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.