A Low Roar (Empress Teta)

[Locke]

He felt the impact. The pain. Burning. The blaster bolt had hit true. The armor had held. Energy was energy, however. The shot bruised his chest. His ribs. It jolted him awake. Punched the air from his lungs. For a brief moment, he was somewhere else. Far away. It was only a moment. A moment was enough. Black eyes turned brown, his grasp released.

The puppet regained its own control. Robbed of its helmet, it could now see. It saw the yellow flicker of danger and ancient instincts ground to life. It rolled in the sand. Across the grit. Over stone. Blaster gone, forgotten. Knife in hand. Training and skill made for a more powerful puppet, but a puppet it was. The blade struck, if only partially. Sparks flew. Fireflies of destruction across desolation around them. The 'saber cut deep and clean, but not into the neck. A glowing gash had formed in the revenant's pauldron. A molten scar slicing through armor and cloth. Black mist slowly poured from the tear, seeping to the sand below.

It turned, the visage silently snarling. The flame was still the target. Still the threat. The creature was secondary, despite the lightsaber. It would be handled in turn. Soon. The figure rose to its full height, eyes like hot coals. It stepped forward, less like a shuffling automaton and more like a man. One hand reaching for the man's throat. The other grasping the knife, already darting forward.

The first figure tilted its head slowly to the side. His eyes were closed. He was listening. Waiting. He could hear the silent keening. The wailing. Whispering. It spoke to him. A noiseless voice in the void. He poured his will into the absence. The silence. Brown eyes became black once more. The darkness closed in upon the creature clutching the 'saber in its claws. From within the blackness around them, a hand emerged. It snapped forward at the squib, fingers clawed and grasping.

Beside him, the newly claimed puppet pried itself from the grit, hip bones rising above the sand. Coal-red eyes staring lifelessly at the melee. Tatters of rotted robe hung from its shoulders and ribs.

His work was done.

[member="Mala"] [member="Jorus Merrill"]

 

[Mala]

Mala's first instinct was to chase the thing that rolled away but the black mist seemed to rise around her, so thick and dark that the light from her saber couldn't penetrate it. She felt the ever present fear in her tighten about her chest, a whimper escaping her. "Mala is not afraid." She choked against fear filled tears. "Mala is not afraid."

The mist lurched, Mala screamed, lightsaber slipping from her grasp as something reached for her. Death become solid, bad juju, whatever name she might give it later didn't matter. Rigid with fear, the fingers closed about her.

She screamed again.

[member="Jorus Merrill"] [member="Locke"]

 

[Jorus Merrill]

[member="Locke"] [member="Mala"]

The knife flicked out and cut a stinging line up his chest, too close to his neck. Repeated punches had fractured his right fist; the blaster tumbled from his grip. He dived and skidded painfully, but his left hand closed around Mala's shiniest of shinies. A bar of pure sunfire snapped into existence.

Now, Jorus Quentin Merrill was no blademaster, but he'd been taught the saber by Quorl and Sor-Jan Xantha, faced Kaine Zambrano in a duel, knew his way around the Jedi weapon. The lightsaber slashed through the black claw that held Mala, then whipped back and forth at the undead gunman.

 

[Locke]

His work was completed. Finished. Endless. In life, Nehnazaz had been a champion of light. A Jedi warrior. A hero. A beacon of hope in a war of darkness.

In death, she served unquestioningly. Unhesitatingly. Her lightsaber long since rendered inoperable by time and grit, the revenant was of limited use. A niche role until complete. A well of untapped potential. An asset.

The figure shut it's eyes. Breathed deep. Felt the whisper in his ear. His mind. In the void. His puppet was in danger. Dodging, but only just. Slow in it's undeath, rents and tears appeared in armor. Wounds upon a bloodless body. Nightmare black where bright crimson should be. Only proper destruction of the corpse would free the soul. The spirit. He knew his. It did, too. Bindings forced it to act. To move. But the soul yearned for release. For freedom.

A voiceless command and the newly claimed minion acted. Nought but old bones and rotted rags, it still acted. Moved. Attacked. A pulse in the Force, one that rippled the sand. The mist. The wounded puppet fell. Sent reeling to the ground by the shockwave. Perhaps saved. Perhaps not. Only time would tell.

The soul of the Twi'lek was chained. Bound to serve, though it strained at the lashings. Locked potential required realization. The flame held the key. A skeletal claw reached out, grasping at air. Pulling at the golden blade the beacon in the Force held.

A 'saber would complete the puppet.

[member="Mala"] [member="Jorus Merrill"]

 

[Lina Ovmar]

Wrong character

 

[Mala]

The black fist evaporated, releasing Mala from its grip but she remained rooted to the spot eyes squeezed shut. This was the stuff of nightmares, the things her imagination created in the darkest hours of the night.

