A massive cataclysm has struck the universe, and destroyed most everything in its wake. The survivors are now trying to pick up the pieces, and figure out exactly what has befallen them. Gather together, lightsiders!! The darkness has shattered the peace and calm of the galaxy...and they will do anything to stop anyone from finding out exactly what has been done! This is our first sitewide RP plotline. Lightsiders, you are looking for the source of this massive event. Clues must be found, lackeys tracked down, and bits of memory discovered. Darksiders, you guys don't want that to happen....because of the one behind the whole thing is furthering his ultimate goal. Mandalorians, and non-force users, you guys can decide where you stand on this line....do you side with the Jedi, and try to discover the reasons behind the ruined universe, or will you side with the darkness, and protect those secrets. Will the secret of the cataclysmic reaping be kept under wraps? Or will the Jedi and their allies find out the truth? Your RP and writing will decide the outcome!
BATTLE ARENA
Welcome to The Saga Continues. We have a section called the Battle Arena. Here you can use your characters to fight other characters. Hone your skills and see what you are made of. Don't worry, anything that happens here, does not effect your characters in posts, so if your character dies, you can still use them over and over. Have fun and check it out!
The Saga Continues is the product of the mind of ADMIN ADI; all contents are copyright their original owners. All characters belong to their original creators, and may not be used or replicated without permission. All images are copyright their original owners. This skin Operation Mindcrime was made by pharaoh leap of Pixel Perfect and put together by ADMIN KRYSTAL
Night time on Kashyyk, the combatants are in the shadowlands (on the ground) shadows and the sounds of beasts are plentiful. The ground is damp and the air humid with large roots making an obstacle course of the field. The Forest is filled with vicious beasts that may turn up at any time in packs big enough to send the natives running for the nearest elevator to the nearest canopy settlement.
Roots vary in size and reach up to 40 ft in the air with open space below them and are generally moss covered making them slick and harder to be sure footed on.
Looking around, it didn't seem like much. Just a patch of dirt in the darkness of the shadowlands.
I mean, sure there was the patchwork roots of varying sizes, criss-crossing the dirt and giving it some character, but other than that it wasn't much.
Still, this was definitely the place.
To the average observer, he would likely look incredibly out of place in this, uh... place. Not least because of the fact he wasn't a Wookiee, but also because of his garb. A simple tunic and pants, with legs wrapped from toes to knees and arms from knuckles to elbows. He definitely appeared to be the martial artist he was.
Yet, he did not appear to belong in this place.
Nevertheless, he knew this was where he needed to be, and so here he was. He took a seat in the dirt, laying his brylark staff across his knees, and closed his eyes to listen and wait.
The Prophet of Kad Harangir hummed a tune as he separated skin from flesh with quick, decisive cuts. It was an old battle hymn he'd learned during the Crusades, and it filled the humid air with melancholy as the Wookiee's pelt was harvested. He'd long forgotten the words- the shaping of a galaxy had a way of crowding one's thoughts- but he remembered it being a song of mourning. Not for a life, but for the spirit of a people.
Ancient, yet relevant after all these years.
His crushgaunts and bracers were slick with gore by the time he heaved the pelt up onto a nearby root, but he retrieved the fiber-cord from his belt deftly enough. He knotted it around the creature's ankles, then tossed the other end up and over one of the taller roots. Veins bulged in the priest's exposed arms and neck as he hauled on the line, lifting the flayed creature into the air. He was grunting with exertion by the time he managed to tie the cord to the root where the pelt lay, leaving the Wookiee suspended upside-down, bloody fingertips brushing the damp dirt below.
Faust heaved a sigh and leaned back, taking a moment to catch his breath and survey his handiwork. Blood dripped steadily from his sacrifice, feeding a rapidly growing pool. It was a gruesome effigy to Kad, to be sure, but its primary purpose was educational in nature, rather than ritualistic. To lay bare the truth to his kith and kin, that they might find Kad's embrace at last.
After a long moment, the blood-covered Mandalorian sheathed his dirk and tucked the Wookiee's pelt under his arm. He gave the corpse a fond pat as he passed by it, stepping around another bark-covered protrusion, and came face to face with a humanoid, sitting in the dirt.
"Make way, aruetti." he said in a mechanical snarl, gesturing with the pelt, "this one's clan will not be far behind, and if they find me now their rage will blind them to the truth."
"I deal in death and thralls, aruetti. Which is it you seek?"
A deep breath told him all he needed to know of the situation, even without opening his eyes. The long exhale that followed broadcast his displeasure at the man's choice of prey, but there was nothing he could have done to change the creature's fate.
"Let me guess. You're some kind of religious fanatic."
It was less a question than a statement. If he'd been a slaver, he'd have taken the wookiee alive, and if he was a bounty hunter, there probably wouldn't have been that comment about truth.
Force, he hated religion.
Regardless of his motives though, this man had slaughtered and skinned a sentient being, and it was really the skinning part that lent to Galen's growing desire to see him stopped.
"You should have a seat and wait with me," he said, patting the dirt beside him.
