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
*Addison closes the gap. Malapert gets up and prepares to attack.*
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*Addison opens with a double-handed swing aimed at Malapert's lightsaber. Malapert feints a guard, but rotates his lightsaber underneath her slash at first contact.*
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*The follow-through of her swing gives Malapert the outside lane. He charges in, and tries to slice through her front knee.*
*In the loitering area, a silver-blue apparition manifests. Do you know him? Of course I know him. He's me. In the long-practiced habit of the living, unused to being newly-deceased, I walk rather than glide. A tournament's on. They're providing live feeds of the matches, which are all in an Imperial hangar of some sort. Over here, a holo-display of a zabrak I met named Loki, hanging from a tractor beam. Over there, a Gen'dai buried by rubble. Some weird little rat-creature with a bunch of bombs. Whole lot of Mandalorians. I drink it all in, a bit at a time.* "...I don't seem to ever remember there being this much effort being made for spectators before. Pretty nice."
*Malapert jumps off of the hoversled at the same time Addison dives out of its way. He uses Telekinesis to pursue her with it.*
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*Addison shoots the hoversled, which explodes. This explosion causes the thermal detonator to explode. Addison is turning to run for cover when these explosions happen, almost on top of her. Malapert is further away and largely unaffected by them.*
*Malapert moves to one of the hoversleds sitting around and turns it on. He grabs his lightsaber, arms a thermal detonator, unclips his belt, and flies the hoversled on a crash course with her.*
[/font][/span][/ul] *Comes the response as he makes to claim the chair. So he adopts another smile, and then heads across the way to the next candidate place. That one has no owner, and Toryn sits down.
As Toryn situates himself in his newfound spot, he becomes aware that the speaker at the podium has paused his delivery, and that nearly all faces in the space have turned toward him. This realization sinks in, and as it does he slowly closes his eyes.*[/ul] [/font]
Name: Malapert Piffle Species: Kowakian Monkey-Lizard (Canon guide, Legends guide) Coloration: Reddish-brown; black beak & black hair Height: 67 cm Weight: 7 kg
Kowakian Monkey-Lizards defy sentient categorization. On the one hand, they have not developed a civilization of the sort that would indicate higher levels of thought processing. On the other hand, their ability to use tools, and uncanny sense of humor, would suggest that they know more than they let on. It is this author's opinion that they are best described as semi-sentient, capable of identifying danger and forming rudimentary tactical plans.
Malapert Piffle is the second-known example of a Force sensitive Kowakian (the first being the Sithspawn, Picaroon C. Boodle). Perhaps due to his affinity for the Force, Malapert is one of the more intelligent examples of his species. But like all Kowakians, he holds a penchant for cruel mischief-making at others' expenses.
Equipment: Lightsaber shoto (blue, unstable blade, 10 cm hilt length, 30 cm blade length) Blurrg-1120 holdout blaster pistol (6 shot capacity) Thermal detonator (1) Bandelier belt Armor: None Force Powers: Force Speed Protection Bubble Telekinesis Force Weapon Force Blinding
*The farm over which Toryn Vizsla walks is located on the second moon of the Concord Dawn system. It is home to a single settlement. Slate is the name of this village.
The town of Slate was founded at Toryn's request, during the rule of Mandalor the Architect. After the war, before the crusade. Soldiers who age beyond the point of battlefield fitness return to their homes and pursue the dreams they had clung to to keep their spirits high during crisis. A farm for himself and his family. This was where Toryn had wound up.
The first attempt Toryn made was on the planet proper. Farming there is difficult. He did research, and performed a survey in the off-season. The conclusion he came to was that this moon would be more amenable to agriculture. After three years of effort on Concord Dawn, he relocated his family and associates to Dawn II and began anew.
The arrival moon-side was a nondescript landing of a small company of Firesprays and the foundation of Slate was an unceremonious erection of prefabricated homes. Fifteen people in all -- Toryn, his wife, three children; former squadmate Bron Rau, his wife, and son; medical officer for the company, Jay Vizsla; and six hired hands. As pioneers in a new territory, the steps to be done were obvious. Establish shelter. Clear land. Cultivate food. Survive.
