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
Broken beams jut up from a collapsed building to the side. Glass and rubble litter the floors of the hallway. A steady rain plops down from the grey sky, unhurried fat drops of water slowly washing everything back to the dirt. Once, long ago, this place was a bastion of light in the galaxy. Now it is a gutted shell of it's former glory, the Jedi Enclave of Dantooine, a silent marker for the death of the Jedi.
Rules: -Battle Arena Standard -Top Ten Force Powers
*Andor's silhouette stood still, a dark shadow against the grey, rainy skyline. He was clad in his usual crimson tunic, overlaid with his heavy black cloak. HIs crimson eyes pierced the darkness cast over his face by his hood as looked over the remains of the Jedi Enclave.*
*Andor had picked up rumors that the Jedi were researching an antidote to the plague that was devastating the galaxy, and the trail had lead him here. But it was abandoned, fallen into ruin.*
*The Sith Lord knew he'd been brought here for something. If not the answers to his search, then what? Instinctively, Andor's hand brushed against the holster on his right hip, undoing the strap, freeing his DC-15s blaster pistol for a quick draw if it was needed. He felt the cool metal of his lightsaber hilts strapped to the insides of his forearms, hidden amongst his sleeves. Lastly, he was reassured by the small bulge in the pouch on the small of his back, his last resort, a thermal detonator.*
*He opened his mind to the Force, letting the Darkside rush his senses. He let his aura spread, it's darkness covering everything around him. He felt the floor, littered with broken glass and debris. He felt the walls, crippled and cracked. He felt the rain, cold and heavy as it melded into his clothes. He felt the deaths of the Jedi who had been slain here, their memories and pain lingering, sending shivers down the Sith's spine.*
I watched Andor from within the ruins of the enclave for some time, amber eyes narrowed. His arrival had been expected, yet I hesitated to step out into the open. Not out of any sense of trepidation- no, I simply wish to savor the moment. Those few tense seconds when the hunt is complete and the battle is about to be joined are always saturated with adrenaline. It's a rare commodity for a being as old and weary as I.
But alas it is time to commit to the destruction of the Order of Ruin. Andor will be my first victim, separated from the herd of the Council and cut down. Abbadon will be next. Rousing myself, I stepped out from between the broken beams and shattered duracrete and into the cold mist and rain. Immediately I pull the dark side to me, nostrils flaring as it embraces my advances. I don't hesitate, pulling it close and forging it quickly- my will a hammer on hot, malleable steel- into a specific form: Force Crush. I don't strike just yet, though.
Instead my lightsaber finds its way into my right hand, the curved hilt resting in my palm with my index finger extended down its length. It's the only weapon I carry, but it will be more than enough to end the Lord of Deception.
-Snap/Hiss!-
Steam rises from the length of the crimson blade as the rain continued to fall.
"Don't you know it's dangerous to wander alone?" I ask, lips curling into a derisive smile.
There was presence to his left, and as Andor turned to face it, he recognized the voice all too clearly. The Lord of Corruption, Ishmael Centaris. Treachery, treason... deception. How did Andor not see this? His anger flared as Ishmael's blade ignited, his mind selfishly gulping in the darkside of the force, lapping it up like a thirsty dog.
"I could say the same thing to you," He sneered, his voice as cold as ice.
Then the tension broke, as Andor moved. His left hand, which rested calmly at his side, closed into a fist. He had been aware of his surroundings, connected to them through the Force, and suddenly the shards of glass of various sizes and lengths around Ishmael came to life as they shot to penetrate the Lord of Corruption's skin. Hoping to catch the Sith off guard with his telekinetic attack, Andor hoped the broken glass would dig its way into Ishmael's body, turning him into a pincushion, taking an eye or puncturing an organ in the process.
His retort was delivered in typical sneering fashion. I'd worked with him on Korriban long enough that I hadn't expected anything else. Like me, like all of us, his confidence in himself was absolute and unwavering. There would be no pleading, nor even a tentative stab at reason. His supremacy had been challenged, and now he would meet the threat with violence.
