violencetobasic | (no subject)

He takes it, sniffing at it, then takes a bite. "Better than the rations - except near fight days. They need to keep the gladiators healthy. More reason to learn to fight... live longer... and eat better."

She listens as she eats. "Hard to go wrong there. Who are you?"

"In the arena, they stopped calling me 'slave' and began calling me first Son of Krayt, then just 'the Dhrakon'. It has more meaning than any other name I can remember. You?"

"Son'jarar. Son'ja. You've... been here a long time."

"I was a small child, yes. I grew up here, but I was born in space, on a great ship."

"Raided?" she assumes.

"I think so. I don't remember very much. A lot of noise, explosions. I think my birth home crashed. I think they killed most of the people captured with me - or tortured them for information. A few may have ended up here too. There are no others left."

She listens, then just nods. "I didn't leave Ryloth, didn't get sold off, until my mother died."

Okay, that was established. Now on with the business of living. "What's the most important thing when fighting?"

"Awareness - know where you are, where everything else is. Who you can trust not to stab you in the back. After that, performance. The arena is a fight to survive for us - but money and entertainment for its masters. Fight poorly, or boringly... they will find ways to kill you. Slaves you bring in no money are a waste of food and water. Make them money, make the crowds cheer - know who to kill, who not to. Even if you lose, the good gladiators will not kill you if they know the masters of the arena want you to live... to fight again."

"That makes sense." And she really hates it, but that certainly went without saying.

He nods, glancing upward. "I will fight to live, fight their fights, give them a show - until the time comes. I will not die here. I will die free."

"...I believe you," she says, and means it. He sounds so certain. Of course it doesn't stop the thought from chafing, performing far too close to being a toy of the unworthy. ...But there is something worthy here.

"And yes, we can teach each other. Anything you want to know."

"I want to know about the stars, what's out there. I only barely remember them. And perhaps to read... and write. My mother... I think she liked books. I remember a lot of books. But only a few words. When people manage to bring books or writing here, I try and collect them. I should know more, for when I see stars again."

She listens. "Then there's no sense wasting any time, is there?"

And she'll start scratching in the dirt, seeing what he knows of phonics and , etc. and expanding. She includes among the examples a relevant word or two on interstellar travel and Galactic politics just to get those introduced as well. The urge to help him is overwhelming, for various reasons but mostly because he deserves it.

And they'll be at it until enough is enough and she curls up in the corner of the cage and sleeps. They can start on her lessons the next day

He frowns. "If gets very cold here. Sleep next to the Nexu. They'll keep you warm, and it will help them trust you." he starts - having been a very intent student. Not the fastest or brightest - he lacks basic context for a lot of things... though he seems to recognize a few words by rote memory for some reason, but they're an odd mixture.

For an angry, defiant little thing, she sleepily moves to lie down with the nexu. She's noticed some of the memorizations and assumed it's what his writing-hoarding has obtained for him. She hopes to have time to flesh our more context for those words soon.

She might recognize the word - if she speaks any Echani - when he speaks to the Nexu. "Protect." he says simply, then lays down against the side of one of the bigger Nexu, which partially curls around him, catlike.

She may be here a long time - but at least its warm.

Warm, safe, and in the morning, likely to get an educational thrashing. She has no intention of shying away from it, either. If that was the language she thought it was, kicking her ass would be a perfectly normal way of saying 'let's be friends,' anyway, on top of the necessity here.

The morning is, indeed, for combat training. He works with her, and works with the nexu - and gives himself a workout in the process. He isn't given his weapons, but has some practice sticks weighted to be something akin to some sort of heavy blade - and doesn't hold back - along with repeatedly telling her not to. He has no idea how long til her first fight.
As for the Echani - it turns out he only knows a few words. He spoke it once, long ago. According to his bits of memory, frequently to their guard manka. He remembers that - vaguely, and apparently just felt it right to teach the nexu commands in the same tongue.
In the same fashion, he seems to remember, or maybe just has body memory for a few Echani techniques - but knows little of the culture or philosophy behind any of it. He thinks his mother was probably Echani. She was the one with white hair like him.
Bits and pieces are easy enough to glean while he's comfortable - which is apparently while he's fighting.

She talks, listens, makes sure not to hold back either -- but their not-holding-back varies considerably. Son'ja has fairly good natural reflexes, a watchful eye, and plenty of anger to put behind her attacks, but she's still vary obviously a novice. There's plenty of hissing in pain, but she gets back up every time. And when they take a break, she keeps finding herself inclined, once recovered, to try to do something helpful.
Everybody -- or at least Son'ja -- really does love a winner.

He does his best to hone those reflexes and make use of it. Most notably, when she does channel some of that anger into aggression, he encourages it, then counsels her to use it - but control it.

"Dzwol shâsotkun. Through passion, I gain strength."

"I think I've heard that somewhere before," Son'ja says, although she stays on on her toes because she knows he isn't letting up.

Indeed he's not, he presses at this point, as if physically driving the words home.

"The Sith code. They occasionally throw failed warriors in here, if they once had name enough to draw a crowd. They often handicap them - make sure they have a death match. They do not leave what they perceive of as dangers alive long... as long as they can make their deaths entertaining. I have learned from a couple of them. And the little reading I was taught was there."

"It makes sense. How annoying." When you're doing pretty well at hating an entire institution, it's irritating when they're right about anything. "Did you have to kill any?" Handicapped or not, that still seemed like a bit of a feat to her.

He nods. "Two. The first at his request - the overseer knew and remembered his glory, and let him have the warrior's death he requested. The second, because they remembered me beheading the first. I have been a favorite executioner of theirs ever since the rancor."