Slate grew, but it took time. When he is alone, Toryn occasionally allows his mind to drift to the memories of the original days. The first years, with the struggles that came with them. The first campfire. Running through their supply of liquor in two weeks' time because he and Bron partied every single night. Having to disassemble the hatch on Jenna Ordo's Firespray because they managed to get the harvester into the bay but couldn't for their lives manage to pivot it just right for removal. Tilling the fields for the first time -- how could there be so many boulders in one location? Planting their first crops. The birth of Bron's daughter. The time his son, Ben, fell down the canyon and broke his arm. The first harvest, more bountiful than any they'd seen on Concord Dawn. Sending Jenna and Karth Rau off, her hold stocked to the brim with food, to sell the surplus. Their return with the first newcomers. Growth over the years. The time they held a town meeting -- all thirty-something of them. A few years down the line, when they agreed on hiring a construction crew from Concord Dawn to build the municipal building. The town center back then, with Vin Skirata's shop right across the way opening its doors for the first time. The first wedding -- Jay and Jenna, plus dozens more to come, including his boy, Ben, to Ashli Wren, his daughter, Bryn, to to Karth, and his youngest child, Beren, to Tess Ordo. His son being elected the first Alor of Slate. The shops and houses sprung up all around, and before they knew it, the village had grown to around 5,000 in all. Those were the days!
And invariably he recalls the night of the plague.
When the cataclysm broke, twelve hundred in Slate were infected immediately. The screams and blaster-fire had awoken the ever-light sleeper Toryn. By the time he made it downstairs from his bed, the rooms were illuminated by the flickering light of flames rising from Skirata's shop a few doors down. He'd hoisted his old E-11 when a knock came at the door, which he opened only to find Bron, eyes wide, blaster in hand.
In that moment, Toryn only caught a glimpse of the corpses in the background, littered around the town square. Their features, grotesquely twisted by the sickness, would haunt his dreams for years to come.*
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*When all had been accounted for, the total loss incurred by the plague was over three thousand. There followed a miserable couple of months after the last of the infected were neutralized. The possibility of a resurgence or some kind of aftershock to the calamitous event held suspense and distrust over everyone's heads, but even forced vigilance was no match for the true crushing knowledge that they had had no choice to kill their friends, neighbors, loved ones, in order to remain alive.
Those who hadn't had joined them, simple as that.
Even now, months later, the first tilling and sowing of the land after the event tore fresh at the stinging wound of absence. But what could they do? Only shake their heads in helplessness, only continue to survive as they had always done. To live on is to carry the memories of those departed.
Toryn trudged back to the farmhouse from the fields and glanced at the time as he came inside. 06h17. He pulled out a chair and sat at the table, considering. Just enough time to refresh and make it into town for the meeting, if he wanted to. He had told a number of those who inquired that he probably wouldn't make it. He doesn't go into town much these days, and of all things, today's meeting to select a new Alor was something he would rather miss.
He draws a deep breath through his nose, and stands, tugging at his shirt as he readies to shower.*
Daybreak. Golden rays of light peeking over treetops at the edge of a field illuminate rows of soil. Among them, a man carefully treads, slowly casting his gaze about his handiwork. It rained last night, each lumbering step produces the sound of displaced liquid. It rained last night, the noise of the ground and the sparkle of the dew and the clarity of the sky and the scent of the air all testify to this fact.
It is early, but nonetheless Toryn Vizsla patrols his fields. What he sees is a mystery. His crystal blue eyes are unable to peer into the depths of the earth itself, yet still he searches. Why look, then, if there is nothing to be observed? Signs of disturbance, signs of tranquility, signs that all is according to plan, signs that the harvest will or will not bear fruit, signs of warning to keep watch over until the moment to act arrives. And time; time to meditate, time to walk. Time to breathe fresh air in the company of himself. The creases of the old man's skin are worn ever deeper and his hair bleached ever whiter with every meeting of the clans. Hands that used to hold a blaster, fingers that used to twitch with anticipation to pull a trigger, now fall to the task of picking through the dirt. Plucking a small sample, he straightens back up slowly and rolls the clump between his thumb and index to produce a fine smear, and holds his hand up to the light while staring intently at it. Apparently satisfied, he wipes his hand on a pant leg and continues on his route. What he sees is a wonder.
