RPlog:An Evening's Entertainment

The hour is late ... indeterminable by any such usual method as light or lack thereof, but marked by the clock in her room and the length of the day that preceded it. The door opens without announcement, which is usual even if the hour isn't, a slim dark haired girl entering as she has so many times before.

Ylsa is abed and asleep, her slumber facilitated by the now-empty carafe of wine resting near her bedside table. One arm is flung over her eyes, the other dangling off the mattress, and her blonde hair is a shambles from the careful coiffure of earlier in the day.

The slight figure approaches the bed, placing a hand upon Ylsa's shoulder and shaking it firmly. "M'lady, you must wake up now. Lord Ullo wishes you to attend him." Stirring but not fully wakened, Ylsa mumbles something unintelligible, then turns over, drawing the bedclothes across her unclad frame.

The shove is harder, more aggressive than Ilyana has ever been. "M'lady, " she hists. You must wake -now-." The master is expecting you." The bedcovers are then whisked off abruptly, and although the room is certainly not cold, the change in temperature is noticeable.

Ylsa twitches and sits bolt upright, the cascade of golden curls half-obscuring her features. Wine she has had, but not much, certainly not enough to inebriate someone as accomplished as Ylsa at serious imbibing. Her fingers rake away her mangled locks, then she rises and calls, "Ilyana? What is amiss?" as she heads for the bathroom and a way to compose herself from the alcohol-induced haze.

There is the rustle of clothes being drawn, the young womanÕs voice calling out, "Nothing is amiss m'lady .... Lord Ullo is having a special celebration this evening and wishes for you to attend him. It is a gala event." There is the soft sound of slippered feet approaching the bath in Ylsa's wake.

"Hells." Ylsa ducks into the shower for no more than two minutes, scrubbing herself clean of the day's perspiration and the evening's libations, then exits the water and hurriedly towels dry her hair. "What are you drawing for me to wear, child?"

The towel is gently removed for Ylsa's grasp, blue eyes meeting startling green ones surrounded by a curtain of auburn hair. The older girl replies lightly, "I have pulled a number of gowns for you to choose from ... but I suggest something particularly beautiful and revealing. After all, it is a -gala- affair." The voice, now unfamiliar in it's closer proximity, is almost coy.

Startled by the unfamiliarity of the older girl and by the proclamation of a gala she had heretofore heard nothing about, Ylsa purses her lips, presses her way into the bedroom again, and offers noncommittally, "Then I expect we oughtn't keep the master waiting."

Nodding noncommittally, the woman follows Ylsa out of the bath, leaving her to her own devices as she prepares herself, unlike Ilyana who would be serving on her hand and foot by this time. She waits for either a command or for the blond to finish.

Ylsa is not oblivious to the difference in levels of servitude and keeps her back toward the redhead as she selects a supple gown of golden Yavinese silk, the right leg revealed by a slit from near the hip to the hem, the left shoulder bare utterly. A pearl clasp holds the fabric on her right shoulder and prevents the dress from slipping away from her breasts, the curves of which are all too evident in the clingy fabric. Small sandals adorn her feet, and, deftly, her hair is swept away from her features and held back by two gold and pearl combs. "Fetch me the Imperial Rose perfume," she says without turning toward the other female, "and a glass of Ithorian water."

Her commands are obeyed without a word, the items handed to her in the order requested before the green eyed girl steps back, gaze assessing Ylsa's tall figure in an appraising manner. A lock of hair is tossed negligently over one shoulder as her eyes flicker to the chrono at her wrist, soft sigh indicating that too much time has progressed since she first entered Ylsa's chambers.

Ignoring the look, ignoring the notion she is running late, Ylsa applies makeup to her elegant features and queries evenly, "What happened to Ilyana?"

In diplomatic tones, the woman replies, "She had other duties to attend to. Lord Ullo has his needs of her talents as well as you."

Ylsa's voice drops several degrees in temperature as she answers evenly, "I see," and rises, the soft metallic fabric dripping in shimmering waves against her lissome figure. "Well, what is your name?"

"You may call me Raisa," replies the woman of flame hair coolly. She is certainly far more confident and far less obsequies than Ilyana is. She cocks her head to one side and queries, "Are you ready?" It isn't rude, but it's a touch short of polite.

"I will call you, little one, whatever I deem is befitting," Ylsa counters frostily as she brushes a bit of lint from her attire, then tosses back her hair. "Lead on."