I rather liked that about him. Straightforward.
My opponent didn't move, but I felt the force suddenly saturate the air around me. I'm not sure what his exact intentions were, but I can determine by feel alone that I am not his target; his energy is focused around me, but I don't feel the familiar tingle of force energy prickling at my skin. What's your game, Andor? Combustion? Whirlwind? For the briefest of moments I consider loosing the Force Crush I've been preparing. With the technique readied and honed in my mind, I may even be able to smash his skull before he can loose whatever attack he has planned. But that would be a waste, and such overkill cannot be tolerated.
Bah, I don't have time for this.
My lightsaber deactivates and I throw myself to my left just as Andor's power erupts around the area I'd been occupying moments before. I'm not acrobat; I land heavily on my left side, grunting as crumbs of glass shower down upon me- the shards had impacted one another and exploded. Had I not moved I'd have been skewered like kebab.
Clever, Andor, but was such a display really necessary?
I pull myself to my feet, expressionless, and ignite my lightsaber once more (assuming I am allowed to). One last chance, Andor, to show me the full extent of your power- and the level of self control with which you wield it.
Andor watched as Ishmael dodged out of the way in the knick of time, avoiding the Sith's attack. As the Lord of Corruption landed a bit ungracefully to Andor's right, Andor had the urge to move in for the kill. Then and there.
But he withheld. He could sense the power surrounding his opponent, building up... preparing. Andor wasn't familiar with Ishamael's fighting style, wasn't entirely sure what approach to take. The Force flowed around him and through him... it was a part of him. He let it wrap around himself like a cocoon, a maelstrom of energy, waiting to be unleashed.
The Lord of Corruption stood up and re-ignited his blade, yet remained still. It seemed clear that he was trying to get Andor to press the offense, but Andor, too waited. With a flick of his wrist, the lightsaber hilt on his left forearm broke loose of its strap, the cool phryik hilt sliding into his awaiting prothetic palm.
The crimson blade screamed forth, ready to do battle, as Andor stepped forward, placing himself about 15 feet between himself and his opponent. His left leg was forward, the blade held vertically in a two-handed grip slightly to his right, the crimson light eerily accenting his facial features.
"If you're planning to kill me, get on with it," He chided, "I don't have all day."
For a moment I'm tempted to lash out with Force Crush- it would be quite easy to destroy both the hands he's so obligingly holding out in front of himself, and with my mind and senses honed and ready for one specific technique, I think I can do it before he's able to counter. But that would be in bad taste, wouldn't it? Besides, I already know I'm the strongest force user in the universe right now; I want to know if I'm the best swordsman, too.
I snapped my blade up, suddenly, bringing it up vertically with the emitter in front of my forehead. The Makashi Salute. Normally it's followed by the Flourish, but instead its followed by sudden, long strides forward. My blade returned to my right side, and I fixed my yellow eyes on my opponent. A strong, solid stance, a two handed grip. We'll see if he sticks with it once I put the pressure on, or if he adapts.
Two thirds of the distance is consumed by my advance, and then I strike. With my right foot forward, I blade my body to the left and lash out with a lightning quick thrust aimed for the shin of Andor's forward leg. It's a weak strike, with no power or momentum behind it; as long as he can keep up with the speed, it can be batted aside with no difficulty.
It's a feint, though.
If Andor reacts to parry, I'll roll my wrist counter clockwise, looping my blade beneath his defense and circling around in a quick, horizontal cut at his right hand. If he doesn't, well, I'll let my blade get close enough to sear the skin off his leg before I retract it. 'Just the tip', you know.
I'm expressionless as my onslaught begins, but feelings of manic aggression are already flooding me as I continue to draw on the dark side, hoarding power in preparation for when I would need it most. We'll see if either of us live long enough to see it unleashed.
