Belsavis.
An unforgiving world of jungle and stone where the worst of the galaxy were exiled. There was no sense of punishment here, no time served, no parole. The point of Belsavis prison was not to rehabilitate prisoners. Belsavis existed to contain, to protect everyone else from the deeds of evil men.
On the surface, survival came in many forms. Those who could not protect themselves sought alliances with others that could. Roving gangs of unspeakable violence reigned outside of the compounds. Territories would be laid out and contested, factions would form, and the only law was in the strength of your arm.
The farther one got from the established compounds, the stranger the dynamic shifted. Few dared to enter deep into the jungles, where the native wildlife grew large and vicious. There were tales of ghosts in the northern wastes, where the forest grew the most dense. Rumor of prisoners driven mad by Belsavis and surrendered themselves to the horrors deep in the Rakatan depths, only to return as vengeful spirits who preyed on those foolish enough to enter their domain.
Zahavi did not believe in ghost stories. He did, however, believe that one such 'ghost' in these tales was in actuality a potential ally. He hunted for the Chiss named Oryon Halcyon, one of the original eight exiles from the stories he was told as a child. Oryon was said to be cold, calculating, and deadly. But more important to Zahavi, Oryon was also said to be uncompromisingly logical in his reasoning. Unafraid to do what must be done for the greater good, no matter how dear the initial cost. It was this trait that Zahavi required. And so he delved deep into the deepest, darkest reaches of Belsavis, silently searching for the man that would help him end the Halcyon line once and for all.
It turned out, Oryon was not in the mood for visitors.
Underneath the dark green canopies of the northern wastes, Zahavi could sense eyes on him. He continued to march forward, but swept his own eyes back and forth, watching for an ambush from behind. The ambush, however, came from above. Before Zahavi knew what was happening, he was slapped in the face with something soft and moist. It covered his mouth and nose, preventing him from breathing. He quickly tore it away, but found himself inhaling a foul smelling gas that burned and choked him from inside. He drew his sword and impaled the sponge-thing that had hit him, all the while choking and gasping for air.
The attack came from above, a flash of metal reflecting off a sunbeam that peeked through the canopy. Zahavi barely had time to raise his weapon to deflect the strike, and the attacker was gone again. He was fast, faster than Zahavi had anticipated. The Togruta pulled a syringe from his belt pouch and injected himself in the neck. Immediately his passageways opened and he found himself able to breathe again, albeit painfully.
A second strike, from behind this time. Zahavi whipped his vibrosword around his back, deflecting the initial blow and catching the followup on his wrist guard. A boot found its way to his sternum, doubling him over in pain, and the attacker was gone again. The sheer velocity of the attacks was staggering. A flash of metal, a hint of blue, and then gone. It was good. Zahavi needed someone with this level of skill. But first he had to convince him.
A third attack, from the east. Zahavi was ready. He feinted left, and then pivoted on his right heel. The strike missed, and a blow came down hard on the back of the unseen assailant's head, dropping him to the ground in an ungraceful slump.
Zahavi took a step backwards, and allowed Oryon to recover his breath. The significance of the forfeited advantage was not lost on the Chiss, and he took a moment to rise to his feet and face the stranger.
Zahavi sized up his quarry. Oryon had adapted to jungle life. He was clad in dark rags around his waist and legs, bare from the waist up. A series of leather straps held a series of knives, several of which appeared to be made of stone. Around his waist he wore a belt of various trinkets and containers, no doubt filled with assorted poisons and other nastiness like the sponge-thing that he had used to open the duel. On his head he had a bandana tied over his right eye. His left eye was coldly analyzing this intruder, sizing him up.
Zahavi wished he could speak to him, to explain his plan. But his Word was not yet ready for Oryon. He was going to have to recruit him in a much more unpleasant manner.
Oryon let the silence hang in the air for a moment while they both examined each other. There were words that did not need to be said, for they were redundant in nature. Obviously this man did not view himself as an enemy, or he would have pressed the attack while he had the advantage. Through the entire duel, he had not uttered a single word, even in surprise when gasping for air. This gave Oryon the impression that the Togruta in front of him was not much of a talker. Someone this skilled and focused, tracking him down in the most deadly reaches of Belsavis? It stood to reason that this was an attempted rescue mission. To what end? To what purpose? Obviously he wanted something from Oryon. The most obvious solution was that someone wanted to hurt the Halcyons, and Oryon was the natural choice, as it was his betrayal of Asmodeus that imprisoned him here to begin with. But who? Who had the resources to mount a rescue on the most guarded prison in the entire galaxy? Even when he had managed to recover Kaikorero from here, it took every last resource at his disposal.
The silence had hung long enough. It was time for answers.
"Very well," Oryon said, speaking aloud for the first time in months. "I will accompany you, for now."
The fact that Zahavi had not extended such an invitation seemed irrelevant.