There he sat. Bruised, battered, broken. The body of the Dragon of Selen, mangled beyond belief. Tarentum had not been kind to him for his insolent betrayal and they were not showing any signs of mercy yet. Someone had to, though.

Five Arconans walked through the door, a detachment from the *Nighthawk* led by Mateus as he cradled a blaster – mostly for show, truth told. So did the rest of them. The blue man’s jailor’s surrounded him, whips and batons in their hands. Both parties stopped, stared – it was just a regular old showdown now.

“Out, out!” shouted Mateus as they rushed to the barely-conscious Wuntila’s side. “This man needs medical attention.”
“And who the frell are you?”asked the nameless, faceless Tarenti.

“The medic. Leave.”

As Mateus began weaving the Force to fix what ailed the Wroonian whilst the Tarenti left, Ood looked to his long-time friend and companion. “Wuntila, you had best stop doing this to us one day, my friend,” mentioned the Neti. “You need to talk to us. They’re gone.”

“Pravus... made me an offer,”choked back the broken Consul emeritus, spitting up a mouthful of blood. “Save the Clan. Buy us time.”

Mateus shook his head. He was barely functional. “Get him back to the *Nighthawk*. Failing that, we bust him out.”

“I’ll talk to the Shadow Lady. Look after him, Kelborn.” Ood left only a moment later.

A nod from the medic, and the Arconans set to work. That was enough info. A spark of hope.