Eighteen figures in various tattered winter garments trudged along what was once Ste. Catharine St. They were some two stories above the ground, walking on snow drifts and sheets of ice. Their arms and legs were manacled and a chain ran through the group, keeping them from escaping. Behind them, riding on snowmobiles, two additional figures followed. They were covered in furs and other, better quality, winter clothing.

They passed various buildings; many burned out husks, others vandalized and many more damaged and crumbling from explosions that had ravaged the city nearly sixteen months ago. Almost all of the buildings were at least partially damaged and covered in snow. Occasionally, only a snow-covered lot was all that remained of the building buried beneath. Some however, had been rebuilt or repaired. These were the ones that housed the rulers of these new Dark Ages. Changed who had banded together early on and amassed power bases for themselves held all of the remaining resources.

Within these darkened husks of an era seemingly long gone, shadows flickered and moved. There were no lights visible from what passed as a street. Unseen eyes watched the troupe, fearfully remaining in hiding, not wanting to become a part of the caravan. For surely frozen freedom was better than the fate meant for these poor unfortunates. And yet, many still survived outside the realm of the new Domains. They traded for some goods, sometimes using themselves as payment. For now at least, there were too many for the smaller, more powerful groups to adequately control. Maybe one reason for ignoring them was that many were weak, sick or dying and of 'no use' to the rulers. Still, perhaps, if one day, they were to organize, a new Kingdom might be forged. Until then the Drow, Yuan-ti and Mind Flayers ruled the island. Their powers were too great to stand against and as yet inadequate to expand their dominions beyond forays for fresh additions to the ranks of their servants and gladiators.

In front of what was once known as Les Promenades de la Cathedrale, a shopping mall of some size and several levels, the riders ordered their prisoners to halt. One dismounted from his technological steed and approached the building. Not quite level with the snow-pack there was a door which he approached, pressing a buzzer in a gesture and semblance of how things had been virtually everywhere, not two years earlier.

The door hissed open and the air around the fur-covered leader steamed as warm came into contact with cold. From the light of the interior, two figures came out and the guest stepped respectfully back. The guards towered over him by almost three and a half feet. Their skin and hair were jet black and they wore padded armor with long black dusters, these seemed for both the cold and for decorative purposes. Swords hung on their hips and they held rifles at the ready. They surveyed the prisoners impassively.

"State your purpose." The voice came from within the lit doorway, from a new figure silhouetted within its frame.

"I am known as Ghost Owl," The figure responded, then indicated first the figure on the skidoo and then the ragtag group of prisoners. "My companion is the Ice Hawk. We are warriors of the First Nations. We bring a prize and seek to claim our reward. We also bring news from beyond the island." The warrior's gender was hidden behind a voice scrambler. Although he spoke in a language not used in many, many years outside of the most secret circles, a translator in his helmet echoed his words in French a few seconds behind. Perhaps a good thing, for the language defied magic, science and innate ability to translate.

With a few minor exceptions, magic and silence easily bridged the language barrier; but a new, deeper, barrier obviously afflicted the survivors of what had come to be called The Change. Race and ability determined status and freedom for almost everyone, as evidenced by the prisoners being delivered to the Arena.

"You may enter. Submit your claim to the attendant, and you will be escorted to the main audience chamber. His Grace, Lord Xalraun himself, will want to hear the tales you have to share."

The cataloguing of the prisoners and negotiations for a suitable reward were relatively swift and the manacled figures were separated. They were led off to holding and processing cells, their final destinations to be determined by their abilities, their appearance and their entertainment value. Not one spoke a word nor tried to escape. Each seemed resigned to his or her fate. The last that Ghost Owl and Ice Hawk saw of them was as their winter gear was removed. Beneath, Changed in various degrees of mutation and disfigurement stood revealed. Equally silently, they turned back to the Trill filling out their paperwork. He glanced up momentarily, his eyes betraying mixed emotions. An Empath would have been able to sense that he was conflicted about the wretches being led away.

Perhaps they would have a better life within these walls. They could advance as gladiators and servants. It was better than a life in the cold, harsh world outside. Wasn't it?

At length, the Trill completed his task. With a smile of satisfaction, he handed them a slip of paper and signaled another attendant, a Twi'lek, to come forward. As he did, the sounds of life at last began to filter through the oppressive silence. The Twi'lek gestured magnanimously, his pale grayish-white skin a reminder of the bleak landscape outside.

