Falleen

[Mavanger]

Darth Mavanger's shuttle landed in the jungles just outside of Falleen's capital, on the other side of the city from the Imperial Knight's invasion and the Jedi's stand against the Linnorms that Lord Akheron was so fond of. In truth, he didn't care about the world. Lord Akheron had his pet projects here, but it had little value to himself or his goals. This world had been doomed to fall with all the rest after Nar Shaddaa, and no show of force would have been able to prevent it. He wouldn't even been here if it weren't for the promise of one thing.

Revenge.

 

With an invasion, there would be generals. With strike teams, elite commanders. Targets that he knew would need to be weakened before the Sith could return in their true force. Kill a Jedi master here, an Alliance general there, and the Alliance would be in tatters before they ever realized they were being hunted.

 

He left the stealth active as he disembarked- should he fall here, and his shuttle be captured, it would jeopardize their mission irreversibly. The trek to the city proper would be a long one, and he likely wouldn't be in the city until the invasion was in full swing, but it would have to do.

[Mavanger]

It wasn't long before Darth Mavanger reached the lone Jedi, separated from his kin and his allies. The Linnorms hadn't recognized what he was, the power he held. They were followers of the darkness, but they were blind to the machinations of the Force beyond what their lords allowed them to see. He could feel the other Sith's presence in the force, it's waves merely drops in the ocean of what his own fury entailed. They stood in a plaza, the Wookie's cover unbroken to those around him. A charade, then. He strode forward, his calm only a mask, hiding the truth of what he was.

 

"Tell me, conscript. Mercenary of my ally. Do you feel it? The light, coursing through the world. Darth Akheron does not realize that his world has already fallen, and if you stand here, unafraid, then I wonder if you, too, are ignorant of this world's sealed fate. Even now, he grandstands. He speaks of hatred, and fury, and rage, but what could he possibly know of such things? What do you suppose has happened to him that drives his anger?"

[Mavanger]

Darth Mavanger frowned behind his mask as the Wookie moved for his weapon, a silent threat. He raised his hands softly, a sign of peace, at least for now. It seemed the Wookie knew his ruse was over, but the Warmaster had no intention of revealing it to the Linnorms. No- He had something much more promising in mind. Talk. He'd had precious few opportunities for it since his Masterhood. He couldn't express doubt, lest the others sense weakness. None questioned him, for fear of raising his renowned fury. Those who opposed him saw him as too dangerous to waste time talking, and his confidants were all dead, or missing in the wake of Nar Shaddaa.

 

"The flaw in your logic is not your doing- you do not know Darth Akheron as I do. This place has done nothing to him. It has served him faithfully, and loyally, as I knew it would when I sent him here to claim it all those years ago. In truth, he has little to be angry about save the loss of our empire. The war was kinder to him than most. He doesn't know what it means to lose something that you hold so sacred to your very soul that all that remains is rage. To be at such a loss that the only thing that soothes is to lash out, to destroy what has caused such pain."

 

He took a deep breath, breathing in the smells of a brewing warzone. Burnt tibana gas wafted through the streets, it's ionized scent singeing the senses.

 

"He won't achieve true greatness until he is no longer a slave to his anger. Until he learns how to shape it, direct it as his tool to claim his seat among the Sith Lords as I have. I suppose it doesn't matter though, seeing as how we've been all but exterminated. All that remains is this- lashing out against an alliance that we can't hope to stop. But if you and yours are determined to take me, you will have to earn it. Our empire is gone, but I will not go meekly to the slaughter."

[Mavanger]

Mavanger chuckled as the Jedi spoke, making an earnest- if unsuccessful, attempt to anger the Warmaster. The wookie spoke of anger as though he too knew it intimately. But how could he? He had never given himself to it willingly, made it an ally and a friend, a tool for vengeance sweetest. And yet... He closed his eyes, reaching out with the Force. He could feel it, just under the surface. Even if the Jedi didn't know what it was like to master his fury as a tool, he knew anger well.

"Fury sharpens everything. Every breath. Every twitch. Every trick, laid bare. It gives us the power to right the wrongs done unto us. A tool is only useful if the one wielding it knows what it's used for. It's something that many of the new generation of Sith fail to understand."

