IC Story Thread: Chapter 1, Gamorr - the Diplomats

Aboard the Republic transport, approaching Jugsmuk Station on the planet Gamorr...

You've just exited hyperspace into the orbit of Gamorr, and you all stand at attention in the cargo hold as Jedi Master Barouk stands before you. Jedi Knight Mann Hyuma and Jedi Knight Miica Nurrirehn flank her on either side, while the contingent of Clone Troopers line the periphery.

You know the twi'leki General is not big on military formality, so this assembly feels just slightly out of place as she draws in a breath through her nose and sighs sharply before launching into a final briefing before touch-down.

"I'm sure you've all read your reports, but just a reminder...

The Gamorreans are no great fan of the Jedi, in general. We are here under special invite of Matron Urg'la, of Clan K'Thokk. And although we are here representing the army of the Galactic Republic, our role here is as diplomats and learners.

Matron Urg'la is the leader of her Clan - estimated between 2 and 300,000 strong - and her voice influential across all of Gamorr. If we perform well here, we believe we can parlay this relationship into multiple Gamorrean Clans putting boots on the ground, in some of our battlefronts along the hyperlane here. And as you know, the Gamorreans are formidable ground-troops.

So... let's not mess this up, yea?", her mouth quirks in a wry smile, and she continues.

"First up on the agenda, after ground-transport to the Clan's territory, and I'm sure perfunctory glad-handing, and introduction to our quarters, and what not; we have been invited to partake in several days of cultural activities. Mainly feasting, as I understand it, but there will be other Clans there, and there are also various friendly competitions.

The Gamorreans are a People that respect strength and ability. As diplomats we are to be... diplomatic... but also if it comes to it, we must demonstrate that the Jedi and the Republic as a whole are worthy allies to the Gamorreans, alright? Understand...?

Only the Jedi and select Commanders from the Clone Troopers will be allowed to interact directly with the Gamorreans in this capacity."

She pauses, gathering further thoughts to relay, but under Master Barouk's more usual, casual paradigm this would be a good time to ask questions if you have any.

Miica Nurrirehn stands with quiet, almost rigid posture at Master Barouk’s right side, his hands clasped loosely behind his back as though imitating a stance he’s seen other Jedi Knights take a dozen times before. The folds of his cream-colored tunic ripple slightly with the subtle vibrations of the ship, partially obscured by a darker brown outer robe that seems just a size too large for his slender frame.

The young Cerean's elongated skull gives him the familiar, stately silhouette of his people, but his youthful features betray his age and his state of mind. A neatly trimmed goatee frames his mouth, which is set in a thin, concentrated line. He keeps his eyes forward, but they flick toward Master Barouk, then down to the deck plating, then across the room to the Clone Troopers standing still and silent.

He takes a shallow breath as the briefing continues, forcing his body to remain still. He knows the posture of confidence. He’s practiced it in meditation, watched how Master Barouk moves, how Knight Hyuma carries himself. But here, now—on the verge of what could be a crucial diplomatic mission—he can’t shake the sense that someone will realize he’s not supposed to be here. That they’ll hear the silence in his head where certainty is supposed to be. That someone will ask something only a true Jedi Knight would know.

Still, he doesn’t speak. Not yet. He listens. Absorbs. Tries to project calm while his thoughts rattle like an unsecured tool kit during hyperspace exit.

They promoted you because you're ready, he tells himself. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.

And yet, he casts a sideways glance toward Mann Hyuma—older, more assured—and wonders how many missions it will take before he starts believing it.

When Master Barouk opens the floor for questions, Miica’s lips part just slightly—but then close again. He defers to the others, for now, listening for what they’ll ask.

A young devaronian woman stands across from Master Barouk and the two knights that stand to either side of her. She has messy black hair, cut short with the exception of one long strand tied into a padawan's braid. This is jedi padawan Lyanna Zurros. She has yellow-brown eyes, redish pink skin and two small horns that protrude from her forehead. Her athletic figure is hidden under dark brown robes that she wears over a black vest top and loose fitting black trousers.

