KotOR I: Orin Dakall

They watched Orin’s fights from the stands. Every time Bastila tried to strike up a conversation, Carth feigned obsessive interest in whatever match was occurring. She had just begun her duel with Marl when Mission and Zaalbar found them.



“Aw, how come you didn’t tell us she was gonna be dueling?” Mission whined.



“You can’t find this entertaining,” Bastila said, part in disbelief and the other in disgust.



“Why not?” Mission said defensively.



“It’s violence portrayed as harmless fun. A child should not being watching this sort of thing.”



“Any leads?” Carth asked quickly, before Mission could blow up and before he actually agreed with Bastila.



Mission sat in a huff. “No,” she said gloomily. “Not even a lead on a lead.”



The crowd rose to its feet collectively, some screaming, some cheering. None of the four looked up.



“Well, it looks like Davik’s Mandalorian wants off Taris too, so as long as we aren’t walking into a trap...”



Zaalbar growled lowly as Mission’s eyes widened.



“Canderous? Canderous Ordo? Really??”



“You sweet on him or something?”



“Ugh, he’s older than you are! But have you seen him in a fight? He’s amazing!”



“Who is?” Orin asked, bounding up the steps to their seats, sweaty and triumphant.



“Canderous Ordo,” Bastila said, unimpressed.



Orin paused in the midst of handing a roll of credits to Carth. “Ordo...” Her face scrunched up in thought. “Ordo...” She gasped, grabbing Carth’s arm. “Clan Ordo! He’s a Mandalorian!”



Everyone looked at her, silent a long moment.



Zaalbar silently mimed something to Mission, and they left quietly.



“Um, we already knew that,” Carth said, biting his lip.



Orin shook her head, then dug her finger and thumb into her temples. “I know, but... it, there’s something... more?” She threw her arms up in anger, Carth catching the credit roll as it flew from her hand. “This is driving me nuts!”



“I doubt it’s anything relevant,” Bastila said smoothly. “Are you done here?”



“Just Twitch left,” she said distantly.



At the confounded look on her face, and Bastila’s obvious readiness to pester her more, Carth took pity and stepped in.



“Bastila.”



She turned to him.



“Um, I was wondering something.” Damn it, why couldn’t you’ve thought of something to say before letting your mouth open?



A thought came to him. A slightly evil thought. The truth. Ask what you really want to know. Just... tactfully.



“How did those Vulkars manage to capture a famous Jedi like you?” he asked, looking and sounding as innocent as he could. “Were you knocked out when your escape pod crashed?” He couldn’t help but remember their own crash, with Orin, bruised and bloodied to such an extent that at first, he thought she was dead.



Orin was now looking over at the two with interest, distracted from her Canderous-puzzle.



“No, I was conscious,” Bastila said. “But my Force powers were exhausted from using my Battle Meditation in the battle for the Endar Spire. Without my help you might have never gotten off the ship alive.”



“And maybe if you’d thought a bit harder, more than the three of us would’ve survived,” Orin muttered, feeling the familiar guilty stab she got every time she remembered Trask stupidly sacrificing himself to let her get away.



Bastila looked stricken. “We were taken by surprise. I, I did what I could...”



“Fair enough,” Carth said, gently. “No one was accusing you of not doing your best.”



“I was,” Orin said.



“Don’t you have a duel to get to?” Carth asked her pointedly.



“Mandatory half-hour break between all matches.”



“It’s not her fault that soldiers died,” he told her under his breath. “She did what she could, just like I did, and just like you did.”



Orin rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, but said nothing.



“I’ve seen you Jedi in action,” he said to Bastila, trying to sound upbeat. “There’s no way those thugs would have stood a chance against your lightsaber.”



Bastila’s expression didn’t improve. “My lightsaber was... misplaced. I couldn’t find it after the crash. I looked everywhere in that pod... The Vulkars came and overwhelmed me even as I was searching for my weapon.”



This time the silence was directed at Bastila.



“So, wait, let me get this straight,” he said. “You... lost your lightsaber?” He unsuccessfully stifled his laughter. “I mean, isn’t that a violation of some kind of Jedi code or something?”



Orin was fighting hard to stay angry, but mirth won out. “Maybe losing lightsabers is a side-effect of her Battle Meditation,” she said with a wry grin. Carth snorted.



“This is no laughing matter!” Bastila protested. “During the crash my lightsaber must have... it must have fallen from my belt and rolled under my seat!” She looked slightly sheepish at her iffy explanation. “The Vulkars probably found it there when they searched the wreakage,” she added, glum.



“Hey, hey, I’m sorry,” Carth said. “It’s just... It’s a little funny to think of a legendary Jedi losing her lightsaber. Take my advice,” he said, leaning in as Mission and Zaalbar returned, laden with foodstuffs. “This is one detail you might want to leave out of the history texts.”



“I hardly consider myself a legend,” she said, smiling in gratification, nonetheless. “Though I will consider your advice when I relate these events to the Jedi Council. There is no need for them to know every detail of what transpired.”



“Just so long as you’re clear when you tell them how I saved you,” Orin said, offhand. Bastila glared at her.



“Oh!” Mission said, grabbing her bag. “I never showed you what I pulled off those guys at the track!” She dumped out a small pile of credits, some weapons, a visor, a belt and armband shield system, and...



“That’s mine!” Bastila cried, snatching up the double-bladed lightsaber rolling across the floor.



“Well, I kinda figured that,” Mission said, scornfully. “Did you not expect that level of deduction in a ‘child’?”



Orin rolled her eyes at the Jedi. “You called her a child? Seriously un-smart thing to do. Besides, you’re, what, a year older than her?”



Bastila drew herself up and studied the Twi’lek. “Six, at least.”



“Mm,” Orin said, nodding patronizingly. “Yes, your unspoken indignance is absolutely right. Six years is a lot.”