He waved a hand, looking to the surrounding Linnorm.

 

"Leave us. You will be more useful somewhere else- the two of us will be plenty sufficient to hold the plaza."

 

As the Linnorm filtered out, reinforcing the surrounding troops, Darth Mavanger turned to face the Wookie.
 

"But we aren't as different as I first imagined. I can feel it now- Loss. Anger. Hatred. You know the loss. You know what it means, what it does. Tell me, who did you lose? A friend? A brother? A lover? And maybe, if the Sith were responsible, I can grant you what I have claimed for myself already- vengeance. A name, a location. An opportunity to reclaim some small part of what you had."

[Mavanger]

Darth Mavanger's face contorted with the Jedi's words. The fire of rage was started with a spark, a denial of his loss and his hurt. His hands went to his blades and the Jedi spoke, taking a step forward as the Wookie positioned himself for a showdown.

 

"The Dark Side is much more than rage and anger. It is love, hatred, anger, joy, all in the pursuit of passion and freedom. We open ourselves to everything so that it might grant us the power to change the galaxy. So when those are taken away, piece by piece, so that all that is left is anger and rage, that is true loss. That you still proclaim your people's sacrifices as worthy, their memories honored, means you will never feel the pain of losing everyone and despite everything, all your work, your blood, your tears, you still lose."

 

He drew his blades as they called out in the Force for blood, for vengeance. One, in his right hand, was the incarnation of his fury, the reckoning that he had sworn upon the alliance the day Jarvus had been slain over Mon Cal, Imeall Sceimhle, the Edge of Terror. A harbinger of his fury, of his rage. A promise of vengeance, and of death.

 

But the other in his left, equally important to the pair, was the incarnation of his grief. A reminder of who he had been, of what he had lost. Imeall Dólás, the Edge of Sorrow. It was his bittersweet memory turned into the weapon that would avenge it. A sign of what it had taken to turn him from a level headed conqueror, who's only goal had been to solidify the Empire in the Outer Rim, to the malevolent specter of wrath that he had become, laying waste to planets and empires alike.

 

"But I can show you."

 

He reached into the compartment of his armor that housed Raven's soul, crystalized to prevent her return, pulling it out attached to it's pendant.

 

"I promised a name. A location. The murderer of your Empress stands before you. She hasn't joined the others in the afterlife. She hasn't found peace. She is here, suffering, for eternity, a victim of my vengeance, a consequence of my grief."

 

He stowed the crystal back in his armor, taking a fighting stance, his blades held to either side.

 

"If you will not willingly claim yours. I will take any choice you have."

 

He charged forward, an inferno of dark side energy, burning away all that it touched, his blades wounding the very fabric of the Force itself as they sliced through the air, severing any remnants of the light. The ground thundered under his feet as each step cracked the pavement with the force of his advance, and the space between them faded away. His blows carried with them all of his anger, his hatred, his sorrow. With each swing of his swords, he would show the Wookie the despair he felt.

 

His first strike was a driving thrust from Imeall Sceimhle, carried forward by his anger and his momentum, meant to impale the Wookie's heart. His second, only starting a moment later, was a rising slash from Imeall Dólás, seeking to split the Wookie from groin to collar. Every blow lethal in it's means and execution. Every strike, leading into another potentially killing blow. Another attack, a familiar one that had worked well against previous opponents, further using his momentum to drive his knee towards the Jedi Master's gut, and another strike as he tried to enter the Wookie's guard, a pommel strike from Imeall Dólás's raised position at his head with enough force to smash skulls.

((1))

Edited March 14, 2023 by Mavanger

[Mavanger]

The world seemed to slow as Darth Mavanger closed the distance with the Wookie. His first two strikes fell upon a stalwart defense, a testament to the Wookie's abilities, albeit only a temporary one as his knee drove into the Jedi's ribs and his pommel cracked across Kirlocca's face. It was in this brief moment of bliss, as his blades tasted their first drops of blood since Nar Shaddaa, that he saw the Wookie's play, a foot driving towards his shin. The very move he had used against the Imperial Knight over Kuat, the move that had almost claimed victory. He leapt, shifting his momentum into a spin, intending to drive two cuts into the Wookie's body, but as his own turned midair and he met the Wookie's eyes, he realized his mistake.

