Ask [Alsakan] Love and War Games

[Makari de Nolay]

The Donmeng River Delta is a revered place on Alsakan for a number of reasons. Its first goes to its ancient history - the now-palatial river's pristine waters' once housed the first colony on Alsakan. Secondly, and more relevant for today's players, the Donmeng River Delta is home of the annual Alsakan Wargames, where the military elite that protect the planet's interests gather to settle grudges and test their strategic skill against one another. Members of noble houses, knightly houses, merchant estates, and peasants alike gather on elegant, floating houseboats for weeks at a time to just observe the festivities surrounding the war-games.

But the real honor is in playing them. And the glory in winning. That is what brought Makari de Nolay, Senator of Alsakan, out to the games today - an unorthodox attempt to win the hearts of his people. It was highly unusual for a senator to actively lead a team in the Wargames. But alas, as it was not transcribed in the Ancient Codex of Customary Gestures & Etiquette, there was nothing the stodgy elites could do to stop the Senator from entering. If the upstart Senator wanted to make a fool of himself, all the better.

Makari snorted, imagining the horrified looks on those pompous, old cretins' faces when they saw his inevitable victory. His performance in the Wargames would cement the legacy of House de Nolay for generations, and be the first act of his great galactic narrative. Unifying Alsakan was the first step. The idle nobleman lazily sipped his wine aboard his quiet raft, occasionally signaling to his attend for refills. The goal was not to get drunk, but you would have to be missing a heart to avoid sipping a galactic vintage on the Donmeng.

The sun began to set on the river, setting the gentle surface ablaze with bright, bronze and oranges that stretched across the horizon. Tomorrow, the games would begin. A barge with a theater troupe covered in flamboyant, imaginative costumes depicting heroes and beasts of legend sailed to the center of the river - a signal for the beginning of the Wargames' Opera. This would be the best time to strategize with his new cohort of mercenaries, his ace-in-the-sleeve for this year's game.

Victory would taste far sweeter than the Corellian riesling he currently enjoyed.

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Nakoa Singh]

Never in his life had Nakoa come to Alaska- Ahsoka? Alsakan? He checked his notes. Alsakan was right. He pocketed his notebook and looked up again, the river-top breeze and scent of fresh water immensely pleasing. Never before had the Wrean felt this peculiar combination of perfectly at home and completely out of place. He worked with wealthy clients and among wealth all the time. Frankly, at this point, he made good money and was fairly wealthy himself.

But this, though? Colorfully adorned ships cut from single, ancient trees, some bespeckled in bedazzling arrangements of gemstones so fine it looked more closely glittering mosaic. People wore garments cut from cloth so silken, so rare, they could trade their tunic for a starship and still collect change back. Every color imaginable paraded across the water, every shape of ship, every manner of person.

Well, noble persons, mostly, along with some soldiers who also, it just so happened, were nobles. Nakoa was neither of those and had only an overview of general Alsakan culture. That and a whole clothing arrangement provided by the client, the Alsakan senator. He was keeping it.

What made it obvious that the Wrean was a foreigner were his walk and demeanor. As he walk across the shore to more meet with the senator for discussion. Nakoa didn't for a moment give the impression he thought he was any lesser than those around. Striding into the light of the setting sun that painted the river in hues of goodbye and soon goodnight, the next obvious things showed themselves clearly.

Jade and gold dangled from his ears and shone in the light, matching other accouterments on fingers, forearms, and ankles, even his belt and a metal band at the end of his braid. Their designs were all distinctly Tethysian- which meant, of course, not Alsakan. Colorful, well-detailed tattoos stood out on the significant bared skin local attire called for, several crossed by battle scars. He was a hired mercenary, and he hadn't been hired to blend in but to make a point.

Nakoa approached Makari de Nolay's raft and, as he passed by the shore to get close enough to watch the opera, he hopped smoothly aboard. Pausing only to neatly arrange his tight, dark-haired braid across his left shoulder, he sat on one of the nearby stool-chair-things. If the scars and the like didn't give it away, and perhaps if the Senator didn't already know better, Nakoa might've passed for some foreign prince visiting the Core Worlds.

At least until he spoke for more than a few sentences.

"Senator," he greeted in accented basic as he sat down, a vaguely charming expression on his face. "Alsakans don't hold back, do they?"

@Fine Dining Set

 

[Makari de Nolay]

From his shaded seat, Makari eyed the mercenary with a look of piercing indifference that only the aristocracy was capable of perfecting. Handsome, tall, melanated, hair-braided, with a taste in jewelry...the half-Wrean had the looks of a perfect champion. This was off to a wonderful start.

He rose to his feet, offering Nakoa a warm embrace in lieu of a cold handshake. "We take no half-measures. That much is certain." He waved his hands to his attendants, signaling for another glass of a brilliant white wine for his champion. That word felt right. Together, whether or not the half-Wrean knew it, the pair would signal the beginning of a new age on Alsakan. An age not ruled by tradition a superstition, but by visionary leadership. They would have to lead by example to bring this new age.