The hour waxes, he will be expected soon. But not just yet. He lingers a while longer.*
*The heat of a sultry midsummer's day is abated by a cool breeze. Not a cloud adorns the brilliant blue sky, and not a sound breaks the tranquil scene except for the far-off cry of some exotic bird. The sole figure on the landscape raises his hand to shield his eyes as he surveys the scene, robes billowing gently in the wind.
From a source of intel given to him by a questionable source, he had tracked his quarry here, to this outer rim world, and knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that the enemy would be found in the cavernous space just underfoot from where he stands. He considers his options. To fly a spacecraft into the opening in the ground sprawling before him would be tantamount to alerting his foes immediately of his presence. Only a fool would do that. But if he does not act soon, then the cavalry will arrive before he accomplishes his advance mission. It's game over, then, they'll stand no chance.
He settles on a solution. Sweeping his brown robes aside, he reveals a utility belt from which he procures a grappling hook and tether. With a skillful toss, he anchors it to a particularly large rock formation. And without a second glance, he turns towards the edge in a single fluid motion and dives freely into the abyss.
As gravity seizes him and draws him ever downward, towards the surface of water sitting placidly half a kilometer below, he stretches his arms out in an iconic pose. He closes his eyes and senses what surrounds him, passing level after level in free-fall. First level, second level, third level...
It is his hope that he has completely evaded detection. And indeed, unless someone happens to be looking into the open air at the exact moment that he drops past their level, he wouldn't be spotted. Except for the fibercord left behind, though. That would betray his method of entry. Still... give it a couple minutes, and his mission will be accomplished. Discovery will be meaningless at that point.
The filament flows outward behind him, a seemingly endless supply in his belt. Yet, long before the resting length is exhausted, he reaches his intended destination and snaps into action. Eyes flashing open, he withdraws his arms and grabs hold of the fiber, putting to sudden arrest the descent and inducing pendulum-esque behavior. On the back-swing towards the sinkhole walls, he detaches the apparatus and neatly backflips onto a platform extending from the edge. But, no time to celebrate a happy landing.
At the moment his feet touch the lip, he breaks into a sprint. Calling upon the Force to fuel his movements, it is with blinding speed that he propels himself onward. His outer layer of robes is caught by the induced air currents and is passively shed without a second thought as he races deftly, as if he knows exactly where he is headed, through the spiraling corridors hewn from the natural stone.
Excitement does not alter his course, nor does the prospect of what is to come deter him. Instead, his demeanor is fully immersed in the present moment, and his resolve is set on what must be done. In such a way, he makes the ideal standard of what a Jedi should be -- for that is what he is, of course; wearing those robes and embarking on a solo mission and using the Force can mean little else -- centered in the here and now, filled only with a sense of duty to the light. Pensive and calm are his motifs, not warm and thrill-seeking.
He rushes onward, thankful for the track lighting which gives him plenty of advance notice to the contours of the route ahead of his feet. The air beats against his face, drawing tears from his eyes at this breakneck speed. On more than one occasion now he has resorted to jumping over passers-by to maintain his pace and avoid collision. Yet, perhaps because he's moving at such speeds, no one has seen him, or if they have, no one has bothered to raise an alarm. No one going that fast has time for distractions, one might reason, and simply keep his nose about his own business.
Finally, he rounds another corner and spots his adversary in the midst of conversation with a group of figureheads. A distinctive cape covers the body of the enemy, but he'd recognize that hunched-over stance anywhere, at any speed. The man cuts back on his speed, dropping from a run into a jog into a trot into a fast walk. His footsteps are ever-so-soft. The last echoes of conversation can be heard as he strides confidently up to the back of his enemy, while the council adjourns to allow its constituents to take their seats aboard an outer rim-bound shuttle. The Jedi's right hand snakes to his belt and draws his lightsaber, which he ignites with a hiss to reveal its signature purple blade.*
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*In response, the stooped figure turns with a drop-step that carries with it less surprise than might be expected, considering the situation. All in all, this is what makes him such a formidable warrior: to not give your foe any advantage, even the admission of being caught flat-footed is stifled. If you claim everything is to your plan for long enough, then even everyone might start to believe you. Commendable! The reptilian eyes of the cyborg general of the C.I.S. betray no shock; rather than widening, his pupils simply narrow as the hunted acknowledges the hunter.*
[/b] a bold one."[/font][/span][/ul]*And in the span of time it took for those words to be uttered, the electrostaves of an ensemble of IG-100 MagnaGuard droids have hummed to life with an electric buzz rising to challenge the iconic sound of the lightsaber being held by the Jedi Master Mace Windu. The four turn, their blue-tipped weapons in hand, and step forward to engage Mace. The next set of words from General Grievous are more of an afterthought than anything else, since they were clearly already set to engage.