She stands with a relaxed posture as she appears to be listening to Master Barouk's briefing. To those who know Lyanna this isn't all that surprising. Most would describe her as confident and laid back. She has always implicitly believed that things will work out in the end. Whether this is just confidence in her own abilities or a trust in the will of the force, only Lyanna herself knows. Although recent events have shaken this attitude of hers. Those who only know her by reputation would know that she's skilled for her age but also reckless and in her early years as a padawan she would often disobey orders.

In truth her mind is elsewhere, she's distracted. The loss of her own master is still a fresh wound in her mind and now on her first assignment since his passing there is doubt in her mind. She would often ignore his advice, never having been the type of girl to let others tell her what to do or how to do it but ever since his passing she's felt naked without his guidance. She wonders it these feelings are normal. Jedi aren't supposed to form attachments so grief is a foreign feeling to her.

Still she isn't the first padawan to loose a master, especially with the galaxy being at war. She wouldn't have been put on a mission if she wasn't expected to have moved on from it by now.

Her ears perk up at the mention of the competitions. Perhaps the festivities will give her a chance to take her mind off her troubles, she thinks.

At one corner of the clone formation stands an ARC Trooper, ARC-60008 - Captain Cor. His armor is clean, polished and inspection-ready, but it carries signs of long service: minor chipping and scratches, the regimental markings cracked and dulled, the gleam of the white plates slightly softened by a few bits of carbon scoring that won't buff out.

Beneath one of his matte ARC pauldrons, the right shoulder bears a cracked mythosaur skull stenciled in matte crimson. Strapped across his chest is a worn extra ammo pouch, with a word handwritten in peeling white paint: HOPE.

Cor stands statue still at attention - but behind the visor his eyes are tracking and assessing everything. Jedi posture, clone readiness, entry and chokepoints. It's not paranoia, just habit. It's the small, overlooked details that get you.
Like the unit mascot for chaos and trouble, CT-4819, tilting his head slightly to the left as the General paused for questions. Which, for Giggs, usually means he's about to do something 'clever.'

Cor opens a private comm channel, muting his external vocoder, his voice low and dry. "Giggs. I'm sure you've got a hilarious question. But if you so much as inhale to crack wise, I'll have your shebs hanging from a shuttle scrubbing carbon off the hull. With a toothbrush. While entering atmosphere."

He gives it a beat, allowing Giggs time to give the only acceptable response. A tight, quick click of acknowledgement on the comms. "Save the jokes up for the ride down. But if no-one laughs, it will be reflected in your next eval," Cor deadpans.

Then without missing a beat, Cor steps a clean half-step forward and unmutes his vocoder to address Master Barouk. "General, the briefing says Gamorreans are physically incapable of speaking Basic. How are we handling translation?"
Cor tilts his helmet forward, the clone equivalent of a cocked eyebrow. "I'd rather not guess whether an aggressive grunt means 'welcome' or 'death to the offworlders.'"

The Jedi General looks over to Cor, nodding sharply, "Yes, thank you Captain. Many Gamorreans understand at least some degree of Galactic Basic.

And Gamorrean was a part of my language studies, and is no doubt a large part of why the Council chose me to head this mission. So I will of course lead any official conversations.

But a part of the scope of this mission is to engage in informal, personal interactions with members of their leadership - build trust and understanding, and so hopefully you've all studied your military "First 50" primer enough to understand - or even try to speak, if you're brave - at least some portion of the yes, no, thank you, stuff?

That said... language is a part of the barrier we are tasked with over coming, here. It is one barrier that stands between a stronger alliance between the Republic and Gamorr. While a lot of our engagements with them will be 'howler and bantha-show' stuff - which should demand nothing more than looking smiling and nodding - those of us serving as diplomatic representatives will no doubt have to conduct some level of effective personal communications.