He smiled at his champion, his warm smile revealing a single gold-encrusted canine. "Senator is far too formal. I'm Makari de Nolay." His practiced basic slipped into his smooth, rhythmic accent as he spoke his name. Words rolled off of his tongue.

"I imagine this could all be...overwhelming." He extended his arms to gesture at the spectacle around them, the distant, hypnotic din of the opera providing a soothing background sound to complement the sound of flowing water beneath the vessel. "Is there anything I can get you? Fruit, water, meats?" Before Nakoa could respond, a platter of fruits appeared before them, deftly handled by one of the ship's staff.

Makari reclined back into his chair, brushing a long, braided loc off of his silk robes as he examined once more the river. "Welcome to the Alsakan War Games, my friend. You're one of the first off-worlders to join our sordid little competition in quite some time." The collapse of the New Republic had considerably shrunk the games over the last few years. And not just the games. Beneath this veneer of wealth was a growing feeling of desperation, hopelessness, and stratification that took hold the lower classes and aristocratic rulers alike. These games would be unique: They would be an exercise in truth-telling through victory.

While they officially began tomorrow, unofficially the espionage and sabotage had begun months ago. There were targets of immediate importance that Nakoa handle tonight, before the tourneys begun in proper. He opened a holomap, a trifold showing three scenarios: Today, Tomorrow, and In Victory. He pressed today and a holographic reconstruction of the riverboat opera flashed to life. Their first task. "Tell me, how much do you know of our games?" He rubbed his palms together in anticipation.

"And, I imagine Apex briefed you on the complexity of our task?" Through the course of the tourney, Nakoa would have to be an infiltrator, a warrior, and a strategist. While Makari would work side-by-side in each event with him, he also paid top dollar to Apex for a reason. Above-ground, they were a respected private defense organization. Below-ground, they were expert infiltrators and assassins.

Such duplicity was perfect for a planet full of two-faced nobles.

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Nakoa Singh]

Nakoa breezily engaged the shorter, broader man in the embrace, utterly unbothered by such close physical contact. Scents of sea salt, mint, ginger, and fresh lotus wafted from his skin. The Wrean's limbs were stronger than his frame suggested, which became immediately obvious. He grinned, sharp fangs flashing in the sunset light beneath eyes of amber gold. "Clearly."

"Makari, then?" he confirmed with a small incline of his head. "Nakoa Singh." His gaze traveled to follow Makari's broad gesture, taking in again the lights, sounds, clashing colors and fantastical theater. It vaguely reminded him of festivals back home, albeit more obviously hierarchical. And more boats. Wreans didn't do boats. They lived under the sea, you see.

His brows rose at the instant appearance of fruit before Makari was even finished speaking. Didn't stop him from adding "Meat and water," to the list. Doubtless, a servant rushed off to get it from somewhere. He went for whatever was the sourest fruit on the plate and sampled it.

"My pleasure to attend." This was true. Nakoa enjoyed war games, particularly participating in them. Not many cultures seemed to put as much effort, pomp, and sheer money into it as Alsakan did, however. It would be a fun little game to play, seeing how all the pieces fit together, finding the linchpins, identifying and countering strategies. Just his sort of fun.

"I mostly know what's publicly available. Some past event summaries, traditions, the like." His eyes near-imperceptibly glittered with curiosity. Learning new things was another passion of his, and this one seemed complicated. That was a good thing.

Nakoa leaned slightly to get a good look at the holo display. "In great detail," he replied confidently. That he was at least partly in charge of such briefings wasn't a relevant detail. Of course he was ready. Apex was a scalpel, not the blunt instrument of Black Sun or Red Nimbus. And he was well practiced by now in "handling" troublesome people.

As a matter of fact, the ever-darkening riverside setting gave the Wrean a distinct advantage.

@Fine Dining Set

 

[Makari de Nolay]

The Wrean's scent wafted gently into Makari's nose, blending neatly with the sweet, ripe, floral scents that the riverboat was covered in. Marvelous. Their eyes met, amber meeting brilliant orange. His hands clasped behind his back, slightly clammy, smile gently receding to a soft, pleasant gaze. Of course, inside - which the Nakoan would likely sense - he was bubbling like a volcano.

He was nervous - perhaps nervousness was excitement - but far too much hinged on this day. As the sunset ignited the sky in a wash of orange and lavender, "We're going to take a skiff to General Montiplex's barge. I'm going to talk to him, you're going to sneakily" - he emphasized the word by wiggling his fingers conspiratorially - "and steal his datapad. Just make some excuse to sneak away from him."

He prepared a radiantly colored skiff, offering the sole seat to Nakoa as he stood and paddled with a smooth, slender paddle. He described the necessity of the act on the way to the barge - Montiplex was commander of a rival team. Sabotaging him would set Team Makari ahead.

They arrived to the ship without incident, a four-story pleasure yacht that towered above the quaint, historic vessels that otherwise dotted the riverside. Closer to a Hutt barge than an Alsakan vessel. Makari plastered a smile onto his face as he steeled his nerves as a throng of scantily-clad attendants directed the pair to Montiplex's quarters. Makari smiled at the aging man that sat before them.