"Come," The Twi'lek indicated that the Ghost Owl and Ice Hawk should follow him, "I am Deel Komad." His voice and language were a stark contrast to the movies where his race had first appeared. He spoke French with a very 'human' tone. Like the Trill administrator, the two warriors understood, perhaps due to science, magic, or perhaps simple knowledge from before the Change. "If you will follow me, I will take you to an audience with His Grace. We have so little real contact with the outside world, other than trade of course. Your news will be welcome."

A few years before, the building that they entered had been one level of a major department store connected to several malls. Then it had become offices. Now, the entire top floor had been converted into a reception hall. Various decorations from different periods of history adorned the walls. And there were different areas nominally dividing the chamber. A raised platform contained various scantily clad dancers moving to the music of a decidedly inhuman band. Two cages hung at the corners of the platform and within, two women also danced to the music. There were a number of buffet tables set up. Each table contained more food than either newcomer had seen in one sitting in more than a month. The dishes were of various tastes and styles. Some were not even recognizable as anything human in origin.

Various conversations, political deals, idle flirtations and other social activities took place throughout the hall. The striking chord, however, was the nature of the people assembled under one roof. Xalraun's Palace was often known as Haven. For within his walls, no violence was permitted other than the gladiatorial games. In fact, he was credited for maintaining the peace between the Dominions who held sway over what was left of Montreal. Duels were fought by choosing champions and releasing them into the Arena - duels fought in the former Eaton Center and Place Montreal Trust (other malls) and watched via cameras and other scrying devices from within the various floors and halls of Xalraun's Palace.

A mixture of alpha male and female Drow, mind flayers and yuan-ti paraded around, displaying their prized servants. Most of the latter were humans, but there was the occasional elf, half-elf, a few satyrs and of course, beta Drow. No servant was permitted on this level that did not meet Lord Xalraun's standards of beauty. The Mind Flayers and Yuan-ti were "tolerated" due to their station. This was a surprising and somewhat less than ironic decree, for the lord visible above his luxurious place of honor, was not the most attractive of creatures.

Made up to look like the interior of a sultan's tent, Xalraun's dais took one corner of the hall and was covered in silk cushions, rich fabric and surrounded in other trappings of finery. Xalraun himself floated above these demonstrations of his wealth, his eyestalks continually scanning the room. The great central eye was sealed closed, a terrible scar above his mouth. The elder orb's maw was a permanent and wickedly crooked smile. He spoke rarely, instead directing servants and the like to speak in his stead, further increasing the air of mystery and power around him.

Two more of the towering dark skinned guards stood to either side of their lord. They wore ceremonial armor and carried guns at their hips instead of rifles.

As the newcomers continued to scan the hall, other less numerous races were visible. Most striking however was a single human sitting amidst a table of Drow. He wore ceremonial armor that marked him not as servant, but as their equal. Indeed, his position next to a Drow female, indicated that he was of a higher station than the two Alpha Males with whom he shared her table. Ice Hawk stopped briefly, turning to look at this human who her companion had noticed first. Were it not for the helmet that hid her features, a look of recognition would have been apparent on her face. Likewise, the human stopped in mid bite, looking up as if sensing her presence but unable to identify her. He continued eating.

The two warriors were seated at a table, joining a small number of other outlanders and were invited to partake of the meal. They declined the latter, respectfully of course, but no less was expected. Warriors of the First Nations in this area were renowned for their privacy and desire for anonymity. They were virtually never seen without the helmets and biological containment suits that they wore. Many thought they wore furs and jackets over these to confuse their identities from a distance - the suits made the addition of fur and other garments redundant. But they still wore them. Between the entranceway and the Great Hall, they had exchanged their functional helmets for decorative, but no less concealing, variants. These bore war paint and identified their standing and rank in the tribe. Among the spectators, even those most prejudiced against humans gave the duo a wide berth and a healthy amount of respect. And this, to a level not accorded the human sitting openly amidst the Drow.

A Drow female in exquisite clothing approached the beholder. Her clothes were a stark contrast to the armor and weapons that most wore. Her clothing was more appropriate to pre-Change formal affairs. Her high heels clattered on the stage. Her silver gown flowed around her, silver gloves extended to her elbows. She wore an elaborate necklace and earrings and her hair was pulled back and adorned in a manner not consistent with the Drow regime. She filled a role though, and by the looks of it, she filled it well.

At length, she bowed respectfully to the beholder and the orb seemed to nod in assent. She stepped to the platform and dismissed the dancers. A hush fell over the assembled gathering as wall panels fell back to reveal screens and projectors descended from the ceiling. The human seated with the Drow rose when cued by the woman on the stage.