If she hopes to take the girl down a notch, a bright amused smile denies Ylsa the pleasure. "You can call, doesn't mean I will answer," she replies tartly, leading the way to the door. It opens obediently to her touch to reveal a familiar Trandoshan guard waiting at attention for the pair.

Ylsa glances at the Trandoshan and greets him in his native tongue before proceeding with chin uplifted, determined to show every ounce of dignity and decorum that is due her former rank and ignore the haughty nature of the girl recently assigned her. In the back of her mind, however, worries for Ilyana's safety echo and drag down her spirits: could something be wrong?

The doorway to the audience hall is opened to reveal that indeed there is a festival like atmosphere in the room. Lights are burning at their brightest, everyone is wearing their finest, and music, dance, and food fill the room. Reigning Prince supreme over it all, Ullo sits upon his cushioned divan smoking his hooka pipe with relish. By his color and the wide lipless grin, the Hutt is nearly beside himself with pleasure, his deep rich laugh occasionally booming out over the hall as Ylsa is brought forward and down the center line of carpeting. Her arrival does not go without notice and commentary, whispered comments and raised eyebrows greeting the former favorites appearance.

A momentary pause follows the thrill of panic that courses up Ylsa's ramrod straight spine, shivering her with memories of what evenings like this have meant in the past but, survivor that she is, she smiles slowly and seductively and proceeds forward in as sultry a walk as she can manage. And, long-legged, graceful creature that she is, the walk can be quite alluring indeed. Her footfall is silent, her eyes downturning modestly as she approaches the Hut's throne, then she lowers her head and kneels, murmuring deferentially, "My lord."

Eyes rolling down to peer at her, Ullo booms mirthfully, "Ylsa, lovely girl, stand up. Welcome." He gazes about the room with delight, tail twitching in time with the wild music. "It is a fantastic gathering no? His mouth spreads wider, if such a thing is possible, and his eyes slid over to rest upon Ylsa's form. "It's good to see you ... now that you are here, we can begin the main event of the evening. The entertainment." The edges of his mouth curl further upward as he raises the staff at his side, stabbing the floor with his scepter to create a resounding crack.

Alarms jangle in the back of her thoughts as Ylsa rises and smiles demurely at Ullo, awaiting indication of where she should be. _How the time with Paul has enfeebled me_, she thinks as her liquid sapphire gaze encompasses the room and Ullo's reveling denizens. _This was my life for years, and I withstood it well...even at times enjoyed the thrill of power. Now I want to cringe, to flee..._ Nothing of these ruminations show on her expression, however, and to further camouflage her thoughts, she fixes on one or two of Ullo's particular favorites and sends them dazzling grins.

The others in the room quiet down after awhile, stepping over to the sides and staring with outright curiosity. It is clear that this celebration has been going on for quite some time, and by the looks of anticipation, Ylsa's arrival signifies the final event of the evening. Ullo gazes over his dominion with a broad welcoming grin. "Thank you all," he booms, "for joining me as my esteemed employee, Ylsa Estrallas is welcomed back into the fold ... or folds," he jokes with unusually wry self-referential humor. To commemorate this moment, as well as seal her bond to her employment, we have made painstaking arrangements to offer you an evening of excitement, danger, and adventure!" There is a great roar of applause and uulations. The staff is rapped upon the floor again and as the main doors of the assembly hall are opened once again, two guards discreetly flank Ylsa's sides.

Ylsa uplifts her chin in recognition of Ullo's words and the applause but warily follows the doors' opening, keenly awaiting what is on the other side. Beneath the gilded folds of her elegant gown, her muscles are stiffened with tension that she tries to dispel by inhaling and exhaling in a rhythmic manner.

"Here we have the defender," Ullo roars gleefully, the doorway parting to admit Mephisto into the arena. The man is dressed in supple leather, chest bare and skin slightly oiled. He grins rakishly toward the crowd, flexing his muscles with relish. He is greeted with an enthusiastic cheer, the beings around the rooms dancing and waving in their excitement. He slowly makes his way through the room, accepting handshakes, claps on the back, and occasionally kisses that are either proffered or taken. As he draws closer to Ylsa his eyes trail up and down her slender figure, missing none of the details that the dress upon her figure outlines. He offers her a particularly nasty and violent smile, cracking his knuckles in preparation and threat.

