flicked her hand as she crossed her long, bare right leg over her left.
"Oh, baby… you're not even trying to hide—"
"Really?" Tavian chuckled, "If they can survive Ryloth, Lord Vireth might have his hands full."
The mention of Dia's home planet earned the woman a brief lapse in focus from the young man's hand. Ryloth?
"So, why the light command?" Tavian stuck his tongue at the Trandoshan, finally giving it some attention.
"Well," Carmine replied, "Diomeni suspects Ventress will fail. And hard." She, too, glanced at the five humanoids practically salivating at her form. These guys heard what I said, but they don't need to listen to the specifics. Can't have word reaching Jabba, now can we?
"Why's that?" Tavian asked.
"Anakin Skywalker."
"Oh, of course. Wait, which one's Ventress again?"
"The sexy bald one with issues."
"Oh, the prickly one!"
Carmine nodded. Tavian licked his lips.
"I like to think I'm in a love-hate relationship with that girl."
Carmine rolled her eyes. "If you knew her personally. And besides, you're in a love-hate relationship with everyone."
That smarmy smirk that Tavian had worn throughout this exchange, the one Carmine knew him best for, had disappeared.
His eyes narrowed. "Not everyone…"
Carmine chuckled after sipping her wine. "Oh, calm down, you big baby!"
"Look, lady," Oh, right. They're still here. "I know you're probably new around here, but—"
"Tavian, you wanna kill these guys?"
The Trandoshan hauled the Twi'lek by the lapels of his fancy coat.
"Sure."
Carmine's left arm was forcibly yanked.
"Alright, I've had enough—!"
"Yes, you have," Carmine said softly as her knife passed through his eye.
The man felt an intense burning feeling where his eye should have been. He screamed when he felt the blade pull out and then screamed again when his sight ultimately failed him. Both his eyes felt like they were split apart— she stabbed his eyes! He couldn't see because she had stabbed his eyes!
Something forced him to the ground, it was a light figure, but as he stumbled back, it forced him to the floor. Somewhere past the never-ending throat-cutting screams, his mind told him the Zeltron was on top of him. She dug her knees into his chest, and he felt something slam his head upward, causing him to bite his tongue.
That burning pain he felt in his eyes now seized his neck and spread a hit liquid trickling down the side of his neck. To him, his body flared in a tremendous amount of clean pressure. He almost didn't notice the swift pangs on his wrists; he wanted to cry, 'Stop!' at what he thought were punches. But the logical side of his brain was tactless: she cut my throat and stabbed my wrists.
Blood was bubbling from his wrists and eyes, and his throat gurgled. He could feel something new happening, a different feeling altogether. He was dizzy and more tired in his life than ever before. As if he just ran through the desert of Tatooine while spinning all the way. The pain was subsiding, at least, even if his throat gurgled more, and he wanted to turn his body over.
"You really wanted to penetrate me, didn't you?"
There was a voice that sounded muffled, faint. It was the sweetest thing he's ever heard; it eased his mind somewhat.
"But, instead, I penetrated you."
Carmine stared at the dead man with a stern look. Her smile began to rise as the man's stomach began to drop. The small blade dripped with red blood, and some of it spattered on her own red-skinned face.
She turned around and found the Trandoshan's head neatly lying on the table, staring at her bloodstained hands. And then, they seemed to slide to its left. Past the table, Tavian rose behind the headless body of the tall lizard man. The severed head rolled off the table and over to the decently-faced man.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
When it touched its boots, he shrieked out a curse. Tearing his eyes away from the head with sporadic breaths, he made to aim for the Zeltron, only to find her knife touching his throat.
Now, Carmine stuck the blade up his nostril, and she regarded his whimpering form with a cool look. After a few moments of silent observation, as all the Cantina froze with bated breath, she spoke without her saccharine voice.
"Do you know why I'm going to spare you?" She asked in a simpering, mocking tone.
The decently-faced man shook his head, careful not to let the knife cut any part of his nose.
"It's because you're not bad on the eyes." Said a new voice, right next to his ear.
"And you're friend over there," a hand grabbed his chin and set his sight on the newbie, currently in the male Twi'lek's chokehold while the female Twi'lek stood wide-eyed.
"Your friend is young and has time to open his eyes and set his life down a harmonic voyage."
Carmine, the female Zeltron, said, "As of now, I'm flattered by the attention." She stuck the blade further in the nostril, "But I'm deeply offended. I'm married, and I don't just give myself to anyone."
The decently-faced man caught a glimpse of crimson skin, the same shade as the woman before him.