Andor watched as Ishmael performed the infamous Makashi salute, before moving forward to engage the Lord of Deception. Makashi, a form known for its grace and precision, a form that would contrast strongly with Andor's own preference for Ataru. In the time it took for Ishmael to cross the distance to Andor (which of course was only a few seconds, neither of the combatants in any hurry it would seem), the Sith watched the Lord of Corruption's approach, trying to find some sort of hint at to what would happen first.
But Ishmael was skilled, as Andor expected. His opponent lunged forward, the initial thrust fueled with speed more-so than power. Tension broke as Andor reacted with speed and grace, his own crimson blade humming to do battle.
Andor's left leg flexed as he pushed off of it, doing a small hop backwards, his own blade circling low to swat the attacking blade off to his left (Ishmael's right). Andor knew a thrust by itself was almost useless... there was always a follow-through. Then, when the blades should have collided, Ishmael's blade diverted, moving into a new sequence of attacks, moving in a small arc to aimed to come beneath Andor's blade and up and through his right hand.
There was no time to think, Andor's instinct and reflex guided his movements as he released his two handed grip, his right hand maintaining its grip on his lightsaber. With his left hand free, it crossed beneath his right arm, his arms now forming an "X", intercepting the blade before it could connect with his organic wrist.
Of course, Andor hadn't been dubbed the Lord of Deception just "for the heck of it". He was cunning, he lived in the shadows like a wraith, trickery and deception were his weapons... And now, he sought to catch his opponent off guard.
The blade connected with Andor's left forearm, but it failed to slice through. Sparks flickered as the crimson blade connected with Andor's prothetic arm, one that Andor had long laced with cortosis, a metal substance known for it's lightsaber resistant qualities and for its ability to cause such a blade to short out. But the metal was brittle, only able to sustain one or two strikes, but that's all that Andor needed.
As Ishmael's blade struck his arm, it should be only milliseconds away from most likely shorting out, a huge molten gash appeared in Andor's arm, exposing metal and wires. Had it been a two-handed strike, the blade would have definitely sliced through.
Hopefully with the element of surprise, and with Ishmael's defenses compromised, Andor's blade slashed horizontally from his left to right, as he stepped forward into his opponent's guard, hoping to bisect him at the waist.
I cock an eyebrow; that's the only manifestation of my sudden realization, made as the Sith's left hand moves on a direct path to intercept the snarling blade of my lightsaber. He's fast, I'll give him that- maybe even as fast as me. But deceptive? Hardly. There is only one possibility, one conclusion to reach (other than that Andor has taken leave of his senses, which I quickly discount), and I do so immediately. His left hand- and only his left, else he'd not have bothered defending his right- is a prosthetic, forged from some form of lightsaber-resistant material, most likely in the form of a mesh interwoven with the synthflesh giving the appendage its lifelike appearance. Ah, but what is it? Phrikite? Beskar? Songsteel?
It's too late to avoid contact now, and though my blade cuts deep into his forearm, it ultimately stops, then shorts out in a shower of sparks.
Cortosis.
I make a -tsk- noise as my weight transfers to my left foot and I spring backward, matching Andor's sudden advance with a retreat of equal measure. It's time, I think.
Airborne, if only for a split second, I snap the fingers of my left hand, and loose the energy I had so carefully hoarded and molded into a singular use- Force Crush. Such a technique at full force could quite literally turn durasteel to powder; my application is much more...relaxed. After all, I have no need of such a display- it's a waste. Instead of a constant, irresistible pressure I release the energy in a single, devastating thunderclap. My target is the Sith's right ankle, and instead of smashing it in a hydraulic press, my technique is more the equivalent of catching it between two sledgehammers, falling simultaneously.
It's a solid maneuver. Having honed my energies for this specific purpose, I don't think there's a single power he can bring against me in time to stop my attack- other than maybe the weakest of telekinesis, which wouldn't be enough to distract me anyway, and as I land I smoothly backpedal two more steps, carrying my further out of reach of his lightsaber- which would be completing its initial slash just as the snap of my fingers reverberates, drowned out by its sinister hum.
Oh, but I've been wrong before, Andor, and something tells me we're just getting started. My weapon will reactivate shortly- the effects of cortosis aren't permanent. You've still got time to capitalize on the opening, so come and do so.