"A pleasure, general. You've met my champion, Nakoa?" Of course they hadn't. "I wanted to wish you luck for tomorrow. I brought you a bottle of Corellian whiskey." Where he produced it from? Nobody knows.

The general eyed the pair, offering them a seat on the floor beside him.

"Luck is an incalculable thing, Senator. But I sense there is more to your visit than your 'well wishes.'" He nodded politely to Nakoa. "Perhaps we should speak in private, de Nolay."

Makari nodded graciously, gesturing to the door for Nakoa to make his exit.

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Nakoa Singh]

Nakoa's grin had only widened, something mischievous in that look. Makari had no idea how much the Wrean mercenary could sense from others and Nakoa had no desire to enlighten him. It'd been a while since he'd gotten that reaction from a hug. Flattering, really, even if it wasn't directed toward Nakoa.

The good Senator was on edge. Nakoa could hear the nervous pitter-patter of his heart. Whatever the morals involved, there was trouble and Apex was called to solve it. That kind of more personal service wasn't expensive just for the sake of it, after all.

"Datapad. Done," he affirmed simply and confidently, just after popping in a grape. When the skiff was prepared, he brought the dried meats and water to snack on. Because why not, after all? It'd be rude to refuse. Given how much Outlanders linked chairs to authority, the ironic gesture of a Senator offering the only seat and paddling the vessel himself wasn't lost on him. For his part, Nakoa just enjoyed the short trip, listened carefully to Makari's explanation, and ate his snacks.

His first impression of Montiplex's yacht was that is was large. The second was that it lacked the charm or character of the other ships. How boring. Nakoa grinned winningly at the attendants, some of whom were put off by battle scars and tattoos, while others had the opposite reaction. He counted each individual face he saw along the way and noted which ones weren't put off.

"The honor is mine, General," Nakoa greeted after Makari, slipping into an Alsakan bow, somewhat stiff and rehearsed. Just like an earnest foreigner just trying his best. He sat when offered, and then rose again without complaint a few moments later when privacy was suggested. His research indicated that sort of thing was basically an insult, but as a foreigner, of course, Nakoa wasn't supposed to know that. Also, he didn't care.

Striding smoothly out the door, he glanced around before heading to the balcony edge of the top floor they were currently on. In the distance, the sun dipped ever closer to the horizon. Now the lake was lit by skiff lamps and theater effects, stars and brilliant colors both reflected off a surface still yet streaked by day's end ghosts of orange, pink, and red.

"What's it like, living here?" Nakoa wistfully asked a passing attendant, who jumped. One who had a positive reaction earlier. A conversation started. It moved elsewhere as the attendant had things to do, but they kept talking all the same. As planned.

He needed to find that datapad.

@Fine Dining Set

 

[Makari de Nolay]

A Pantoran with soft eyes and a kind smile spoke longingly about Alsakan, like she was deprived of it while she remained on its surface. A planet with a beautiful soul, but a corrupt heart. How could one reconcile that?

The bright, sterile lighting of the ship eroded the magnificent view of the sunset, but illuminated what Nakoa needed to see. The ship followed a straightforward layout on each floor - crew quarters occupied the port end of the ship on each floor, which included a kitchen and small recreation area, while guests lounges remained on the starboard end. White, shining hallways dotted with floor-to-ceiling lights were kept impeccably clean, but one couldn't shake the feeling that the multitude of lights equally implied a multitude of camera. Even in the emptiest of hallways, it felt like you were being watched. The captain's lounge was on the top floor, overlooking the entire barge.

The data pad was, as of yet, nowhere to be found. But as Nakoa's conversation continued with Lienne, the Pantoran staff, he learned information that would surely be useful for the war-games' trials. Not only was this yacht an eyesore, it was General Montiplex's command center for the entire games. The yacht contained a state-of-the-art training facility, complete with simulation firing range, gyms, and a barracks.

Pop. Pop pop. Pop. It almost sounded like gunshots, the little sounds emanating from the gym. As Lienne and Nakoa walked by, the sound of sneakers scuffling on linoleum flooring. In the gym trained one man, a human of slight build and musculature. Each punch he threw accentuated his lean, wiry muscles, sweat flicking off his fists with every throw. His shoes scuffled the floor, and each of his punches connected to the heavy bag with a satisfying pop.

Lienne leaned in conspiratorially to explain - the young man was Sufi Amas, the Champion of Team Montiplex. Where the rest of his team went off to engage in pre-games debauchery, Amas remained in the gym, preparing himself for the trials ahead. Lienne continued that it was not customary for Champions to meet each other, and how she should whisk Nakoa away from Amas.

But she had taken a liking to Nakoa throughout their walk, and she winked and stepped off, returning to her work and allowing Nakoa to enter the gym and speak to Sufi if so he chose. However, now unchained from his tour guide, Nakoa could enter any of the lounges, offices, or quarters he had passed by to find the data pad.

....