But it would make the scene more dramatic to be said rather than left unsaid, so he utters it anyways. That's what makes him such an iconic character.*
[/font][/span][/ul] *And then Grievous draws back, making final mental preparations for the next step. The MagnaGuards are a distraction, of course. There is no way they can hold off a warrior of Windu's caliber.
At the conclusion of the Battle over Coruscant, after Grievous nearly succeeded at kidnapping the Chancellor (which, those in the know will point out, was the ultimate deciding factor in whether the Galactic Empire was formed using the military might of the C.I.S. or the Republic), Windu had made the comment that General Grievous would run and hide as he always does. Implying that a tactical withdrawal is some sort of inferior strategem. But of course, if it was such a weak tactic, why would a general who supposedly stoops to employing it be such a thorn in the side of the Jedi? What danger is posed by a man (machine, whatever) who can only utilize second-rate strategies?
The answer is that Master Windu did not think carefully before he spoke, and the one who stands at an advantage now is the one who can carefully analyze. The MagnaDroids are a distraction, but Grievous is watching carefully to see how Mace Windu deals with them. Every bit of data collected is potentially valuable.
His patient strategy is rewarded as follows: Mace's saber precesses slowly, the blade flowing in a crescent around his outstretched right hand exactly once. He pivots his left shoulder forward, blade now pointing almost directly away from the crack team of top-class droids.
Then, the fingers of his left hand twitch inward, and the unseen power of the Force seizes all four droids simultaneously around the midsection, drawing their feet out of contact with the floor and pulling them together into a clump. Windu then follows through with an out-turning of the wrist on that left hand, and in response, the not-quite-spherical jumble of stuck-together droids is summarily launched out of the vicinity, over the edge, and presumably taken by gravity the rest of the way to the bottom of the sinkhole.
An ensemble of battle droids, including some droidekas, respond by stepping up to the plate and lowering their weapons at the Jedi, who confidently steps into close-quarters with General Grievous. The cyborg wisely calls them off. For one thing, there's no sense in wasting troops. For another, if blaster bolts start flying, then he could probably count on Windu deflecting at least a few of them in his general direction, and blasters are dangerous. He barks to them to hold their fire.*
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[/font][/span]*Mace tersely replies. Grievous pauses for half a moment, because if you take the time to think about it, the droids attacking was in fact already his move and defeating them is a consequence of the move rather than a move unto itself being made by Windu so it's really still Mace's move and it doesn't make a lot of sense for him to end his turn there, weird flex but ok he'll take the bait.*[/ul]
[/font][/span]*Here, Grievous is addressing the tactical blunder of forfeiting one's action.* "I've been trained in your Jedi arts by Count Dooku!"[/ul]
*Stating this, he then unclasps and sheds his cape to reveal a spindly, skeletal metal frame. General Grievous extends his arms out to the side, and with a sequence of pneumatic clicks, they begin separating into pairs so that his true form as a four-armed duelist (which is something one can be almost entirely certain that Dooku never was, in all his time spent in the universe) is finally revealed. In each hand, a set of blades ignite -- two blue and two green, taken from defeated Jedi (Grievous is a meticulous collector, and if he saw that he was going to kill a Jedi with a blue lightsaber, he had to make sure that he subsequently sought out a Jedi with a green lightsaber next to make sure that his trophy collection grew evenly. This proved no simple task, because the ratio of blue to green sabers in the days of the Galactic Republic was a little more than 2:1 and so in practice he usually made sure to prioritize green saber-wielders because of their rarer weapons. That's also why he had said that the lightsabers of Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker would make fine additions to his collection, because he had managed [by over-targeting the green bladed folks] to find himself with a surplus of green lightsabers and hence their weapons would have restored balance. This in turn begs the question of what kind of an addition a purple saber would make to his collection).