For the first time in a long time I feel something like contentment streaming through me. It seems the only time I'm capable of feeling anything other than the empty vacuum of hopelessness is as I close in on the kill. I guess that means many more will have to die after you, but for now, let's enjoy the moment.
As Andor's adversary moved backwards, Andor followed through with his own momentum, cartwheeling to his right, his blade disengaging as he moved closer to the ruined building that was the Jedi Enclave. As he landed, his lightsaber hilt rested in his left hand, his right hand quickly drawing the blaster pistol from its holster, the strap holding it in having been unclipped at the beginning of their encounter.
Hard to deflect blaster bolts when you don't have a blade, Ishmael.
Suddenly, there was a tingling sensation crawling its way around Andor's right ankle, threatening to snap it. Quickly, Andor fired three shots at Ishmael, primarily aimed for center mass. But at the end of the day, it was meant to serve as a distraction and hopefully break Ishmael's line of sight as he avoided the crimson bolts that screamed from the barrel... If he could avoid them at such a close distance....
The sensation was growing stronger, Andor's ankle bone threatening to give as Andor's mind rapidly called upon the Force, manipulating it around him for it's next use, his anger and frustration of being in this damn predicament in the first place fueling his body.
As soon as the third bolt left Andor's blaster, he continued to move, sprinting for the ruined building, which was not far from him now. His feet left the ground (if Ishmael's Force Crush had been diverted) as Andor dove through a hole in one of the many ruined and cracked walls, disappearing into the shadows of the building, the darkness swallowing him from sight.
Remarkable, that arm of his. Severed wires and hydraulic cables dangle from it like mechanical gore, and yet it supports him effortlessly as he tumbles away, transferring his lightsaber to it before his feet have even touched the ground. I'm surprised not so much by the acrobatics- after all, I've fought at Andor's side before, and know roughly what he's capable of- but by how he chooses to employ them, stretching the the time he has to interrupt my attack to the absolute limit with a dodge that was wholly unnecessary.
Ah, but he lands with a blaster pistol halfway out of its holster, and brings the weapon to bear upon me. My thumb taps rhythmically against the activation stud of my lightsaber, but the blade has yet to recover from its clash with the cortosis ore. I am fast enough to dodge one blaster bolt, I'm sure, but I'm no acrobat, and it wouldn't be graceful. I would be in no position to evade the next few shots.
So instead, I brace myself, teeth gritted as I tense every muscle of my body for impact, and pour my will into crushing Andor's ankle. I have no equal, and I will not be stopped.
The first blaster bolt hit me directly in the right pectoral, and promptly dissipated against the Norris-infused cloth of my robes. The impact was still significant, akin to a hay-maker from a fist of thermal energy, and my right foot slid back to compensate for it. Pain rippled through chest and right shoulder, but it was nothing serious...and nowhere near enough to break my focus.
Between the first and second blaster bolts, I hear the crack of Andor's ankle shattering.
Now I move, throwing myself to the right in a graceless roll. My already bruised right shoulder hits the ground harder than I intended, and I'm grimacing as I come up into a crouch. There's no time for me to indulge in the pain, or celebrate in my success. Andor will be very dangerous for the next few seconds- though I've destroyed his mobility, and taken away his ability to use Ataru, he still has the ability to strike at range, both with his blaster and the force. My own reserves of energy are by no means depleted; I shaped the Crush before we ever locked blades, honing it into a low-powered version that barely sapped my strength.
In other words, while I am in no danger, I am still in the most danger I'm likely to be in for the duration of our engagement. Sloppiness is always rewarded with injury, and so instead of remaining static I straighten as I come out of my roll, and begin to stalk toward the lesser Sith.
My thumb continued its motion, rapidly tapping the activation stud. I'd counted the seconds in my head- six now- and knew it would be only moments before my blade flared to life.