"And until you've earned the right for wine, women, and vices to behold your stabbable eyes," The voice behind him, now crisp and airy, yet whispering with an edge closer to his ear than ever before, "seek out Diomeni."
The knife in his nostril slowly slid out. As he backed away, he thanked whatever gods were watching him that he didn't immediately feel a blade pierce his back.
"What's your name?" asked the Zeltron man with a tilt of his head.
"T- T- Tenma!" said the decently-faced Tenma, fear still cricket his features, yet that fear slid away after he spoke. Curiosity was creeping in, and Tenma wasn't sure he understood why. But as he started into the eyes of the Zeltron man, he decided it wasn't worth a headache.
Tavian watched with a raised brow as Tenma stepped away as if he wasn't sure he wanted to leave. He rolled his eyes dramatically, and as he did so, he remembered the youth now choking in his grasp.
"Oops!" Tavian let go, and the kid greedily inhaled as much air as possible.
The kid gave a long, hoarse grunt as he looked from side to side.
"YOU FREAKS ARE CRAZY!" The kid clumsily pulled out a blaster pistol from his pocket, but before he could properly aim at whoever— whatever— these people were—
SHK
—he fell with a small blade firmly embedded between his eyes.
The Zeltron's handsome features hardened.
"Tavian!"
Tavian smacked his lips, "Oh, don't start with me."
The male Zeltron's shoulders sagged, but otherwise, he said nothing. He merely bent down to stare into the kid's dead eyes before shutting them with a careful hand.
Tenma got a look at him: his extended hair was swept up with a few strands flowing behind him, and his face had all the perfections expected(desired) from a being. His clothes stood out, however, as he looked half battle-ready and half— for lack of a better word— priestly.
The bell-shaped sleeves he wore shielded his hands; as he kneeled, Tenma saw potential places for weapons, and he was confident that the ornate figures that lined his yellow arms and back and the flowing garment behind him, but what this story was Tenma couldn't say.
"Alright!" Tenma jumped at the Twi'lek's voice, "We're done defending. Play that music again!"
And once again, chatter and laughter and music filled the cantina. Tenma turned back; the male Zeltron was now talking to the female. The male Twi'lek propped back in his seat while the cloaked female seemed to sink into her robes. The dizziness Tenma felt from such a rapid turn of events nearly made him weak in his knees. Tenma wished he could do the same.
"How are you doing, sister?"
"How do you think I'm doing, Poskurr?"
Tenma saw the female Zeltron trying and failing to wave the male's handkerchief away. Seeing how easily the male, Poskurr, quickly silenced her protests and turned this deadly killer into a pouting child, Tenma decided they were siblings. They fell into the role of doting older brother and disgruntled younger sister who got into a scrap so seamlessly— unless Tenma was missing something.
Once they sat down and continued their discussion in hushed tones, Tenma decided this was his cue to leave. He sent one last glance at his former boss and forced out a chuckle. I have a new ship.
And yet, for some reason, as he passed the customers lounging around and relaxing through the skittish paranoia, he turned around again. Sensitivity had not wholly abandoned him; there were eyes on him.
The Zeltron was looking at him. And so were the others, the Twi'lek male, the Zeltron woman, and even the hooded female, albeit popping in and out of her cloak. The confident three were mouthing words to Tenma, three syllables it appeared, and they did in synchronized smiles. Once he finished, the Zeltron winked again, and Tenma's burning face forced his face and smile back down.
It's not a smile. It's a stray muscle twitch. I mean, I'm alive, and I have a ship to myself! So, maybe I should smile. Yeah…
But what his red face couldn't do was push away his curiosity. Tatooine's sun shone as light would shine on inspiration, and Tenma found himself deciphering the mouthed word. It was strangely easy; as you would blink and miss something, Tenma blinked, and he whispered that word.
"Diomeni."
----------------------------------------
Obi-Wan was not on the ropes yet. At least, he didn't feel like it. Despite one of his ribs aching from a precise kick, Obi-Wan wouldn't say he had everything under control. Mainly because if he did, Ventress would hear.
And, of course, Zakriahs surprised him yet again. Oh, he was breathing hard, and Obi-Wan was sure that the boy now had a concussion courtesy of the otherwise playful assassin, but the Padawan was keeping up. Barely, but it was enough.