She could hear the hum of a lightsaber, the shiniest of all her treasures. It had been with her for so long, a lucky find for a little girl stuck alone on a big ship.

Alone.

There was something different about this nightmare, something clear cut and heart warming.

She was not alone.

Yellow eyes snapped open and the shockwave hit her hard, slamming her little body into the sand, she skidded several feet but scrambled back up, determination fixed in her expression. Her fur rippled tasting the air, picking up the scent of the dead and something else.

The skeleton made her feel sick, but jot half as sick as the sight of her shiny yellow blade in the hands of another. Every fibre of her being wanted to scream out for that precious thing...but he needed it.

Mala swallowed, reaching to her belt for the blaster pistol. She never fired it. 'Just in case.' He had said. But there had never been a case.

Mala set her shoulders, flicked it out ofnthe stun setting and raised it to point at the skeleton. Finger squeezed the trigger twice, the noise making her ears flatten against her head.

[member="Jorus Merrill"] [member="Locke"]

 

[Jorus Merrill]

[member="Locke"] [member="Mala"]

The murk and the sound kept Jorus from seeing whether he'd taken down the undead gunman, or whether the corpse had fallen for some other reason. Either way, he lacked the time to plan a next move. A third figure, lanky and indistinct, raised a hand, and the Force tugged at the lightsaber.

Jorus held on. The Darksider's grip dragged him along; his boots skidded in the Tetan dirt. He got both hands on the weapon and twisted it. The goal here was to turn the Force-pull against the Force-puller and amputate a thing or two. Blaster bolts snapped past over his shoulder as the scavenger poured on fire. That second figure, the one Jorus had shot, seemed to be key to all this. Take him down and anything might happen.

 

[Locke]

The first shot went wide. Plasma streaked by and away. Harmless. Useless. The second bolt was more accurate. It glanced off the puppet's ribs. Set a portion of the rotten cloth smoldering. Smoking. Greasy grey smoke whipped away by the black mist that enveloped the creature. Scorch marks blackened the bone. Charred it. Burned it. The minion was unfazed, its purpose single minded. It's claw outstretched. Pulling.

The wounded puppet stirred. Limbs dripped darkness as it picked itself up from the sand. The grit. The knife was still in its hand, but it scrabbled in the stone and dust. Searching. Seeking. The blaster was nearby, it only needed a moment to take it up. To rearm itself once more. A weapon more useful in the tussle than a mere blade. Armored gauntlets reached out for the old rifle, the undead automaton seemingly tireless.

His task complete, he now turned to his puppets. The small creature was a threat. A danger. But one that could be dealt with in turn. The flame was the real threat. The true danger. He saw what the human attempted to do. How he twisted. Manipulated. The saber was pointed just so. His feet scraping furrows as he was dragged. The solution was simple. Basic. Immediate. The rifle in his hands snapped up, the stock nestled into the shoulder. A burst of aimed fire from practiced hands flew from the weapon's muzzle at the man grasping the lightsaber. The options were simple. Easy. Deadly.

Beneath armored faceplate, lips twitched upward.

[member="Mala"] [member="Jorus Merrill"]

 

[Mala]

Mala stared helplessly as the captain was dragged forward, dragged by her shiny! Realisation dawned upon her then, that the thing wanted her shiny, wanted her lightsaber. Oh no no no, that wouldn't do at all. A cry of frustration left her lips and she bounded after the captain and leaped for his back.

She didn't see the first puppet move, didn't see his blaster come up. But she did feel the fire from the muzzle of the gun, pain like she'd never known searing across her side. Breath caught in her throat as the impact from the shots sent her off course and she hit the dirt once more. She tried to get up, but the pain made the edge of her vision go dark. Yellow eyes blinked behind her goggles, beating back against a rush of tears.

She had to get up, she had to move. The pistol was still clutched in her hand. She turned her head to look at it and at the murk around her. The figure in the distance hadn't moved since it all began...amd hadn't he been with the one whose face was all wrong? Mala rolled onto her front with a cry of pain and pushed herself up to her knees. She took the pistol in both hands and fired towards him. One, Two, three, four...the world was going dark.

[member="Locke"] [member="Jorus Merrill"]

 

[Jorus Merrill]

[member="Locke"] [member="Mala"]

Impacts defined the next couple of heartbeats.

First: Mala thudded against his back.

Second: Blasterfire punched into Mala.

Third: Jorus bent around the inexorably-pulled saber and slammed both feet into the undead...Jedi?

Fourth: As the Force-grip broke, Jorus toggled his repulsor belt and snapped off the overload switch. The belt jolted him and Mala thirty yards into the air, bound for the superfreighter.

"Merrill to bridge," he snapped, struggling to keep Mala and the lightsaber in hand. The mist had blotted out the Darksiders. "Seal doors and lift off immediately. I'll be approaching from the air. Anything else comes near, torch it."