Log:Knights of Ren: Clawlite Clawbrite First Clawdite I See Tonight

Knights of Ren: Clawlite Clawbrite First Clawdite I See Tonight

OOC Date: May 12, 2020
Location: Carosi XII
Participants: Knights of Ren: Malik Ren, Erisi Auslese, Syrus, Domino, Iollan Canem, Imani, Sebek, and Errod Zand

Exotic Carosi XII, a tourist hotspot with volcanoes, hot springs, spas, and a plot to commit murder most foul, these are the sights and sounds that have drawn visitors to the wild and wondrous planet in the Outer Rim.

The Eurae mountains that girdle the planet's equator rise in the distance, stretching away from the beautiful tourist trap that is Newlife Point, a spit of volcanic rock thrust up out of the spray of the Avuae Sea below, a chill, refreshing breeze wafting in from its waves. Newlife Point, populated mostly by the Carosites themselves, a hardy species of ascetic, snub-nosed people, bustles with activity as sightseers and revelers relax and unwind from the drama of a galaxy constantly at war. Visitors from all over the galaxy, mostly of the affluent variety, crowd the marketstalls buying souvenirs, lining up for the pleasure boats down to the hot springs, and generally polluting the otherwise impressive scene where lava occasionally gouts from the far edge of the promonitory to fizzle into the sea.

It is onto this scene that the Knights of Ren arrive, a clutch of black-clad vultures. Errod, from behind his plain-faced mask, explains what's up. "Clawdites. Shapeshifters. Changelings. Murderers, assassins, thieves, white-collar criminals, and some, I assume, are good people. I never met one though. Only the former varieties." Stopping at the periphery, he adjusts his gear slightly. "Don't know as all this kit is the best call today, but I wore it anyway. These Clawdites, according to our reports, are planning to kill Malik. Obviously, we do not agree with the timing of that occurrence. The issue is, they're changelings." He gestures at the crowd. "And in a place like this, they could be anyone. A native, a tourist. Anyone. And everyone else here has done no wrong. So you see the difficulty."

Malik Ren himself, target of The Plot Against His Life, is here. Like 'all this kit', it might not have been the best idea, but what use do the Knights of Ren have for the best ideas? He is at present wearing his helmet, but reaches up to pull it off and clip it to his belt, a gloved hand reaching up to shake out his helmet hair. How to sort out the evil-doers from the tourists and pleasure seekers?

"We walk through the promenade until someone tries to shoot me, and then dispatch whoever made the attempt," he suggests. "Simple."

What difficulty!

"If he dies, we find a new leader. If he doesn't...well, he doesn't," Syrus says, hands gripping his belt as he regards Errod. His visor turns from the Knight to look out over the crowd. "Though I do enjoy a little adventure." He didn't get burnt out on volcanic surroundings after the previous day's trip to Nevarro, as he spent the majority of it within the well climate controlled confines of the Brigand.

Erisi is just so damned pleased to be here. Volcanos? And plots to murder? Ugh. She has already bought a volcano hat which has a nice little holo-explosion of lava out from the top of it. Her hood is back, the hat has been placed atop her cool helmet, the woman sweeping through the crowd with nary a bit of embarassement, because she and thousands of others are donning the same hats, nevermind that they're mostly under the age of 18. Or 50. Depending on your lifespan.

"That is such a good idea ..except it isn't. How old are you again? Not the Oran part of you, I mean the ...whatever part of you that is the Ren. What if it's a group. So we take down one, then another one pops up, then another - no. We need to root them out at the ..the root." Yes, all of her waving of her hands in front of her to show how serious she is, head shaking all the while as plumes of smoke erupt from her hat before a pop of lava in stuttering hi-def blue and white, "So, force users ...we ..try to ...feel them out. With our brains." Except Eri is a potato. And potatoes don't have brains, "I am not ready for Syrus to try and kill me in a misguided attempt to overthrow me should Malik die, so let's not. And say we did and write some fun fan fiction about it. Until then ..use your brains."

