It was a cloud covered day above Estle City, the Citadel standing like a gray edifice overlooking the Arconan capital. Despite their namesake, it didn’t do much to add to the shadows, which the so-called Shadow Lord standing in the courtyard found ironic as he took a drag from his cigarette. He was staring into the fountain’s rippling waters, his bottle of whiskey precariously perched on the edge of the stone, top secure and volume full. The Ryn could sense another standing a few feet behind him, but was stubbornly refusing to turn about. Kordath Bleu had come down to the courtyard from his office for a smoke, maybe a drink, to take a break from paperwork and the bureaucratic hell that was his job.
Still, time waited for no man he decided, rolling his stiff shoulders and turning to face the...Human who was waiting on him he noted as he took in the young man. Almost a boy, he thought, if not for the scars here and there and the serious demeanor. The gloom of the day did little to darken the brightness of the officer’s blue-eyed stare, even when the young man stiffened in place. Kord was almost impressed that a bloke standing at attention seemed to be able to be even more at attention. It looked bloody uncomfortable thought.
“Look, mate, uh, stand down. As you were?”
The Human relaxed, if only slightly, hands going behind his back and stance widening to something seemingly more comfortable. Kordath let his eyes roam over the kid’s attire, taking in the fine cut of his uniform and non-standard material that suggested a custom, tailored job. Another glance up showed perfectly trimmed hair and he suspected the boy was the type to spend ten minutes at the mirror every morning making sure his bleedin’ eyebrows matched. A pistol with custom grip, one that Bleu was uncomfortably familiar with as being of Collective make, sat on the Human’s hip. The lightsaber hanging from his other hip brought a raised brow from the Ryn.
His mind raced, trying to lift itself from the depths of paperwork and logistics that it had been bogged down in all day, before finally addressing the young man again.
“...Whoreson?”
“Widowson, Sir,” replied the young officer, his mouth tightening at the misstep, his gaze seeming to focus over the Ryn’s left shoulder.
Kord had the grace to at least wince, “Right, sorry mate, been a day o’ reports, no offense meant. What can I do ya for, lad?”
Cawthren Widowson blinked and finally looked at his Consul directly. This was a man he had sworn oaths to. Arcona was a big place, he could admit, so the Shadow Lord even half knowing his name was almost an honor. He could have done without the implication that his mother was a working girl, though.
“I wished to present myself, Lord Consul, as I have returned from—”
“Oi, none o’ that now. Call me Kord, or Bleu, or ‘that furry frakker’ but none o’ that ‘Lord’ business, ya ken?”
The Knight reviewed his words more carefully, inclining his head.
“As you say my lo— ah, sir? I just returned from an excursion to the Principate and—”
“Look, lad, ya want ta turn in a report there’s proper channels; if it was somethin’ excitin’ I’m sure you’d be leadin’ with it, yeah? I do nae wish ta rain on yer parade o’ a successful mission, but I got a stack o’ datapads and paper upstairs full o’ mission details and other kark that I’ve gotta get through already.” The Ryn scrubbed at his tired face, taking another drag from his cigarette. He looked up at the kid, who looked at a loss, like a kicked Cythraul puppy. Bleu sighed and threw his butt down, grounding it into the grass with his boot and clearing his throat.
“Course, lad, ya could help yer uh, Consul, out real quick,” he spoke in a clearer tone, trying to bring the kid’s spine back up. It seemed to work, Cawthren standing straight and looking to him once more.
“You require my services?” Cawthren’s tone was one of restrained interest and possibly hope. Kordath couldn’t tell if he was hungry for recognition or more work. Maybe both?
Bleu didn’t speak, instead, he rolled his shoulders and pulling his left arm across his chest, using his right to put tension on it and pulled to stretch the muscles. He swapped arms and gave the Human a grin.
“Too much office work makes tha Kord go lazy, mate, how da ya feel about a wee bit o’ a workout?”
“I’d be happy to meet you down in the gym, Lord Consul, if that’s what you—” the Defender was unable to finish, the Force warning him seconds before the Ryn attacked.
Bleu dropped low, knees bending and tail extending to aid in his balance, one foot lashing forward to kick at the boy’s shin. Widowson managed to jump back, if barely, almost stumbling over his footing in surprise.
“Ya think some bloke is gonna ask ya ta nicely go ta where ya should fight when he jumps ya on a mission, lad?” asked the Shadow Lord, grinning as he raised both arms up near his head, elbows cocked and turning to present his left to the Human. “Come on, mate, come on.”
He didn’t wait, instead, he tried to move into Cawthren’s personal space. The younger Arconan struggled but briefly, his fists coming up to protect his head, elbows closer to his ribs then his Consul’s stance showed. He slapped away a punch from the shorter Ryn and tried to retaliate with a quick jab towards Bleu’s face. The older man was quick, realized the Defender, when his fist seemed to graze past, ruffling hair but little else. Widowson tried to backpedal, hoping no stray bench or hedge tripped him up, but the diminutive Equite stayed on him with surprising speed and ease. It wasn’t that the Shadow Lord was being aggressive, he was barely making attempts to break his guard, it was that he wouldn’t stop advancing.
Cawthren stumbled back, a change in the terrain’s levelness tripping him up and sending him tumbling back into a depression.
The crater from the Arconae duel, he realized as he watched his feet go over his head. He grunted when he hit the bottom, staring up at the gray clouds above. *An opportunity to impress the Consul and this is what I show him?”
“Well? Ya done or ya gonna get back up and give it a proper go now, lad?” asked the Ryn, squatting on the edge of the shallow crater, a fresh cigarette hanging from his grinning lips.