Ylsa's gaze falters as, slack-jawed, she remembers with excruciating clarity the events days earlier when he practiced his violently sadistic tendencies on her in full view of Ullo and who knows who else. She swallows, mouth dry and jaw sagging, and then steels herself, returning Mephisto's stare with open hatred. Nothing she could say, nothing she could do, would divert this course of action - in fact, protestations would egg on the crowds - so silence is her best bet. And while her innards are quivering with tension, her expression is hardened and malevolent until, rather abruptly, she points and laughs at the leather-clad man.

One hand lifts, the man charging at her with intent before the resound crack of Ullo's scepter splits the air. "Enough!" he bellows. Mephisto holds back the blow ... barely and the room leans forward as one. This is certainly proving to be -most- interesting indeed. "Mephisto," Ullo commands firmly, "take to your corner." It is with a sullen angry stride that the brute leaves Ylsa untouched, though he does finally look toward her, his lips curling with the glee that only someone with fore-knowledge can offer. "And now, may I draw your attention to my personal champion in this night's entertainment, Ilyana!" The slight girl enters the space almost timidly, but a wide smile curling her lips as if she had done a very good deed. Her hand holds tightly onto anotherÕs, her grip tight and by the gentle way she strokes his arm, it seems almost as if she were trying to comfort him. He is a stranger to all in the room save Ylsa. The Corellian walks slowly, purposefully, hiding the defeat from his audience, awaiting whatever pleasure or displeasure awaits him. The angle of his jaw is tight ... one of a man fooled and furious with himself for not anticipating it.

The blood quits Ylsa's features with alacrity, with horror, with shock and utter dismay, and her knees show signs of buckling. Then, teeth gritted, she rights herself purposefully, proudly, tossing back her golden mane to effect a pose of negligence, of apathy toward the so-called challenger. What cannot be hidden, however, is the steady, near-deafening throb of her heartbeat as it pounds blood in her ears and marks with each beat her utter, complete terror.

As they approach, the audience claps and applauds loudly, the young girl tilting her head in acceptance even though she knows not what for. Ullo studies her approach, but to be honest, his gaze rests more steadily and curiously upon the Corellian at her side, taking measure of the man who walks so calmly toward certain death. As they draw close, Ullo raises and hand to still the din about them, offering one hand to Ilyana, who, letting go of Paul's, takes it gratefully, bowing before her Master. "You have done well child," he booms warmly. Her features suffused with color, she raises her eyes and murmurs, "Thank you my Lord." Rising up she turns to Ylsa, looking at Ullo for permission before darting over to her Mistress. "Isn't it wonderful?" she hists softly in her excitement. "I've brought him to you!" She seems genuinely pleased by this reunion.

What can Ylsa say? Words could not describe the depths of horror that she is suffering, not when she knows what his presence here means. She cannot meet his well-loved hazel gaze, cannot look to Ilyana, who has delivered Paul into Ullo's hands like a priestess would deliver a sacrifice to the high altar, and cannot look to Ullo. Her gaze swims as she stares across the bevy of laughing, eager, violent people and, for a dreadful second or two, she fears she may faint. Once the dizziness eases, she turns toward Ullo and waits for his decree.

As he stands there, waiting, Paul's gaze rests upon Ylsa for as long as it can. At this point, nothing else really matters. There is a sick feeling of dread in his stomach, the knowledge that the future is unwritten and could end at any moment. Hopefully the only disaster will befall him, but he would spare her this if he could. Finally his attention is drawn back to Ullo as the Hutt inquires of Ylsa, "Is this not the cause of your sudden departure my dear?"

And so the survivor is confronted with a choice out of nightmares. She can deny him and resume her days with Ullo, never again truly trusted but most assuredly allowed to live...or she can affirm the Hutt's question and likely condemn him and herself. Her head bows briefly, her eyes close, and with a glance darted at Ilyana she answers in that exotic voice, "I am not certain what you mean, my lord."

"You know exactly what I mean ... did you leave my employ to be with this man? It is a simple question and requires only a simple answer." There are soft chuckles from the gathered crowds, a soap opera offered as well as a mystery. Ilyana has since moved to her Masters side, a radiant smile formed upon her lips.

Heart frozen, stomach balled tight, Ylsa bows her head and breathes her answer to the Hutt. "You know why I left your employ, my master. It was to avoid the brutality of that man." And here she gestures toward Mephisto, recalling an earlier conversation she and Ullo have had.

