A massive cataclysm has struck the universe, and destroyed most everything in its wake. The survivors are now trying to pick up the pieces, and figure out exactly what has befallen them. Gather together, lightsiders!! The darkness has shattered the peace and calm of the galaxy...and they will do anything to stop anyone from finding out exactly what has been done! This is our first sitewide RP plotline. Lightsiders, you are looking for the source of this massive event. Clues must be found, lackeys tracked down, and bits of memory discovered. Darksiders, you guys don't want that to happen....because of the one behind the whole thing is furthering his ultimate goal. Mandalorians, and non-force users, you guys can decide where you stand on this line....do you side with the Jedi, and try to discover the reasons behind the ruined universe, or will you side with the darkness, and protect those secrets. Will the secret of the cataclysmic reaping be kept under wraps? Or will the Jedi and their allies find out the truth? Your RP and writing will decide the outcome!
BATTLE ARENA
Welcome to The Saga Continues. We have a section called the Battle Arena. Here you can use your characters to fight other characters. Hone your skills and see what you are made of. Don't worry, anything that happens here, does not effect your characters in posts, so if your character dies, you can still use them over and over. Have fun and check it out!
The Saga Continues is the product of the mind of ADMIN ADI; all contents are copyright their original owners. All characters belong to their original creators, and may not be used or replicated without permission. All images are copyright their original owners. This skin Operation Mindcrime was made by pharaoh leap of Pixel Perfect and put together by ADMIN KRYSTAL
The Reaver Lord snorted. "I do not seek to inspire loyalty, Keira; I demand it. Not for myself, but for the Destroyer. If it were up to me I wouldn't seek the mantle of authority. I am a shekemir be akaan, nothing more."
To say he found her offer of hospitality stunning would be a gross understatement. That she deigned to speak to one branded dar'manda in the first place was shocking enough. Taking one into your home was several orders of magnitude more egregious a sin for a Mandalorian.
"You wish to break bread with a demagolka?" His smile was rueful, full of equal parts amusement and pain. "My, but what would the neighbors think?"
There were two options available to him, it seemed. His plan had been to return to the Wraith to rendezvous with his army. With the sitting Mandalorian gone, there was nothing left for him here. The path ahead was uncertain, but it had always been so. Kad'veman were wayward, drifting. The Destroyer's directive was absolute, certain; the road to seeing it fulfilled was anything but.
Did he dare take her offer?
"Tell me which is preferable," he said with a start, yellow gaze suddenly intense. "Living long enough to fight for what you believe in, only to watch as what you loved crumbles, unable to save it...or dying before you ever get the chance."
"I deal in death and thralls, aruetti. Which is it you seek?"
Blood streamed from the Mandalorian's nose, broken from the slugs smashing his visor back into his face. Pain, sharp and angry, lanced through his ribs and neck, threatening to overwhelm him.
Panting, down on one knee and bracing himself with the tip of his beskad against the tile, Faust raised his head to see Bedrovelse, right arm laying at his feet, blood soaking his robes...staring him down with pale, cold eyes. He shook with laughter that immediately turned to a grunting wince as fresh pain lashed his nerves. With his left hand he unclipped his buy'ce and let it fall at his side.
He spat blood, and grinned.
"Kad's breath aruetti," he chuckled as Bedrovelse raised his remaining hand and the air crackled with dark energy. "You should've been a Reaver."
Sinister orange light suddenly filled the Prophet of Harangir's vision.
And faded to black.
"I deal in death and thralls, aruetti. Which is it you seek?"
The sweat, blood, and pain were an intoxicating blend that fueled the priest's religious fervor. He exalted in the conflicted- 'duel' was a term much too elegant to describe what was taking place. This was a battle of brutality, of sheer willpower and endurance. Locked in mortal combat, against a worthy foe at last. Perhaps it was the feeling of equal parts mania and euphoria that gripped him now, but Faust felt as if he had finally met his equal, and the two were giving the Destroyer what He craved most.
But it couldn't last. As the saying goes, something had to give, and as beautiful as it had been, the fight was drawing to an ending that had been inevitable since Hevn had fearlessly strode through the ranks of his reavers all those years ago.