"My friends, my brethren, my allies and my enemies." The Drow began. "We have before us a truly unique opportunity for amusement. We have the pleasure of a seasoned warrior, trained by the Drow Matriarch herself. I give you, Lord Alexander Duguael"

The crowd cheered, paying respect more to the warrior's absent patron than the human in front of them.

"But, what to test him against?" She raised a gloved hand for silence and continued as the screens came to life, "In the lower levels of the Arena Center, two prisoners are being released. These two captured beings are Jedi. Duguael will fight them both."

Murmurs ran through the crowd, first disbelief giving way to awe which in turn gave way to fevered betting on the outcome. On screen, the scene in the Arena began to unfold. All the stores had long since been gutted and cleared, resources redistributed and sold to those with the power and the need to take them. In their place, sealed weapons racks and various guard posts had been established. Most of the exits were buried beneath snow and ice and those were not were the ones where the sentries were stationed.

Like so many other malls of its nature, the Eaton Center had been rectangular in nature. For the most part, stores lined the outer edges, large holes in the center of the floors provided a view from the glass roof to the basement, seven stories below. Catwalks and bridges crisscrossed the gaps; railings protected patrons from a fall. The general effect was that of a giant atrium. In its heyday, a flock of fake geese hung in formation from the ceiling. Now only one or two of these remained, hanging oddly from single wires and the roof was covered in snow and ice, casting darkness where it had once brought light.

Two figures, one male and the other female were on one of the lower levels of the complex. They were being led by guards of the same massive stature and garb as those that Ice Hawk and Ghost Owl had seen at the main entrance. The Jedi were forced onto a small raised platform, shadows flickering from oil lamps on the sidelines. The crowd's anticipation was palpable as Duguael took his leave of the stage and made his way towards the arena.

Pushed along by poles attached to their manacles, the prisoners were forced to their knees, their hands still bound behind their backs. The male wore only spandex shorts while the female wore similar leggings and a spandex halter. As the poles were released and retracted, their manacles fell away. They rose, rubbing their hands and wrists. The cameras zeroed in on their faces. The woman ears marked her as an elf, although her hairstyle and demeanor suggested Vulcan or Romulan. The male's elongated cranium marked him as a Cerean. From the top of the atrium, two cylinders were dropped. The two Jedi sensed their movement, and the devices landed in their waiting hands.

Two stories up, and at the opposite end of the arena, Duguael entered the arena. He was visible to the two Jedi through the levels and he stared mockingly at them. With the grace of a cat waiting to pounce, he walked around the atrium to the old glass elevator. He descended to the level of the two Jedi. To their credit, they stood their ground, waiting for Duguael to come to them.

As he approached, Duguael called out to his opponents contemptuously.
"Yield to me Jedi. Allow me to claim your elf Padawan as my own and I will make your death swift. Tell me your names so that I might honor you as I deliver you to the Force…"

These, and other taunts, were wasted, but the Cerean stepped forward, slightly in front of his companion.
"I am Seyil, this is a'Drianna of Vulcan. You have betrayed the Code. Although we will surely die at Xalraun's whim, we will take you with us."

Without further word, the battle was joined. Duguael's drew his lightsaber. It hissed to life, its red glow highlighting his face in shadow. The Jedi's lightsabers hissed on in response. The green glow of the Vulcan's providing a soft glow to her skin while the yellow of the Cerean's acted almost like a torch. As if on cue, the arena was flooded in light, leveling the playing field. However, this was more for the benefit of those watching than those fighting for their lives.

Duguael toyed with his prey, his lightsaber humming and sparking as it struck at his opponents' defenses. The Cerean took point, trying to protect the Vulcan. As he took his opponents' measure, Duguael smiled as he realized that his skill was far superior to that of the Cerean Jedi Knight: and by extension, the Vulcan's as well.

His first strike was meant to goad, drawing the two Jedi into a battle they did not wish to fight. No quarter was given, nor asked as lightsabers swung and clashed, their hum and whine mixed with the technological clashing of their blades.

Although obviously possessed of immense skill, Duguael found himself stepping back from the dual attack of the captured Jedi. Whether or not this was by design or their combined attack was unclear. However, despite the battle at hand, Duguael eyed the Vulcan's scantily clad beautiful form with a certain hunger in his eyes. Likely, many others in the Xalraun's audience felt the same way. Some probably wished to claim or purchase her, if the battle did not damage her too greatly.

Duguael parried their attacks, countering and blocking with deadly skill. The Cerean held fast, taking the lead to protect the Vulcan. Her strokes, although rapid and controlled, were wide, easily deflected by Duguael's blade.

