The Citadel Cantina is located on the second level of the Arcona Citadel. The bar itself is small on the surface, but possess an expansive selection thanks to a clever servos-operated storage system built into the underside of the bar. A bartender only need punch in what drink they require (other than the typical stock) and within a minute the bottle is distributed to transparisteel display panels. Relaxed, soothing music plays over the speakers, and a big-screen display terminal with access to the holonet sits across from a series of comfortable lounge chairs and stools.

The cantina is full-service and is manned by a gruff, one-eyed Rodian named Mick. Mick is a grumpy, former sergeant who served in the Arcona Armed Forces years and years ago. He goes about his business with a series of grunts, gestures, and monosyllabic dialogue. Though a man of few words, he is a genius of alcoholic beverages and mixology. Mick has a very strict rule about no fighting or brawling within the cantina. The mess hall, on the other hand, is a different story.

The cantina opens up into a dedicated mess-hall that can hold up to a hundred sentients before it starts to feel claustrophobic. Open at all hours, the mess-hall has been sanctioned as an acceptable area for members to settle aggression and other frustrations. The tables are all firmly bolted into the hall's floor to avoid being thrown over, and are crafted out of durable material that has held its own throughout the years. At the far end of the mess-hall there is a pair of double-doors that lead to the kitchen and storage area. The mess-hall is maintained by a full staff of droids, and occasionally a new recruit who has earned the ire of their superiors.

Sound and noise filled the small caninta room and the sullen Kaleesh sat alone in one of the corner booths. A small cup of amber liquid sat neglected in front of him. The Sith's eyes were downcast as he examined his new cybernetic limbs, the silver, polished metal clashing with his reddish-green skin; but he could appreciate that it was only his legs and arms that had been lost in the explosion.

Even as he thought as much, his metal clawed hand reached up to rub at his still-healing throat, its metallic fingers tracing the scars from the many surgeries it had taken to save his vocal cords from the flame. Even still, a voice modulator had to be implanted to restore some of the functionality that had been lost.

Though this had saved his voice, it had the unfortunate side effect of giving it an almost robotic undertone, and some of the troopers under his command — at least those who had actually paid attention in there history classes — had begun to call him Grievous two point zero. It had made him furious at first, from a cultural standpoint, as most of his people considered Grievous as one of their many gods.

At the same time, it also made him furious that they would even compare him to the droid commander. It reminded him far too much of his past than he cared to admit to anyone else personally, and he had sternly reprimand his troops for using that name around him. It soon died out except when they were off duty and trolling around the city proper.

Looking up for his seat, he could see several of those same troops huddled around each other downing shot after shot and generally having a good time of themselves. His glowing eyes looked at each face while his mind went over the information he had for each, filing them away from usefulness to liability.

It wasn't hard, since he had taken the time to get to know the men under his command, knowing their families, there personal interests, and so on. It made it easy to keep track of faces and knowledge. But as he eyes flickered over to the now opening door, he saw a face that he had not been looking forward to seeing any time soon.

Kordath Bleu walked into the bar with what was, for the first time the Kaleesh had seen, a serious look on the relatively small Ryn's face. Gray eyes tracking over the bar before they settled on the Sith’s red glowing eyes. There was a breath of stillness between them before there was another roar of excitement as the troopers nearest Kordath began to cheer again as they recognized him.

The Arcanist paid them no heed as he began to walk forward, grabbing a rather large bottle of whiskey off of their table, much to the men's drunken anger, but when they saw where he was going every man's face went white before they sat back down in silence, preferring not to take part with what was about to happen.

Rrogon watched him move as his left hand dropped to his side where his slugthrower was currently holstered before his saw Mick at the bar, the old Rodian giving him a look that spoke louder than any words.

Start anything and you're finished.

The Kaleesh nodded to the man before motioning for more drinks to be brought over. They were going to need them. Sitting up straight in his booth and rolling each of his shoulders in turn — at least, what was left of them — to relax his now tensiing muscles, he felt something in his right hand which made him stop for a second and look down at the metallic appendage.

The medical staff had warned of phantom pains but he had never thought they would feel so real to his mind and body. Focusing inside himself, he sectioned off the feeling to a place in his mind where it wouldn't bother him at the moment and where he could learn to deal with it later. He needed to be focused on the task at hand, either avoiding the fight that was about to start or relocating it to the cafeteria where he could find a way to subdue Kord without hurting him.