So, get creative. Rely on universal 'languages'. As can be read in your report, Gamorrean culture tends to venerate food, pod racing, many of our interactions are likely to be with warriors and guards, so - weaponry, their tribal dance and drum-based music, so on...

A little of the ol' 'lizard-monkey see, lizard-monkey do' may go a long ways here, hm?

Anything else, before I proceed with the second phase objectives?", her eyes sweep the assembled.

A Phylodon leans against the wall, arms crossed, suggeting a closed off body language. He is larger than the average Phylodon, not that most people have seen enough of them to tell. He listen to Master Barouk and the Arc Trooper speak, but remains silent. He's starting to realize why he was chosen, if they value strength he was a natural choice.

When Barouk asks for anything else, he just shakes his head. Figuring that he's operating at a need to know basis and that the master will tell them anything pertinent.

The twilek nods sharply at the silence, her lekku rippling subtly.

"Very good. Second Phase:

These cultural gatherings will culminate in the meeting of a tribunal of Clans, which the Matron is hoping to use to revive a peace treaty - the Bloodroot Accord - which has been dead for several decades. This would end some border wars that would impact millions of Gammoreans. And hopefully allow them to turn their attentions to the war with the Separatists, which will have important consequences for Gamorr, one way or the other.

Most notably, a likely return to complete control by the Hutts, if the Republic loses, so... that is our leverage.

Anyway that tribunal is the centerpiece of the diplomatic visit, and prominently hinges on talks with the Morgrir Clan - who are actually more friendly toward the Republic.

Urg'la has invited us as a show of goodwill to them.

And if things go well, and the Accord is revived, we are expecting an extension of our visit, which is to incorporate a trip and access to a cultural site - the Temple of Carnuss Gorgoll. The former headquarters and now tomb of an ancient Gamorream warlord, for whom the Temple is eponymously named.

This warlord was a rare Force-sensitive Gamorrean, who came as near as any Gamorrean has to uniting the planet - albeit under a bloody fist - more than 10,000 years ago.

And the Jedi are very interested in learning more about this figure. We have never been allowed access to the Temple before, so this is, again, another great opportunity which we care greatly for the success of...

We have... very little idea of what we could find there, and... in truth, it is why we have 5 Jedi allocated to this mission.

What little the histories do know of him are ... not good."

She pauses a moment to reflect on anything else to include in the briefing before soliciting further questions.

Cevron has to concentrates on Master Barouk's words, did he go through all this training only to have to listen to Gamoreans talking. His attention perks up when Barouk mentions the force sensitive warlord. Exploring ancient temples sounds more his speed. Maybe this mission won't be so boring after all.

Miica nods thoughtfully at the Jedi Master describing the next events

Feeling like he is isolating himself a bit on purpose Miica stares out the window looking at the planet

Cevron looks out the window, hoping to spot the temple that Master Barouk mentioned.

Lyanna looks out the window, wanting to get a sense of what awaits her on this new planet.

Cor moves up the transport's center aisle, checking in on troopers as he goes, before taking a seat near near Lyanna and Cevron.
He takes his helmet off, settling it in his lap with his DC-15 carbine, which reveals the shrapnel scars marking his left cheek and the side of his head.
"See anything interesting, Commanders?"

"Looks like a warm welcome," Cevron says. Then he looks to Master Barouk. "What kind of response are we allowed to use if the protest turns... ugly?"

The Jedi Master looks up from her data pad, which she's studying intently, "Mm, what? Response??"

She's clearly not aware of the situation which the other Jedi are observing.

Miica looks at the jedi master then toward the viewport.

It appears there is some pomp and circumstance for us at arrival but the general public seems to have opinions less than favorable to the Republic

Lyanna nods in agreement with Miica. "There's also them over there." She adds, pointing out the window to the group of Gamoreans masking up and passing items between each other. "With how controversial our visit seems to be, I don't like to imagine what they could be up to"

The twilek runs up to the windows on both sides, seeing what the others have to show her, "Awww, kriffing poodoo..."