The battle took them up flights of stairs, along the edge of former storefronts and towards the railing overlooking the other floors. Tired of toying with the pair, Duguael cut in under a'Drianna's defenses, bringing his blade beneath hers and pulling outward. His attack knocking the Vulcan off balance, Duguael pushed his hand into the air, sending a'Drianna flying over the railing, plummeting towards the lowest level, some three stories below. Cheers and disappointment rose in the viewing areas as she disappeared into the unlit level. Hissing and growling greeted her as she landed perfectly, the 40 some odd foot plummet as nothing to her training. She could sense her lightsaber on the floor nearby. Before she could summon it, bestial monstrosities came out of nowhere. Although barely visible, a'Drianna could see that they were horribly disfigured, mutated in horrible experiments and obvious torture. By their looks, most barely had any mind left beyond basic survival.

Continuing his controlled ascent of towards the upper levels, Duguael taunted the Cerean with the fate of his Padawan. The monstrosities below possessed no particular powers or abilities that, on their own, were a match for a Jedi. However, together, that was a different story. Duguael's taunts spoke of cannibalism, depraved sexual torments and other gruesome attacks that would befall the pretty Vulcan.

"A pity," Duguael concluded his taunting, "I would have very much liked to keep her as my own. A pretty Vulcan like that, just imagine the possibilities."

Duguael's mocking laughter echoed through the complex, muted only by that snarls and roars below them. Seyil renewed his attack. Fury fueled his blows as the Fallen Jedi encouraged him to draw from the anger so that he might truly be defeated.

In the Grand Hall, money exchanged hands, victorious bettors lording the fall of the Padawan to her demise at the hands of the mutants over those who had bet the master would fall first, or even that Duguael might lose before defeating either Jedi. The darkness hiding her fate did nothing to quell their enthusiasm.

Below Seyil and Duguael, a'Drianna fought the mutations unarmed. Her body was covered in a sheen of sweat despite the overall coolness of the arena. Closing her eyes to sense those around her, she raised her arms into a defense position. The first three came at her as one, but she rolled beneath their attack and brought a leg into the gut of the first one and then a flurry of blows to the second. Before her third assailant could move, she was behind him. Her hand descended on his shoulder and he slumped to the ground. Enraged by the defeat of their brethren, more surged forward in an effort to overwhelm the Padawan. Waves of energy threw them back, as a'Drianna pushed forward, beginning a tai chi pattern in the air. Still more came, and she continued her exercise.

Outrage and laughter filled the air in Xalraun's audience as flying bodies confirmed that the younger Jedi had not succumbed in the darkness of the pit. One silent Yuan-ti spectator rose a single eyebrow when the cameras caught the first of indications of combat on the low level. He stroked his chin thoughtfully, wondering at some unspoken riddle.

Seyil fought valiantly, but sweat was starting to bead on his brow as the sheer brutality of Duguael's blows rained down on him. His own attacks seemed more and more ineffectual, although he refused to back down and made no other sign of the strain that the battle was forcing on him.

And still, a single Yuan-ti pondered the implications.

As still more creatures moved toward her, a'Drianna's downward swing brought three crashing to the floor as if a rug had been pulled from under them. Bringing her hands back up to their original position she moved to start the pattern anew. However, concerned for the Cerean above, she decided that it was far passed time to end this particular charade. She leapt forward, her hand firmly grasping the head of one of the beasts as she somersaulted over him.

Briefly, the cameras caught sight of her bare leg as she emerged into the light. Her continued existence was soon confirmed once and for all as a'Drianna called her lightsaber into her outstretched hand. The green light was clearly visible by the cameras, winking in and out as she cleaved into her attackers, limbs flying and roars of pain filling the air.

Far above them, the two combatants paused at the sound. Duguael smiled.

"It seems the dinner feast has begun."

"I doubt that, Tainted One." Seyil responded coolly. "Those were cries of pain, not satisfaction."

Enraged by his inability to goad or anger the Cerean Jedi, Duguael redoubled his effort, pushing his opponent back. The red lightsaber caught the Cerean's bare chest, a thin burn smoking in its wake. Seyil cried out in pain, lowering his defense and retreating. Duguael smiled a cold and evil grin. As he prepared to finish his task, Seyil encouraged the Dark Jedi's assault by returning his lightsaber to a defensive position.

a'Drianna glanced towards the upper levels. Almost five stories up, in front of the old movie theaters, she could see the glow of lightsabers, the pitch of their humming indicating the speed with which they were being swung. She extinguished her own blade, crouched, and leapt towards the two combatants. She landed on the railing, poised like some predatory animal ready to strike. But she was too late. As she landed, Duguael had just plunged his blade through Seyil's chest. The Cerean gasped, looking down at the wound in shock. His lightsaber fell from his hand, clattering to the floor still active. Duguael turned toward the lower levels, mild surprise visible on his features at the Vulcan's presence.