There is a low tsk tsk tsk that lisps from Ullo's mouth. "Ah, and again you disrespect me. You lie to me." Shifting his gaze to the Corellian, Ullo states, "Mr. Nighman .... what is your weapon of choice?" The Corellian stands steady for a moment, unblinking at the Hutt. He could not help but notice Mephisto when he entered, and reaching to his side, he silently draws out his Mandalorian blade. The metal hisses against its sheath and within a second the Corellian is surrounded by blades and blasters. He does not bat an eye. Simply lifts the weapon for Ullo's inspection.

"Ullo -- my master -- I beg you, do not do this," Ylsa whispers urgently, facing the Hutt's throne fully now, complexion chalk white against her golden attire. "He has done nothing to offend you. Let him be and I will stay with you, beside you, doing your every whim. He deserves nothing of this."

Turning his gaze to Ylsa, the Hutt chuckles deeply. "What? And spoil all of Ilyana's good work? Disappoint all these people? No no my dear, this is the price you pay for your lying tongue. Be grateful I have need of it and don't cut it out of your head." And with that he dismisses the blonde, his head swiveling to look at Paul as he gestures the guards to step back. "A Mandalorian saber? Most impressive Mr. Nighman .... perhaps you will prove the victor of this tournament and work for me? I am beginning to think that I could use a man of your talents. Brute strength is plentiful, but a being capable of killing for or receiving a sword of Mandalore? A worthy employee indeed." Stony silence greets the Hutt's words, the Corellian too proud to beg or bargain with the beast. Ilyana, however, clearly does not have such qualms. "My ... my Master?" she quavers, throwing herself down before him. Her eyes raise beseechingly, color and pleasure drained from her face. "You said you would not hurt them ... you said he would not trust you and that you only wished to reunite them?" There is a slight glimmer of hope in her eyes, that somehow she has misunderstood what has been said, that it is a joke. That glimmer dies when Ullo turns to look at her, gutturally offering to her, "I lied.Ó

Ylsa moves forward, putting her hand on Ilyana to urge her away from the repulsive slimeball that is Ullo. Voice quavering, she instructs the girl, "You did as he desired, child, which is all that matters, believe me." Then she stares behind her at Mephisto, envisioning Paul's death - and a horrific one at that - with too great a level of clarity. "You would reward Mephisto for earlier disobedience, my lord?" she says, trying another tack. "This reinforces the notion he can disobey you."

Ullo turns to Ylsa censuring her with a dark growl, "-You- are not one to speak of rewards, disobedience, or punishment. He has already been punished for his actions ... he will not soon recover from his losses. However, Mephisto and Nighman offer counter opposites which are essential for a good fight. Each of them, in their own way, desires you. They will therefore fight for their lives, their position, and for you. More incentive, better fight, makes the stakes more appealing. Which will win? Brute strength?" he queries, gesturing toward Mephisto, "or true love?" and his hand mockingly indicates Paul. There is a powerful rap of his scepter upon the stone below as Ullo bellows, "Place your bets!"

Ylsa sends a heartfelt, pleading glance at Paul before whirling on Ullo. Protestation dies on her lips, however, as the gravity and helplessness of her situation becomes more fully felt. "Let me speak with him, at least," she finally pleads of Ullo, clearly intending the Corellian.

The Hutt considers for a moment before nodding. Perhaps a final kiss will be bestowed. It would make for a good show. "You may speak with him while he is prepared." The Corellian is already being attended to, his clothing checked for any further hidden weapons, sleeves rolled up, though they do at least allow his arm to remain within its sling. The Corellian endures the poking and prodding, the tip of his saber resting against the stone floor. Mephisto is likewise attended, given a selection of similarly styled blades to choose from. His look is one of disgust, as if he were offended to be offered so effeminate a blade.

Ylsa eases away from her guards to join Paul, her heart in her eyes. Hand seeking his - the one not occupied with the saber's hilt - she says for his ears alone, "Forgive me, ammadto, forgive me...I am so sorry, I am so very sorry, please...please forgive me."