With him being Adile of Galares, it made the position he was thrust in ten times harder to deal with, as his responsibilities to the higher summit forbade him to hurt the smaller Ryn; not to mention the people in said positions would have his skin for new boots if they found out he had killed the Consul. Even if it was in self-defence.

Kordath finally reached the table as a tray with a small bottle of murky yet clear liquid and two shot glasses was placed there by Mick, who gave them each a look that would have made even the most battle-scarred Mandalorian or veteran Jedi turn away, and made his point clear that no fighting was to happen unless they went into the mess hall.

The two Arconans looked at each other for a long time, not saying a word, before Kordath sat down and poured himself and the Sith each a shot and slid it other to the waiting hand of the Kaleesh. Both of the men threw back their heads as the liquor burned is way down their throats and for a second Rrogon looked at Mick in surprise as he remembered his own flavored brew that he had handcrafted with the Rodian's help.

However his attention was soon drwan back to the Ryn in front of him as the fire continued to crawl down into his gut, and when he finally spoke, the almost robotic mimicry of his voice confused his own brain before he continued without skipping a beat.

“Do we really need to fight, Kordath? You will never be able to beat me as you are now and you know that for a fact,” the Sith spoke in a tone that conveyed no emotion behind it

“It ain't about winning, schutta. You hurt me girl, I can nae let that go,” sneered the Ryn as he poured himself another shot and made it disappear just like the first. There was a small shake in his hand as he poured the drink. Skar could not tell if it was fear or rage that caused the quaking hand; it could have very well been both at this point.

“As I explained to you and the rest of the summit, I was….” The Sith never finished his sentence before Kordath cut him off.

“This ain't got nothing ta do with the summit. This is you an' me.”

The light that flashed behind the man's eyes betrayed his determination all too well and the Sith knew the look of a man willing to die for his own cause. Rrogon accepted this as the hulking mass of juggernaut began to stand up from his spot while the metallic hand grabbed the bottle from the table and brought the liquid to his lips before he gulped several mouthfuls for himself before he shoved it into the arms of the Ryn.

As he stepped past him, he stopped and looked down to see the smaller man downing several gulps of his own. Leaning down, the Kaleesh whispered into his Consul's ear before he strode off into the mess hall, his metallic feet clicking on the metal floor.

“You know the woman that took my arms and legs from me and yet even she couldn't kill me, so just think long and hard before you step through that door about what can you ever hope to do against me,” the sith said quietly. He never looked back at the Ryn to see his reaction or what he did. The Arconan kept walking until he stepped beyond the door.

His first action taken was to check his slugthrower to make sure it was loaded and ready to go before he strapped it back to his hip. His lightsaber was next as the Sith meticulously checked over the small curved blade on the end of the pommel and the emitter, making sure each was ready for the fight ahead.

He never turned around even as he heard the first footfall behind him. He just kept his eyes closed and extended his own senses to warn him of any danger to his body and, sure enough, there was a tingling sensation that told him to duck. He followed its direction, opening his eyes to see a small cylinder clatter nearby his feet. In his shock he could not cover or close his eyes in time before the flash lit the room like a sun exploding into existence.

The Kaleesh roared in pain as a hand went to his eyes and another to his ear as the pain and sound assaulted him and his senses, and when he felt a weight crash into his back he staggered forward in surprise. When he felt the hands on his arms he knew it was Kordath trying to take advantage of his blindness. A sharp pain entered the side of his ribcage as the knife the Ryn held plunged deep into the lower abdomen of the Juggernaut who thrashed and tried to fling the smaller humanoid off of his back.

Slowly the Kaleesh’s sight was coming back to him and he looked back over his shoulder to see the Ryn's face right there with his own, and the sight gave him what he needed. Throwing the back of his skull into a reverse headbutt, the Sith slammed it back with all the might he had into Kordath's chitinous nose, which shattered inward. Kord snarled in pain and let go of the Kaleesh, stumbling back on his own feet before he lost his balance and tumbled to the floor. Rrogon rubbed at his eyes with the back of a metal hand while his other was held over the wound in his side. His mind began to focus and pull on the Force to begin to knit the wound closed before he could lose too much blood.