In the Grand Hall, Ice Hawk and Ghost Owl turned to each other, their posture and masked visages betraying nothing. However, some unseen message was exchanged between the two.

All around them, gamblers cheered their champions. However, almost all of the bettors were surprised to see the Jedi Master fall. This, coupled with the leap that the Vulcan executed, indicated that nothing was certain in this battle anymore… the outcome was no longer a sure thing. At Duguael's former table, the two Alpha Males and the female Drow were becoming visibly agitated. If Duguael failed, he took some of their honor with him. The silent Yuan-ti nodded in satisfaction, rose and walked over to a table and demanded his payment for being right about master and student.

"So," Duguael said, regaining his bluster and taunting the Vulcan before him, "Does this not anger you, Padawan?" His voice dripped with contempt. "I have defeated your master. I give you one last chance to yield to me. Submit, and I promise you luxury."

a'Drianna did not answer. Her face remained an impassive mask of Vulcan stoicism. Anger boiled in her opponent, the exact effect he was trying to generate in the Jedi before him. He snarled, brought his blade up and lunged.

As Duguael swung at the beautiful woman before him, a'Drianna expertly pushed off the railing. She twisted and arced through the air, landing squarely on her feet. As the Dark Jedi spun to face her, the green blade of her lightsaber hissed to life, cutting expertly in on her opponent's defenses. a'Drianna parried and thrust, moving closer and closer into Duguael's personal space. At last, she batted his weapon aside, her free hand rising to clamp down on his face. As her fingertips danced across his cheek in the pattern familiar to all Star Trek fans, Duguael's form lifted off the floor.

In the Grand Hall, it appeared to the onlookers as if by pure physical strength a'Drianna lifted the Dark Jedi from the ground. Gasps of awe, respect and some fear washed through the crowd. Duguael hung from her fingertips like a wet rag.

"My mind to your mind." a'Drianna's words cut into Duguael, "Your thoughts to my thoughts. Know this Foolish Pawn. You have a role to fill in the months to come. You will hate me for what your mistress will do to you. You will hate all Jedi for what you have brought upon yourself. But nothing will happen that was not by your own design. When you accept this, you will be ready for redemption."

a'Drianna pushed upward, throwing Duguael as if he were nothing. He landed hard, slamming into a poster display case. The glass shattered as he went through it, exploding outward. He slumped forward, tumbling outward to spring at his enemy.

a'Drianna stopped, raising her lightsaber and closing her eyes. Duguael roared his anger at her simple defiance. He swung madly, but a'Drianna blocked as if he were the merest and lowliest of Padawans. She maintained the same impassive, unimpressive stance and her arms barely moved. Yet, Duguael's mightiest blows were deflected as insignificant. At length, a'Drianna opened her eyes in further defiance of Duguael and all he stood for. He lunged again, but she parried, moving gracefully into and under his defenses. His lightsaber winked out as both it and his hand were separated from their owner. As fist and weapon flew into open air, she followed through with a push of her palm into the small space between them. Duguael slammed hard into the railing and a'Drianna heard a wet snap from somewhere in his torso. He crumpled to the ground, cradling his smoldering stump; the wound had cauterized even as it was inflicted. Her lightsaber hissed as she turned it off.

No microphones existed in the arena to relay Duguael's scream of pain to the Grand Hall. Laughter and cheers rose from those who had bet on the Padawan, as cries of anger and defeat came from those who had not. But all turned to silence at what unfolded next.

a'Drianna extinguished her blade and approached her opponent. The slap of her bare feet echoed on the cold tiles and in Duguael's ears. With one hand, she pulled him to his feet and said something that the spectators could only guess at.

"You are a fool." The Vulcan's voice was as impassive as her expression. "Have you not realized why you cannot hope to defeat me? I will tell you then, although you will learn nothing from the experience. Seyil was my apprentice. I am the master."

Realizing that he had been made a fool, Duguael roared his anger, hatred emanating from him in palpable waves. a'Drianna recoiled, dropping the Dark Jedi and fighting against the instinct to retch. In that moment, Seyil's still lit blade leapt into Duguael's remaining hand and he rushed at the Vulcan. Sparks flew as the yellow blade sliced into the floor, the Vulcan dancing gracefully and easily away from the stroke. The butt of her still unlit lightsaber hilt connected with his ribcage, knocking him back as the wind was forced from his lungs. He pulled back, raising his lightsaber to face her again.

a'Drianna merely shook her head.