Obi-Wan had the luxury of saying what needed to be said because his defense held steady. Now, despite having to dodge columns that Ventress dismantled and hurtled toward him, he rushed to lift the pile of weight off him. The boy is skilled, but Obi-Wan would take no chances. He once saw Zule Xiss, another promising student to the late Jedi Master Glaive, have her left arm stolen from her. And his senses didn't stop Ventress from taking Master Glaive's head off. He strained against the weight, sweat pouring down his face. He had to hurry.
Zakriahs resisted the urge to soothe his throbbing head and, instead, held his lightsaber before the dark acolyte of Count Dooku. He had no time to think about those days of old when he viewed the bust of Jedi Master Dooku in a golden light. Instead, he steeled his jittering features and cleared his mind, with only the occasional whispers breaking through his mind.
The blades of Asajj Ventress glowed a blood red as she strolled toward him.
Blood is the right—shh! I'm concentrating!
Ventress raised her blades in a Jar'Kai salute. "Your Skywalker's replacement, eh?"
The boy's green eyes flashed, "If it helps you understand me better, sure."
Her eyes narrowed, "Guard your tongue, boy, or I'll rip it out."
"If you do it with your bare hands, wash your hands." In disgust, he stuck out his tongue, "If you use your blade, just keep me alive long enough to give you the final score."
Asajj smirked, surprisingly bemused. It wasn't every day her prey willingly gave her ideas. The distance between them was shrinking, but she decided to play with this one. Just to hear what he said next.
She stabbed her right blade at his shoulder, to which he blocked. And then, he skipped backward for some distance, still keeping his lightsaber level. She snorted at his hesitance, not needing to ask him if her reputation proceeded her. His eyes, which never left her, said it all.
She said, "You're more talkative than Kenobi's last disappointment."
She used Force-speed to bridge the gap again, adding more aggression to her movements. He struggled to keep up his defense, but he held it firm. She went so far as to test him, purposefully leaving a mistake in her spin to see if he would pounce. To her pleasure, he did.
But this resulted in a new opening. He only realized this because she gave him time to. Her chopping left blade didn't have nearly enough speed as she could muster, and it gave him time to push her left blade away, raise his in defense, jump up to avoid losing his feet, and even spin in midair to block her second slash.
Of course, she Force-pushed him into a far-off column afterward. Ventress wouldn't admit it, but she was impressed. Up until now, she had assumed the boy was a coward. Even now, as he struggled to his feet and propelled himself to a higher level of their surroundings, she could tell this Padawan was no fool.
He's analyzing me, she thought as she chased after him. After nearly dying to Anakin Skywalker on Yavin IV, she had found slight respect for his skill and how Kenobi had honed the Knight's skill. At first, she believed Kenobi had traded a warrior for a naive, bright-colored youth.
But even now, as he vanished within the new columns to repeat Ventress' previous tactic, that thought perished. No pathetic little novices to slaughter like fish, something resembling a challenge. It almost dashed her anger at failing her mission. Almost.
"Or maybe you don't have a lot of friends." He smacked his lips, "Oh, you're a sad one."
Ventress wanted to roll her eyes. For some reason, she couldn't. Instead, she scowled again. In the distance, she heard the sound of a heavy thud. Kenobi would be catching up soon.
She turned and sprinted toward the Padawan's hiding spot, slashing her blade. A few centimeters closer, she would have killed him; otherwise, he ran from her lightsaber as a clawmouse flees a serpent's fangs. She was next to him the next second and chopped her blade. He flipped backward and propelled himself a fair distance away.
Obi-Wan was next to him again. Zakriahs unleashed a few breathy giggles.
"He's not wrong, Ventress. After what I've learned of you," He said evenly, "you should be pitied."
"Pity?!" Ventress threw herself at them, their blades crashing again, "Like the pity that failed to save my Master, Ky Narec?"
The blade lock lasted for five seconds. Ventress couldn't focus on Kenobi's hurt expression as she hurled his sanctimonious trash back at him because the Padawan said something. And it left her gaping.
"You disgrace his memory," Zakriahs said without a shred of emotion. No contempt, no mocking tones, no fear: just a simple fact. And that infuriated her more.
Just a few seconds ago, he was escaping her attacks with the jittery bravado of a Padawan. Now, his face had turned into something else. Something she'd expect from Skywalker or Kenobi. He looked just like Kenobi.
"Arrogant little whelp!"
Now, she held nothing back: a dance of fury and death was unleashed against them. In the end, they could do nothing but block every strike. You would think Soresu would be the only form they knew. When Ventress slammed into a column with enough force to shatter it, she repaid Kenobi with a solid head kick.