Glaring down at the now recovering Arcanist, the Kaleesh pulled his slugthrower and pointed it right at the Ryn's head.

Damn the Summit and their need for this little rodent. He dies now!

His face hurt. His head was swimming, both from the impact and the amount he’d drank both before coming down to the cantina and inside of Mick’s place. His ID9 unit, Skitters, had been surveilling the area when Rrogon had been spotted. The droid was likely still about, waiting for a chance to engage. Gray eyes, glazed over from pain and drunkenness looked up at the barrel of the Kaleesh’s pistol, before casting them about in search of the wayward dagger he’d dropped.

“Gonna shoot me, then, ya crazy sonuvafrakker? Sleemo, murderous, cowardly robo-schutta…” the Ryn trailed off, his head listing backward from the pain. “Nearly killed her!” he suddenly shouted, blood streaming from his shattered nose as he fought to stay upright, glaring at the Aedile.

A small audience was building around the doors to both the cafeteria itself and the adjacent cantina, heads peeking around to watch. It wasn’t that odd to find the Consul brawling in recent days, not since he and his fiance had become estranged. But this, this was another level of it. He sounded almost like he was daring the bigger man to do it, end him now, yet at the same time accusing him of wrongful doings.

“You and yours murdered my wife,” spoke the Kaleesh, his modulator robbing his voice of much of the emotions. “Perhaps not you, but those you were loyal to. My anger was justified. And, Zujenia lives, so stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

Kordath’s eyes seemed to flash as he turned his gaze back upon Rrogon. He’d finally spotted his dagger, lying under a nearby table. His left hand clenched into a fist, which he slammed down on to the tiled floor of the cafeteria.

“You killed yer own bleedin’ woman when ya went mad, ya stupid frakstick! And ya nearly ended Zujenia because you were too blasted crazy ta tell friend from foe. Is she alive? Aye. Aye, she is. But she ain’t been whole ever since one of those she called ‘friend’ drove a frakkin’ lightsaber through her belly!”

Bleu screamed out the last, watching the slugthrower waver a few inches as he spoke of Skar’s sins. When it dropped low enough, he opened his left hand and thrust it forward. The Kaleesh hissed in surprise and anger; he and Kordath had fought enough times that he should have expected the brilliant flash of light. His words and apparent defeat had left the Aedile open, for all of a moment. Kordath scrambled to the side, even as Skar blindly fired his slugthrower and gouged rents through the tile floor, headed for the table which his knife was under. The biotech implant, hidden under the skin of his lower back, had been humming away as it pushed coagulants and some pain suppressants into the Ryn’s system, stemming the flow of blood from his broken beak.

With a shout, Bleu grasped his Sith Dagger by the hilt and pushed himself off the floor, lunging at the pistol-wielding Kaleesh. Rrogon was blinking away the last spots in his eyes, shaking his head and hissing through his voice modulator. It sounded like angry static. Before he could get a bead on the fleet-footed Ryn, he was forced to raise his arms to fend off the first in a series of poorly coordinated, anger-driven slashes. They skipped off the bracers of his armor, damaging the integrity of the easy to move in Inquisitor gear.

“Frakkin’ frakker souvaschutta,” ranted Kordath, his off hand tugging free his sapphire blade from its thigh scabbard. Rrogon backed away, using his forearms to try and block the dervish of attacks, those which he couldn’t dodge anyway. Sparks rang as the edges of Kordath’s weapons slid across cybernetic limbs, scarring the surface and sending painful feedback to the Kaleesh’s nervous system. Finally, the inebriated Consul started to slow, and Skar’s crimson eyes seemed to take on an even more menacing light.

Kordath didn’t notice that his dagger didn’t reach his target, nor the short sword like sapphire blade rebounding off the air itself. He was panting, anger driving him past the point of perceiving the barrier his foe had erected, one metallic palm held before the Kaleesh’s body. Skar’s pistol-wielding hand waved at the Ryn from behind the Force projected shield, and the Consul felt his body lifted from his feet and thrown backward several meters. His body crashed into a table, knocking several chairs aside and tangling him among their legs.

“Murderous schutta, frakkin’ sleemo,” mumbled the Ryn, trying to regain his bearings.