Duguael swung his weapon in front of him in a series of deadly figure eights. The hum and vibrations of the sword were the only noise between the two combatants. a'Drianna stood her ground, her face as emotionless as ever. As Duguael came forward, she took two steps back and then leapt over him. Landing behind him, her hand came down on his shoulder.

"I need you alive for now Dark One." She whispered into his ear. "Live with this defeat, knowing that I could have destroyed you at any point."

Duguael slumped to the ground as a'Drianna glanced quickly in all directions. She scooped up her fallen student's lightsaber and paused at his side.

"Farewell Seyil." a'Drianna's voice was but a whisper. "You will not be forgotten. May the Force guide your spirit."

She set a hand to his face, her thoughts and his merging in one last acknowledgment of the student and teacher relationship.

In the Grand Hall, Xalraun's spherical form shook with laughter as he indicated to his guards, ordering them to subdue the Jedi.

The sounds of guards and gladiators rushing up the stairs reached a'Drianna's ears. Each carried a tranquilizer gun, ready to ring down the victorious Jedi. In one fluid action, she threw the yellow blade towards the snow-covered skylight and followed through with a leap towards the scaffolding running beneath it. The blade formed the smallest hole and extinguished, sailing back into a'Drianna's hand even as she followed in its wake. But the damage was enough. Cracks appeared, small at first, but quickly expanding, The stress and weight of the snow and ice quickly caused the entire glass panel to break. Seeming tons of frozen water fell through the opening as the grayish light of outdoors mingled with the artificial light of the arena. Without so much as a heartbeat, a'Drianna was through the hole and gone. The guards reached the theater level to see Duguael, still holding his smoldering arm, trying to get to his knees and feet.

Money exchanged bettors' hands as Xalraun's guards shouted to each other in the arena. One stopped, holding his earpiece tightly and then in acknowledgement of an order, called two other guards to his side. Together, they dragged Duguael's broken form back to his allies. The clean-up crew came in to swiftly remove the bodies of the fallen Cerean and the monsters in the pit.

In the Grand Hall, the Drow set money down for the victors to claim and each left, save for the fancily dressed mistress of ceremonies. She remained at her post near the Beholder. Despite the obvious shame that Duguael had brought to his patrons and allies, no one chided or jeered. They waited while the Drow left, and then quietly collected their winnings. After a suitable interval, the single remaining Drow ordered the music to begin anew and things slowly returned to a semblance of normalcy.

Duguael was placed on a cot to wait for his companions. They did not goad or taunt him. They did not berate or attack him. There were none to benefit from such a display. Instead, one of the Alpha Males threw the battered warrior over his shoulder and they left, heading for home. Silent looks passed through the males. Disappointing the Matriarch of the Drow was never a good idea - Duguael's punishment would be harsh indeed.

From their seats, Ice Hawk and Ghost Owl seemed to have broken even, the winnings on their table modest, and close to the value of the prisoners they had brought. Likely, in the custom of their people in this age, one bet on Duguael, the other on the 'underdog.' In this case, the so-called underdog turned out to be the champion…

As the festivities continued, and the mingling returned to normal, the two Iroquois warriors requested lodging for the night. When this was granted, they retired for the evening.

Looking out towards the south from their room, the two warriors began to unpack, speaking only in the quasi-mystical tongue of their ancestors.

"Well Hawk," Ghost Owl began as she removed her helmet, long black hair tumbling out, "This does not bode well. We came to rescue a Jedi. Instead one lies dead."

"I wouldn't worry too much about it." Ice Hawk in turn removed her own helmet. Her brown hair fell loosely about her pointed ears. "As I understand it, Seyil was dying anyway. It was his wish to take this mission for the Council. We should be thankful a'Drianna escaped."

"Thankful? Jeez Kari, any more detached and I'd think those pointy ears of yours were Vulcan instead of half-elven. Besides, you saw what she was wearing. How do you expect anyone - even a fully trained Jedi master - to survive outside in her underwear?"

"Your friend is correct Ghost Owl." Both women turned to the new voice. A pale blue light surrounded the ghostly image. "Do not mourn my death. And do not worry on account of my master. There is a safe house not far. You will still be able to meet her at the rendezvous point. With our quest completed, I would hope."

"Seyil. We have been expecting you." Ice Hawk answered, "This is my feeling regarding the Vulcan as well. In fact, I feel worse for those mutants we rounded up to gain entrance here. Most had devolved into near mindless savages like the ones a'Drianna dispatched in the arena. But some were merely mutated by Xalraun, the Drow and every other despot in this region. It's not a good idea to be human in the parts."