 

The blow didn't pierce his armor- It was a solid Sith alloy, designed to stop everything short of a blow by power armor. Unfortunately, it didn't need to break the armor to be effective as he was caught midair by the force-powered punch. Pain reverberated across his chest as he was pushed back through the air, interrupting his plans for attack as he hit the ground and rolled, driving his blades into the ground to slow his movement. Had he tried to brace himself, the blow would likely have caved in his chest through his armor. It had taken him by surprise- He'd never fought an opponent that could match his strength, his power, blow for blow like this. He would have to be careful to not allow another blow like that. He stood, correcting his chance as he took the briefest moment to catch his breath from the Jedi's blow.

 

He charged again, channeling his emotions and sensations. The pain from the Wookie's blow sharpened his mind, opened his senses to incoming attacks and malicious deceptions. The frustration at his attacks being interrupted drove power into his strikes, merging with his rage and his lust for vindication. The Jedi had rebuffed his offer of kinship, the opportunity to avenge his grief. Darth Mavanger's sorrow had burned entire planets, slain entire populations. He'd slain a monarch to right the wrong done unto him, and yet still he felt it so succinctly. And yet, the Jedi claimed his own grief as greater as though one history of loss negated another. He declared the Sith Warmaster's grief as lesser, as less deserving of empathy because because his list was not known, all the while refusing to bring the perpetrator of such personal sorrow to justice.

 

These things drove him forward, a hardened hammer of darkness to fall upon the brittle shield of light. His empirical truth against the shallow protections of false comforts and self deceptions. A crushing miasma of loss and despair to swallow hope, happiness, and peace wherever it went. His life was a testament of the weakness of the light. How many times had they the opportunity to kill him, to stop his rampage, his crusade? Kuat, Trulalis, Naboo, Nar Shadaa, and now Falleen. All testaments to his wrath, his hatred. All carried with them scars of his passing.

 

He let out a cry that was as much for battle as it was for loss, grief, and sorrow. A harbinger of rage, fury, and hatred. Of guilt and regret, of bloodlust and violence.

 

He feigned the same opening, a false blow to shield his intentions, his true target of the Wookie's outstretched palm, extended past the easy defense of a lightsaber. He stepped to the Jedi's left, bringing down Imeall Sceimhle towards Kirlocca's bicep, intending to either disable it, or sever the arm entirely. The second blow came from Imeall Dólás, a horizontal slash powered by his momentum and his rage towards the Wookie's midsection in an attempt to bisect him, a cruel cut that if it connected would likely debilitate the Wookie if it didn't outright kill him.

 

Another vicious attack followed as Darth Mavanger attempted to get behind the Wookie, a diagonal cut from should to hip from Imeall Sceimhle, followed by one more combined swing by both blades, a crushing blow from above as he looked to demolish any defenses the Wookie could muster. Speed and power were his allies, his weapons, his tools. His trade was battle. His art was war, and he was a master. A potential prodigal son long lost to the dark.

 

((2))

[Mavanger]

The Wookie's mistake had been hard earned- In an attempt to halt Darth Mavanger's flurry of blows, he had stepped into the Sith Master's guard, trying to emulate his own earlier attack with his knee. But without the momentum, the power, the fire of rage and anguish to drive it, it wouldn't prove nearly as crippling. His ribs ached where the knee met he'd taken the previous blow, pushing him back the precious few steps he needed to strike once more at the Wookie as his lightsaber carved through the Warmaster's shoulder.  It had found a chink in his armor, a necessary point to allow for his movement, and in doing so, seared both his body and the fabric holding his should plate attached as it his the ground with a heavy clang of metal against pavement.

 

The Wookie had made a critical mistake- He had underestimated Darth Mavanger. It was clear in his bladework and his intentions. Simple cuts and spacing blows, an attempt to tire the Sith and to keep him at an arm's distance. He hadn't considered that the Warmaster had earned his title through bloody battle and conquest, that he had anything behind his movements beyond a tantrum thrown by an apprentice who didn't yet know how to harness their rage and pain into something dangerous. If he had dueled Mordecai Valar, the young, ambitious Sith apprentice, over Borleais, he would have found the same success that Ismael had. The scarred tissue that coated a large swathe of his face was a grim reminder of that lesson, though.

