Blood Atonement

[Lord Ghoul]

[member="Alen Na'Varro"]

Even at night the Cauldron's unforgiving sands could still blister. Mikhail learned this in short order as he strode into the arena. Familiarity breeds confidence, they say, but with Shorn confidence is ingrained. Primeval torchlight illuminated Rattatak's most bloodied grounds, casting a warm glow upon the pale skin of Mikhail's bared chest. He wore nothing but a pair of pants, cut off a little above the ankles, but still he stood tall and proud. His toes curled in the sand as he glanced about him, searching the stands with those piercing blue eyes. A crowd watched in anxious silence.

This evening's sport was not entertainment, but judgement.

Mikhail Shorn had nearly slain two High Councillors upon Lipsec, regardless of the extenuating circumstances the law, or more importantly the man upholding the law, demanded some form of retribution for the wrongs. Yet attempted manslaughter was the least of Shorn's crimes, in his own eyes. He'd felt a life vanish, ripped from the galaxy before it had the chance to even see it. Shorn had felt that only once before. Both times were his fault. He knew who to blame for what had transpired on Lipsec, but the guilt still crushed him.

As he stared into that breathless crowd he knew what they wanted to see. Death. His death. Part of him wished to give them satisfaction, to render up his essence for the Netherworld's torment. He deserved it. But as in all questions of responsibility, Mikhail Shorn was a coward who fled into the arms of violence, yet still he had the gall to question why it was that he must flee. He was a blind, proud fool whose once well-meaning heart had been frozen beneath innate layers of disregard for life, rebellion against authority, and callousing adventures that were only broadened by his addiction to the Dark Side and ravenous desire for blood.

Now he faced someone who could finally give him the justice he truly deserved. There would be no running here. To run was to die.

Torches flickered softly. Mikhail's gaze traveled back to the sands, to his opponent.

They had each been afforded a single weapon. Mikhail extended the palm of his hand and the crackling light glinted off a single metal orb the size of a knuckle joint.

"My weapon," he rasped for all to hear.

 

[Aran Finn]

Na'Varro had a mandate. He upheld the law in Fringe space, and none were exempt from its bindings. Alen the man had sympathy for Shorn's position. Arbiter Na'Varro, however, was a divine wind of cold, hard justice. He had no time for reflections on the nature of right, wrong and extenuating circumstances. He only had the law ... and what fit within the law, and what didn't. He and the good-natured bearded man known as Alen were two different people, but the truth was that Alen Na'Varro was not limited to one personality. Alen made one, the Arbiter made two, Darth Strider made three ... but who was he really? Which two extensions of himself were masks, and which one was the genuine article? The man liked to think it was Alen, but truthfully ... he was not so sure.

Arbiter Na'Varro knew that [member="Mikhail Shorn"] was a liability to the Fringe. Somewhere beneath, Alen had known that too though he hadn't cared to admit it. Darth Strider saw a strong rival. All knew that the Thronebreaker had to be removed. All knew that he was possibly the one person in the Fringe that was capable of it. Varanin's limp was only getting worse, and an opponent of Mikhail Shorn needed mobility and speed. Spencer Jacobs was more than powerful enough, but her tender heart and sympathetic tendencies towards Shorn would not stack up well against the Sith Lord's unbridled savagery. There were others ... but Na'Varro knew he was best suited to this challenge. He had fought countless duels against top tier opponents of great skill ... Varanin, Proeliator, Hydrocus, Killian ... the list went on. Shorn was another in their tier. The difference between victory and defeat was held on the tip of a lightsaber.

Bare chest felt the soft, cold wind brushed against it, and his black gi pants held firm in its face. They were of a tough material, but more than flexible enough. His dragonsaber hung at where his belt would be, undrawn as yet. His weapon of choice ... Na'Varro noted Shorn's weapon and frowned. The ball bearing, in Shorn's capable hands, was extremely dangerous indeed. He would need to fight carefully, conservatively and with prudence. But he already knew that. The bearded man had taken Shorn very, very seriously. He aimed to live, and he aimed to win.

His toes curled against the sand. His muscles relaxed, ready and waiting. He breathed in and out slowly, slipping into the frame of mind that allowed him to fight without seams or wrinkles. The frame of mind that allowed him perfect movement, technique and application. Where there were no words, or algorithms, or distractions ... just the feeling of yes and no. Na'Varro ignored the world, just as he ignored pain or the possibility of impending death. His closed eyes blinked open.

"Hajime." Begin. The Force carried the words across to Shorn through the soft wind ... Na'Varro's state of mind was perfect. Reflexive. He was ready.

 

[Lord Ghoul]

A single word and summary execution began. The man who spoke was not the Alen Na'varro that Mikhail knew. That man laughed and joked. Here, there were no smiles. Justice best served cold, apparently. Mikhail stared at the Arbiter of the Fringe. Solidity defined him. A bulwark against which Mikhail's attacks would crash futilely. Shorn could see it in his mind. The attack, the counter, then Alen's lunge. Death looked on, whetstone rasping across his scythe. Mikhail did not truly wish to die, though he knew he deserved a fate far worse. The Garhoon and coward in him collaborated, sirens that they were, wooing him with the laws of nature ingrained into his being.

Fight or flight. Kill or be killed. Now, or never.

Mikhail inhaled sharply and the Dark Side roared into him, a primal flood of desperate urges that suffused his very being with stygian strength. Insatiable avarice for that intoxicating power begged him to draw in more, more, more, until his cup nigh ranneth over. The cimmerian sweetness tumbled inside him, shoving, kicking, screaming, a child of horrid night desperate to be free of the imprisoning womb of mortal flesh. The Dark Side sought to destroy him, but Mikhail grasped it as he would a serpent, subduing and mastering the aphotic might.

