#arcticelves

Ar’alani couldn’t help but thinking that this time, truly, would be the time Thrawn’s recklessness, or madness, as some of the Aristocra would put it, would get them killed. 

Here they were, diving over a cliff in a small speeder, chasing criminals--smugglers, most likely, not a full crime syndicate--who Thrawn believed had ties to those who wished to destroy the Ascendancy. There were still too many unanswered questions, too many variables to pinpoint a particular target or assailant. It was unsettling, Ar’alani thought, shifting in her seat as Thrawn guided them closer to the smugglers’ hideout. 

She had no doubt, however, that they would be up to the challenge, when their adversary revealed themself. She trusted Thrawn, trusted herself. 

Even if she wasn’t comfortable with that dive over the cliffs just moments before, or playing a high stakes sabacc game with these criminals. Just being Chiss would put them in danger. If the criminals discovered their true identities--Ar’alani wouldn’t allow herself to continue the thought.  

She’d have to deal with the aftermath and the Aristocra regardless. She steeled her spine and took a deep breath as Thrawn landed the speeder. He nodded at her as they entered the lair. No words were necessary. They would play their parts, obtain information and hopefully cargo, and leave with their heads held high, if all went according to plan. 

It was hard to see inside the cave; the glow-lamps placed throughout did not reach through all the shadows and curves to penetrate the pockets of darkness fully. Crates of cargo stacked upon each other loomed haphazardly above and to their sides. They pressed forward, traveling deeper as the ground sloped downward into the space beneath the mountain, despite the potential for an ambush they’d never see coming. Ar’alani could hear voices up ahead, and laughter. Credit chips clacked together, and mugs thunked against a table. 

Ar’alani never could see the appeal in gambling or gaming, and she assumed Thrawn felt the same way. It was enough to gamble with their warriors’ lives on a mission. She ran a hand through her wig and adjusted her glasses to be sure they were in place, and took Thrawn’s hand as they entered the smugglers’ den. 

No blaster fire or other weapons met them, but their arrival did cause a stir. 

“We weren’t expecting any more tonight.”

“Who are the newcomers? Didn’t see them last time.” 

“Friends, please, may we join?” Thrawn asked. “My partner and I would like to buy in for this round.”

Ar’alani smiled and nodded at the smuggler who approached to her left, trying to appear coy and flirtatious.

“What can I get you to drink?” he asked, reaching to take her arm. She tried not to recoil from his touch, and hoped he wouldn’t notice how cool her Chiss skin was. At the same time, she reminded herself they had no reason to suspect she and Thrawn were Chiss at all, and she highly doubted they were familiar with Pantoran physiology either. 

“Ales for us both, please,” she said, smiling once more. After he departed to grab their drinks, she followed Thrawn to the sabacc table.

They made idle conversation while waiting for the cards to be dealt. The ale was not to Ar’alani’s taste, as she suspected, but it was a safer choice than any of the local homebrews. Smugglers of this sort wouldn’t stock fine Corellian whiskey, unless they were siphoning from their cargo. She listened carefully to the conversational cadences; she would gather the intelligence, and lose at cards, while Thrawn played to win. 

The cards dealt, each player called out their opening total. Ar’alani held The Queen of Air and Darkness and Demise. -15 wasn’t a bad total, but the card titles gave her pause. She was not superstitious, nor were her species, and she pushed her thoughts away to concentrate. 

Next to her, Thrawn chose to draw on his first turn. Ar’alani followed suit, drawing an eight. She would definitely lose at -7.    

Thrawn’s expression was unreadable. She did not dare ask him anything, to draw more attention to them, but she did gently place her hand on his arm, to reassure herself, if nothing else. 

With their cards drawn, Ar’alani listened to the chatter around them, allowing her focus to drift away from the game. There would be another shipment from this location next week, she deduced. The smugglers would meet the buyer in deep space. 

On the next turn, Thrawn stood. Ar’alani chose to draw again, pulling 11. Her hand was far worse, and she hoped Thrawn’s was far better. This time, she felt Thrawn’s hand on her own arm to reassure her. She appreciated the gesture for what it was, for she knew Thrawn was never nervous. 

Their second turns completed, starting with the dealer, everyone called their final hand. Thrawn inclined his head ever so slightly. He nodded to Ar’alani, who met his eyes. 

Gasps arose around the table as Thrawn laid down his cards. “Idiot’s Array,” he said, without gloating. He won. Ar’alani grinned. 

Her grin faded, however, when across the table, a burly human rose and slammed his fist down. “Not fair,” he bellowed. “This newcomer must have cheated.”

Thrawn shook his head. “I played an honest game, just as you did.”