De Nolay and Montiplex sat across from each other, sipping whiskey gently as they spoke. It was verbal sparring, at first; Makari beating around the bush, while Montiplex hammered the same question over and over: Why are you here? It was no secret that Montiplex had supported Makari's rival in the past year's elections. They had no business or familial engagements to discuss. And Montiplex was not a man who liked his time wasted.

Finally, with a sigh, Makari steeled his nerves to show his true purpose. He withdrew his swaggerstick from his robes and pressed it onto the table. A challenge. "General Aramy Montiplex. By right of the ancient customs of Alsakan, I call into question your ability to lead." Makari's green ( ) eyes narrowed at the general. Now was not the time to be afraid. "After Team De Nolay takes the games tomorrow, I demand your resignation."

A challenge to an Alaskan's honor and ability was a bridge too far. Outside of an outrageous quantity of credits, honor was all they had. A direct attack on one's character demanded satisfaction. Montiplex rose to his feat, ceremonial armor clinking against the plasteel floors. His arms remained folded behind his back - his voice, stern, unwavering. The voice of a man who had led armies before Makari was a glint in his mother's eye.

"Words have consequences, Senator. I accept your challenge." He withdrew his own swagger stick and slammed it into the wooden table, his fist leaving splinters behind as he made his way to the door. "Leave my ship, now."

Makari scuttled out as the electronic doors closed behind him. Two droids - armed with laser rifles and an uncaring, metallic gaze - greeted him whisking him away from the ship. Shit. He thought he would've had more time to speak. Makari hoped Nakoa could work quickly.

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Nakoa Singh]

Amberine gaze slipped to the boxing man in his training room, fists flying like rockets in straight, powerful lines. Nakoa wondered why it was called 'boxing' when it had nothing to do with boxes, shrugged, and almost walked right off- except, that's when he spotted a fancy-looking rectangle, marked in house designs and even gilded in places. A particularly pretentious datapad.

Sitting a few feet from Sufi atop a floor pillow. Nakoa fortified himself and strode through the door into the gym with yet another vaguely charming expression. Contrast to training sneakers, the Wrean's Alsakan silk slippers were nearly silent on the smooth floor. Distant were the sounds of theatre and merrymaking, replaced instead with the gunfire pops of a boxing man and controlled breathing.

"Good evening," rumbled the Wrean in his accented baritone, causing Sufi to whip around, still in boxing form. Nakoa held up his hands in a universal 'not a threat' gesture. Sufi eyed him warily. "Who're you?" "Oh, I'm, just visiting," he answered, strolling languidly around the other man. His eyes remained on Sufi while his senses honed in on where he knew that datapad was. Somewhere down below there was a loud thump and a flash of anger. That probably wasn't a good sign.

"Not an answer," Sufi insisted, crossing his arms over his chest. "You even supposed to be here?" Nakoa smirked at him and turned to fully face him, keeping the seat cushions behind him, hands neatly folded behind his back. He shrugged. "Are guests usually allowed here?" he quipped back, wiggling a finger behind his back and stretching out with a bit of the Force. A dark tendril slowly extended toward the datapad, out of sight.

"No." "No, then." Sufi was visibly not having as much fun with this exchange as Nakoa was. "Then why-?" "Thought it'd be fun to watch you up close. You're impressive, yes?" The Wrean flashed his most charming grin, which worked for all of two seconds. Sufi squinted. "Step away from there." "Hm?"

What happened next was best described as a ridiculous game of keep-away where Sufi stomped over and tried to get a look behind Nakoa, who leaned and the like to keep Sufi in front of him. Sufi eventually just shoved Nakoa out of the way. The datapad was precisely where Sufi and Montiplex left it, not the least bit different in any way. "What, you just wanted a seat?" Sufi turned to shout something at Nakoa, but was thrown off the man's mischievous chuckling.

"I'll leave you to it. It's Nakoa, by the way." And he left the gym and a fairly befuddled Sufi behind.

Literally five seconds later, as he walked down the hall, droids found and rudely escorted him back to Makari's skiff, practically shoving him onto the vessel. Nakoa brushed off his shoulder, all charm vanishing from his face, and gave Makari the general gist of things. "Short wait. Then I'll go get it." He paused, leaning against the edge of the skiff. "If it vanished while we were there, it'd be suspicious. What happened with you?"

@Fine Dining Set

 

[Makari de Nolay]

"Good work." Makari said, seeming to barely acknowledge the question. "It's...complicated." The truth delved far too into his familial and personal politics for him to share. On the other hand, the interaction was eating him up inside. Montiplex had once been more than just his commanding officer - he was a warm place to land, a father when his own became obsessed with petty and wanton cruelty in his home. That their relationship had fallen so far was evidence of the great sacrifices his path ahead required. Such mental turmoil would be quite obvious to Nakoa.

But that is what resolve is. It is the determination to take each step towards your dream, carving a path of visionary light through the wastes of chaos. Or so he would tell himself tonight, alone, in his ship's cabin beneath the starlight.

Speaking of, it looked quite darling right now. He thought back to late nights and early mornings fishing with Montiplex, back when he was a boy. On this very same river. He lowered himself into the skiff, rolling out one of his emergency bottles of Corellian bourbon to enjoy from beneath the single seat.