Domino frowns and huffs "To be clear they cannot shift armor or clothes just their organic appearance?" She frowns troubled by the planet, the mission, the cause of the mission. She doesn't like how all this smells! Oh, wait, it's probably just the sulphorous fumes. She follows close by Malik "That is NOT a plan. That is a-" She swallows the rest of her comment, her nostrils flare and with a moment to think on words about to leave her mouth "Was it wise..." She nixes that too "Were someone trying to kill me I'm not sure I'd spare them the difficulty of having to figure out how to get access to me." There! She didn't directly question judgement or call anyone anyone's idea idiotic. At least not in WORDS.

<<"Like finding a needle in a pile of needles,">> hums the lazy, feckless contribution from one of the rightly imposing figures. Done up in his own raiments, (duster, belts, armoured boots, chrome-faced helmet, you know the look) the cursory scan from Iollan does note how little they re blending in. As if they ever do. Even amongst the halls of Spearhead any of them in proper uniform is a bit of a sidestep to inclinations of social decency. But here? Run up the white flag, boys, the ship of clandestine operation is sinking.

Hand on belt, the detective meanders to a stop with a small look to Malik. The little upwards helmet tip suggests, maybe, he doesn't like that plan.

<<"Not sure that's the plan.""> Weight shifts -- easily! no more butt wounds, look at our boy go -- as his free hand wafts a wide gesture of the place. The many people. How brave Lan is, like the rest of the party, offering blank dissent to their dwear Ren. <<"May I suggest talking to people, mhm? Perhaps without the uh -- uniforms.">>

"Shapeshifter is good hunt," contributed Sebek of the Desert, with a ridiculous list of appelations I'm not going to write today. "But cook well. Meat shifts in stomach. Not good for digestion."

Yesterday, Sebek had been shot to pieces. Today, he was standing and walking as though nothing had happened. How, you may ask? Well firstly, he'd been pushed in the direction of a former Vanguard medic who patched him up, fed him wine and sashimi, and then told him not to do anything strenuous for the next week. Being a respectable and decent being, Sebek threw that advice to the wind and returned to Ichren, where he had spent the last twelve hours steeped in the Dark Side, his wounds knitting together in a manner most painful and uncomfortable. He hadn't really slept, and he was at risk of reopening the holes in his stomach and leg, but he was fighting fit. His armour wasn't so lucky. Though it was repaired, it still bore the scorch marks on the torso plating and some of the gold trim had been warped. This was of course aesthetically displeasing but he liked this armour. He liked how the cassock flared like a hip cloak. This time he dispensed with The Pelt of Arrikkata and the sword was very visible across his back.

"Eyes will not work," explained the Falleen as he walked alongside the group, because he knew these things, and therefore was wiser than all of them, and therefore they all had to listen to him. "Use mind. Ears. Scent. Fat in ego, they do not mask their scent." And he added on to that a deep sniff, taking in the environment around him. "They stink of must and lothcat."

Imani is clad in black this trip, the helmet clipped to her hip presently rather than worn, unashamed to be seen in such notorious company. "What a pretty place," she exalts, pulling in a deep breath as she basks in their surroundings. She glances at Malik as he shares his plan, then laughs. "Simple and right to the point, I like it." The question from Domino prompts a thoughtful look from the slender woman. "If they cannot change clothing, maybe we ought to do something to distinguish ourselves in case they try to take on our form? How quickly can they change?" There should have been more homework before this exam.

"If he dies, this ongoing crisis of conscience I've been having about my continued existence is going to occur elsewhere," Errod mutters darkly, pulling his own helmet off now because he's sighted one of the few places on Carosi XII where alcohol is sold and it is Atunda. "Maybe we should start at the local watering hole..." But he's distracted then, and glances towards Sebek. "As much as I agree with you, I am unsure how many conclusions I would make about the particularity of the scent based on whatever limited exposure to Clawdites you may have had previously."

