Broonmark

The speech synthesizer box around Broonmark’s chest spoke in Republic Standard, which she understood little better than she did Talz. They seemed to have one common language, though – that of gesture and emotion. She’d prepared all her life, she thought drily, to communicate through language barriers. They should use her as an ambassador. That line of thought drifted dangerously close to expecting better circumstances in the Empire, so she quickly switched her attention back to Broonmark.
Sith clan understands us, Broonmark said. Sith clan speaks with claws and blood also.
She wasn’t a blunt instrument, she wasn’t Baras’ warblade, she wasn’t some animal that could only snarl, she was a person, a human citizen of the Empire. But she understood what Brooonmark meant. He didn’t mean it as an insult. He meant it as an ‘at last’. She didn’t nod at him, but she did meet his gaze.
We will fight with Sith Clan, said Broonmark.
She slapped one gloved fist against her chest. He returned the gesture with one of his furry paws. She tilted her head up. They raised their blades and fought as one.