A little memory for Split
So, as I am a bit stuck on both Chapter 6 of Alaiah and Chapter 11 for my little Star Wars fanfic - Split, I've decided to write a random snippet. This one is how I imagine Thrawn - then Vurawn - got on Patriarch Thooraki's radar:
Vurawn could always sense when people were watching him. It had started in his early childhood when his parents would pretend they weren’t always keeping their eye on him, but he’d always been able to tell by the way they quickly turned their heads when he noticed. Now that he was 18, living on his own and working in The Sense, this awareness had gone to a whole new level.
Biek and him had had to fight quite a few inebriated patrons of various ages, genders and levels of insistence off him over the past few years and now it had become second nature to Vurawn to just be increasingly aware of the attention others paid to him.
So when that older looking man sat at the edge of the bar and pretended to look anywhere but him, Vurawn knew it was only a matter of time… Might as well stay ahead of it.
He pulled out one of the shiniest looking beer goblets from the rack and drew a half pint of dark ale. Unhurried, as if this was just part of his routine with any new customer, he walked over to where the older man sat and placed the drink in front of him.
“On the house.” Vurawn said, opting to inject some enthusiasm in his voice and a small customer-service smile on his lips, like Biek had taught him.
“Why thank you, young man, you are most kind.” The older man said, twirling the goblet a bit in his hand to marvel at the way the dark liquid sloshed and reflected the dim light of the bar. “Is this a local brew?”
“No, sir, imported.” Vurawn shook his head. “Just like ye, if ye don’t mind me sayin’ so… sir.”
The man’s eyebrows rose minutely. “Oh? What gave me away?”
Vurawn sighed inwardly and squared his shoulders. The man didn’t look offended, yet, but knowing his own proclivity for bluntness, it would pay for him to pick his next words a bit more carefully.
What gave the old man away? Let’s see - first of all the dress tunic, which although simple looking, swayed with the typical rustle of highest quality fabric. Celwis bug silk, if Vurawn had to guess. Way above the pay grade of the typical Sense customer.
Then there were the man’s boots - shiny leather, not a smidge of mud or dust on them, which meant the man wasn’t used to walking outside on his own. Likely, he was used to being chauffeured around.
Last, but definitely not least, the man’s accent. Definitely not Rentoran.
“I do not mean to offend.” Vurawn said quietly, trying to sound apologetic. “It’s just the way ye carry yerself with an aura of authority, sir. And the way ye speak. I’d guess that’s a Csillan accent? If not, Naporari or Avidichi, perhaps?”
The man’s lips twitched in a smile. Good, Vurawn thought, if he smiled, perhaps he was not offended?
“You are quite observant, young man.” He said. “And correct, of course. I was indeed born on Avidich, a long time ago.”
“Thank ye, sir.” Vurawn inclined his head. “If ye don’t mind me askin’, sir, what is it ye want with me?”
The man’s eyes widened briefly.
Damn, and Vurawn was doing so well thus far, too. But he just had to let his mask slip now? People didn’t like directness, he had learnt that early on. Yet it annoyed him to no end. So despite his bartender training, he still sometimes found himself just blurting out stuff like that, trying to move the conversation along. He really hated talking in circles.
“My apologies, sir.” Vurawn said quickly, lifting his hands in front of his torso. “It just looked like ye’ve ‘ad yer eye on me since ye entered the bar and I… well, I don’t know anyone from Avidich, so I was wondering…”
The man fixed him with his gaze. That was another thing Vurawn didn’t particularly like - prolonged eye contact. It made him twitchy, but he willed himself to endure it, bracing for the inevitable verbal onslaught…
And then, the older man just laughed.
“Well, you really are something else, boy.” The man said, the echoes of laughter still audible in his voice. “Tell me, is there somewhere more private where we might have this conversation?”
Vurawn felt his eyes narrow, before he could stop it. And there it was… Of course.
“I feel inclined to inform ye, sir,” he said, trying to sound calm, despite the anger brewing at his core. “That the Sense ain’t that kind of bar. Nor am I that kind of bartender.”
The man’s eyebrows knitted at his forehead, forming a deep crease. So now he was offended? Or perhaps just confused?
“Oh, but you misunderstand.” He said after a beat. “I assure you, young man, my intentions towards you are nothing of the sort you might be imagining. I was just thinking you might prefer to discuss family matters in a more private setting.”
“Family matters?” Now Vurawn’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
“Indeed.” The man nodded. “Or are you not Kivu’raw’nuru, son of Kivu’rey’nard?”
“I am he.” Vurawn confirmed. “But I am no one’s son. I am an emancipated midager - I ‘ave all the documents an’…”
“Calm yourself, child.” The man raised a hand. “I am not with Youth protection services. And I was already aware that you were emancipated before I came to see you.”
Vurawn felt another wave of confusion, but this time he stopped it from showing on his face.