Makari took the first swig, orange-brown bottle engulfed by the shine of moon and stars, and he offered it to his mercenary companion.

"Montiplex is a brilliant man. No doubt he sees through whatever little ruse I attempt here. What I need from his data pad is, truthfully, more personal in nature." He returned to his post as paddler, gently guiding the craft through the inky-black, crystal-clear waters of the Dongmeng. The din of the opera had, by now, quieted, and the small crafts that dotted the river became adorned in paper lanterns and candles. The raucousness of day quieted to a calm, breezy night.

But Makari knew it would be a sleepless one. Perhaps, with any luck, it could be at least spent productively. Green eyes met amber-gold. He studied his champion once more, appraising the assassin he hired. It was funny, this dichotomy. For the first time, he felt like he was playing the game the way it was meant to be played. Hostility, secret ambitions, schemes-within-schemes. Such things were the norm for Alsakani nobles. And yet, it all just felt pointless.

He splashed the water as he paddled. "Tell me about your homeworld, Nakoa." A command, but not a forceful one.

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Nakoa Singh]

MUSIC
​

Nakoa's brows rose slightly at the word 'complicated', although he didn't press. He looked out over the moonlit river. Blurry stars danced alongside lantern lights on wind-blown ripples, purnima high above lending its image to the dark mirror below, bright beside it all. When one looked at just the surface, it seemed peaceful.

The truth was almost a shame. Anger, anxiety, and conflict flowed on the currents for Nakoa to hear. Being closest, Makari was the loudest. Pain, doubt, resolve, loneliness, and everything else brewed together to form that bittersweet poison named nostalgia. It was potent stuff from a man in an underhanded profession. Or maybe the good Senator still had his conscience intact.

Singh slipped back aboard Makari's skiff without comment and eyed the rolled-out bottle, seating himself again once it'd been retrieved. Long, slender fingers plucked up the proffered bottle and raised it to Nakoa's lips for a good drink of it before handing it back. He blinked at Makari's impromptu description of Montiplex. That was genuine respect in Makari's voice, not political babble. "And stubborn?" he guessed with a grin. Nakoa shrugged. "Personal or not, said I'd get it."

The "assassin" was right back to gazing vaguely over the river with his chin lazily leaned against a palm by the time Makari turned to look at him. Green eyes caught amber-gold from an angle, reflecting the scattered lights and framed by a hanging braid as ink-black as the river. Barely a moment passed before Nakoa noticed he was being stared at and turned to look directly into Makari's eyes, hawk-like and analytical. Then, as if it hadn't been there at all, breezy, unbothered, and amused.

The Wrean raised an eyebrow with a smirk as if asking 'What?' Then there was a question. An easy one to answer, although he didn't register it as a command. There was a few seconds' pause where it might seem he didn't intend to answer at all. But then, where a Wrean was from was hardly secret.

"Wrea is an ocean, full of life and movement from coral shallows to blackest abyss. My people live in cities far beneath the surface, save one that floats, meant for visiting outlanders. There are places of terror in the deep, where giants dwell in darkness. Others where the setting day paints a dozen colors meters deep in farewell each night. Or underwater vents so bright and warm it's like basking in sunlight, where crabs gather and stoneflowers grow in waving fields."

He stopped his rambling there and reached into his robe to get a dried licorice root from somewhere, clamping it like a cigarra between his teeth and idly chewing.

@Fine Dining Set

 

[Makari de Nolay]

A world in an ocean. Makari had experienced it, once, on a visit to Mon Cala. He remembered the feeling of being underwater - even within a pressurized suit or city, one could always feel the power of the ocean around them. It was humbling. Alsakan was far from humble. Even here, in a specifically preserved part of the historic and natural environment, the ecumenopole could be seen, looming in the distance. Towers millennia old jutted into the skyline in the distance. A monument to the eternal hubris of the Alsakan's - once one of the most powerful peoples in the galaxy.

The fall of the Republic taught them just how little they truly had. Traditions like this were all they had left. He almost felt as if his world was going through its death pangs, and he was the only one that could see that.

"That sounds wonderful. I can't imagine our meager river compares to the majesty of your home's mighty oceans."

He dipped his hand into the water, letting the cool, clear liquid run through his fingers. Under the light of lanterns, he saw his reflection. Haggard, but resilient. He took another sip of the bourbon, allowing himself a moment of presence to enjoy. He gazed down the river, from his svelte champion, to the racing fish beneath their vessel, back to Montiplex's Party Barge. He reached again for the whiskey, hands moving slowly and cautiously so as to not disrupt the pensive mercenary. He let his hand linger on the bottle for just a moment before he pulled it tight. Tomorrow would be a long day.

"You asked earlier what living here is like." All of the politics and trappings of the Core Founders had, ironically, stifled their culture. They were so used to being on top that they couldn't imagine being on bottom. From easy times fueled by the constant exploitation of the Outer Rim, Alsakan had grown soft. "Our world was, perhaps in ancient times, a beautiful dream. A painter's delight. But to actually live here is..." How to describe it? "Perhaps similar to a tree in a botanical garden. Tall, cultured, proud. But without the active tending of the gardener, unable to live." Another sip of from his glass, as his full, glossy lips pursed to savor the golden liquid. "We have so long suckled at the teat of the Republic that we do not know what it is truly like to live here. To live off the land. To develop something for ourselves, rather than live dependent on the whims of the office of Coruscant."