"Indeed not." The ghostly Cerean assented. "But we have more pressing matters. Mistress a'Drianna succeeded in her part of this mission. I share Duguael's knowledge of this complex."

Their conversation turned from a philosophical debate to an inventory of their equipment. The most important items they carried, in addition to supplies, were an extra set of bio-suits. From this inventory and verification of equipment readiness, they moved onto plans for the rescue of the Jedi still in Xalraun's lair.

"Are you ready Kari?" Ghost Owl asked once their planning was complete, "Remember, once this spell is cast you will move sideways into the realm of Dream. I cannot tell you what to expect or how long you will be within. It is different for all that enter. My thoughts and the prayers of my people go with you on this message. Move swiftly. We cannot afford to remain here long. My people are taking a great risk for you. This woman had better be worth it."

"I agree." Kari, Ice Hawk, responded, "The Council owes you and your people our thanks. The magic of the First Nations is one with this world - it never left as have so many other forms. When all magic returned to its glory, only yours remained silent and natural. No noise accompanies it. It works in concert with the world around it. Thus, no power can detect it."

Ghost Owl smiled, her hands moved through the air in the way of the ancients. She gave no thought to magical wards or alarms. As Ice Hawk had said, the magic of her people channeled the magic of the land. It's very nature was that of the land. It blended seamlessly, so the newcomers - the Changed - could not detect it. In many cases, they could not counter it. But it had limits to range, so it was not possible to simply spirit their target away. Besides, the intent was not to betray the First Nations. The plan was for the Jedi Council to be implicated. Why though, Ghost Owl could not fathom.

Meanwhile, when the Yuan-ti to whom she had been assigned for the night finally fell asleep, the Orion dancer known as Angelique rose from the bed and moved to the window. A perk, perhaps the only perk, of these assignments was that the patrons to whom Xalraun assigned her often had the luxury of rooms facing the city and thus the outside world. Wearing a slip of a robe, she put one hand to the cool glass and wondered what else was out there. Her attention focused on the world without, she did not notice he shimmer cover her sleeping companion for the briefest instant.

Surely there was more out there than this wretched existence. Although she had a hard time remembering anything beyond eight months ago, looking out these windows at the city something always stirred within her. In that moment, her reflection looked paler somehow, as if she were not this green-skinned walking pheromone. One spot in particular seemed to call out to her. A series of mostly buried buildings called out to her, although she could not remember why…

For the briefest instant, Angelique thought that she saw movement below, but dismissed it as one of the mutants that she heard roamed the remains of the civilization that had come before the ice and snow.

However, were she to have looked longer on the running figure, she would have not seen a mutant. Instead, she would have seen the nearly naked form of a'Drianna moving along the snow pack, twin cylinders held in her left hand.

At length, the air above the Yuan-ti in the bed stirred. He rose and walked to the window, resting his hand on Angelique's shoulder. She jumped, startled from her reverie.

"Hush." The word lingered on his lips, a forked tongue snaking out. "I will not harm you. So, you like the outside?"

Angelique suppressed a shudder. Only the Mind Flayers creeped her out more than the Yuan-ti. The Drow she could handle. Deep down, she could understand them. Their thoughts and desires were not alien. The Yuan-ti were simply eerie, again not altogether alien. The Mind Flayers scared her the most. This fear was likely the result of her seeming inability to affect them with her pheromones and the truly inhuman appearance of their faces and hands..

The Yuan-ti behind her dissolved. In its place was a half-elven woman. The newcomer quickly put her hand over Angelique's mouth, indicating the still sleeping Yuan-ti on the bed.

"I have no intention of harming you. I merely wish to talk He will sleep until dawn. I ask half that time. He will not know that I was here."

Curious, the dancer nodded.

* * *

Epilogue

A few days later, Shi'nayne Calimar walked calmly passed rows of cells, two towering guards flanking her. Prisoners cowered in their bunks as she passed them. Each prisoner was horribly mutated, either a cast-off or a failure in the eyes of their masters. The Drow woman's ebony skin was deeper than the shadows around her. She smiled, her teeth matching the whiteness of her hair. It was a smile of grim satisfaction. Beyond her smile however, she ignored the wretches around her. Her destination was beyond them, in a low chamber that each prisoner feared more than death itself.