His eyes drown in hers, as if diving to the very depths of her soul. For a very long time he says nothing, simply drinks in her face as if planning on taking it with him. Finally he leans close, his bandaged arm reaching up slowly till his hand can cup her face. He places upon her mouth the most tender of kisses, not something that would inspire catcalls, though there are a few, not a kiss of blinding passion, but perhaps as Ullo had suggested earlier, one of true love. Infinitely slowly he withdraws his head, still holding her face in his hand, her eyes with his own. "No regrets," he whispers.

Well-settled as her mask of control may be, this exquisite demonstration of his heart's contents destroys that mask, shattering it irrevocably. Tears flood her vision, an unnamed pain stabs at her heart, as she drinks in the sight of him. Her throat is closed against speech, but assuredly whatever she would want to say is inscribed on her features.

The audience is clearly torn, the heat the gambling rising as the tender exchange is witnessed. Ylsa's arm is taken, dragging her back and away as a space is marked out on the floor, the two combatants being escorted to the circle of their battle. Once again the scepter cracks against the floor as Ullo states the rules of the battle. "There will be no assistance from the audience in any shape other than encouragement. Anyone found assisting the fighters will be censured by death. Sabers are the choice of the challenger and will be the only weapons allowed other than the combatants own body. Any other weapons used will forfeit the fight as well as the life of the abusing opponent. Fighters, approach!" The pair, staring at each other, sizing up the competition draw near. "Test your weapons!" Mephisto, having the advantage of home turf, seems to be allowed to go first. He picks up a large piece of wood, having two guards hold it before him. "Behold the sharpness of my blade and it's strength," he gloats, raising bulging arms above his head. The blade descends with perfect accuracy, the thick piece of wood cutting in half with merely one blow.

As she is unceremoniously hauled away from her lover, Ylsa drags her feet and tugs with vicious intent at the hands restraining her. Having seen Mephisto in action, having witnessed before - and firsthand - his wrath and skill in combat, she is shaking to her very bones with the worry that the Corellian stands little chance. It is no lack of faith in Paul's abilities but rather a reasonable and frightening notion that even victory in this heinous combat would be but a staying motion, for when has Ullo ever voluntarily given up a possession? And she has no doubt, no doubt, that she is precisely that to her former master: a slave, a trinket, a playtoy to be bestowed on those in favor with the Hutt. Her desires to buy herself free of her servitude were naive, she knows; Ullo wants her beside him, degraded and dispirited, and nothing she can do will fracture that hold he has on her.

The Corellian watches the display with little reaction, despite the cheers and praise from the audience. When he steps forward, the crowd stills, wondering how the comparatively small man will manage to match his opponent. Reaching out to Ilyana, Paul draws a blood red gauze scarf from her shoulder, murmuring, "May I?" The girl's eyes are enormous, her face wet with tears that still flow down her cheeks, and her features stricken and frozen in horror. Somehow she manages to mutely nod, but covers her eyes as Paul watches her for a moment longer. Turning coolly, Paul insults Mephisto with soft conviction. "That showed your strength ... which in swordplay is not necessarily the deciding factor." He tosses the swath of silk into the air, the material so fine that is slips down to the ground as if suspended in water. Extending his blade, the fabric finally lands upon the surface with no weight at all ... and cleanly divides in two to continue its slow flutter to the floor.

Ylsa keeps her peace and stands near Ullo, unable to react beyond an all-too-real terror registering in her luminous blue irises. When she can tear her gaze away from Paul, she tries to give Ilyana a look of reassurance, communicating a lack of blame and anger.

There is a soft ahhh-hhh, the horde impressed with the subtle display, and Ullo releases a rich belly laugh that shakes his divan. "Excellent ... excellent ... you may commence. Musicians?!" As the two men take their ground, the band starts to play, the music creating a surreal air about the event, making it more a holovid than reality. But the flesh, sweat, and blood that will soon be spilt, is all too real. Like a feline, Mephisto slowly circles Paul, planning to make the man suffer for as long as possible before laying him low. He takes a few swipes, the Corellian moving either out of their way or countering them. But there is something strange about Paul's movements. Rarely does his blade actually clash with the larger man's. Instead it seems to deflect and redirect the saber. Paul makes no move to attack, seeming content to wait until Mephisto makes the first move. When he does, it is sudden, a rush at Paul's injured side while is blade goes for the Corellian's sword arm. He is surprised when he catches the arm, which draws him around in a circle, using his own momentum against him before throwing him to the ground. He raises up, eyes angry and surprised as there is blood on his arm. But Paul has not gotten off easily, as there is blood on his own as well.