“Tell me, young man, what do you know about the Mitth family?” The older man said.
Was that a trick question? Of course he knew a lot about the 8th Ruling family. Vurawn lifted his eyes to the other man’s again and noted a small smile on his lips. Ah, no, this was a test.
“A fair bit, sir.” He said finally. “The Mitth are honorable warriors and unmatched in their military tech. The first breacher missiles are of Mitth design, ain’t they?”
“They were.” The older man nodded, visibly pleased. “Although I doubt that would’ve been something you learned in school. Most curriculums don’t go that much in depth about weapons technology.”
“That they do not.” Vurawn admitted with a half shrug. “But I was curious, so I researched it.”
“Ah, and you see now, this research is precisely why I decided to come see you myself.” The man nodded again, smile widening a bit.
Vurawn did his best to keep a neutral face. Biek’s slicer had sworn up and down that the security codes he’d sold him had been legit. He should’ve known better. This old man might not have been with Youth protection services, but who’s to say he wasn’t a Mitth handler out to find and deal with a security breach to their R&D databases? Even if he’d only accessed the archives, a breach was a breach.
“Relax, boy.” The man chuckled. “I am not here to deal out any sort of punishment. I was just impressed and wanted to meet the young man who’d sliced his way into our tech archives not to spy or sell data, but to learn. Such a rare treat nowadays to meet a young person who is curious.”
“So, yer not going to arrest me?” Vurawn said, voice sounding a bit breathy when he let out that exhale he had apparently been holding in.
“Of course not! Curiosity is a trait I much admire, for I possess it myself.”
“So then…”
“So then why am I here?” The older man finished Vurawn’s sentence for him. “Like I said - I wanted to meet you. You’re the third person on my suspect list and so far you’ve been the most interesting for multiple reasons. Tell me, son, where do you see yourself in five to ten years’ time?”
Vurawn allowed himself a small smile at that.
“I want to join the navy, so I’d probably be a Junior Commander in 10. Maybe in 5, if I’m good enough and learn to keep my ph’rall’n mouth shut more often… Oh, ph’rall, sorry, sir.”
“Well aren’t you an ambitious one!” The man laughed again, clearly unbothered by the young man cursing in front of him - an elder - twice. “An impressive and admirable goal to be sure! Why the navy, though? You may be emancipated from your parents, but I read both of them were into the arts. Surely you have inherited some artistic passion?”
Vurawn grit his teeth. He didn’t like talking about his family. He didn’t like being compared to his dad, even though he had inherited the man’s looks and his singing voice. Still, this old man didn’t need to know all that…
“I do love art.” Vurawn acknowledged. “It… speaks to me. But I would make a much better warrior than artist.”
“Art speaks to you?” The older man arched an eyebrow. “In what way?”
“Art reflects the artist’s soul.” Vurawn repeated his mother’s mantra he’d heard so often growing up. “Analyze enough artwork from multiple artists and ye ‘ave mapped the soul of an entire society. Their strengths, their weaknesses, their fears and greatest hopes. All the things you’d need to know to defeat them in a fight.”
“What an ingeniously novel perspective!” The man shook his head, almost in disbelief. “You truly are a remarkable young man, Vurawn.”
“Thank you, sir.” Vurawn inclined his head respectfully.
“Unfortunately, I must now take my leave. But thank you for the ale and a most entertaining conversation.” He moved to stand from the bar stool and offered his hand over the bar. “I have left my contact details with your supervisor, I trust he will forward them to you and I hope we might be in touch again soon.”
Vurawn hesitated a bit, but accepted the offered hand, clasping his fingers around the other man’s forearm. It felt odd to have such a greeting, reserved for close friends and family members, with a complete stranger.
“Oh, and Vurawn?” The old man cut into the boy’s thoughts.
“Yes, sir?”
“May warrior’s fortune smile on your efforts, son.”
“Thank you, sir.”
And with that, the strange man turned and made for the exit in a brisk, but graceful stride. What an odd old man, Vurawn thought to himself as he turned to the other end of the bar, where Biek stood, looking a bit stupefied.
“What’s the matter, Biek?” Vurawn called, peering at the burly man’s face. “Ye look like ye’ve seen a ghost.”
The man sized him up with an incredulous stare as if wondering how much of an answer could the boy take.
“Rawnie boy, do ye have any idea who that man is?”
Vurawn scrunched up his nose. Pet names were yet another of his pet peeves.
“No, he never introduced himself to me.” He said. “He told me he left his contacts with ye?”
Biek snorted. “Yeah, that he did! Take a look for yerself, then mayhaps ye’d wish ye didn’t run yer mouth in that way ye typically do.”
With that, he turned his questis around to show Vurawn the e-card he had opened. The boy felt his jaw drop. The words, written in beautiful cursive shrift read:
‘His Venerante Mitth’oor’akiord, Patriarch of the Mitth.’