The ship shudders violently as it goes in to land, and the Jedi Master raises her voice to be heard above the racket, speaking quickly.

"Do Not Engage Hostiles! I repeat: Do. Not. Engage!

Defend yourselves, if it comes to it - but NO killing!!

Defend our Gamorrean State reps, if it comes to it!!"

She braces herself just before the ship lands, giving everything and everyone a final violent jolt. Then there's a loud *HISSSS* as the transport cargo bay door opens.

Your ears are filled with a cacophony of guttural roars and grunts and gasping squeals, it's impossible to tell if it's joyous or angry. There is also a swell of thunderous drumming that kicks up once the bay door has opened.

General Barouk sweeps her ceremonial half-cape away from the side of her hip that carries her lightsaber and she strides down the ramp, putting up the hand signal for *Wedge formation on me.*"Here we go!", you think you hear the General say, as she begins to stride into the 35 meter gap between your ship and the Gamorrean state reception.

The drumming shakes Miica to his bones, a low thunder that echoes the pounding in his chest. The Gamorreans’ roars bleed into the steady rhythm of the drums, making it impossible to tell if the sound means celebration or confrontation. As the transport ramp lowers and the wave of noise crashes over them, Miica hesitates, just for a heartbeat. It is not enough to draw attention, but he feels it. That familiar pull, like being dragged underwater. It brings him back to Jabiim. Back to the rain and mud and panic. Back to the moment they told him he was a Jedi Knight now, not because he had passed the Trials, but because there simply was no time for them. Because they needed him to lead. He had nodded, said yes, done the job. But he had never stopped feeling like the robes were someone else’s.

He breathes in slowly and falls into formation behind General Barouk, each step a quiet act of will. His green lightsaber hangs at his side like a question. His cream robes, half-hidden beneath the dark brown cloak, feel like a costume more than a calling. He scans the crowd ahead, watching the shapes and motion in the chaos, nerves buzzing at the edge of his awareness. This is not battle, not yet, but it feels like a storm is always nearby. Miica keeps moving, jaw tight, trying to remember what it is supposed to feel like to be ready. Trying not to let anyone see how hard he is trying.

Cevron has trained for this his entire life it feels like, but coming face to face with it for the first time, he steels himself. He follows behind the rest, watching the crowd for danger, while trying to hide his nervousness. He has always pushed down and hidden his insecurities, so with that he at least has experience.

The shuddering of the ship and then the drumming as she steps out into the crowded landing platform shakes Lyanna. The pounding of the drums echoes the pounding of her heart in her chest as she steps out of the ship with her fellow representatives of the republic. She keeps a hand low near where her lightsaber hangs from her belt should she need it. She can't help but feel a hint of fear as she scans the crowd around her for danger. She has felt a similar sense of unease before, when her and her master used to patrol Coruscant's undercity. Danger was hiding all around there too but somehow this feels different. She feels alone in this crowd, even though she is amongst clone soldiers and her fellow jedi. She can't understand a single thing the crowd is saying, she worries that if there is an attack of some kind she won't be able to tell the difference between who among the gamoreans is hostile and who is friendly. She tries to hide her nervousness as she falls into formation behind Master Barouk.

Cevron takes a deep breath as the vegatables start pummeling them. It takes all his attention to keep staring ahead and keeping in formation. Seeing a pear like fruit coming at him from the side though, he acts instinctively using the force to push it aside. Anger is brewing in him, how can they insult them with this welcome.

Miica watches as Master Barouk slices the vegetable midair without breaking her stride, the halves falling neatly to either side. He draws his own lightsaber in response, its green glow flashing as it severs a tumbling fruit headed his way. The blade hums back to rest at his side, just as smoothly, though his grip is tighter than he’d like. Miica forces himself to keep his eyes forward, matching Barouk’s pace, hoping his poise holds as well as his saber did.