In the time it took for the prone figure to finish his disapproving sigh, Faust had magnified his HUD to take a closer look. What he saw didn't surprise him. Simple cloth garments, an obvious meditation stance, and no other weaponry or gear save a simple wooden staff: a Forceful.
'Kad,' the Mandalorian mused, 'their are even more of them now than before Ashrah's crusade...'
He blinked as he considered the question. "I suppose it must seem that way to you. The Destroyer God speaks, and I relay his truths to the galaxy." The priest unceremoniously dropped the pelt in the dirt, then wiped his bloody palm across the face of his buy'ce, painting a gaping, crimson grin across the beskar. "Right now, he's telling me to consecrate the ground with your blood."
Lightning fast, the priest yanked his Ripper from its holster and raised the pistol. He squeezed the trigger rapidly, firing three slugs at the sitting man's chest before starting toward him with steady strides.
"I deal in death and thralls, aruetti. Which is it you seek?"
Galen had been listening intently as the other man spoke, though not especially to his words. The soft "whump" of the pelt hitting dirt was the first cue, and the following scrape of metal on leather the second and final one.
Quick as the man drew and aimed, Galen threw himself back, lying down flat on the dirt behind him as he opened his eyes to watch the three rounds pass through the air above.
A roll to the left, turning into a handspring to get him on his feet, would carry him out of the immediate path of the weapon. At least long enough to steady himself, staff held ready before him.
The other man looked about as good as he smelled, covered in gore and ichor, and boasting plates of that famed mandalorian armor.
That was not what he'd been hoping to see. Not even a little bit.
Bark exploded from the root behind Galen as the figure deftly- almost casually- laid on his back. Faust sneered. Bullets weren't cheap. With the galaxy in tatters and most manufacturing ground to a halt, the priest's resources were limited. So he waited for his newfound foe to finish his acrobatics, the barrel of his pistol tracking the figure lazily throughout.
He raised an eyebrow as the man brought the wooden staff into full guard. Did he intend to ward off a hail of gunfire with a stick? 'The conceit of Forcefuls never fails to amaze.' he thought, not without a hint of amusement. Still, the slain Wookiee's kin were hot on his trail, and bound to have heard the gunshots. He would do well to kill the aruetti quickly.
He fired again, this time from ten paces away, and his right hand reached up to yank his beskad free. Unless the Forceful attacked first, the priest would finish closing the distance with his right foot forward, his blade extending in a wicked thrust to the man's solar plexus.
"I deal in death and thralls, aruetti. Which is it you seek?"
With the staff already before him, it was almost laughably easy to intercept the bolt. Hell, the man had almost shot right at it on his own. Just a little up and to the right and the norris-dye soaked staff would soak up the energy like a dry spon...
CRACK!!!
...oh.
Not a blaster bolt.
Energy coated slug.
That explained the ungodly bang every time he pulled the trigger. Should not have just assumed it was nothing more than a really powerful blaster. Never gonna do that again.
He only had an instant to mourn the sight of his staff split down the middle with a slug wedged between before he had another, more immediate problem to deal with. Thankfully, though, the sword was headed for almost the same place the slug had been, and he managed to catch the leading edge before it could slip past.
CREEEAAAKKKK!
It held for a moment, but even the steel-strong wood had been pushed well past its limits and snapped under the pressure on the oncoming blade. He dropped it instantly, and his hands came together in front of his chest to catch the sword's blade between his palms and halt its progress toward his chest.
Corded muscles bunched in the priest's arms as he continued applying pressure to the blade. With the man unable to release the weapon, he stepped in with his left leg, putting him right next to his foe. The elbow of his right arm was tucked against his side, his shoulder hunched in to keep weight behind the blade.
His left hand came up, forearm laying across his stomach, and dug the barrel of the Ripper into Galen's ribs.
"A cheap weapon for a poor warrior. Submit, aruetti." Behind the mask of his buy'ce, a cruel smile bowed his flayed lips. "You would make a poor excuse for a sacrifice, but the meek have their place as thralls."
In the end, it made no difference whether the man chose death or subjugation. Defiance would lead only to more blood being spilled, and Kad would be appeased. And if he were to submit, well...the Prophet could use someone to carry his trophies.
"I deal in death and thralls, aruetti. Which is it you seek?"
Galen moved with him, stepping back and left as the mandalorian moved forward. The blade he shifted (though swatted may be a better description) to the right as he moved, until it no longer threatened his chest.
Releasing it, his right hand dropped to better defend his stomach, while his left remained in the vicinity of his chest. He stepped once more, gaining a hair more distance as his right foot shifted back and his stance finished switching completely.
"It may have been a poor weapon, but it was a fantastic walking stick."
He knew this wouldn't be the end of it though. Knew the man would fire again with that accursed slug thrower, and so he began to prepare. His decades of training had taught him well, and though he lacked the skills most common in force users, he possessed another set just as potent.
And so, as he moved a step away it fell once again to his opponent to strike or run. The first of which would serve Galen far more than the mandalorian as the wookiees continued to close in.