Obi-Wan's mind flashed to a time when he was knocked away from another red blade, and what it cost him. Instead of sliding on his back, he flipped back onto his feet, pushed through his pain, and defended Zakriahs with every gram of power he had. It also helped that the noises Zakriahs made brought him back to the fight; the lightsaber swings followed by a high 'Oi! Oi! Oi!' would grab anyone's attention. It seemed like she was getting faster, but Ventress wasn't checking her comm as often as she should. This was a gamble on Obi-Wan's part. He may not have been trying to find Anakin now, but he would take this bet if the most dangerous foe was distracted.
"Force-push!" He knocked Ventress away with the invisible pressure he needed and was relieved when Zakriahs reacted in sync with him. Shouting out attacks was dangerous, so they'd have to work on that. "Let's go, Zakriahs!"
"Going! Going! Let's-ing! Zakriahs-ing!" said Zakriahs as they ran up the stairs. The afternoon sun silhouetted their forms as it shone through the damaged transparisteel window. They turned and stared downward, a challenging gesture.
"I bet we look amazing," said Zakriahs angling his blade in what he hoped would be his trademark salute: left hand with a lightsaber and two upside-down fingers to his chest. Ventress appeared down below. "Do we look amazing, Miss Ventress? I bet we do!"
The cold, irritated glare plastered on Ventress' face became more intense. Slowly, she held her curved blades out, and, as though with an instructor's patience wearing thinner, the lightsabers loudly clicked together into a Saberstaff. But as she spun it into a stance, the unspoken message was clear: You want to know what I think? I'll show you what I think.
Zakriahs clicked his tongue, "Right. Well, then…"
"How high can you jump?" Obi-Wan asked, careful not to let Ventress overhear.
"High enough, I should say," Zakriahs answered.
"When I give the signal, jump out the window."
"Okay."
Thankful for the lack of resistance from his Padawan, Obi-Wan spoke to Ventress, "We know about Dooku's plan to alienate Jabba from the Republic."
Zakriahs took a hint, "It will fail."
"Jabba will learn the truth."
Ventress steadily walked toward them, her tone now casual, "Which truth do you speak of: the real truth or Jedi truth? The second is a flexible commodity."
Zakriahs raised a brow and took his own gamble, "Last I checked, the definition of truth is the opposite of a lie. And that's what you did: you lied about us kidnapping the Huttlet And don't glare if the truth hurts. The truth is if you do, your wrinkles will never end, and that's the truth. Truth."
Now, Ventress was annoyed, "And like the truth you claim to understand so well, it will die with you."
Zakriahs couldn't even wonder if she had that line prepared because she was upon them in the next second. Three combatants were giving their all: one with shrieking messianic fervor, one older yet sturdy in his foundation, and the last one young and filled with stamina but wary. Ventress wheeled and spun her blade, leaped over Obi-Wan, trying to demean them into meaningless nothings. Makashi was perhaps not meant for double-wielding Jar'Kai, but that didn't stop her from making this her own. She pressed on and on and knew that a limb would fly away sooner or later.
Obi-Wan never once let any of her acrobatic maneuvers break him or Zakriahs. The ease with which she performed these complex movements was rivaled by his own obstinate yet graceful parries. Once long ago, he would have attempted to rocket through this duel with his Force-enhanced body. But after his contest with Count Dooku, Obi-Wan had to reconsider his options. As Ventress incorporated the same flourishing swings of her Master, if sloppily done, Obi-Wan knew his best course was to use the form meant to counter Makashi. If only because Soresu feels like the only form Obi-Wan's good with.
Zakriahs saw all of this and was fascinated. He also thought of something amazing he could do. He ran forward just as Ventress appeared to be getting ready to somersault and copied her movement. There was no caution in his step or thought of how he could easily fall off the edge. He was acting with the thrill. Obi-Wan watched with shock as two combatants met above him in the air.
Zakriahs said before the jump, "And like my life which you know nothing of," in the air, they both twisted their bodies to slash at each other, "it's barely begun. And I won't," he flashed a blaster, "let you," he fired, "END IT HERE!" The blaster was unexpected but not overwhelming. She deflected the bolts easily, if by half a second. Not that she would admit that.
But it was a serviceable distraction for Obi-Wan. In that split second, when she was distracted, she was again launched into the high ceiling by that unseen pressure.
"Go, Zakriahs!" She heard Kenobi shout. As she fell helplessly, she saw a flash of green followed by one of blue flying through the damaged window.
They ran along a bridge connecting to a new tower, passing through it to cross another bridge. They slowed to a stop halfway across it to catch their breaths.
