Part the First

"Ow!" The aggrieved cry that echoed in close quarters was followed by a muttered imprecation, followed by a not-so muttered imprecation and then, "Will you just hold still a moment, chosski-head so I can figure out how to get us out of here?" The scuffling and the muttering stopped for a moment, followed by a soft cough and then a groan, which turned pressing irritation into something more compassionate. "I don't think it's broken. You can quit making noises like an akk in heat."

Obi-Wan Kenobi, junior Padawan to Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn and current subject of verbal abuse, did his level best to make the dirty look he leveled at Garen Muln visible even in their dusky and—hopefully—temporary confinement. "I do not sound like an akk, in heat or otherwise," he declared. At least, that's how he meant to say it. The dubiety he sensed from his friend since their crèche days seemed to indicate something less than absolute clarity.

"I think you have a concussion, though; that sounded like a bad imitation of a Twi'lek with a mouthful of muja fruit. Just stay awake and keep still a minute." Garen Muln shifted very carefully, glancing up at the disc of blue and white hovering above them, mockingly, and he snorted at their ridiculous situation.

Which, of course, turned into a sneeze, which morphed into cough due to all the dust hanging in the air from their unfortunate…incident, and this then turned into another groan from Obi-Wan as the sound reverberated off stone, aggravating the absolutely demanding headache. Pain warped the Force around them. "Okay," Muln relented when he could speak again, "You don't sound like an akk."

"Master Rhara and Master Qui-Gon told us to wait for them," Obi-Wan groused vehemently. To Garen, it came out sounding more like 'Mas' Ara an'…Mas' er Qui tol' us way for 'em." After a quick blink and a thought, Garen deciphered it and exhaled softly.

"Yeah, I know. It'll be the meditation closet for me and probably a month in the Healers' for you; about normal," Garen admitted. "Although that was a pretty good match; I think if we hadn't ended up down here, you mighta—hey! No sleeping on the job, Kenobi." He reached over to pinch his companion's earlobe; at the injured padawan's indignant grunt, he shrugged. "Bant said it was a good way to keep somebody conscious as long as possible," he confessed. "After we get outta here, take it up with her."

Obi-Wan grumbled something or other that was too quiet and too slurred to be easily understood, so Garen let it slide and contemplated their predicament. "Well…I could try to climb the thing, I suppose," he said aloud, even as he surveyed the rough stone walls of the crudely dug well they'd managed to fall into. He nearly snorted again at the thought of having to explain themselves to their respective masters, until he considered the recent consequences of dirt.

Plenty of that had fallen in with them, too. Garen wasn't nearly as fastidious as his best friend, but at the same time, he knew he likely looked even less a model padawan than he usually did. "Boy, we'll have some tale to tell Master Troon's little monsters next time we have crèche duty, huh, Obi?" He very carefully shifted once more, and this time he grinned. "I think I see my 'saber…I can almost reach it…"

They'd landed, of course, in a complicated tangle of limbs and tunics, boots and a hefty shower of dirt as the abandoned well covering gave way beneath their combined weight during a rather spirited sparring—

"Chossssi," Obi-Wan slurred heavily, but his annoyance was clearly felt in the Force.

"Hey, it's not my fault you decided to do that…inverted, whatever-the-Force-that-was that put you behind me. Who taught you that one anyway; I've never seen you use it before. Master Qui-Gon?" Getting his companion to talk when he didn't want to could be a challenge on a good day, and this didn't exactly fit the lexical description of good. Still, Garen was determined to keep Obi-Wan conscious, and if that meant being a Sith-spawned pest, then so be it.

Garen stretched, just barely getting his fingers around a lightsaber hilt. "Yes!" he exclaimed as he worked his prize free from the small crevice it had tumbled into. Relieved, he thumbed the familiar switch, throwing the claustrophobic walls into shades of black and azure as the plasma blade shot upward.

Obi-Wan looked bad, and Garen winced. In the garish light of a 'saber at close range, he could make out a sluggishly bleeding cut just below Obi-Wan's hairline, where the injured padawan had made rather solid contact with one of the hard stones making up the well's interior. "Kriff," he murmured aloud, which gained him a slight disapproving sound from the patient in question. "Look," Garen reasoned, "Master Rhara's already gonna make me meditate 'til I'm fifty anyway, I don't think a single cuss word's gonna make it any worse."

"Wha' 'bout…your han'?" Obi-Wan wanted to know. Garen shrugged even as he gingerly lifted his free hand, which likely was broken and hurt like the blazes.

"Somebody's gotta save your skin, Obi. I think I have more to be afraid of from Bant for getting you hurt. Master Rhara's gonna have my hide, sure, but Bant's gonna kill me."

This time Obi-Wan snorted. Which turned into sneezing and coughing, groaning and cursing for both of them.