Errod's eyes, perennially weary, stare around as he lights up a cig and tucks it under his mustache. "They change fast. I don't know how fast. I just know it's fast. And I don't know what all they can change. And I don't know what all they may have prepared. And I don't know how many there are." He lets out a long, smoky breath. "There's a lot I don't know."

At any rate, the Knights are drawing attention, furtive looks from the locals and visitors alike being shot their way, whispers in ears, the crowd gradually becoming more aware of the dour presence in their vibrant midst. The longer they stay in one spot, the more the press ebbs away, leaving them increasingly isolated, and the effect continues to grow as a result, feeding on itself in a viscious cycle. "Plan A is starting to look like an inevitability unless we identify a lead quickly."

How old is he, again? Malik looks upwards in thought as though the ghost of the original Ren, the one who remapped him to this name, this title, and a number of sorcerous powers hitherto unknown to him, is just over his head and slightly to the left. But all that's up there is a clear tourist sky and a nice bright day, not answers. "I don't know, old, but that's definitely the part of me that can get another Ren and therefore doesn't care," he points out. "The rest of me is 28." He lifts his hands. Big shrug, as though to say 28, therefore, IMMORTAL. "Anyway, come off it, Syrus would not kill you. Syrus would frown and experience inner turmoil. You know that." He side-eyes Syrus. "Don't look at me in that tone of voice, you also know that."

Back to the plan(s). "Do as you like," Malik suggests to the team at large. "Do as your strengths lead you. Receptive telepathy, a change of clothes and a conversation with a local... sense of smell." Sebek gets eyed at that one, but he steps forward, through the marketplace and tourists. In the direction of the local watering hole, pace measured.

Mal is almost at the entrance to said local watering hole when he pauses, and looks west, studying the lines of people waiting to get on the pleasure boat. "There in that queue of tourists... Something does seem amiss."

"What you don't know could fill the Tetan databanks thrice over," Syrus offers back to Errod, smirking softly beneath his helmet. Syrus, however, knows a lot of stuff. He's a SCHOLAR. He Who Learns, like the lizard guy says. He doesn't know if anything untoward is going down, though, reaching out to try and feel any strange or dark permutations within the Force, but finding his skill in doing so lacking.

His concentration is stolen away by Erisi and Malik's musings on whether or not Malik's death would lead him to kill that girl he likes. He knows the answer, but he ain't tellin'. Thirsty, the man will follow behind Malik on his route to the cantina, or whatever these touristy elites call them here, stopping to look back to the group of travelers that Malik has indicated.

Domino there's a roll of shoulders and flex of gloves hands "I am not a fan of this lack of plan or delivering the target conveniently to the would be assassin but whatever." She lifts a hand "No one is dying." She states to Malik Ren "Except this self involved nerfhumper plotting to kill the Ren. I'm going to check out some things. I don't come back to a bleeding, dead, or missing Ren. Just...please." As if she can't even right now and strides off to explore and mingle, helmet off and tucked under an arm

She returns less than fifteen minutes not looking any more gruntled but Malik still lives so she's clearly heartened by that "Employees have been missing at a natural springs. I don't know what that'd have to do with anything we care about but it is the only thing anyone's willing to mention under 'interesting happenings' that isn't stupid lore or a scam."

As some tall, pensive tower, Iollan stands his ground for a moment. And a moment more. Frozen in that way, he allows his brain full capacity to run over a few possible scenarios as leading out from all of them; Corellian speed chess, as it were. Most of them end, in his mind, less than favourably. A few end slightly better. Alright.

Malik gives the go ahead to cause all manner of chaos as each see fit, and with that the detective nods once, shortly. <<"I'll do some groundwork then,">> drawls over the comms as he turns on a heel, making to mosey on the way the ret of them are not headed. Specifically towards a side street, or at least a side pocket of alleyways that will allow him a small berth of privacy. <<"If none of you professionals would blow my cover in a moment here, I'd appreciate it.">> Slim chance, buddy.