"Did you know I'm trying to distract her from Anakin's escape?" Obi-Wan asked.
Zakriahs said breathlessly, "At first, it was just me being childish." A wide smile began twitching on his face, "But then, I thought and thought and thought.
"And then, I realized you had yet to reprimand me." He laughed, "Nothing, not even your nudges within the Force, told me to stop. Her eyes practically scream, 'Shut up,' but who cares what she thinks?"
Obi-Wan observed his Padawan's posture: his feet seemed torn between holding his ground and inching forward. His eagerness for action, naturally, reminded Obi-Wan of Anakin, who preferred using his blade to speak for him. But there was a restraint to Zakriahs that Obi-Wan was eternally thankful for. Even now, Obi-Wan sees that their brief lessons are bearing fruit.
Now, Obi-Wan was absolutely sure that Zakriahs' potential hadn't been squandered. He was too talented to be in the Temple all day and knew he was secretly restless. It reminded Obi-Wan of himself and his strong desire to become Qui-Gon's apprentice long ago. If Qui-Gon wouldn't let him fade into the Agricultural Corps, why should he do the same to Zakriahs? He trained Anakin, after all.
Yoda will be pleased to know that Zakriahs was on his way to forging a path as a noteworthy Jedi of his time— as well as several others. But for now, Obi-Wan is proud that he's survived, and he's relieved that he was able to protect Zakriahs. Now, he has to let him know this.
"Also, your blade work in soresu has improved," Obi-Wan said.
Obi-Wan stirred a small ping through the Force and eased it into the boy's mind to let him understand the weight of his words. Visibly, his breathing steadied itself, and his gaze drifted downward. This humility was genuine. Unlike the factual statement he gave to Obi-Wan in the alleyway, true appreciation extended throughout his mind.
"Wise of you to teach me. I guess learning under pressure is good for me," Zakriahs said softly, scratchily. He bowed his dead sincerely before he raised his face and his voice, "I enjoy the feeling of being a wall that can mock anyone without the worry of crumbling."
Sure enough, Ventress was rushing towards them and heard him. They raised their blades, ready to distract this woman.
"Every wall has to fall! We don't choose how we die, boy."
Ventress leaped overhead, a mad look in her eye. Really, she just looked mad in general. But the upside was her focus was entirely on them. The downside was her focus was entirely on them. Zakriahs, after dodging a near slice through his head, refused to believe that words couldn't cut as a blade would.
"But I can accelerate your death." Ventress continued, "The path you've chosen is like a poison: no matter where you go, death will have you."
So, as she pushed them with both of her saberstaff blades locked against theirs, and both Jedi listened to their heels dragging against the ground, Zakriahs listened to one thought among the rest.
Fire with fire. I've come this far; why stop now? Words, after all, are subtler, more invisible lightsabers.
"Are you talking to me or yourself?" He said in that simple tone again. He knew the calm and serene Jedi visage ground her teeth, and he cringed. Not at making her angry but at the thought of her teeth grinding so much they turn to dust. The idea made Zakriahs chuckle, fueling the flames of the assassin's rage.
"DO YOU EVER SHUT UP?!" Her spins became wilder, which Zakriahs concluded was indeed possible. Obi-Wan's defense went into overtime, as Zakriahs backed away and let Obi-Wan take the brunt and try to exploit a weakness before the Padawan jumped back in.
"Your patience is practically nonexistent. Are you sure you were a Jedi once?" He jeered. He was sure if Obi-Wan could share with him a dispaired, exasperated eyebrow twitch, he would. Seeing as they were both trying to keep their brows unsinged, Zakriahs could say he knew the stakes.
"HOW DARE YOU!" Came the haggard roar he was expecting, "I'm going to cut you in half!"
Zakriahs believed her, too. Strangely, that didn't brighten him.
Finally, Obi-Wan found the mistake he had been waiting for and sliced through the middle of her saberstaff. She looked up at her two blades, then realized she was still alive. She blinked and saw Kenobi and the Padawan had given her a berth of space, waiting for her. Kenobi shook his head while the Padawan— Zakriahs, she'll remember— made tut-tut sounds.
Condescending, little—
She rushed forward and stabbed both blades forward, to which Obi-Wan caught them with his own. She tried to dislodge them, but Obi-Wan pushed his blades onto the rails and wouldn't let her control them. She stared into those damn eyes and saw pity. Pity! This wasn't how—
Obi-Wan twisted their blades and sent one of Ventress' lightsabers tumbling down the vast space below them.