He leans forward, and draws the upper arms overhead. Slowly, his gimballed wrists initiate a demonstration of their superiority to organic joints. The saber blades start to spin with ever-increasing frequency until his laughing visage is shrouded by a sequence of epilepsy-inducing flashes of green and blue light, striking at the floor with each cycle. The other two arms simply pierce the ground, generating a molten slurry, and he stalks forward towards the comparatively shorter man. The cacophony of the sabers in motion -- comparable to the high-pitched whine of an energy saw boring through durasteel -- does not completely mask the fanatical laughter of the encroaching fiend.
For his part in all of this, Mace Windu calmly brings his saber arm forward and places his left hand alongside the right on the hilt, blade perfectly vertical and still. Well-practiced in his art of Vaapad, he gently flexes his knees and observes Grievous, not succumbing to the visual distraction of the flashing saber blades, but rather feeling with the Force, seeking out the beat of the rhythm and meditating for the purpose of perceiving the Shatterpoint that he know will not fail to appear at just the right time.
It is not for nothing that Mace has a seat on the Jedi Council. And it is to Grievous's discredit that he even mentioned Count Dooku, for it was demonstrated only a little more than two cycles before this that Dooku could only battle Grandmaster Yoda to a stalemate, yet on numerous occasions Master Windu has unceremoniously defeated Yoda in saber spars. One could make the argument that Yoda was holding back on using his abilities in the Force at such times, and that would be true, but then the question remains: does Grievous have any ability in the Force to be leveraged in this duel? No? Oh, okay then. So is the outcome not already decided?
Nonetheless General Grievous continues to lurch forward, and suddenly a deafening triplet of beeps chirps overhead, drowning out the entire audio track, and the scene freezes at that very moment, flickering gently.*[/font][/font]
*If there is an advantage that I am giving up by forgoing the opportunity to attack at range, then there is at least as much of one that Tal is declining by taking the initiative to launch the first strike. He knows me as well as I know myself, and therefore knows equally well my inclination toward counter-attacking. In other words, we're saying the same thing.
He takes a step forward and launches a thrust at the moment that I have come to pause at the end of my approach. Incorporating the step and the arm extension makes it that the distance is just close enough that the extended phase of Perdition can reach me, and he aims directly for the gap between Saurez and Vol, to burn a hole in my solar plexus. But that is a gap that is neatly covered, with no need to rely on the Force Barrier that I have prepared to make.
As his right arm begins its motion for a forward thrust, I slide my right foot towards its own heel, bringing it underneath me, and immediately following cast my left footforward to restore my stance, having effectively moved diagonally: to my left and towards Tal. This places Saurez between my flesh and his weapon. Accordingly, the saber tip will strike harmlessly onto the energy shield.*
*In return, I charge in and threaten his right tricep with my lightfoil.*
{ ▼} *From that position, I take two quick steps leading into an attack of my own, moving along a parallel trajectory on the outside of his saber blade. Left, right, lunge! This is the number of steps needed for me to reconcile the distance between us with my attack range.
Springing forward off of my right foot, I aim to strike at the outstretched arm. Tal's beskar gauntlets provide coverage from his forearm to wrist, but just above the elbow, his tricep presents an ideal target. Maneuvering to the outside as I did at the onset of my movement provides his saber with a tangent line to follow along the surface of Saurez which would tend to rebuff it towards his left, supposing he keeps it lit and at that length and in contact with my shield. A tall supposition.
My attack on his tricep is as follows: a dip and an outward turn of the tip of Vol, which had been pointing at his face before I moved, and at the apex of my lunge, a flick to unleash a short horizontal slash from left to right with the intent to gouge into the muscle responsible for straightening the elbow, if not to cleave the arm entirely.
Upon conclusion of the lunge, I will need to quickly draw my right foot back to a balanced position in order to recover and continue my aggression as needed. This is one of those times wherein making an attack on a meaningful target supercedes the importance of carefully cultivating a series of movements from your opponent leading into an inescapable coup de grace. Tal is an opponent the caliber of which probably can't be controlled in the ways I'd like to, anyways. So the question is really just of executing attacks while minimizing openings.
That, and whether it is more valuable to take an arm or a leg.*
*It took a long time for me to come to an appreciation of the Rule of Two. Even now, I still don't see eye-to-eye with Darth Bane on all accounts. We can all appreciate the intentions, of course: quality assurance of what was produced -- for if the fledgling cannot fly, then he should never be released from the nest -- and devotion of the instructor -- for if there is no future but to die at the hands of his creation, then the master will hold nothing back.
