Pirates are a rowdy lot. It is a fact rarely questioned and merely accepted by those who deal with them regularly. While the Herald’s crew is no different, the band's leader has a different approach to facilitating their tendencies. To this end, one of the Matron's smaller hangars — designated Hangar Zerek — has been recommissioned as a combat arena... or execution chamber.

Once a dedicated repair bay, Hangar Zerek is still equipped with fabricator arms and an assortment of Trade Federation droid parts that have fallen into disrepair. A squared off section, including illumination banks at each corner, designates the intended 'arena'. The section is denoted by active shock fences, run by nearby generators. It is here that the crew lets off steam, with the hangar bay sealed.

The hangar itself still has a fully functioning force field that comes into play when matches are meant to become more interesting, or when it comes time to jettison troublesome captives. The hangar bay doors peel open, leaving only the active field to separate the arena from the vacuum of space. The control mechanisms for the hangar doors can be operated manually from the control booth or on a set timer, including the force field's toggle switch.

The control booth is the last segment of Hangar Zerek worth noting. Doubling as an observation deck, it is the only obvious entrance to the hangar. All maintenance hatches and access-ways have been sealed in advance, though the catwalks crisscrossing along the upper layers of the hangar remain. The booth itself is sealed, providing a safe haven for when the force field comes down.

The vastness of space had a feeling to it that was hard to describe. The infinite. An expanse of nothing that meant death for so many species within the galaxy. It was always so close, to those who traveled within its vacuum, yet deceptively far away. That deception fell to the wayside standing within Hangar Zerek. The hangar doors had been fully retracted, leaving only the force field separating the combatants within from being sucked into the void.

"Now now," a voice rang out. The overlay of static was thick, warping the tone of the voice as it echoed within the derelict space. "You're going to be putting on quite the show for us or, well... Would be a shame to have to hit this here button."

The threat was clear. the combatants remained exposed within the hangar proper and the only thing between them and a sudden, violent exit from the Godless Matron was the master control panel.

Hate was a strong word, and it didn’t really work well with the Jedi Order’s philosophy - something about leading to the Dark Side, Raiju Kang had been told. However, the Nautolan allowed himself this slip. He hated this vessel.

The Nautolan had seen better wrecks pulled from a Toydarian junkyard. This worthless trash that stood beneath Raiju Kang had obviously been left to rot for decades, only to be recovered by a deplorable caste that now called themselves its crew. It should have been a crime to leave such a ship, worth millions of credits, to degrade like this. However, that wouldn’t be the only crime these deplorables had committed.

Raiju was used to the villainous sort; however, the lesson taught over the past week of being held captive proved this crew was a different bunch. Murder was frequent, the ship was divided by rival factions who openly war upon each other, and to set some peace - contests were regularly held pitting captive souls against one another until death.

Raiju Kang had been thrown into that last category.

It had been hard to willing murder others, at first. However, survival had taken over. Raiju wasn’t the shining example of the Republic-era Jedi, willing to sacrifice himself for others’ continued existence. He was more practical than that. It would take a hard edge to cleave the rising Brotherhood and its Iron Throne, something few Jedi had but him.

However, he had yet to really be challenged and see a familiar face. Until now.

Across the makeshift arena, another creature had been quickly hurried into the pen before the announcer had sounded off and Raiju hoped the man in the control room could clearly hear him.

“Not another Ryn?!” Raiju bellowed, taking a moment to glare at the control room and make an obscene gesture. “Why don’t you take out your own trash?”

“Ummm, are you really one to talk, Raiju?” The Ryn was quick to snapped, though the way it somehow also came out his damn flute nose annoyed the Nautolan. Can’t talk with one of them without that stupid whistling, and sure enough; when the Ryn continued so did that annoying whistle. “A known lightsider like you should have been spaced long ago.”

“It seems I’m the only one these deplorables find entertaining, you mynock-licker.” Raiju said, taking the time to unclip his dual lightsabers from his hips and activate them. Above them, hooting and hollering could be heard of the growing crowd. Indicating them, Raiju pointed above with his teal coloured blade, Radula, and continued. “Every time I take out one of your kind, they seem to go nuts. Last time was just a half-breed - wonder how excited they get this time?”

Words seemed to fail the Ryn, who looked lost in wonder. It was a puzzling moment of empathy that Raiju hadn’t seen in the Ryn before, and it honestly confused the Nautolan. Last they met, Raiju had witnessed the Krath leading a pack of Arconans into the horrors they committed and it had forever changed the Nautolan’s opinion of the once scholarly ryn of Lysair. Remembering that day, Raiju leap forward with teeth bared and a bellowing war-cry.