The dar'jetii was fast, there was no denying that. Most forcies were, since they typically eschewed the use of armor, supremely confident in their ability to meet any threat with the force. But this one didn't mind getting his hands dirty, and Faust found the barrel of his own pistol nearly jammed under his jaw by the time the fingers of his left hand encircled Hevn's tricep.
Had either man been the sort, it might have instigated a sort of stalemate. But they had both proven otherwise, and it wasn't to be. The Ripper roared to life, spitting death, and in the same instant the corded muscles in Faust's left arm bunched as he squeezed with bone-shattering strength. Slugs beat a relentless rhythm against his Mandalorian shield as he redoubled his efforts to force the dar'jetii's right arm downward, both with his left hand and the blade of his beskad. The increased effort prompted a scream of protest from the pulped muscle and tendon of his left side, and the smile disappeared from his face as his teeth ground, fighting through the pain.
Squeezing his left hand tighter, he twisted, seeking not to bend his wrist but to rotate the very arm that he held, crushing bone and tearing free tendons. His elbow cranked skyward to gain a better angle to force the arm down with, leaving his forearm diagonal, and from that position he fired two bolts from the wrist laser on his left brace, aiming to hammer them into the exposed flesh where Hevn's right shoulder met his neck.
::Shield at 20%::
With a sudden, savage howl the Prophet of Harangir gave one last, brutal shove down on the arm, one last attempt to force it downward and bring the blade of his beskad slicing into the top of his foe's skull. Inside his cuirass his bottom rib slashed through flesh and skin, broken free by the motion, shattered tip scraping agonizingly against his armor.
His head dipped with the motion as he tucked his chin against his chest, and when the shield finally broke, the last three slugs in the clip hammered against the bottom most edge of his faceplate, cranking his neck even further forward, stretching tendons and tearing muscle.
The impact was too much, and at last the Mandalorian staggered back, one step and then two, and his right knee hit the tile with a clang. Panting, cold sweat covering his body, Faust Skirata grinned again.
"I deal in death and thralls, aruetti. Which is it you seek?"
Whether it was due to his Thyrsian heritage, or his training as a priest of Kad Harangir, Faust wasn't sure, but the fact remained that the Reaver Lord could read body language as if it were Mando'a written in neon, and he recognized immediately that something was wrong. The forcie's left side twisted back as the slug punched through, missing the heart and lungs, and his blade immediately leapt into his hand- no doubt guided by his dark will- and into a flawless guard, but there was no other tension, no preparation to give answer. A warrior of Hevn's caliber wouldn't be fazed by something as minor as a gunshot wound, he knew that for certain, so what...
Realization dawned on the priest, and savage laughter suddenly ripped itself from scarred vocal chords. 'You kriffing chakaar,' he thought gleefully, and not without a hint of admiration. Their blades shrieked their contact, and Faust shot a wink at the corner of his HUD, already knowing it was too late.
::Shield Activ-::
The Grimhammer struck true, harder than before, and this time the prophet felt pain. Still cackling as fire bloomed up his side and the crack of his bottom two ribs snapping filled the air, he seized the pain, accepting it, exulting in it, offering it to the Destroyer as the most sincere form of worship.
How long had it been? How long since he had truly struggled for his life? Perhaps there had been one or two times during the Crusade where a forcie had managed to make him work for the kill, but such a chore rarely managed to turn Kad's head, and never with more than idle regard. But this one was different- Faust had known it since the day he had strode into the Reaver compound on Rodia. Aruetti or not, Bedrovelse Hevn was favored by the Destroyer God.
'Arasuum,' the priest taunted, his thoughts running like a burning river as the pain in his side intensified, 'look upon us...and despair.'
The impact of the hammer-blow sought to throw him to the side, but this time the priest twisted his hips to the right and stepped forward with his left foot, bringing his boot stomping down atop Hevn's right foot, seeking to trap it even as the flickering orange of his shield crackled to life- too little, too late.