So, a few moments of wandering off and behind a building, it turns out that his cover simply extends to not being a Knight. Easy enough. Going dark on comms, the detective strips off the heavy duster, the military style belts, and most specifically the helmet -- it leaves him in a more usual set of streetwear, if a bit more exposed than usual. No jacket, just a collarless grey shirt rolled neatly to the elbows (exposing many, many intricate tatoos along his forearms,) utilitarian black slacks, leather gloves. The boots, sadly, are the same -- he never thought to bring a second set. That'll have to do.

A quick look around finds a suitable nook in the pipes and brickwork to bundle the discarded uniform in, one that he has to reach up to shove everyting in to. Hopefully, nobody will stumble on it in however long this job takes. But, with that done, the PI turns to find a different route back to the bar everyone else is in, a hand carding through hair to correct his effortless spacer look. Time to get chatty.

"No reservations held against Plan A," was the velvety satisfied comment from the lip-licking Falleen, "in any way whatsoever." Of course the brute was spoiling for a fight. Deep sniff. Nothing. The comment from He Who Leads, however, drew his eyes towards the pleasure boat queue. He squinted, searching the crowd for nothing in particular, maybe an assailant, maybe he just wasn't trying because he was keen for an ambush. Idiot. "Should they be mere tourists, it is butchery. Though butchery makes for good meat, it is thought we should stick to bigger concerns." Did he just say something on mission?

Erisi follows along with the others, "Hot springs."

Imani hasn't an opinion on what might happen should their fearless leader perish, but she's known everyone in the group for all of five minutes. What she does instead is listen and smile at the locals as they move among the crowd. "We do sort of stand out here, like a sentient storm cloud moving through their city," she observes, following wherever it is the others lead. She is lingering near-ish to Malik, either with some misguided idea that he needs protection, or the misguided idea that being close will get her in on some action and not ultimately lead to her untimely death. Either way she's there, following.

Everything seems to be going about as well as it ever does, with the group managing to narrow in on at least a general direction for the investigation to proceed without resorting to straight-up springing the trap immediately. What's strange, though, is that when Iollan comes back, Iollan also comes back. Right behind Iollan, comes... Iollan. Dressed in fairly plain clothes, with a standard issue SE-44c blaster pistol discreetly holstered on his belt. "Did you miss me?" he asks with a wry grin before spying the other Iollan. "What the hell is this supposed to be?"

Malik looks surprised. There are two Iollans. Two of them! You never really realize how tall a guy is until there's another of him right there as well, also being very tall. It's UP he has to look to study them, first one and then the other, back and forth, until he eventually settles on the one who came up second, asking what the hell this is supposed to be. A strange, piercing stare is fixed on that particular Lan for a moment, then Malik winces, as though what he's found between those ears is displeasing to him.

"Did we miss you," Malik echoes dryly, and then tilts his head to the side. "We're about ready not to." He gestures. "Kill it."

At the arrival of two very tall, muscular private eyes, Syrus squints beneath his visor, a soft grumble escaping his lips as it seems that the mind games have already begun. This is supposed to be easy, but neither of them has a goattee, like they do in the simulations.

Lifting a hand in a subtle wave towards the doppelganger, Syrus will begin to speak calmly, "You will lay down your weapons and tell us where your associates are hiding." This does not work, but a lady twenty feet to the left of them enjoying a nice meal on a patio throws down her fork becomes very interested in shouting that her friend T'fa'nee is hanging out at one of the gift shops nearby.

"Well I guess your plan worked, Mal." Erisi states, "Only ...kill it. Which one. There are two." Erisi states plainly, he didn't exactly point out which one, and she can't see where his eyes went. So. She will keep her lightsaber at bay and not set either on fire. And both look like, spot on. Not that she knows Io well. At all. So that makes it even harder to know which one is the one they want. And what if the other one is actually cooler?