“Take it easy, buddy,” another smuggler said, clapping the burly man on the back. “Have another drink and we’ll play another round.” 

“Like hell we will,” the burly man said, pushing his colleague away. He fell down to the floor, knocking over a chair. Chaos reigned from then, as fights erupted across the bar. A Gamorrean took a swing at the burly man, trying to bring him down, while other humans helped their compatriot off the floor. 

Thrawn and Ar’alani grabbed their winnings and ran for the entrance, blaster fire beginning to erupt behind them. They wouldn’t be able to carry any of the cargo, but at least what they learned was safe in their brains--and other information inconspicuously documented on their holorecorders. 

“They headed for the entrance!” someone yelled from behind them. They ran, hurtling through the darkness, dodging the crate towers as best they could. Ar’alani hit the corner of one with her hip; she’d have dark bruising later, but the bruise was worth her life. 

The blaster fire followed them as well; one hit a crate, spilling its contents and hopefully delaying their assailants. 

As they emerged from the cave’s darkness into the night, Ar’alani and Thrawn leaped into their speeder, barely settling in before taking off.  

Her heart still racing, Ar’alani turned to Thrawn. “Are you injured?”

“Just minor scrapes,” he replied. “And you?”

“I’ll have a large bruise tomorrow, but otherwise, I’m fine.”

Thrawn nodded. “Good. Thank you for your assistance. I trust you noticed their pattern?” 

“Of course. We’ll be ready for their next shipment. Perhaps then we can uncover their buyer’s identity.”

“Indeed,” Thrawn said, appearing deep in thought. 

They arrived back at their ship, docked in the closest city’s outskirts, without incident. They loaded the speeder, then strapped in for takeoff. Once their coordinates were set and the autopilot engaged, Ar’alani finally allowed herself to relax. She wanted to ask Thrawn how he played such a hand, but he spoke first.

“I will grab the medkit, if you will allow me to see to your injury?” His tone was quiet, unlike his usual confidence. The fighting would not have fazed him, certainly, she thought. Was there something she missed?

“Yes, thank you,” she replied, unstrapping herself and following him toward the bunks. He grabbed the kit from a shelf, and she sat down, allowing him to sit next to her. 

“Please accept my apologies for your injury, and what you will have to explain to the Aristocra when we encounter these smugglers next,” he started. 

Ar’alani laughed. “I will deal with them when I have to. How did you play such a hand?”

Thrawn put down the bacta patches and met her eyes. “I analyzed the game, the players, their weaknesses. I assumed those across the table would be overconfident, and pull too many cards and drinks.”

She nodded. “A sound strategy, as always.” 

“There is no one else with whom I would rather strategize.”

“You are in need of mercenaries,” Edward assumes. It is their occupation, after all. The three of them are known for it, and they are good at it.

Crozier's man turns to look at him. “We are in need of you,” he replies, his gaze meeting Edward's. He holds it until Edward has to look away, his throat suddenly dry and palms suddenly damp. He lets George go through the pleasantries of telling the man where to tie his horse, of inviting him to sit by the fire, of offering him a slice of boiled boar meat from the pot. Edward concentrates on calming his hammering heart.

“We are besieged by a beast,” their visitor says, once they're all seated. He calls himself Thomas. He doesn't give a surname, nor does he call himself “sir” or “lord”, although he is dressed as a knight or a nobleman.

“A beast?” John repeats. “What type of beast?”

“Some believe it to be a bear, but it's unlike any bear I've ever seen. It's stealthier. Stronger. It brushes off our spears and arrows as if they were nothing. It was under the control of a warlock, it seems, but now the warlock is dead, and the creature has turned rogue.” 

Edward exchanges a glance with George. Clearly, it does not go unnoticed. Thomas draws himself up. “I am aware of how this sounds, gentlemen, but I promise you, we are being terrorized. The creature stalks us. There have been times we could not leave the castle for weeks on end.” With a dart of a quick pink tongue, Thomas wets his lips. Edward pretends not to have noticed. “The beast killed Lord Franklin.”

“Lord Franklin?” George blinks.

“You knew him?” 

“We did.” George looks at John, then at Edward. “We have done work for him in the past.” Edward never cared overmuch for the man. Sanctimonious was the word that best described him, but his gold was as good as anybody's.

“Lady Jane Franklin controls his lands, for the moment,” Thomas says. “With the support of Franklin's favourite, Sir James. But it is not a stable position. Our lands abut theirs, thus any instability in the region affects us as much as them. We cannot properly defend our lands while the beast is at large.”

“Well, you certainly make a very interesting proposition.” George smiles kindly. “I think my brother knights and I...”