Asajj stared in disbelief. This wasn't how it was supposed to go! Ky Narec's lightsabers are lost to her, and now Kenobi has the gall to—
But then, she reigned herself in. She had finally let clarity return to her calculating assassin's mind. Discreetly moving her left hand to press a button on her comlink, she angled her lightsaber forward. Kenobi was waiting for her in a basic Shii-Cho stance. The Padawan, Zakriahs, was starting a few meters away from them, near the door to the next temple. Patiently waiting for his Master to finish the job, it seems.
She may not win this battle, but she could still continue the chase for Skywalker. She'd set her sights on him soon, but first, she'd impart one last bit of venom into their minds.
"Skywalker said what Jabba wanted to hear!" she said, "He knows the Jedi are out for him!"
Kenobi shook his head, "There's one thing you've neglected, Ventress."
"If you know it, then guess." Zakriahs wagged his eyebrows.
Asajj inhaled audibly, "Since you both love your own voices more than reality," and bared her teeth, "Enlighten me."
"Do you feel that?" Obi-Wan asked.
Feel what? What was there to feel? A reinforcement of Jedi ready to ambush her. She sensed no such thing. Snipers prepared to blow her head away? She sensed no such thing. She sensed nothing.
…nothing? She stretched out her senses and found the only Jedi around were the two in front of her. But Skywalker, she couldn't sense! It wasn't hard; he was practically a beacon in the Force— in his own right. There was no reason a showboat like him should shield his presence unless…
"I felt it a while ago, and I'm an inexperienced Padawan. What does that say about you?" Zakriahs sneered, deliberately channeling the more annoying Padawans he'd met in the Temple.
"It says failure." Obi-Wan said, "And Dooku himself will write displeasure."
Asajj seethe once again, "Jedi scum! I will kill you both!"
She thrust her blade out, and Obi-Wan blocked every strike, pushing her away. Ventress landed in a crouch, cursing at how accustomed to Jar'Kai she had become. Kenobi gave a soresu salute.
"Surrender, Ventress."
Asajj lost this. She had utterly failed her Master. Yet, despite everything, she wouldn't let him have the final word! Her comlink clipped in green.
"Stop marveling at yourselves long enough, and you'll learn," Asajj spat, "I always have a plan. And I never surrender."
Then, she jumped off the railing and fell. Obi-Wan and Zakriahs could only watch as she landed on a zooming Vulture droid. She stood on top of her getaway, dejected and humiliated. She thought of how she should report this to her Master, but some part of her brain, she didn't know which one, suggested she call the operative on Tatooine first. Since he could immediately take action against Jabba, and Dooku won't have to relay her information to him. It would be less tedious.
For whatever reason, Asajj Ventress, the killer of nobody today, took comfort in that reasoning.
Meanwhile, Obi-Wan and Zakriahs watched on with pensive expressions. Obi-Wan's hand immediately grasped his beard, knowing full well that this victory would mean nothing if Anakin did not return Jabba's son to Tatooine. The Jedi Master reasoned that since Anakin escaped rather than stay and fight, there must be something worth returning. He could only hope that 'something' was a rejuvenated Huttlet for Jabba to hug.
"You've learned nothing of me." Zakriahs' apathetic voice gave Obi-Wan pause in his musings, "While I now know more about you than you think."
The bond between Master and Padawan wasn't close to the one he shared with Anakin, so Obi-Wan could only speculate what brought this on. And, of course, he was rightly surprised and morbidly curious at the change. In the blink of an eye, Zakriahs turned sharply to his Master and smiled brightly.
"We make quite a pair," said Zakriahs before cringing at the state of the charred slashes of their cloaks. Zakriahs took his own, stuck his head through the hole, and spun around, wearing it like a poncho. Then, he made a dramatic dance of stepping side to side in three steps before swaying his upper body to drop his cloak over the rails.
After dusting his hands off, he said, "And we'll get better, I sense. Now then, let's go help our clones defeat those pathetic piles of scrap. You're still taking us out to lunch. Or is it dinner now? I lost track of time."
"Now—"
Zakriahs held up a hand, "I know what you're going to say," His tone became resigned, "Despite results, insulting the dangerous Force-imbued murderess was a risky move. Not to be presumptuous, but I have seen the risks in all of this. If it works, I'll do it again. If it doesn't, I'll try something different."
And he bowed his head, "I will get better. Your lessons will not be wasted."