Andor managed to fire his pistol once before there was the sound of shattering bone. Immediately, white hot pain seared from his ankle, up his leg, and into his entire body. Andor screamed in both agony and rage as he fell backwards to the ground, landing heavily on his back. Orienting himself quickly, fueled by his pain, Andor siphoned at his emotions and at the Force like a tick. Unlike others, and as Ishmael was surely aware, the pain only empowered the Sith, rather than weakened them.
There was about twenty feet between the two combatants as Ishmael began his approach, his blade still out of commission. The sheer power that welled up inside him escaped him, targeting the Lord of Corruption as he moved.
"Just die!" Andor roared as he sat up, his legs bent and his feet planted firmly in the ground, the pressure on his right foot sending spikes of white pain through his body, and unlimited supply of energy, until Andor's mind would be unable to endure it any further. His words were filled with hate as his mind warped the Force into a plague, seeking to poison Ishmael. Suddenly, Ishmael would feel an impact in his mind as Andor fought to drain him of his health and stamina with every passing moment. If Andor was successful, its effects would only get worse with time. Andor's abilities primarily focused on mental attacks, rather than brute force or lightsaber combat. His own mind and will, empowered with the Darkside, with his rage, with his pain, with his hatred, sought to break through any mental barriers Ishmael would be able to conjure in time, and wreck havoc on his being with every mental tooth and claw he could muster.
As he had fallen to the ground, Andor lost grip of his lightsaber, which now lay deactivated a few feet to his left, but his pistol remained in the grip of his right hand. Quickly, he raised it and pumped the trigger three times, his aim not as accurate as it normally would be (since his focus is diverted at the moment), but at a rapidly decreasing distance with each step the Lord of Corruption takes, it wouldn't be terribly difficult to hit the man, his time to react decreasing with each step and with each second he fought against the mental attack.
I didn't respond. I can feel the pain and the hatred boiling off of the Lesser Sith, and my eyes narrowed in anticipation. As I had expected, his injury would make him more dangerous...for a time, anyway. When you back an animal into the corner it will often turn ferocious, and it seems Andor is no exception. Fortunately, I am quite unlike anything he's ever faced before.
His power lashed out unopposed, and I felt its full weight.
Affliction. Plague. The technique had many names- I should know, as I'm highly proficient in its use. Over time it would kill me in arguably the most gruesome fashion possible. Within seconds I would be horribly ill, within minutes I would be unconscious. Nausea, fever, boils and pox, swelling of the brain, unchecked necrosis of the extremities. It is possible to guard against Andor's efforts simply by swelling my power to meet his own- in order to work a constant stream of energy must be maintained, unopposed.
But I don't. Within two steps a sheen of sweat breaks out on my forehead, the beginning of a fever. I ignore it and instead pull let my energy swell not in defense, but in preparation.
As Andor's hand comes up, I mirror his movement while twisting to the side- pivoting on my forward foot and blading my body to the right, my left arm snaps out toward my opponent. My left hand curls into a claw and twists, like turning a door knob, and once again I strike with Telekinesis- a Force Grip to twist the lesser Sith's wrist in one savage motion, snapping bones and hopefully shattering his concentration. If not, it would at least remove the blaster pistol from the playing field.
In the midst of this, the first blaster bolt streaked by me, close enough I felt the heat of it through my robes.
I feel a heavy wave of fatigue roll over me, and not from Andor's plague. Using the force twice in rapid succession like that was draining, even if they were incredibly minor applications. If I kept up this pace I would burn myself out almost immediately, but that's alright. The fight is over, all that's left is to mop up the mess.
And then...
-Snap/Hiss!-
The crimson blade of my lightsaber suddenly flares to life- sputtering once before boiling out to its full length. Expressionless still, I resume my march toward my seated prey. I am unhurried, but my stride is nearly three feet, and I will be upon him in five steps. You have only seconds to stop me, Andor, and even if you maintain your focus, I'll be upon you before I'm suffering from anything worse than a nasty flu, and I promise, you're not going to like what happens when I finally get ahold of you.