“You say 'our lands',” Edward breaks in.

A flush comes to Thomas' face. “In, in, in the sense that we are all devoted to our lord...”

“You are Crozier's heir.” Edward is not as sure of it as he sounds, but when Thomas' blush deepens, he knows he's right. He heard rumours of it, that the childless Crozier took a beloved servant as an adopted son. Obviously, this man is he.

“Crozier sent his own heir out unaccompanied?” John frowns. “When the roads are fraught with far more dangers than a large bear?”

“I left my guards in the village,” Thomas says. “I thought if I approached you humbly, you might be more inclined to offer your assistance. Please. We will be deeply grateful if you can help us. I will be deeply grateful.” Again, Thomas' gaze catches Edward's and holds it. Am I so obvious? Edward wonders. He looks away.

“Why don't you go back to the village, my lord?” George suggests.

“Thomas,” Thomas interrupts.

“Thomas,” George repeats. “The inn is reputable. We will find you there when we've got an answer for you. We shan't keep you waiting long, sir.”

“If that is your wish.” Thomas pushes his hair back from his face. “Thank you for your consideration, gentlemen.” Edward determinedly does not watch as Thomas returns to his horse. It takes him a couple of tries before he can hoist himself into the saddle, and another minute of pulling at the reins before the mare heeds him and leaves the patch of grass she had been happily munching.

“It's madness,” John says, the moment Thomas is gone. “The man is mad. We're not hunters.”

“That's exactly what we are,” Edward points out.

John huffs. “You take my meaning. We do not chase bears, no matter their size or strength.”

“What if it isn't just a bear?” George asks. “Thomas said there was a warlock involved.”

“No,” is John’s immediate reply. “God does not grant us warlocks. Or witches, or demon bears, or anything else.”

“God does grant us lovely men, though, doesn't he, Edward?” George beams at him. “I tell you, if I hadn't pledged my heart to my lady, I might even look twice at that one myself.”

“Stop it!” John stands up abruptly, nearly knocking over the pot. George reaches out to steady it with a hand. “Stop it at once. Both of you. We're not entertaining this idea a moment longer.”

“All right, all right.” George holds up his hands in surrender. “But let me ask you this, John. How long has it been since we were last paid?” Too long. “And how much might we charge Crozier to dispatch something that has been harassing him so badly?” A good deal.

“I'm not too proud to go after a bear instead of a horde of armed men for once,” Edward decides. It might even make for a nice change of pace.

“There we have it, then. Two against one, John.” George shrugs. “Nothing you can say to that.”

From John's pursed lips and creased forehead, it seems like there is a great deal he could say, but he keeps his mouth shut.

“I'll deliver the news.” Edward ignores the resultant smirk from George. There's nothing to smirk about. It's simply his duty, as the de facto leader of the group. “You two break camp and join us in town.”

“Yes, sir,” George grins, heading for the tents even as John scowls on.  

The village inn might be reputable enough, but it isn't what one would call luxurious. Thomas and two men, in bright red coats that would be visible a mile away to any highway bandit seeking wealthy quarry, sit in a dark corner of the musty room, mugs of ale before them. Thomas looks up when Edward approaches.

“We will leave at once,” Edward says, by way of greeting. He tried out several on the way over; that was the best he could come up with. “If we ride hard, we should make it to Beechey Island before we have to stop for the night.”

A bright smile lights Thomas' face. Lovely, George had called him. Edward thinks stunning might be more apt. “Why not ride through?” Thomas says. “The sooner we get back, the better.”

“Not even we travel the woods in the dark if we can help it.”

“We did it on the way here.”

“Then you were fools.” Edward stares at the two guards. They conspicuously don't look back. “And damned fortunate you weren't murdered. We stop at Beechey.” His voice is firm. Thomas seems of a mind to argue further, but he apparently thinks better of it.

“Thank you very much. Sir...John?”

“Edward.”

“Sir Edward. I can't tell you how grateful I am.” The fractiousness in Thomas' expression changes into something else. His gaze dips down, then raises back up to Edward's face. Edward can feel himself flushing, glad that the room is dark enough to hide it.

“You don't need to be grateful, just pay us on time,” Edward snaps, more roughly than he intended. Whatever Thomas’ expression belied, it disappears, and Thomas goes briskly to his feet.

“Of course. You needn't worry about that. Get the horses ready, men. We leave as soon as Sir Edward gives us the word.” Thomas' guards go. Thomas hangs back. Edward should say something to him, he knows, but his mind is distressingly blank.

“Thank you,” Thomas repeats. Then, he too is gone, headed for the lone sliver of sunlight that marks the front door.