Obi-Wan studied him for a moment. At that moment, Zakriahs kept his posture low and respectful. But Obi-Wan realized then that, given as he is, what Zakiahs needed now was different than from years before. Anakin was becoming a remarkable Jedi and a great man. Perhaps now would be the time to help Zakriahs Asher become a good one. Both were capable of such a feat.
So Obi-Wan said, "Well, that's good. But that's not what I was about to say."
Zakriahs opened his eyes and lifted his head, "No? Then what?"
"I was going to ask if you really want to eat at Dex's, or would you rather have something more exotic?"
Zakriahs stared at his Master; the bearded man's face betrayed no humor. At least until the glimmer in his eyes morphed into a smirk. The Padawan sighed and stood with a slouch. He ruffled his curly hair and shook his head before his blue eyes met that of his Master's.
"No, Dex is fine."
----------------------------------------
When the glowering shape of the pale assassin met his eyes, Diomeni knew his suspicions were proven. It's not that Diomeni had little faith in the beauty's skill; simply acknowledging Skywalker's ingenuity was enough to set everyone around him ablaze. Granted, thinking of Skywalker got him gripping his armrest a little more than he'd like to admit, but he'd mistaken him for a weakling once.
Asajj Ventress said, "Skywalker escaped, and Kenobi has driven my forces away."
"I'm sorry, Asajj," Diomeni said, steepling his hands and churning a new way to salvage this. "Listen, I need you to contact me five minutes after this. By then, Jabba will listen to how Skywalker killed his son and is on his way to Tatooine. Understand?"
She nodded, but he saw little relief in her face. So he leaned forward on his couch.
"As for the Count, don't worry. I'll see what I can—"
Ventress interrupted, "I don't want your sympathy or your pity!"
Diomeni bowed slightly, "It's empathy I give, and help I deliver."
"I don't want that either!"
"Well, clearly, it's what you need."
Asajj Ventress, the wind of destruction, stood straighter with a face to instill fear into planets. Diomeni withheld a bemused eye-roll. Seeing her dignified form was always a pleasure, not as a stubborn refusal to reality, but as a way to transcend. For now, I endure. Perhaps it's what she needs.
"I am a killer, a powerful force of nature against the Jedi."
Diomeni interrupted, "And I know that death herself needs—"
Ventress snarled, "Yes, I am death itself! And I don't need a lust-driven freak solving my problems!"
Diomeni laughed, "You mispronounced love." Then he said, "Stubborn woman, you are not so far gone to forget love!"
"You don't know anything about me!"
"I know you better than you know yourself!"
"And you refuse to understand that I. Am. Sith."
"Passion realized."
Diomeni moved his fingertips along his cheeks with half-lidded eyes. Ventress' scowl lessened but did not disappear.
"Oh, shut up! You know nothing of me, the Sith, or anything! You're not even a Sith."
Diomeni smiled, "And I never will be a Sith. And I'm happy with that." He put his left hand on her small holographic form as if to caress her, "But I know the Dark Side, and I know you."
Now her face twitched, and she seldom looked him in the eye.
"Do you feel better now that you've let it out?" Diomeni asked, and her scowl returned.
"I am not some—"
Diomeni stood up suddenly, "You are Asajj Ventress, and I am Diomeni." He inclined his head to where she stood on his hand, his voice as authoritarian as gers, "Our names carry so much weight." He emphasized the 'T' sound.
This gave her pause, and he didn't blame her. Their environment was one of heart-burning hatred and callous disregard. Certain emotions become forgotten in the life of a Sith Lord. But neither of them were Sith Lords.
And that's where a bond may be composed, Diomeni thought with a smile. As if reading his thought, Asajj looked up with a determined frown. To him, it and her posture read with all his favorite signs. He graced her with a benevolent nod.
He said, "When all is said and done, no matter where or when, you know where to find me."
There was a pause between them, Ventress weighing his words carefully.
Then her words came out, perfectly neutral, "I will be a Sith Lord." Then, the hologram faded away.
"Poor child," Diomeni whispered.
The door opened to his dark, dreary waiting room. Leading the group was a face he had yet to memorize.
Ah, that's right—our new watchdog. Our faithful mutt who protected the sanctity of Dia's inauguration.
The man's black-haired, oblong face still had those drugged-out eyes and lazy robotic stride.
Either the dose was getting too strong, or Carmine was overzealous.
Diomeni shrugged and waved him away. Two handsome, eager, deferential faces were waiting for him: one was crimson skinned and had similar features to Carmine, and the other was yellow, nearly golden, with equally fair features.
Diomeni pushed his cape back with open arms, "Tavian, my good killer!"