Domino moves to place herself between Malik Ren and both Iollans, "What're your names?" she demands of Iollan, pistol yanked free from her holster and brought to bear on the one following the first Iollan, "PRetty sure Iollan'd have given us a head's up rather than following." But she doesn't fire yet though she very clearly has her preferred target barring imput.

OH this is-- Oh.

He's had dreams like this. Or nightmares. It hard to say and just as hard to process through now, turning into the bar as he is, coming up alongside himself as he is. There's a quiet, tense moment of muted shock on the PI's face as he stand motionless, staring at himself-- not him, the other him, and then other to the assembled warmongers.

"I don't, uh--" It trails off, the lazy drawl couched into something a bit more aggressive. Or at least worried, in that quiet way. Gloved hands come up in the universal 'don't shoot' as he half steps back, looking at already raised weapons. He can blow his cover, both here and in a larger public sense, and tell them he's the real one. Or, he can run. yeah.

A quick one-two has him on a heel, heading right back out the door. They're big kids, they can figure this out. And he doesn't wanna get shot again, really.

"Killing it!" Sebek didn't know much about Clawdites aside from the fact that they smelled like must and lothcat, and possibly also shame, but when Sebek was told to kill he was happy to kill because it was what he loved. That, and Spicy Beef and Rice bowls.

Here's the problem.

He Who Leads clearly knew who the impostor was. And had clearly gestured at them. And had clear instructions on which He Who... duplicates? No there were Clawdites in the mix. Seriously if there was a bigger source of frustration not called He Who Learns in the vicinity Sebek would love to hear it. Whatever. He Who Leads knew and therefore He Who Hunts should know. Except He Who Hunts had NOT BEEN PAYING ATTENTION.

So without further thought, input, opinion, the Falleen made a decision and rammed his sword straight through the retreating He Who... sithspit he was never going to figure this out.

Imani isn't all that familiar with Iollan to know which one seems more Iollan like, but those with the powerful magic brains are suggesting one of them needs to die, and she isn't yet sentimental enough to fret over whether or not she's attacking the wrong Lan. Her vibrodagger has been carefully held in her hand, mostly out of sight until it's needed, like now for example. She flips the dagger around so she can move in to what is probably the faux Iollan to slash at the man not once, but twice in quick succession, then beating a quick retreat in an effort to put some distance between her and the probable copycat.

"What do you mean, what are your names? I'm Iollan, who the krif is this g-" Iollan? starts to reply to Domino, but then someone is mucking around in his head, and then the other Iollan takes off running, Sebek stabs that one, and before he can react, Imani stabs him. They really are going to kill us both, you can see the realization in his eyes as his hands clap down on the black blood welling up from his wounds, this in stark contrast to the red leaking out of the (original) Iollan.

"Well, that's one way of doing it," Errod remarks from the periphery, emerging from the cantina with a very tall can of booze in his hand, the cig in his mouth interfering with his ability to drink. "Smell like lothcat and musk to you?" He's unable to remove the cig because his free hand is now occupied with producing a knife from his belt.

At the same time as all this is occuring, passengers are disembarking a returned pleasure ship from the hot springs, a whole mess of fresh people flowing back into the tourist trap of Newlife Point. Many of them are headed towards the Knights, or perhaps merely after a drink at one of the only places that can be found around here. A sign on a competing establishment just across the street loudly advertises 'EAT RIGHT LIVE RIGHT' in neon letters.

By now, both Iollans are bleeding and on the run, with the major difference being the color of blood. Things are going well!

Malik Ren has been entrusted with a millennia-old rebellion against the Sith, with the destruction of the Jedi Knights, with the creation of a new galactic order and prosperity and peace for all. He is meant to do what Kylo Ren didn't, meant to grip the galaxy in an unshakable iron grasp, and here before him are the implements of this task: The feared, reviled, famous Knights of Ren.