In the same motion his left hand shot forward, opening to release the Ripper as he sought to grab hold of his foe's right arm just below the elbow. The pressure of his beskad against Hevn's katana never wavered- hopefully keeping the weapons locked together overhead.
Their faces only a foot apart now, Faust's laughter died abruptly as his gaze met those icy orbs. The smile that lit his flayed features then might have terrified lesser mortals, had it not been hidden behind beskar plate.
"I deal in death and thralls, aruetti. Which is it you seek?"
A grim smile bowed the prophet's flayed lips as Bedrovelse stood unflinching, calmly observing the slugs as they thudded uselessly against his flesh. In spite of himself, Faust was pleased; with their shared history, and the brutal testimony to Hevn's power he'd witnessed first hand again and again, it would have been disappointing to see him die easily.
And it would have angered the Destroyer, who was far from some necromantic wraith to be sated by something as simple as death. No, the God of Change thirsted for conflict, bloody struggle and the mortal art. Something told him Kad would get his fill of that and then some.
His finger tensed on the trigger again before the jangling of the spent rounds had even ceased; if the dar'jetii wanted to bring his shield to bear against the Reaver Lord's fury, he was more than happy to put it to the test. The lapse in gunfire could be measured in milliseconds- just long enough to lift the barrel and center it on the hollow of Hevn's throat- and then he fired again.
Simultaneously, something that felt quite a lot like a close range blast from a scattergun hammered into Faust's right side, between his hip and his ribs. As the priest's right knee buckled and his right shoulder dipped, his body bending slightly around the impact, the roar of the ripper drowned out the whine of the shockwave generator's discharge. The blow had caused his shot to go wide, bullet streaking for the Dark Jedi's left pectoral instead of it's intended target, but it all happened simultaneously, and the priest was too preoccupied to even notice.
The only indication he gave that he was even aware he'd been struck was a sharp exhalation, the vocalizer in his buy'ce transforming it into a mechanical snort. Tingling numbness spread across the right side of his abdomen as he straightened; the horrors he had endured- most of them self inflicted- had long since dulled his sensitivity to pain, but it was obvious to him that his armor had failed to disperse the entirety of the blow. Beneath his cuirass, the right side of the priest's abdomen was already a jumbled mass of purple and black.
Unfazed and unaware of how near the spiked top of the Grimhammer had come to lacerating the inside of his bicep, Faust ground his teeth and bounded forward, crossing the distance between them and bringing his beskad thundering down in an overhead chop meant to split the dar'jetti's skull.
"I deal in death and thralls, aruetti. Which is it you seek?"
The whetstone completed another journey, removing a microscopic amount of material from the beskad's already-razor edge. The sudden barking whine of a bolt being tightened echoed through the hangar. A passing squad of stormtroopers skirted around the priest, giving him a wide berth. Through all the noise and activity he was silent, studying it all through his HUD.
Scrape.
The hangar doors opened to admit yet another cadre of soldiers, but this time, someone was among them. Faust's teeth ground as the figure extricated itself from the mob, heading straight for him on stiff legs. Technical data bloomed across his visor as the white-haired titan drew near- tags popping into existence all around him, identifying and magnifying his weapons and armor for the priest to study at his leisure. From the location and composition of his armor and robes, down to the blade length of the sword that he carried, it was all laid bare.
Scrape.
A glance to the upper left corner dispersed the readings as Bedrovelse finally stood before him. A mere ten feet separated the Reaver Lord from his prize when Hevn spoke. At first, his only response was grating laughter as he dropped the whetstone into a pouch on his belt and stood, beskad clutched in his right hand. "Imperial affairs are of no concern to me, dar'jetti."
His left hand rested on the grip of his Ripper as silence filled the void between them. Faint whispering plucked along the prophet's nerves as the Destroyer turned his gaze upon the dread pair. Was it his imagination, or did even Kad view the two of them with something akin to anticipation?
"I'm here for you." The first shot rang out as soon as the pistol cleared leather, slug shrieking as it sought Hevn's right hip. Unfazed by the recoil, his blinding speed unbroken, Faust reoriented the pistol on his target's center mass as his arm raised to full extension.