Even this felt like political babble, though. When was the last time he had truly lived here, engaged the world as he had enjoyed it as a boy? He longed for the joys he had felt, then. But now, he was starting to let nostalgia dominate. Perhaps it was time to get some rest.

"I have lodgings back on my dahabiya. I hope they'll be suitable for tomorrow." He imagined they would be - thousand thread count silken sheets and a quiet view of the river had a way of easing the mind. "We have great things things to accomplish." With this, he began to chart a course back to their own raft, purposely taking a peaceful pace so that the two might enjoy the last moments of the evening.

Everything hinged on tomorrow. All these sacrifices, all this work. It would all be worth it.

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Nakoa Singh]

"It is," Nakoa confirmed of Wrea's oceans. Not peaceful, like the water's surface might imply, but wonderful it was. His head cocked vaguely in the direction of Montiplex's barge as if listening to something, before going back to staring at seemingly nothing. A hand idly rotated one of his wrist bangles round and round.

Makari stole the Wrean's attention back when he spoke, keen eyes watching the Alsakan man as he delved into what living there was like. Whether the man really wanted Nakoa to know or just someone to talk to who wasn't *from* this place didn't really matter, but he didn't get the impression of surface politeness. Makari described a place of stagnant stillness. Nakoa could not imagine willingly living in such a place.

Moments passed after in silence where Nakoa didn't return to his aimless river-gazing. "All that lives must be in motion. Apathy is death." He vaguely waved his hand toward the distant and ancient towers of the city, so far removed from the river and its wooden ships. "It is a terrible thing, to be satisfied. We are meant to chase dreams." And those were his thoughts on that subject.

"I like your river," he added simply at the end. It was a nice river, and he wasn't looking forward to the city part of all this. Until then, he endeavored to just enjoy the lazy pace back to the dahabiya, count the stars, and memorize his surroundings and what the different ships looked like.

Nakoa shot Makari another look of amusement, a hint of mischief in his eyes above a charming yet sly little smirk. "Depends. How's the bed?"

@Fine Dining Set

 

[Makari de Nolay]

'Apathy is death.' A wise sentiment shared by a Wrean of few words.

The bed, naturally, was delightful. He imagined the quiet luxuries of the sleeping cabins on his ship, the thick, soft sheets, the pleasant smelling incenses, the colorful tapestry. He spoke eagerly on this topic. "Oh, quite marvelous, actually. The silken sheets-" Ah. It took his mind a moment to catch the innuendo. He looked away sheepishly - perhaps embarrassed at his own naivety, perhaps emboldened by his partner on the raft. "I'm sure you'll make do."

Slowly, eventually, the skiff drifted back to the de Nolay river yacht. He stepped back onto the boat, and offered his hand to help . A throng of attendants awaited them, people of various genders and species united in their thin, white, silken uniforms. Makari removed his vest, handing it to one of the attendants, while another brought him heavier sleeping robes and a plate of grapes. He tied the robe around his waist and discarded his pants, absentmindedly plucking at a grape.

He gazed back at Nakoa, their faces illuminated by the lantern light of the ship. "Someone here will find you a bed." His voice was soft - softer than it had been throughout the evening thus far. "I am truly exhausted. I'll see you in the morning." He began to walk up the wooden stairs, footsteps creaking on the soft oak. "How do you like your coffee? We make an exquisite cappuccino here." A smile, a wink, and then Makari was off to bed. He waved good night to the crew.

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Nakoa Singh]

A hand waved vaguely through the air, expression still playful as it turned to look, once again, over the river. "I'm sure I will," Nakoa agreed, thoroughly entertained by Makari's reaction. No more commentary went Makari's way on the steady journey back to his yacht.

Still did he listened to the waters once they reboarded. Its ebbs and flowers, the quiet sounds of night that drifted over it on the wind. While attendants were handed his cloak and other attire- some marveling or wary of the markings across his skin, just as before- none were allowed to touch the Tethysian adornments that glittered on his person.

"Brewed strong," was his simple answer, returning the senator's soft voice and wink with a smirk. "So you will." He turned to one of the attendants. "You have a bed for me?" Nakoa was led by the attendant to another room, two pairs of footsteps across the wood, where the Wrean thanked him politely and shut the door.

His expression slipped away, hands coming up to rub his face, a soft, sighing breath escaping his lips. Piece by piece he removed his remaining garments and jewelry, placing them on an available surface until he was left in no more than silken undershorts. Singh rolled his shoulders, stretched, and finally removed the cloth gill cover over his lower neck.

A finger flicked to seal the door- whether or not it had a lock- and he passed down through the wood and into the cool, moonlit river.