One has been duplicated and one just stabbed the other one.

This is fine, this is going to be fine.

"Sebek, NO," Malik yells at the Falleen. "Not THAT one," the red bleeding one, "THIS ONE." The words are emphasized by seizing the black-bleeding Iollan? by the throat, telekinetically, and giving him a little shake. Sebek leave the cat alone here is a toy, my god.

He is still unmasked, easy to identify and assassinate! Please.

There's a whole lot of stuff happening right now that Syrus is unprepared for, so his lightsaber hilt is unclipped from his belt and the blade comes screaming out. Held down and away with one hand, he's hoping that the appearance of said weapon will be enough to deter anyone that didn't sign up for a fight today.

Stepping forward, Syrus will drive his blade through the chest of the Iollan that Malik is strangle-shaking, his blade cleaving out of the man's side as opposed to making a clean retreat from whence it came.

His eyes on the approaching assassins(?), Syrus stands ready.

Erisi hurr hurr hurrs as she just, you know, stands there, reaching up to take off her souvenir hat to give it a toss, "Well now I don't feel bad for how yesterday went. That was nowhere as much as a shavit show as this." Hands then tuck into the pockets of her robe as she moves to lean into something - a nice planter leaned into as she just watches the chaos unfold. It's beautiful. And on a planet with a ton of volcanos to boot.

Domino frowns and her gaze traces the actual stud nuggets and there's a hesitation as if unsure what to do about the current situation. <<"Stud Nuggets, I'll find you and patch you up, just sit tight.">> but she makes no attempt to find him now, weapon still up as she scans the crowd "I'm a little concerned about the multiple people missing. Did our intel specify the number of assassins?"

It almost works. The intrepid 'oh shit' speedwalk away from his possible doom nearly makes it out, and without looking back, Iollan beings to exhale with a--

Nope, that's a blade. Or something sharp and heavy and scarping along the bone of his shoulder as he gets all of a pace and a half away from the scene of the in-progress crime. Some mangled grunt of pain spins out of his chest as Iollan staggers forward, half-way into a duck and roll to safety, though it comes out mostly as a roll. The white-hot pain along his back will do that. Rolling over, reaching for the 44C holstered at his side, the detective does what he can to make sure nobody else is about to launch an attack on him -- from his side or the enemies, actually.

He's bleeding, yet again, onto the dusty walkway as he manages to perch up on one knee, sort of melded into the crowd. An overly wary look keeps up for any sign of the assassins nearby as he stays, blaster ready. Damn, he needs a raise.

Huh? "Oh!" Right! Shunk! That was a sword being removed quite rapidly from a human by a Falleen who... didn't really care what the human thought of it. Disregarding the fleeing quarry... Knight... whatever he was, he returned to the side of He Who Leads and readied himself for BATTLE! against... oh he was dead. And fried! Good eating! With gritted teeth and wide eyes, he looked at the crowd of onlookers and realised that he may yet be in for a scrap. The Feeorin drew his attention. Big blue bastard? How could you miss him.

SNIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIF.

"Lothcat," was the Falleen's deep deep voice. "Shame." Pause. "Others. But not the inside of locked cupboard. No. He Who Towers," because my god man, "is He Who Towers. Nothing more. Nothing less." SNIFF. There's the shame again. "Perhaps something less."

As the imitation Iollan falls to the ground, his body withers and shrivels, handsome face hollowing out into a sunken, reptilian grimace that looks more like Sebek than Lan. Only far less on fleek. With one Clawdite unmasked, the others in the crowd finally break their cover, firing on the Knights with concealed blasters and ducking for cover afterward, using the stalls and buildings to their advantage. Now the volcanic mud meant to relieve the dark circles around your eyes is pulling a much heavier duty.