Gasping as she espies the blood on Paul's arm, the blonde woman held captive at Paul's side watches, fingers splayed across her lips in naked worry. Those likewise watching the spectacle are also keenly attentive but in a lustier manner, eager to see someone's blood shed. Mephisto's cruelty has won him no shortage of enemies within the teeming mass of Ullo's twisted court, yet he has ample supporters who would like nothing better than to see Paul Nighman sliced and diced across the stony floor of the vast chamber.

To make Mephisto look foolish is to earn his wrath. Perhaps that was the Corellian's plan. Moving in on Paul, Mephisto attacks without mercy, working to lay unfatal cuts upon the Corellian's body. And he is successful, half a dozen cuts bleeding from Paul's thigh, side, arm, and hip. But despite the number of hits, it does not measure up to the number of misses. The Corellian moves quickly in comparison to Mephisto's bulk. He dodges swipes, parries, thrusts, returning them in turn, though his success rate is not as considerable. The angrier Mephisto becomes, the more calculated his moves, the Corellian working harder and harder to avoid a killing blow. Dodging one thrust by lunging toward it and then diving into a roll, the Corellian swipes with his blade, connecting solidly with Mephisto's calf, the man roaring as the sharpness of the Mandalorian edge cuts deeply. But the Corellian comes up woozy, disoriented and unable to take his hard won advantage.

The audience, of course, is entirely in favor of a killing blow from -somebody- and chants for Paul to take advantage of Mephisto's error to end the combat. Ylsa, understandably, is also less than eager to see the sadistic creature survive this battle and bites her lip before hissing in T'leviaan, "Disarm him and disable him, disarm him and disable him... He will have to concede."

Despite that there must be serious damage done ... tendons cut, muscle torn, Mephisto rounds on Paul, eyes in a rage as he staggers toward the downed Corellian. Turning to face the rushing form, Paul raises his blade in time to deflect the one coming at him. Instead of piercing his chest, it takes a shoulder instead, tunneling through. It inspires a scream to bubble out of PaulÕs mouth, but hands and feet catch the driving strength of the brute, tossing him up and over and into the crowds, who squeal and part to avoid getting injured or stained by the blood, sweat and dirt. The blade, however, was lost along the way after being torn out, left on the ground between the two opponents. It is now simply a question of who will be able to recover first.

Ilyana, who found that after the first cut could no longer watch, has managed to regain her feet after slumping to the ground in a near swoon. Her eyes are fixed upon the bright towering light globes, which loom over the proceedings on giant metal arches. Her lips move in a silent litany, and as she begins to move toward one of these towering fixtures, quite unnoticed by the crowds, her hand brushes a table to come up with a serving fork. She clutches it like a weapon.

Ylsa would likely rush forward were it not for the arms and hands preventing her from doing just that. A scream that echoes his pain is torn from her throat, forming his name, while she strains against the binding grips on her arm and shoulder. She has lost sight of Ilyana, has lost sight of anything that is not the bloodied body of her lover. Her love.

Rolling over and raising up on his knees, Paul lunges for the blade, pulling it toward him as Mephisto makes his way free of the crowd. There is no way his now useless left arm can use it, and in an action of pure desperation and rage he throws the sword as if it were a spear. At Ullo. A shield is raised in time, the saber bouncing off of it harmlessly, the Hutt laughing at the feeble attempt. But Paul doesn't have the time to heed that now, as Mephisto comes rushing in at him. Paul strikes a blow with his sword, but the bantha of a man simply takes it, and then takes the sword right out of Paul's hand. The wound is severe, blood flowing freely from the cut to his stomach, but Mephisto seems oblivious. One hand raises, smashing into Paul's pierced shoulder, causing the Corellian to cry out again, reeling backward beneath the strength of blow.

Ilyana cringes as she climbs, and redoubles her efforts, knowing that it won't be long now before the Corellian ... before Paul ... is a broken bleeding formless piece of flesh. Sweating and crying, she finally reaches the top of the pole, her thighs clenching powerfully around the hot metal as her hands shove at the huge glass globe. It takes two tries, but finally it is unseated, plummeting down to the stone surface below and smashing like a grenade, pieces of glass flying in all directions.