Inquisitor Tarlyn paused in his tender ministrations as his mistress entered the room. Her guards took position on either side of the door, resting the tips of their halberds on the ground. The inquisitor turned away from the figure strapped to his table, his clawed hands were covered in gore. He made no sound as he turned and made obeisance to her. His large frame resembled some of the prisoners in the cells beyond the door, but he was more refined in his appearance. His torso was mostly bare, his Drow skin matching that of his mistress. However his lower body was that of a spider, almost as if he were some horrible spider-centaur. His mouth was filled with fangs, and vestigial mandibles were visible just inside his maw when he spoke.

"My Mistress," Despite his teeth and mandibles, the Drider spoke clearly and in the language of the Drow, "Your timing is impeccable as always. The medication begins to wear off of Lord Duguael. I have restored his limb and I have… altered… him, per your instructions. I await your orders on how next to proceed."

"You have done well Tarlyn." The Drider was evidently pleased that his mistress deigned to call him by his name, "However, for now this will suffice. Leave us, return to your lair and your reward will be delivered soon enough."

"Of course, my mistress." Tarlyn bowed low, his lithe body nearly touching the ground as he gracefully rose and scuttled from the room.

Shi'nayne turned her attention to the figure prone and bound before her. She gestured to a control on one side of the table and a winch began to turn, slowly raising the figure to a standing position, his bonds still intact.

"Alex. My dear, sweet Alex." The nicety of her words dripped with a thinly concealed acid, but did not hint at contempt. "You have failed me. And you know the punishment for failure, do you not?"

"Yes, My Mistress." His voice was calm and controlled despite the obvious pain wracking his limbs.

"Good." She smiled sweetly, sending a river of chill up Duguael's spine. "And yet, I have not dispatched you. Why, I wonder, is that?" She ran a finger up the side of his torso, sending a shiver of a different sort through him.

"By your leave, My Mistress, I live or I die. If I live, it is but to serve. If I die, then that is how I will serve you."

"Well said, my young apprentice." She clapped her hands in appreciation. "No, fret not, you will live. I have invested too much time in your training to simply kill you. Yet, you already bear the marks of my displeasure. - Use your abilities, call that mirror to you."

Duguael did as his mistress bade him, and a small mirror resting on a table across the room shook for the briefest second and then steadily rose and flew towards him. It stopped in front of his face. Shi'nayne plucked it from the air so that he could better see himself.

"What say you to Tarlyn's cosmetic treatments?"

Duguael barely suppressed a shudder. Gone was his handsome visage. His hair was coarse and black where it had been light and fair before. Rows of vestigial horns ran through his locks. His eyes were yellow slits now more like a cat than a man. Two other slits ran along the side of his cheeks and a large sac bulged from his neck. His skin was now a mottled gray filled with pockmarks.

"Well done, my apprentice." This time, Shi'nayne was genuinely pleased. "You betray no dismay about the loss of your rugged good looks. Now, your arm. Look at it."

She gestured, and his bindings fell away. His weakened form slumped from the table to the ground as a large basin of water slid towards him. He raised his arm, expecting to see a hideous stump or perhaps a claw or other freakish new appendage. Instead, he was greeted with a supple, smooth hand. Its pale color was human, and it stood in stark contrast to the new color of his arm.

"Do you recognize Tarlyn's gift, my apprentice?" Shi'nayne's words taunted him through his fugue. "Do you not recognize the hand of your favored concubine? See that finger? It still bears the ring marking her as yours."

Duguael stared dumbfounded as this news sank in and the implications of what had happened to his favorite dawned on him. He buried his rage, focusing his hatred on the Jedi who had done this to him.

"Clean yourself." Shi'nayne ordered, "And know this. The Vulcan Jedi deceived many in Xalraun's court. Her ploy was brilliant. Although she could not save her apprentice from your blade, she managed to distract you and mask her power and true intentions. However, for the honor of Xalraun and his court, know also that the dishonor and shame are yours to bear alone. What is worse, in the aftermath of the contest, her plan came to fruition. Although no one can fathom why the Jedi would risk herself and her Padawan, she was instrumental in the escape of Xalraun's prized dancer. No one believes she will long survive in the harshness outside. But the loss is devastating on many levels. Fret not. No one blames you for that. But remember your hatred for the Jedi. When next you meet the Jedi a'Drianna, you must destroy her, or you will be die in a manner that will make today feel… pleasant."

The chastised Sith Warrior hid his fear well, much to the pleasure of his mistress. When Duguael finished cleaning himself, Shi'nayne headed for the door, indicating her apprentice should follow.

"Come Alexander. There is much to be done." Her voice was coy, but he knew the hint of sexuality was nothing more than a teasing trifle, "Oh, and be a doll. Cover yourself and get a mask to hide that mess you call a face."