Except for one of them, an Abednedo with colorful beads around his neck and the scent of must and lothcats concealed by the dabaroo slices that were laying on his eyes not twenty minutes prior. This fellow steps over and smacks Sebek across the face with his ring hand. "My holiday is RUINED!"

As the fire comes in, Errod lingers near the corpse, because... that's just how he does. "We will all wither like this, and be revealed for the husk we always were," he's saying, distracted by the lesson in existentialism here. "Will my face, in death, be any different, before it crumbles away entirely? Will yours?"

Pandemonium! It was always going to end up this way, wasn't it? Malik is fired upon by a vendor, and draws his saber to slash back in retaliation! It hits -- someone else? Something else? The same? The moment gives him pause, lost in uncertainty for a moment with the nature of these confusing assassins. One thing, however, is clear. "Errod, stop philosophizing and make yourself useful, would you?"

Now that there's blaster bolts flying towards them, this whole affair has gotten a whole lot easier to deal with. A trio of bolts sail past Syrus, but he turns his attention to the nearest target, a humble kabob peddler with a terrifying secret! Cleaving through the assassin and his cart, Syrus turns to look back towards Malik, making sure that their fearless leader isn't dead just yet.

Erisi kinda likes watching the carnage, but since Errod is expected to be useful, Erisi too will make herself useful. Reaching down with her right hand across her hips to draw out her lightsaber it'll get a small shake, like shaking a can of paint, and light it up with her thumb, the blade extending out in an angry red. She'll move then, a little quickly, not so much, to go and cull down one Clawdite, whipping the saber at the former female(?)s head, cleaving down through it and moving off with a little hop dash towards the person who slapped Sebek. Revenge! Only she misses, hitting a vendors cart instead.

Domino's pistol lifts to train on-..the dead one that shot on Malik Ren. Well, clearly that's not an issue. She turns in place and scans, spotting the attack on Sebek but almost looses track of it. With a growl of frustration she seeks those not fleeing from a lethal fight-something most civilans react predictably in. Finding a target she opens fire.

He really should have kept the helmet on. Or maybe just stayed home altogether. At this rate his cover is so blown they can probably see it from space, but if there are no witnesses... well.

One his right arm coiled in against his chest, useless now, Iollan steadies his one-kneed crouch as combat does in fact ensue -- suddenly lightsabers are jumping to life and there's shouting, running, and a plethora of targets to choose from. He'll go for the nearest living thing.

Or, kind of living. Two near-blindfired shots pop off from his 44C at a target that's mid fall, already collapsing from Syrus' expect work. Whatever -- at this points it's almost better if he looks like he's fighting against the Knights, and that he can't aim.

A stuttered, taut inhale pulls some grit back into his maintained position as he begins to rise to his feet, probably about to get the hell out of here.

The pleasant atmosphere at Newlife Point is shattered completely now as lightsabers activate, dead bodies litter the ground in front of the cantina, and shouts, shots, and screams fill the air. Now they're going to have to rename this place Newdead Point, or something. Doubtless some scathing editorials will be published blaming the whole affair on the evils of alcohol. EAT RIGHT LIVE RIGHT.

While Malik spends a moment in confusion as the face withering away into a grey reptilian rigor mortis is not the one he expected, a Khommite tourist, or at least what looks like one, takes careful, practiced aim at his target and releases two quick shots at the Master of the Knights of Ren. Both hit home, and he dives out of sight again.

Neither of the Corosite natives struck down by Syrus and Erisi experience that withering phenomenon; their bodies lie unchanged on the pavers, blood soaking into the volcanic soil. One spa enthusiast's holiday is just getting even worse as this was not the acupuncture he had in mind when he made those reservations.

Errod spits out his cig, stepping in front of Malik with his beer still held in one hand, and tries to get an eyeball on the shooter. "...You alive back there? Who shot you? I suppose it doesn't matter."

It wouldn't be an assassination cell without an assassination attempt, right? Perhaps Malik's undoing is the way he's still trying to determine which ones shot instead of just killing every possible bystander, to be sure the cancer's been cut. Got to get a margin, or the cells will spread, and collateral damage is not usually a point at which he balks...