The staccato roar of the ripper was like overlapping thunder as he squeezed the trigger three more times.
"I deal in death and thralls, aruetti. Which is it you seek?"
Imperial Stormtroopers flanked the Reaver Lord on either side as he made the long walk down the corridor, his stripped-down 'gam clanking with every step. It was hard to say how many of their comrades he'd sacrificed to Kad. Their invasion of Rodia had been swift and brutal, but not nearly as brutal as the response of the resident priests. He'd left their flayed corpses hanging from the trees, fiberboard tied tight about their ankles, their fingertips dragging the ground.
He wondered if these soldiers, so indoctrinated as to be barely human- and they were all human- were even capable of feeling anger. How strong must the urge be to simply lift one of their rifles and put a blaster bolt in his back? Or were they beyond such emotions, stripped of everything but loyalty and duty?
'Well,' he thought, grinning behind the mask of his buy'ce, 'their screams sounded genuine enough.'
At journey's end awaited a towering figure, armored in polished black that sharply contrasted the sterile white of the rank and file. "Faust Skirata," he said in a hissing baritone. "The butcher of Rodia and-"
"Your message mentioned a contract, aruetti." the priest interrupted in a mechanical monotone. "I deal in death and thralls; which do you seek?"
Black orbs fixated on him, and in spite of himself the Mandalorian felt a chill run down his spine. Finally, Lord Vader spoke:
"Death."
A short time later the prophet was seated on a weapon's crate in the Destroyer's hangar, humming an old battle hymn and running a whetstone along the edge of his beskad. The scrape of metal-on-metal soon found a matching rhythm with the crisp footfalls of a nearby platoon, and he lost himself in his task.
"I deal in death and thralls, aruetti. Which is it you seek?"
Farrien Vhett settled into his perch atop the dessicated building quickly enough. Chunks of flame-licked duracrete were piled against the short wall running its perimeter, forming a gradually sloping mound that reached just beneath its modest height. With practiced, unhurried movements he removed a weatherbeaten bipod from his kit and affixed it to the barrel of his towering rifle, then gently placed the weapon atop it's new home. Next he removed his gauntlets and laid them off to the side. Long-fingered hands flexed once, twice, relishing their new freedom, and then the most talented marksman in the Reaver Lord's army settled into position, one eye screwing shut as he peered through his scope. Unnecessary, since it was linked to his HUD and feedback from the scope was displayed across the visor itself, but such idiosyncrasies were manifold and dearly held.
His reticle moved smoothly along the buildings where the garrison soldiers were posted, small red tags appearing above each one as his HUD identified potential targets. He ignored them, sweeping lower to center on the gates as they creaked open, then lower still to settle on the lone figure stepping through them.
His index finger itched, another long-lived quirk. A single shot now, straight through the visor, and the taking of the capital could begin. Leaderless and scrambling, the defenders would either submit, or die quickly. But it was not to be. 'More's the pity,' Farrien thought coldly. Unlike most of his comrades, he had been declared Dar'manda long before joining the Reavers, and unlike most of his comrades, he had no qualms about killing his former vod.
Nonetheless he stayed his hand, and the reticle continued its smooth, side to side motions, finding and tagging targets along the wall's perimeter.
*****
"Oh look," Katariah snorted. "It's the welcome skiff."
"It's the garrison commander, Hal something or other. Saris' squad made contact with him already, so he likely has an idea why we're here." Janse murmured, hand toying with the pommel of his longsword. He felt restless, s sharp contrast to his usual languor.
"Then why didn't they just beckon us inside? These ruins are infested; we could come under attack at any moment."
The Echani shrugged. "Guess we're about to find out."
They observed the remainder of his approach in silence, wearing matching looks of stone that rivaled the expressionless buyces of the Shields at their back. Forming a sharp juxtaposition to them both were the Reavers among them, lightly armored and grinning, their manic eyes leering unabashedly at Hal as he neared.
When he finally stood before them, Janse simply nodded. "Su'cuy, al'verde...you come to meet us alone, the city gates shut behind you. Would you deny entry to your long-lost vod?"