 

He'd learned many of those.

 

In the years since, he had transcended blind, pointless attacks. Every cut fed into the next, every strike fueled by his malice. Every assault designed in the moment to kill his opponent. He remembered what he had learned, each fight bringing with it their own cavalcade of emotions and sorrow. On Kuat, he had learned never to underestimate his opponent. Doing so had nearly cost him and Xahl their lives. On Corellia, he had learned the follies of the Jedis' defensive fighting when the young padawan was defeated. On Kuat again, he had been taught the error of blindly following where his opponents led him. That had cost Xahl, his best friend, his life, and had nearly crushed Mordecai with a slagged turret.

 

Trulalis had taught him the dangers of overextending when the Rebels counter attacked Mon Cal, and took everything from him.

 

And so many more. Every foe, felled by his blade. The number of people that had survived him were countable on one hand, both friend and foe. This was his path. A firestorm of hatred, of rage, of vengeance and anguish, that left nothing but charred remains in its wake. All of this loss, this sorrow, spit upon by the great Jedi hypocrisy. The preaching of empathy, without the ability to empathize. The belief that the Dark could never defeat the Light, regardless of the number of times the Jedi had nearly been made extinct by the Sith.

 

The Wookie, as powerful as he was, only had one weightless blade and an injured arm. Darth Mavanger would shatter his defense in one final flurry of blows. A sweeping attack low, an outlet for his wrath, towards the shins from Imeall Sceimhle. His momentum carried his spin into an anguish-filled blow from Imeall Dólás as he rose merely a fraction of a second later, another cut towards the Jedi's midsection in a second bisection attempt. A third strike, an overhead swing from Imeall Sceimhle in an effort to split the Jedi's skull in his fury. Another swing brought forth his grief, a cut towards the Wookie's ribs from Imeall Dólás that would tear the Jedi's heart asunder as the Rebels had done unto the Warmaster. Every attack, meant to overwhelm. Yet another blow flashed towards the Jedi Master, carving a path through the Force as  Imeall Sceimhle moved to intercept his Lightsaber, in an attempt to make the Jedi as defenseless as one frozen by terror would be. And then, the final blow. Into it he poured everything. All of his pain, all of his loss, his rage. But more than that strike his very will to live, his resolute promise that he would avenge Jarvus through blood. Imeall Dólás drove down unto the Jedi everything that Darth Mavanger could muster.

 

He would make him understand his pain, one way or another.

 

((3. Excellent duel! Can't wait for the outcome.))

[Mavanger]

Darth Akheron vs Sandy Sarna

 

First of all, I want to congratulate both of you. This was a very well written duel that I found relatively easy to follow along. It flowed well, and maintained a sense of grandiosity even in a relatively tame battleground. You both did great characterizing your motivations and driving forces, and it made this duel incredibly fun to read. That said, there can be only one victor, so here's the breakdown.

There are two major things that came up that need being addressed, but they both fall under the same umbrella. First, in Akheron's first post, he writes an outstandingly creative use of Shatter, one of the abilities laid out in the warrior's guide. Sandy attacks with a telekinetic wave, and Akheron tries to counter with Shatter. While a very creative solution to her attack, trying to match a master Jedi Consular who specializes in telekinetics is a very good way to end up pasted against a wall. As a warrior, you'll never beat or even match a master telekinetic in their own field, the same way Sandy can't hope to match Akheron in melee combat.

 

The second thing to bring up is Akheron's third post, where he once again tries to match Sandy blow for blow in telekinetic combat, trying to throw her own rubble at her. While a cool scene, it must be remembered that we have classes to represent our character's strengths and weaknesses. Warriors and Guardians specialized in close quarters combat with blades, fists, shields, and other such weapons, but Consulars and sorcerers specialize in ranged combat, like telekinetics, lightning, and force blasts. Any time you try to beat a class at what they do best, it's gonna go poorly. Despite that, the duel was well fought by both of you, and when Akheron relied on his class's toolkit and his skills as a warrior, he did outstandingly well.

 

With all of that said,

 

Sandy Sarna is the victor.