The weapon fire hits hard, though as he's knocked down to a knee, he repays the favor to a 'tourist' now attempting to occupy a different face. Blood, ugh, ow. A hand presses to his torso just under his ribcage and comes away bloody, he'll deal with it later. "I'm fine. I'm FINE," the Ren assures, and about 70% of the reassurance seems to be directed at the person most likely to disagree with it, Domino.

"A shame," Syrus says, looking down at the dead kabobalist that remains unchanged. He doesn't linger on it for long, though, as Malik is struck by a blaster bolt. Lifting his blade and moving to stand next to the man, Syrus once again stands ready, though it seems like their opponents (and plenty of others), have been dispatched.

"They would have died eventually. Why not be remembered with a good death." Erisi reasons, employing some of Errods thought processing as she moves through the crowd, searching for people who are crouched and looking suspicious. Which would be really everyone, since this is a terrifying event and people don't want to be found. The many tentacled dude though catches her suspicion ...and she'll go in and swing her lightsaber around with a few swish swishes. Feeorin chopped. He bleeds.

Domino growls "WHY would you make their job EASIER?! Why the Stars do you HAVE knights?!" she leaves the badly injured target from her sights her scope goes seeking, "So help me I'm KILLING something!" She scans the area warily turning in place slowly a few times, "Can we PLEASE get back to the ship so I can stop Iollan and Malik from leaking all over?"

At this point, there's probably enough bodies to facilitate a getaway. Splash enough terror into any crowd and they forget who is going where and for what reason, usually. Either way, Iollan has had enough of this whole thing to spur his quick exit, stage left.

Back on his feet, arm pressed firm over his chest, dripping blood still, the detective spares on more glance over the Knights and their ensuing nightmare of a daytrip before turning away. At this point it's not even clear who it is they're cutting down, and he isn't about to ask. And besides, Domino keeps saying his name very loudly, which isn't helping.

That long stride of his begins away from the merry band, sort of back the way they came, as he holsters his blaster. There's a belligerent, jaw-clenched expression about him, one that carries through his whole frame. All he has to do it get that discarded armour back and make it to the ship in one piece. Easy, right. Right?

With the obvious opponents handily dispatched, Imani relaxes a hair and straightens, keeping a watchful eye out for signs of more would be assassins as she steps closer to Malik. "You're fine," she agrees readily enough while offering him a hand should it be needed. "And they're not, which is good news for all of us. If we're lucky we've gotten them all and we can call this problem solved." But just in case it's not, she's nearby with her weapon still out, ready to stab anyone who looks like they shouldn't be too close. Considering what happened with Faux-Lan, it could be anyone. The grip on her knife tightens slightly, just in case.

The sounds of the fighting fade away abruptly, and are replaced instead by a tense silence. The marketplace has cleared, and the only figures still out on the streets are the Knights and their victims. Errod stands with weapon drawn as well, echoing Imani's posture but with that drink in one hand, as of yet undrunk. "Perhaps it was misguided to think we could root them out," he muses in his low, grating voice, boot nudging over the body of the Abednedo, which is still an Abednedo. "Some shred of innocence still clinging onto the edges of that little voice in my head that speaks to me, tells me I am someone."

He stares down into the dead eyes of the spa-goer. "What difference does it make, one or one thousand? Ten thousand? How many bodies in our wake to save the other millions? Billions? Trillions of lives in the galaxy? Why bother saving one?" Don't let Errod give any interviews to the GNN.

Straightening with a shrug, he waves his daggerpoint at the fallen Clawdites and nods at Malik. "They're dead, he isn't. Mission accomplished. If there are others..." His eyes settle on their leader, though they could be desribed as looking past him. "That's your decision. You're the one they want to kill. What difference does it make?" He starts back towards the Buzzard.