"I deal in death and thralls, aruetti. Which is it you seek?"
Faust Skirata's HUD was equipped with many things, but an external pressure sensor wasn't one of them, and the creak of the beskar as it held-for now- under the invisible assault was drowned out by the clamor of battle and the beating of his own heart. He had no way of knowing that his foe was lashing out through arcane means. It would've made no difference if he had, for his motion never ceased, indifferent to the Jedi's attempts to escape his fate.
As the shield slid off his chest and met his thrust with a hollow clang, the priest immediately gave answer, flicking his wrist to the right before the shock of impact had finishing reverberating through his arm. This snapped the beskad forward, tip aimed at the wall across from him, and with a lazy roll that was deceptively quick he brought it looping beneath the shield and to his left, chopping toward the Jedi's left hip.
His own left hand was already perpendicular to his body, elbow tucked against his waist and forearm extending out before him, and so in tandem with his sword-stroke he loosed a volley from his wrist laser. Twin ruby darts suddenly lanced out from less than two steps away, seeking to pierce first the right side of his foe's chest, then his right knee.
::Wrist laser capacity at 50%::
'Oh, shut up.'
"I deal in death and thralls, aruetti. Which is it you seek?"
He stiffened at her touch, confusion and suspicion twisting his ragged features. It would occur to the Reaver Lord later that hers was the first touch not borne in anger, but now he was frozen, lost. He found himself studying her face, looking for any sign of...''Of what?' he asked himself. 'Deceit?' But there was no sign of treachery in the angular line of her jaw. The hardened but not unappealing cast of her features held nothing but compassion. She bore her own scars, but they served to distinguish rather than diminish. Faust's gaze centered on the most prominent one- a weal that snaked to her cheekbone- and followed it up until their eyes met at last. A flush of heat crept up the priest's neck, for in the dim light of the Oyu'baat, they looked for all the world like pools of honey- 'Enough!'
He jerked his hands away and stiffened in his seat, feeling like he'd been in a trance. Perhaps he had been, but whatever spell had gripped him was broken, and he met her statement with naught but a rueful smile. " Ba'jur bal beskar'gam, Ara'nov, aliit, Mando'a bal Mand'alor— An vencuyan mhi." He recited in mock sing-song, his grating voice somehow still managing to drip sarcasm. As suddenly as it had appeared the humor drained from him, and he sighed. "All tenets derived from the Destroyer, Keira. You worship the spring and ignore the ocean."
He made up his mind and stood in a clamor of clanking armor and bouncing weapons. One hand opened the privacy slide, but his eyes never left hers. "What you should know is this: I will return. The time of my people's stagnation is at an end. When the winds of change reach you, remember: in our time of greatest need, the Mandalore fled, but I did not. My vod may turn their backs on me, but I won't match their cruelty. If I have to drag them kicking and screaming to their salvation, hen so be it."
There was nothing left to be said, yet he stood unmoving, as if he were trapped in a pool of honey. Destroyer's teeth, what is wrong with me?
"I deal in death and thralls, aruetti. Which is it you seek?"
"Aye," he sighed, "most will dispute my claim. As I said, I grow weary of killing my brothers and sisters. I came to Manda'yaim seeking one man, not the slaughter of my kin- and they are my kin, whether they like it or not. That I came alone, and not with my armies at my back, should be evidence enough of that."
He could feel that weariness now, clinging to him like a shroud. Years spent fighting for a people that didn't want him catching up to him after all this time. Reyn's death was supposed to change that. His mission had been to replace an ineffective ruler and lead the vode to their former glory. Now, he just felt lost.
After a moment he bared his teeth in a gruesome smile. "I assume nothing, Keira Verd, but you prove your ignorance with every breath you take. Yes, I follow the Old Ways. The Way of Harangir, in all of its bloody glory. The Way that all the vode once followed, before they became so mired in aruetti affairs and fighting for credits that they lost sight of their true heritage.
I turned away from the Resol'nare in favor of something older...purer. And when you turned your backs on me, I found new allies. No peacemongering Jet'ii or decrepit, power hungry Sith, but warriors such as myself, fighting for a cause they believed in. I would stand by them again, had their war not consumed them all.