As we know, it does not always play out as intended.
And from the perspective of collective power, elementary math will tell you that three is greater than two. Apprenticeship is not a life-long endeavor, either, and a suitable Master ought to be able to produce satisfactory Apprentices several times over.
Well, so it would seem, anyways, but of all the ones who I have permitted to inherit my name, only Tal has flourished. Ken, lost in the depths of Ison, and Aire, killed in the ambush set by none other than Tal aboard the DP20 frigate, by which he sought to forestall this moment. Or perhaps accomplish it prematurely, who can say? So maybe there's more empirical truth to the notion of the Rule of Two than I'd be willing to admit. Especially because I know my history, I know that the Rule of Two was little more than an excuse used by Bane to destroy the Sith Empire from within and to prevent its resurgence -- out of which surely would have come an era of prosperity for the Sith, and likely a rival which would have surpassed him in power, so that's all there was to it, really.
Yet as I stand here in the presence of my own apprentice, and here at the very end deem my work to be complete, there is a sense of discontentment at the thought of allowing both monuments to stand. Power always serves a purpose, and there is a beauty to be beheld at the sight of two aspirants challenging one another to see whose construct should be allowed to stand, and whose should give way to the other's.
So I guess you could say I now see the artistic side of what Bane was getting at.*
*With a thought, the saber in my left hand and the energy shield on my right arm ignite; then I draw my flash-pistol, center myself in the Force, and walk towards Tal.*
*Having decided on this much, and wistfully imagining what can become of the future of the one who departs this place alive, there's naught else to do but attend to the task at hand. In my well-practiced mental routine, I send the command to Vol and Saurez, to activate. Moreover, I let my right hand fall to my side, and grasp the familiar handgrip of Crux, then return the arm to a readied position, with my elbow bent not quite to 90 degrees.
I stride, calmly, towards Tal. Left hand and cyan lightfoil tilted ever so slightly, such that the tip is pointed directly at his eyes, I make my way across the distance. The clop of my soles echoes around the room, accentuated by the hum of energy weapons, for there is little else to be said right now.
Yes, there is little else to be said. Why, what would you say? "Don't take me lightly," or "Come at me with everything you've got"? Rubbish. If you thought so, then you don't know Tal as I do. And Tal knows me in like manner. Seeing as I'm not the type to waste words, I don't need to give utterance to what I already know that he knows. My heavy footsteps, laden with the shared experiences, shout out far louder and more meaningfully than my words ever could. My armament, brought to bear upon my opponent with nothing held back, testifies to the respect I have for him. And my Force Sight, affixed upon the sinister green hue which I used to greet with warmth, now speaks to the great care with which I will approach, meet, and defeat my foe.
Two of my steps makes a meter. At the moment I began to walk, we were about thirty five meters apart. Now, ten meters from where I began, I raise my shield and my foil to a ready position and begin to sharpen my focus in the Force. It is no longer a question of who he is to me, or what I ought to do for him.
No, now it is only a question of holding true to my power, and placing my absolute confidence in the foundations I have given myself.
The top edge of Saurez rises just above my shoulder, and the bottom edge to mid-thigh, when I stand straight. As stated, the tip of Vol is pointed directly at Tal's face, mostly through angling of the wrist. My left elbow is held loosely, with about a 45 degree bend. Above all, my weight is balanced well. There is always the possibility of Tal to interrupt my approach, hence at any point in time I'll have to be ready.
Should he remain put, however, I will take my last step just past the three-meter mark away from him with my left foot. There I will pause for a moment, before I commence my attack.*
*The Geonosians are a race long extinct from this galaxy.
In order to tie up loose ends, and to prevent the plans for the Death Star from being reconstructed from the knowledge of those who helped build it, Grand Moff Tarkin signed the order for the extermination of the insects which used to inhabit this world.
A cold-hearted move, to be sure. But that was who Tarkin was: a man absolutely committed to ensuring that nothing could oppose the might of the Empire. The hardest choices require the strongest wills. If it meant that the Empire could thwart opposition, and survive for long enough to stabilize the necessary change in regime from the Republic which had been rotting from within, then what weight does the death of millions hold in light of the peace and prosperity for trillions?
If anything, Tarkin did only what he considered to be right and good for the majority of the universe. You cannot find fault with that. The ones responsible for making the deaths of all the Geonosians be in vain are the Erso family.