Tavian Jekk embraced Diomeni because he was much, much more important than him. Now, Tavian was handsome but of a different kind. His face was narrow and sharp as his teeth but never balanced. He would mostly tilt his head or smirk with a laziness Diomeni didn't find insulting. His flowing coat only covered his arms and backside, but it was shell-spider silk. In truth, it was armor to the trained eye but almost unnecessary. Tavian's shoulder pads were straight and rigid, yet his metallic, cybernetic arms drew enough attention to his otherwise casual outfit.
"My Lord." Tavian bowed.
Diomeni embraced the Zeltron next, "Poskurr, you watching his back?"
Poskurr had essential duties to attend to. Diomeni chose him because he was carved from the same clay as Carmine. In fact, they were twins. Poskurr's face was slightly more refined than Carmine's eager face, yet that button nose was unmistakably theirs. And his eyes were only keen and alive as his sister's whenever Diomeni willed it. Otherwise, he spread the good word. And be rewarded soon after.
"My Lord." Poskurr bowed, and Diomeni gazed at him. Poskurr stared back and maintained a steady breath as Diomeni traced his finger over the backs under his eyes. The red-haired man's brown orbs stared into the unwavering electric blue ones.
"You getting enough rest?" Diomeni asked.
Poskurr sighed, a near mellow sound, "I have work, my Lord."
Diomeni shook his head, "And blessed are thee to press on, but I mustn't have mine be weary. Especially not now— not here…"
Poskurr looked away momentarily, "I… suppose I could rest when all is said."
Diomeni turned him by his chin, and Poskurr felt calm ease into him. The two smiled at each other.
"And when all is done," Poskurr said, shaking his head.
"Do so," Diomeni smiled, "Or I'll make you."
"You're going to do that anyway," The Zeltron's brow arched.
Diomeni chuckled, "I'm only thinking of you."
The red-haired man turned to Tavian, who had an expression of impatience being tamed by discipline and deference. And then Diomeni saw the three men behind him, each with captivated, if uncertain, faces.
"And they are?" asked Diomeni.
"Interested in your proposal," Tavian said and moved away with a bow.
Diomeni stood before, taking five loud and intimidating steps to measure the new lives being bestowed unto himself. One was perfectly steeled, the other had whispers weighing him down, and the last one cringed with every step. But there was one thing that Diomeni loved about this latest catch.
"Brothers," He said, stretching the word, "and not clones, I sense—purity itself."
Their bodies? Identically competent. Their minds? A far cry from synchronized. But their eyes? Eagerness sunk deep into their blue eyes, and their pale complexions and black markings helped them stand out. As well as the strong one's scars. Diomeni needed them.
"Hmm." Diomeni shook his head with closed eyes, a smile, and pinched fingers as a chef would when tasting a most delicious delicacy. "I just love when jewels are found! Deep beneath the sands of Tattooine are diamonds in the rough!" He sighed a feral sigh, "I hope you're ready for an exhibition."
"What then, my Lord?" Poskurr said, two fingers to his left shoulder. Tavian cracked his neck, the sound echoing in the small room.
Then Diomeni said, "Be ready to stand as the avenger to a broken-hearted father."
"Oh," Tavian and Poskurr said together, "joy."
"I know," Diomeni said, "Believe me, I know. But things are not turning out in our favor, and if there's any hope of salvaging this— which I doubt— we must take hold of it."
"With respect, Lord," said Poskurr, "but if you doubt such a thing, why bother?"
Diomeni's deep brown eyes changed once again; his lopsided grin and head resting on his shoulder and long red hair created a striking image in Tavian's mind. The hair fell and hung like a bloodied waterfall.
"Because," Diomeni said, "we are the Star Makers. We are the Sky Dancers. I am the helmsman to paradise. I am the strength needed to hold happiness forever." His eyes flashed, now a chilly blue, "And a Skywalker is coming here. Am I to sit idly by whilst the heretic rides forth on twilight uncontested? Am I to become a shadow when I shine brightest? Am I not to hunt down the heathen, remind him of his transgression, here where he is most vulnerable?"
As he spoke, he stood straighter and taller— in the darkness, where his feet and eyes remain unseen, he appeared to them as a floating phantom with glowing balls of ice where his eyes should be. His voice became intense, and his accent changed again. Tavian and Poskurr stared on, neutral and respectful of his burning need for a confrontation, but they beamed within. They knew he could either way— Diomeni lives up to his namesake.
"Don't bother asking if I've forgotten what he's done to me," Diomeni softly switched his accent again, "I never forget."