Gasps sound all around the globe, followed by shrieks of agony and fright as the people flee the shards of glass. If it was blood they wanted, it's blood they have in all colors and densities. As one of her guards catches a fragment in his cheek, Ylsa jerks free of one side and again shrieks Paul's name while wrestling frenetically with her other captor. The Corellian certainly seems near enough to bleeding to death for her to have ample concern for his future.

Attention is certainly divided upon the floor, some looking to themselves, others to the shattered globe, some back to the interrupted fight, but most are drawn to the source of the distraction. Her hair wild, flesh gleaming, Ilyana is screaming down at the masses below her in a blind fury. "Bastards! Mur-derers! Butchers! Animals!" Her hands struggle with the bulb, finally smashing it. She tears at the broken glass, removing the remains, her eyes shifting over to Ullo. "Liar! You will have no prize tonight damn you! You will not have their lives! I delivered him to you and I take him away!" And with that she raises the fork and plunges it into the exposed hungry socket, her body arching as it creates a full circuit, mouth opening in a silent "oh" of pain as she loses her balance and tumbles down after the glass globe. The lights in the room surge and fade and then, as the fuse blows, the area is pitched into solid darkness.

"Yana!" Ylsa cries out in stark fright as the girl commits herself to the action of trying to free Paul from Ullo and his devilish minion. Then she dares not speak nor move, unable to see as she is, waiting for some sign of what her guard intends, what Paul is doing. Her blood-slicked arm slips away from the second of the guards restraining her, and she darts forward to find her Corellian.

The room explodes into din and panic, the audience running in all directions, blind and terrified. The Corellian's eyes raise up, colors strange and unsaturated, but forms clearly visible. His sword is claimed first, then Mephisto is found. It isn't difficult. Even if the man were not clearly visible to Paul, he is audible. "Nighman! You coward! Finish this!" He circles calmly, listening for a stealthy approach. Woe to any who make the mistake of nearing him, and Paul winces as a woman runs past, only to be grabbed and her head snapped sharply to one side before she is dropped lifeless to the ground. "She's mine! The bitch is mine! I raped her just like the whore deserved, and I'll rape her again once I've finished you!" Red. All the Corellian can see is red. Blood? Contacts? Rage? It doesn't matter. He walks, trembling in his fury and pain and waits until another fool runs past the mountain of a man. *Snap* and with that Paul taps him on the shoulder with his blade, only to sink it to the hilt in his chest as Mephisto turns to take him. "You lose," Paul rasps, "so kiss off and die."

So unlike Paul is the raspy sound of his last words to Mephisto that, for a second or two, Ylsa is certain the bubbling scream of agony is from the Corellian. Then, a few lifetimes later, she knows by the heaviness of the falling body it is -not- Paul's. Her toe bumps into something on the floor - a blaster, it turns out, one dropped by someone Mephisto murdered in the belief he was Paul - and she crouches down to scoop it into her palm. When the lights come on again, she will be ready to find out precisely what has gone on.

The blade is wiped off of the corpse, Paul's eyes raising to find Ylsa's aimlessly gazing about in the darkness. Reaching over he grasps her arm, rasping softly, "Come on, it won't be long now before they get the power back on line or bring in lanterns." And he starts to move, pulling Ylsa along with him. There is no time to stop and make some justice upon Ullo's corpulent form, but the Corellian does stop for one person, his sudden cessation of movement followed by the descent of his body dropping to one knee. She's not dead yet ... but it can't be long now, even Paul can tell. Her eyes flicker, looking about in terror as Ilyana can feel herself dying. She gasps and whimpers when Paul takes her hand, but his rough voice assuring her in the darkness, "It's me," causes her frame to ease. "Me-mephiss-sto?" she croaks weakly.

Ylsa kneels beside Ilyana, cradling the girl's head in her blood-soaked hands, blood from her nicked arm, from her guard's wound, from Paul himself. "Sssh....sleep, little one, rest..." A sob chokes off her voice as sorrow threatens to overwhelm her, and, pleadingly, she stares at where she imagines Paul to be.