All this to say that there are no more than four living sentient beings on the whole of the planet Geonosis at this moment in time. An Aggressor Assault Fighter carries two of them: myself, and my pilot, Dorian Schiff. I have learned, after all, from my many mistakes. I'm not suited to the task of piloting, so I found this guy, out of a ship and out of a job. In exchange for gifting him this starfighter free-of-charge, he agreed to ferry me around wherever I'd need to go. Or something like that. Maybe Dominate Mind was involved somewhere along the line, maybe not; who knows, my memory's grown a bit fuzzy.
Dorian flies the craft low, fluidly navigating the skeletal hive structures of the landscape of Geonosia. We come to the famous landmark of the Petranaki Arena, adjunct to the plains which marked the site of the first battle of the Clone Wars. One might have expected a monument. If not erected by the Empire, then by the First Order, surely. But I suppose not.
The agile craft streaks towards the hangar which Dooku had used to make his escape, traveling far faster than a speeder or an LAAT could do. In a matter of seconds, we're upon the site. As we speed towards the rock face into which the entryway was carved, Dorian slams the craft into -- not the side of the mountain, as I would have -- an Eimalgan Turn maneuver, with the gimballed propulsion vanes of the craft swiveling expertly into place at his command. A moment later and the rear-facing ramp extends as Dorian indicates to me that we've arrived at the destination.
I gather my effects and make to depart. Before I leave, though, I offer final instructions.*
[/i][/font][/span]"Ha ha! You got it. Take care of yourself, Ryu, I'll see you tomorrow."[/ul][/spoiler]
*I validate that I've brought my weaponry with me, and enter the historic site.*
*And with that, I hop off the ramp, and then my ship jets off with little more than a blue afterglow. Out of sight, out of mind, as the saying goes, but for me it's really the opposite. Out of mind is out of sight, because it's Force Sight. With what awaits me, it simply wouldn't do (despite how possible it would be) to keep my focus fixed on my pilot. There's a far more pertinent matter to attend to.
...whenever I leave a vehicle, I'm not sure if this is a ubiquitous phenomenon or not, about five seconds after it's flown off is when I think to double-check that I have everything. So I go through the mental inventory. Saurez, strapped to my right arm, got it. Vol, held in my left hand, check. The two pieces of Trogdor, magnetically affixed to my back on two parallel metal plates which I've installed on my trenchcoat, Freedom, with their respective saber ends extending past my right shoulder and left thigh, pointed at about 2 o'clock and 8 o'clock, yep. Crisis and Crux, holstered appropriately on my belt at the left and right sides, good. Devient, my Sith mask, innocuously stuck on the outside of my left shoulder, prongs pointed towards the elbow, ready. Inventory complete, I'm good to go.
What I didn't do was test whether all of the cybernetic mental controls were in working order, but we'll take that one as granted; they're far too new to have fallen into malfunction yet. At Tal's excellent recommendation, we had gone through the trouble of procuring cybernetic communicators and installing them in ourselves for the purpose of enhancing our equipment so that all of our weapons can be activated and deactivated with no more than a mental command. Not having to finger activation studs is a massive improvement, after all, when one's armament reaches a certain size. There was a significant period of acclimation needed, more so for me than for Tal, but in time I got there. Now I've become proficient, and the reward of an increase in power is rightfully mine to claim.
My footsteps resonate softly through the sandy corridor leading to the main hangar area, which I enter and stop, considering the space. Just large enough for two ships to land in side-by-side, if they're flown with finesse. More real estate than could be asked for for a mere two combatants. This is where Darth Tyranus famously defeated Anakin and Obi-Wan, and had Yoda on the ropes before he made his exodus to Coruscant. While I'd like to avoid analogies involving Jedi, I'll at least admit that it does seem fitting that the same site that had featured the showdown between a Master-Apprentice pair so long ago would play host to the same matchup today. There are some striking differences to be found, too, but there's no need to go into all of those.
The one contrasting element worth talking about is that this is a preconceived meeting, not a chance interception. There's no larger conflict brewing that we need to be present for, or that would serve to distract us. The event about to unfold is the end unto its own means: the final showdown to answer the question burning within our kindred souls. Accordingly, I call out, my ever-calm voice echoing around the cavernous room.*