You know the what- barely- but not the why. But for most, that's enough...it matters not my motivations, the araay I have endured for you all..."
The priest suddenly realized his hands were clenched into trembling fists, the shuko'rok grinding with enough pressure to shatter a bantha's skull. He snorted. "But as you said, it's not your concern. So why call me over to you? Idle curiosity? There is nothing...idle about you, Keira Verd."
"I deal in death and thralls, aruetti. Which is it you seek?"
The priest's eyes widened, a sudden, slight change of expression that disappeared quickly. Being addressed so casually was...unexpected, and frankly disarming. But his composure was cold, reptilian regard, returning to the forefront in half a heartbeat- even if the voice of Kad's Avatar was suddenly booming through his head.
Still...
How many years had it been since any Mandalorian- outside of his own army- had done more than sneer at his arrival? How long since any had opened their mouths to do more than spit at his passing, or worse, seal their fate with a challenge? Oh, the aliit'alor's greeting was rife with contempt, making it clear she viewed him no differently than the others. Betrayer. Kinslayer. Dar'manda. He'd heard them all before.
Still...
Another long, pregnant pause- filled with drama only in the imagination of their audience- and then priest sat. His shuk'orok lay flat on the table between them, mirroring his host's posture in this bizarre parley. Of course, that left his wrist laser aimed straight at her heart- a fact she was sure to notice. What could he say? Not all among his vode would be kind enough to escort him outside for a duel.
"Elek, maybe both." he agreed. "But you already know why I'm here, alor. You all know why... nuhunla. Reyn flees my coming, and when I step to the forefront, to show the vode the only way out of this nightmare, I'm met with curses.
Tell me...do you even know why I was cast out?"
"I deal in death and thralls, aruetti. Which is it you seek?"
Twice already a heavy hand had fallen on the priest's shoulder as he sat at the bar. Twice he had had risen, stepping out into the alleyway behind the Oyu'baat, and twice he had returned only a few moments later, his beskad sporting a fresh coat of gore each time. Whether the anger of his vode had clouded their judgment, or the legend of what the priests of Harangir were capable of had faded after the Crusade, Faust Skirata couldn't say. Their sudden, stiff shock as they were pressed back by his fury, the despair in their eyes as they heard his blades song...it brought him no joy, but he had cut them down all the same. A challenge once issued could not be revoked, and the hubris of his kin had been punished quickly and without passion.
Now he sat alone at the bar, palms flat against the dark wood. Introspection often haunted the priest after he took a life, and now his mind wandered, ebbing and flowing like the whorls in the wood.
That the Mandalore's disappearance coincided with his own arrival in Keldabe did not surprise him. It was known among the vode that the Reaver Lord sought the helm, and Reyn could not have been unaware of his impending arrival. No, what surprised him was how wholly unaffected Mandalore seemed to be. The rest of the galaxy lay in shreds, and across the neighboring solar systems Mandalorian worlds were in ruin. Yet within the walls of the Oyu'baat, life went on.
"Dar'manda."
The Prophet of Harangir didn't move at first, though he could feel a dozen eyes suddenly on his back. Another challenger, seeking to make a name for themselves. Another di'kuut with eyes full of fire, ready to step outside to be added to the pile of cooling corpses in the alleyway. Finally he turned, rising off his stool with fluidity in sharp juxtaposition to the grate and clank of his patchwork beskar'gam.
To see Kiera, aliit'alor of Clan Verd, waving him over to her table.
His sulfuric yellow eyes narrowed as he approached, the scowl twisting the flayed remains of his face in a gruesome display. He stopped just shy of her, looking down with clear distaste. "And what is it you seek of this demagolka? I grow weary of killing my brothers and sisters, Kiera, but your insistence will spell your doom all the same."
"I deal in death and thralls, aruetti. Which is it you seek?"