-------
​

By the time morning came and an attendant came to knock on Nakoa's door, he was upright atop silk sheets, unclad with legs curled into a meditative position. After dressing he was lead to where the coffee and Makari were supposed to be.

Nakoa sat down, queried, "Coffee?" and plopped an ornate datapad down on the tabletop.

@Fine Dining Set

​

 

[Makari de Nolay]

As Nakoa walked up the steps to the dining table, he would smell the rich flavors of Alsakan cuisine ruminating throughout the hold of the ship. Spices, vegetables, eggs, breads all came together. But the richest scent of all was the smell of coffee being freshly roasted, ground, and brewed specifically for Nakoa's cup. Such was the luxury that came with the Alsakan lifestyle.

The table was almost entirely covered with food with Nakoa approached it. Makari kneeled on a cushion at the foot of the table, silently gnawing on a piece of flaky bread with eggs and tomato. He wore a crisp, blue military uniform, whose long sleeves stretched from wrist to toe. Beneath these pressed clothes was a pair of utilitarian black, leather boots. His old New Republic uniform. The datapad piqued his interest, which he met with a raised eyebrow, and he took it hungrily.

"Thank you." Nakoa would find a spot with a cappuccino perfectly made, served in a decorative glass. The foam swirled at the top. "And good morning." A curious look crept to his face. "I hope you found your lodgings acceptable."

For they had a doozy today. But first, Makari took a moment to flick through the datapad. After a moment of searching, he seemed to find what he wanted. From what Nakoa could sense, Makari was much more composed this morning, his placid and cool exterior reflecting a calmer interior. The fear of yesterday had subsided, and this morning had taken the priority in his brain.

Still, he had an expressive face. His lips parted into a slight smile, nodding and reading through the contents of the datapad. He closed it, satisfied.

"I should warn you, we're a rather...untraditional team." And the Alsakan War Games were very traditional. "The senator is usually just a bystander, and teams are led by members of a chivalric order or active-duty military." A senator and a mercenary in the warrior-caste business. Surely, they would be upset. But it was as important a symbol as any to demonstrate the type of future that Makari needed the world to believe in. What happened in Coruscant must not come to pass here. And if the stuffy nobility of the world were unwilling to change on their own, well, Makari would help them.

"The exact event changes every year - keeps teams on their toes - but it's...rather typical. 'A test of skill, strength, courage. A great and NOBLE quest.' That kind of energy, if you can imagine." A significant cultural event, but rather bland, he reckoned. He plucked another cherry tomato with his fork, gently placing it onto his tongue and savoring the burst of flavor when he chewed it.

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Nakoa Singh]

Nakoa went right for the special luxury coffee that near-literally had his name on it, blowing gently before sipping at it. Just because he frequently worked to get up early in the day didn't mean he hopped out of bed fully functional, no sir. As a matter of fact, his eyes were closed at the table for the first few minutes of his working on caffeination.

"N'" he replied to the other man's good morning during this time, not actually responding to the rest of it. Eventually, his eyes opened and he put the cup down on the table. "You're welcome. Morning. They were." Nakoa belatedly answered in chronological order, eyes briefly going over Makari's uniform for the day before laser-focusing on breakfast.

Despite the abundance of bread and potatoes, the Wrean appeared largely to avoid any that weren't made with legumes or other high-protein ingredients. His plate was instead filled with fruits, vegetables, meats, and eggs that he steadily worked through. He intermittently drank water and coffee throughout, at one point requesting another coffee when it ran low.

Amberine eyes looked up across the table at Makari when he spoke again, an eyebrow raising. "You don't say?" the foreign mercenary kid lightheartedly through a smirk. Still, he listened to de Nolay's elaboration on how things usually worked out. Once Makari'd gone through it all, Nakoa had several questions, a subtle spark of curiosity behind his eyes.

"What is a 'Chivalric Order'? What makes a quest 'noble'? When do I meet the team?" Tethysians had no concept of humanocentric 'chivalry', but tests of skill, strength, and courage were certainly part of their own culture as well. Somehow, though, Nakoa suspected they didn't define them the same. Certainly the galaxy's concept of 'noble' wasn't reflected on Wrea, either.

"Present examples?"

@Fine Dining Set

 

[Makari de Nolay]

How to describe it all? A very archaic set of rituals, true, but a tradition that spoke to him. "You'll see when you get there. Lots of drinking and old geezers patting themselves on the back." He did owe it to Nakoa to explain one thing, though. "The ceremony itself, we do shirtless. and pantless. They give you a little loincloth to compete in." As tradition dictated. "So, don't bother wearing anything nice. This is just for the, let's say, curb appeal?" He gestured towards his own, pressed outfit.

He checked the time, and hailed the captain of their river yacht to get moving. The ship's sails unfurled, anchor raised, and gently, the ship began to sail down the river, towards the giant city looming in the distance. A massive pyramid came into view, slowly, as the ship moved down the river.

"The idea of 'chivalry' is foreign to you?" Such concepts of honor, nobility, and peerage dominated all social interactions on his world. "How do you assign...worth? How do you know when you're doing well, or what to do in a given situation?"