"I got the lights out Paul," she whispers, eyes flickering closed under the pressure of his hand and the touch upon her brow. "Just like we planned ... I got the lights out." Her voice grows weaker, her flesh cold and damp. Hot tears splash across her hand as Paul draws it close, laying a kiss upon it. Her eyes open as she mumbles, "I'm sorry .... I'm such a little fool .... go ... hurry, before ...be ...." and the slight figure is suddenly lax and heavy. Raising his gaze he finds hers, open wide and sightless. Rubbing blood and tears from his eyes he rises, grabbing Ylsa's arm tight in the adrenaline rush that is still pouring through his system. "Come on." They fight their way through the throng, Paul avoiding the guards for fear that they may be better prepared than he, and suddenly they are out in the hallway. He takes a moment to close the doors and drop the huge heavy latch over them. A delay tactic at best. He grabs Ylsa's hand again and tries to run for the hidden passage that Ilyana had brought him through in the first place.

"So how..." Ylsa breathes, knowing the passage well enough from her less constrained times in Ullo's possession but still blinded and ignorant of where she is and to where she is going. More rested than Paul and assuredly in better health, she keeps pace with him and tries in vain to deduce their location. How is he seeing in this blackness is, naturally, a mystery to her, but she feels compelled to protest, "I must get you out of here before your injuries overwhelm your panicked state." One thing is certain: the lack of illumination hides from her the ruination that Paul has suffered on her behalf.

Throne Room If the main hall weren't extravagant enough, the throne room more than makes up for it. The throne itself is enormous - a padded, contoured, cushioned creation to allow Ullo to lounge in the lap of luxury. The thickly textured velvet is surprising clean and rich burgandany in color. The room again is filled with sculptures of stone and sand, light and technology. From the very oldest artifacts to some of the most modern designs. For his guests and employees, of which there are many, there are chairs and divans scattered about in a circle from his throne, a long carpet leading the way for those who would desire an audience. There are plentiful hooka pipes, and a small group of musicians play a variety of instruments, their talents and repertoire entirely dependent on Ullo's momentary whims. The words Hutt and Culture have rarely been considered synonymous ... until now. The room is lined with armed guards at the ready, and the ease of your entrance into his stronghold was clearly not without the Hutt's awareness or permission. -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => Ylsa => Ullo the Hutt

Her words strike an exhausted chord within Paul, his pace faltering as the drain on his resources hits him. "Hold on," he rasps, leaning against one wall for a moment. Cloth tears as he shreds the remains of his shirt, binding up as tightly as he can the pierced shoulder. It hurts and is bleeding, but doesn't seem to have hit any major arteries or done any serious damage. "Hold this," he rasps, taking Ylsa's hand and placing it on his shoulder to hold the shirt in place, his own arm useless from all the damage it has received since the first attack. "Hold it tight?"

Ylsa's pressure on the wound is experienced and firm, and her voice, tremulous but implying considerable conviction, is close by his ear. "Ammadto, I plan on doing nothing but holding tightly henceforth."

There is a low sound, resembling something between a groan and a chuckle as Paul wraps the fabric around and around, stanching the flow from this injury. The others in comparison are relatively minor, and he presses his mouth against her quickly before pulling back, voice rough as he notes, "Just so long as I don't chafe. Come on, we gotta keep moving or they'll catch up." The tunnel narrows, forcing the pair to crawl for the last few yards before it starts to open up again, faint traces of light drifting down from the opening that is close at hand.

Familiarity with their surroundings floods Ylsa's consciousness as she hurries forward toward the bare traces of light, which, in this darkness, beckon her like a beacon calling her home. "This opening...we are in the secret passage beneath Ullo's palace. I recognize it now." Her voice is soft to prevent its echo and, perhaps, its summoning of her former master's men. "Hurry, ammadto. And pray tell me that you have transportation close by."

Breathing labored and steps unsteady, Paul rumbles, "Speeder waiting ... and transport on the Dune Sea when we get there to get us off this rock ..." Paul stumbles behind Ylsa, catching himself against the rough stone wall and holding for a moment for his head to clear. "She's waiting for us ... knows we're in a hurry."

"She? She?" No worries there, no jealousy, simply surprise at the notion Paul has involved someone else in his scheme. Her arm encircles his waist, urging him away from the wall, as she murmurs, "It is not much farther, ammadto, and we will be safer once we are without this cavern."

He simply nods, not wanting to waste even an ounce of energy. This went badly. It's a miracle that they're alive and away, and that miracle has the name of Ilyana ... it was supposed to go a lot smoother. When the bright sun hits Paul's eyes, he reels back from the intensity, gasping. One thing is for sure, and as Paul stumbles toward the covered speeder, he mumbles, "You drive."