The Oyu'baat was located on the Outer Rim world of Mandalore, within the capital city of Keldabe. Situated at one end of an ancient paved square, across from Chortav Meshurkaane, the Oyu'baat was a hotel and tapcaf housed within a large, three-story structure that appeared to some as a gathering of smaller buildings that had merged over time. The Oyu'baat was constructed almost entirely of wood and stone, with a sloped, tiled roof, beneath which a massive wooden ridgepole—as wide in diameter as three average Human men—could be seen jutting out on either side from below the building's eaves. A pair of doors stood at the cantina's entrance beneath a large portico. The Oyu'baat's exterior facade was coated with painted plaster that was known to chip and flake with age, and possessed an eclectic assortment of windows with non-perpendicular angles and a general disregard for being level. The Oyu'baat took its name from the Mando'a word oyu'baat, a term which translated to "universe" in Galactic Basic Standard. The name in both languages was written on a sign outside of the tapcaf's entrance. The dual-language sign also warned that strills, six-legged hunting animals native to Mandalore, were not allowed inside, and notified potential customers that the cantina accepted barter as means of payment, in addition to standard credits.
Inside the doors of the tapcaf, a broad but shallow staircase led into the Oyu'baat's main hall, an immense room built primarily from dark-colored wood. Tables for customers to sit at were spread about the hall at intervals, while booths lined the outer walls, each with a sliding wooden screen that could be drawn across the booth's opening for optional added privacy. Two curved bars with long counters and a number of available seats were the centerpiece of the Oyu'baat's main chamber: one was allocated to serving food, while the other offered a variety of beverages. The Oyu'baat kept a large stock of Mandallian Narcolethe, and brewed its own ne'tra gal, a sweet black Mandalorian ale they served to customers in glass mugs. Among its non-alcoholic beverage selection, the Oyu'baat sold a blend of spiced caf for which the cantina was well known even among non-Mandalorians. The tapcaf prepared soups and a number of other food dishes, including a meat and vegetable stew. Mandalorian folk humor insisted that the same stew had been left to simmer for centuries, only with fresh meat and vegetables thrown in daily, and it was said that the Oyu'baat's menu had remained the same since the time of the Mandalorian Wars. During the day, the bar area was bathed in sunlight from the skylights housed in the roof, and behind the bar, the current bounty-hunting list was displayed for Mandalorian patrons who pursued bounty hunter work, as both a holodisplay and with flimsi posters.
At the far end of the main room, opposite to the Oyu'baat's entrance, was a large, open log fire. The fire was surrounded by a wide alcove that could host more than a dozen individuals, and was a particularly popular choice for patrons to gather around. A noisy, automated hot-air unit provided additional heat to rest of the Oyu'baat. The Oyu'baat's interior was clean, yet rustic, decorated with vivid tapestries depicting various events and figures from the Mandalorian culture's long history; many favored shades of deep red in their composition. The ancient cantina's main hall was often noisy, and featured a large holovid viewscreen commonly used to watch sporting events, in addition to boards for playing cu'bikad, a rough Mandalorian table game. Broad galleries overlooked the large main chamber from the Oyu'baat's second and third floors. Part hotel, the Oyu'baat's upper levels had a number of rooms interested parties could rent, for overnight periods or longer, and were reached by a staircase at the rear of the main hall. The stairway also concealed a hidden panel which led to a secret, office-sized space within the Oyu'baat that few knew about. The cantina smelled of the wood fire, yeast from the brewing ale, and the scents of various cooking foods. With the exception of rare special occasions,the Oyu'baat was always open for business.
"I deal in death and thralls, aruetti. Which is it you seek?"
Introspection haunted Skirata at the strangest of times. When the battle was yet to be met, when there was nothing to do but pace the floor and review plans for the hundredth time, that's when the prophet was gripped by fevered, nervous energy. Held hostage in the present, with no hope of reprieve; no retreat to the safety of drifting thoughts and daydreams. Exhausting, harrowing, it stretched his nerves to the limit and then some, leaving them frayed, ready to snap.
Then, when the battle was finally joined, and the fruits of his labor culminated in bloody praise for the Destroyer...sweet release. Climax would find him listless, wandering with his mind elsewhere.
"I deal in death and thralls, aruetti. Which is it you seek?"