Andor's mind bristled as he assaulted his opponent with sickness, but as his pistol fired its first shot, Andor had noticed Ishamael's movements, but was too engaged in his use of the Force to react in time. There was a pressure on his wrist, threatening to twist it, to break it. Rather than fight it, Andor succumbed to the grip, his mind fixed on its use of Force Plague.
Andor's wrist contorted as it was twisted clockwise, the pistol ripped from his grasp as it was thrown to the ground. There was a loud pop and a crack as the Sith Lord's scaphoid broke. Immediately, Andor was flooded with white hot pain yet again, an unlimited supply power. The pain was what grounded him, it kept his mind bristling. Clinging to the pain desperately, Andor's power briefly surged yet again, his Force Plague unbroken.
Immediately, Andor's head began to pulsate, his vision becoming cloudy. Yes, the Force was unlimited, and yes, Andor's pain was infinite. But however, Andor's body was a limited conduit of the Force, only able to channel so much of it at a time before becoming fatigued... or worse. Andor knew this, and he knew it his reserves would be drained in only a matter of seconds... But then again, Andor wasn't even sure if he'd be alive long enough to overextend himself.
It was a gamble he was forced to take.
Andor only had seconds, as his opponent stalked forward. He pushed with all his might, targeting Ishmael's heart... If he could induce a seizure, or heart failure, Ishmael would become immobile. Andor was already in Ishmael's body, the Lord of Corruption having not defended against his initial attack... He was already rooted. Now it was time to wrack as much damage as he could in the time he had.
Meanwhile, Andor's breathing grew shallow, his head spiking with pain at his consumption of the Force. With his left leg and his left arm, Andor began to crawl slowly backwards... Not in fear, but to bide time. Every second counted. With every step Ishmael took, Andor made one small scoot backwards. Of course, the Lord of Corruption was covering more distance with each stride, and as he was three steps away from Andor, the Lord of Deception reached behind him, his right hand slipping into the small pouch. Hopefully Ishmael would be too distracted from the Plague to notice anything.
There was a feeling of cold metal as Andor weakly gripped the small, explosive ball, his thumb resting on the activation switch. Once activated, Andor would be the only one able to deactivate it.... and the timer was set for four seconds.
Andor kept it hidden, waiting for Ishmael to get as close as possible, but at the end of the day, as long as he was within a six meter radius when it detonated, that's all that would matter.
I faltered as the first palpitation hit me, right knee momentarily threatening to buckle under my weight before it solidified itself. My left eye was involuntarily screwed shut against the pain, which I imagine was on the same level as a minor heart attack. If this is allowed to continue, I do believe I'll suffer from cardiac arrest and die- or at least become so incapacitated I am unable to defend myself, which amounts to the same thing.
I should note that while these thoughts race through my brain there is another, fleeting and subconscious, that marvels at Andor's ingenuity. To use general plague symptoms to gain a foothold in my body, and from there focus his energies on a more specific target...absolutely brilliant. Once I'm finished killing him, I do believe I'll add that nifty trick to my own repertoire. Apparently even a god can still learn from his lessers, after all.
But, back to the task at hand.
The distance between us is negligible- ten feet, if that. If I take one more step I'll be close enough to potentially lunge forward and reach the sitting Andor with the tip of my blade. But my legs still feel like jelly, and sweat is beading on my forehead. The pain in my chest is getting worse with every heartbeat, and my jaw has locked itself shut. I'm rapidly running out of options, and so I must act now. With my connection to the force still shaky from overuse, and no ranged weapons at my disposal, I'm left with only one way forward.
My right arm uncoils like a whip, flipping my lightsaber out in an underhanded throw. At this range, it makes one full rotation at lightning speed, and consumes the distance between us. Its second arc will cut the prone Sith in half just below the rib cage, blade slicing from my right to left before landing in the dirt just behind him- unless he can counter it, of course, in which case I'm most likely in a lot of trouble. With that in mind my left leg quivers as I go to continue my advance, but of course I don't even have time to lift my foot off the ground before my blade will reach Andor, no matter the outcome.