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Nakoa Singh]

A soft sigh left the Wrean at Makari's further explanation, personal curiosity steadily retreating to professional analysis. It all sounded very stiff and formal. Not a surprise, given Makari's story about what it was like living on Alsakan. The drinking sounded fun, though, especially given his inherent advantages there.

An eyebrow raised at the mention of all the bared skin that Makari delivered with the air of someone handing out news that might be awkward. Nakoa shrugged with an amused smirk. "Fine with me. Wreans are aquatic." Bare skin was common back home and this particular Wrean wasn't the least bit shy about how he looked even if he suspected he'd be one of the only participants with so many tattoos.

Then Makari asked a much more interesting question. Frankly, Nakoa wasn't even familiar with the word 'chivalry' as Basic wasn't his first language and his people didn't use the word. His eyebrows dropped and he adopted a serious and pensive expression, seeming almost to stare right through the Alsakan Senator for several seconds.

"Worth is not a thing assigned. Worth is realized through independent skill and communal contribution. We all lift together." He emphasized this point by entwining his hands palm-up and raising them. "One knows they are doing well when one can swim alone, keeping in constant movement and always learning. When their presence away from others is missed, and others can rely on them. Should one complete with others, all are greater for it." These points may well be foreign to outlanders, who seemed to often separate independence and communalism into polar opposites. Not so on Wrea. "Tethys is... ah, what is this word?"

He snapped his fingers once, twice. "Meritocracy? Blood is less than being."

"One knows what to do from experience and wisdom, yours and others." That Makari meant formal nobility situations may have been lost in translation. "Our culture is different from much of the more humanocentric galaxy." His point here was somewhat blunt. "Does your 'chivalry' involve bowing based on social status? Where I am from, lowering one's head to another is disrespect."

At some point in the middle of all these he'd stopped eating, cleaned his hands, and started working on his hair. It cascaded across his shoulders in an ink-black waterfall. Nakoa passed a brush through the length, idly talking away throughout.

@Fine Dining Set

 

[Makari de Nolay]

Makari opened his mouth to respond, when the booming timbre of a drum began to sound. It reverberated across the ship, almost shaking the sails. Makari instantly rose to his feet and scurried to the highest point of the ship, producing a set of binoculars to view something at the pyramid they approached. Seemingly satisfied, he returned to the table, scarfing down the rest of his meal. "I'm afraid our conversation will have to wait, my Champion." There was in inherent playfulness in the way that he spoke.

He gestured off the ship, towards the pyramids. Their ship slowly sailed into a dock at the foot of the massive, golden structure; so massive was it, they were practically clouded in shadow by the time. Makari waved farewell to the crew of the ship, allowing a moment for Nakoa to finish whatever preparations he needed for the day, before he stepped inside.

Long, dark, winding hallways led the pair to the interior of the pyramid. Makari seemed to intuit navigation - he had obviously been here before - as he thoughtlessly drifted from passageway to passageway. Torchlight filled the massive arena on the interior of the pyramid. If it could be believed, it seemed bigger on the inside than the outside.

In the center of it, a massive, stone statue to an ancient god breathed hot smoke and fire.

When they reached the central chamber, Makari kneeled in front of the statue. He gestured for Nakoa to kneel beside him. The parapets above the arena were filled with thousands of spectators, sitting silently, as the booming of the drum continued around them. Nakoa would notice a dozen other pairs, silently kneeling at the temple, as others continued to filter into the chamber and the seats. A quiet, peaceful look was upon Makari's face, but his heart was beating faster than the drums.

@Mr. Teatime

 

[Nakoa Singh]

Their eyes turned ahead to the pyramids and Nakoa doubled down on finishing up his hair, arranging it into another long, tight braid. They took in the new surroundings, the details of what would be to most an awe-inspiring structure. Smooth walls gilded bright yellow that glinted in the sun yet shadowed all those beneath its towering height, its titanic size.

Gold older than the Republic, unchanging and sterile. How fascinating, and yet, such a shame. Singh was already wearing his usual standard attire and, since he was going to be disrobing for the games anyway, didn't bother with anything more than cloth slip-on shoes.

They followed Makari off the boat and through the hallowed halls of the gilded pyramid, actively paying attention to how many turns there were and in what direction. Finally reaching the chamber itself, the Wrean was mildly displeased. All the torches, bodies, and one big, dramatic statue made it rather warm and he wasn't a fan. At least it wasn't dry.

Nakoa watched Makari kneel and mirrored the gesture when prompted, wondering if there would also be one of those fancy chairs outlanders liked so much. A throne, or whatever it was. They could hear the beating of hearts alongside the parum-pum-pum of drums, rapid and heavy. Makari was full of nerves again.

His mercenary was mostly looking forward to the challenges ahead. Although his greatest passions were scholarly and of magic, it was in his blood to crave tests for himself in the other skills he practiced. Still, some part of him would've preferred something a touch more underhanded. Those were always the most fun.

His gaze surreptitiously wandered to the other pairs. One never knew if some quirk of motion or eye would present a chink in the armor for a knife to press into, after all.

@Fine Dining Set