Slashing hard with Radula, held in his main hand, Raiju grew angry when his blade cleaved only air. Like some sort of beaked weasel, the Ryn was quick to slip around the Nautolan’s assault and continued to back away from the fight. Time and time again, the Nautolan slashed at the Ryn - who proceed to flee from the blades. It was an annoying trait, but a familiar tact of the Arconan; he didn’t even draw a weapon to counter.

Boos and heckles taunted from above as the crowd grew ever impatient with the hoax below. With every miss of the Nautolan’s blade, and every step away from the fight by the Ryn; tension spiked above. Finally, without warning, a brown bottle crashed into the arena floor by the combatant’s feet causing Raiju to make another obscene gesture above. However, when his attention returned to the Ryn, he found the creature armed with the end of the bottle and taunting the Nautolan.

“Now, this my kind of fight.”

The Ryn glanced at the jagged, broken bottle end in his hand as he carefully stepped away from the shattered glass on the hangar deck. Even the audience was throwing blasted bottles at him. Across from him, the green and teal saber blades thrummed and created a circle of multi-hued light that spoke of just how stupid it would be to try anything with a bit of pointy glass. The Nautolan was, despite Bleu’s earlier lines for the benefit of the crowd and the observers in the booth above, only a semi-known quantity. They’d given him his opponent’s name before shoving him into the ring and he’d racked his brain over why the guy seemed familiar. All he’d come up with were some barroom tales that sounded too ludicrous to be true, half-remembered stories of adventure and trials.

Why the bug-eyed fish folk seemed so murderously focused on him was another thing that was putting him off his step. Slurs about his race were taken in stride, racists all over the Galaxy liked to use Ryn as a punching bag but this felt personal. Why should a Jedi be any different from your run of the mill bigot?

“Ya got some kind o’ personal problem with me, mate?”

“Stop dancing and fight, you little ingrate!” shouted the Jedi, blades lashing out with impressive speed. Kord’s quick feet and small frame were serving him well, but he could hear the buzz of the shock fence nearby. “You know what you did, you and your Arconan friends!”

Kordath, despite his predicament, choked off a laugh as he rolled right. The smell of burnt ozone and metal followed him as the saber blades dragged through the decking behind him. He heard shouts from the audience, obvious annoyance at the evasive nature of the fight.

Piss ‘em off too much, Bleu, and they’re liable ta space ya, he thought with a shudder, so far having done an admirable job of ignoring the open hangar door. He had more pressing concerns right now.

“Gonna have ta be more specific, mate, tha old guard and your lot in Tal got a lot o’ bad blood. Can nae say it makes sense ta me, never cashed in on the grudges.”

Kordath tensed up as a warning from the Force screamed at him to move, causing him to channel energy towards his legs.

“LYSAIR!” shrieked the Nautolan as he leapt across the ring, the Force fueling his muscles to make it all the more impressive. Kordath let out a curse and thanked his intuition at the same time. So it was with another frustrated cry from the Jedi that he found Kordath jumping back from his strike, legs splayed as he tried to keep his balance and tail flicking about in agitation.

“Who’s that now? Some old girlfriend? One of the old men in Arcona steal yer mate or somethin’?”

Tha hells is Lysair? What is wrong with this bloke?

Kordath took a moment to breathe as the Taldryanite recovered from his attack, glowering at the smaller man. As Bleu tried to focus, he found his eyes roving, taking in details. Lines were etched into the otherwise smooth skin around Raiju’s eyes, belying the otherwise youthful appearance of the Nautolan. The man’s jaw was set in a way that made Bleu’s own hurt just looking at it.

Could be a nutter, looks like he’s had his share o’ spice den visits in his day. And my share. And somebody else’s share.

“You and yours,” growled the man, gesturing at him once more with his teal blade. “You helped massacre them! You and your Arconan military! For that, I’ll gladly do these pirates’ dirty work simply for justice!”

“Justice? That sounds a whole lot like revenge, pal. Me mate Sorenn, not tha one here, tha other, would nae appreciate ya pullin’ such stunts off while runnin’ about claimin’ ta be a Jedi. Also, tha hell is Lysair!? I’ve never massacred nobody,” stated Kord, still obviously confused by the ranting and posturing of the man trying to saber him to pieces.

“LIAR!”

“I can count on one hand tha number of folk I’ve had ta end, can ye say the same?” asked the Ryn, his voice barely heard over the shouts of the crowd and the buzzing of the shock fence.