He became the axis upon which all spun. The pale blue in his eyes gave way to a liquid gold tinged by crimson. The eyes of a Sith. And looking on it all with those eyes suddenly everything seemed so very clear to him.

Shorn did not deserve to die. Could he be blamed for his inner nature, the passenger inside who reveled in killing? He had not asked the Garhoon to ride shotgun in his brain. That was his father's doing. Mikhail had not wanted any of this, this affinity for the Dark Side, nor the hunger for blood. They had been pushed on him, forced until all his virtues had been stripped away, leaving only the monster which others had created. No, if they were going to blame anyone they should blame Jared. The one who'd stripped away his being until nothing was left but the rottenness. It had taken so many sessions of mental healing for Mikhail to recover. Now.... now he wasn't so sure he had recovered at all.

Anger rippled through him, spurred on by whispers from the serpent of the Dark. Alen came to present the Fringe's 'justice', a sneer twisted Mikhail's features. The Fringe could go kriff itself. All his disregard for authority, his burning hatred for those in positions of power came roaring into him and he twisted that into a weapon which he hurled against the so-called Arbiter.

In a sudden blur of movement, Shorn slammed a telekinetic hammerfist down through the air. Sand exploded, obfuscating both combatants' vision and creating the opening for Mikhail's hate. Tutaminis took time to prepare. A second's warning. Likely Alen suspected Telekinesis. Tutaminis would not be what he prepared. Shorn raised splayed fingers toward Alen's force signature and unleashed a salvo of pure rage. Lightning crackled forth in a torrent of blue, forking pain.

[member="Alen Na'Varro"]

 

[Aran Finn]

No sentient thoughts roamed through Alen's thoughtscape ... just action and reaction. Yes and no. Life. Death. And a deep-seated love for battle. Glorious.

The advantages of Alen's state of mind were beyond counting. The ability to react seamlessly was just one of them. In a blur, Shorn brought down his telekinetic hammerfist, sending sand flying through the air and creating a wall between the two combatants that obscured vision entirely. A feeling probed Na'Varro's mind that was impossible to translate into simple words. All words are metaphors for the truth, and the truth was indescribable. The closest possible translation for the feeling that probed his mind was satisfaction, or perhaps advantage. He did not see danger, only opportunity. For the cloud of sand between them obscured Shorn's vision too ... and Na'Varro knew he could make better use of it than Shorn could. But none of that went through his mind. It was just a simple, raw feeling ... a root rather than a stem.

Na'Varro was fighting a conservative fight. He did not wish to expend Force energy needlessly. This was something he had decided well before he'd stepped into the arena, and his strategy was engrained in his mind with steadfastness. It was true that he suspected a telekinetic attack, and not lightning. It was true that Tutaminis was not an instantaneous defence. But Na'Varro had no intention of standing still against Shorn. Mobility was key. The telekinetic hammerfist on the sand in front of him was the precursor to something more sinister, and he knew it. So he did what anyone fighting [member="Mikhail Shorn"], the Thronebreaker and Champion of the Cauldron, should do ... He moved.

He did not crush his Force signature as small as possible. He masked in entirely. When he was a Knight, his Master Killian had taken away his Taozin amulet and forced him to mask his own signature until he could erase his presence in the Force entirely from the minds of others. His sect had dealt in secrecy of the highest order, and as such it had been a skill of the utmost necessity to learn. Right now, in this moment, he was thankful for his diverse background. As Shorn arced the Force lightning towards his presence, he would feel Na'Varro vanish from his mind. And as that happened, Na'Varro used the erupting cloud of sand to obscure his movements. Shorn was now effectively blind.

With the Force fueling his movements, he exploded to the right as the sand still continued upwards. He wasn't as fast as he used to be, with the accumulation of war wounds that had built up over the years, but he was still able to get where he needed to go with speed. Lightning arced out towards where Alen was, but he was not there anymore. He was coming at Shorn from the right hand side of the cloud of sand, and Shorn probably wouldn't see him until he was halfway there.

The Dark Side was flowing through Na'Varro's body beneath a thick sheet of ice. He did not draw his lightsaber yet, because he was not a fool. Instead, he reached out towards Shorn with a restrained iteration of the Force Grip, centred on Shorn's feet and aimed not at crushing bone or twisting sinew, but instead simply impeding the movement the snarky Sith Lord. He would find his feet rooted to the ground like that of a two thousand year old tree. His right hand was ready to ward against any attack that Shorn might throw. He still had that phrik ball bearing, and that was a potentially devastating weapon at close range. As was Force Lightning. Shorn had many tools, all tailored towards destruction.

If unopposed, Alen's blade would leap to life in his right hand and cut towards Shorn's left leg at the knee. But Na'Varro did not expect that to happen. Instead, the bearded Sith Lord would stop about five metres away from Shorn and simply stalk forward ... if Shorn could regain control over his feet, Alen would slowly and surely, with lateral and forward footwork, look to back Shorn against the walls of the Cauldron. It was "ring generalship". He could not afford to take a phrik ball bearing to the chest at close range. Not yet, at least.

 

[Lord Ghoul]

The moment Alen's signature in the Force disappeared, a cold shiver tingled along Mikhail's spine. The lightning from his fingertips lanced through the sand cloud, but hit nothing beyond, or at least Mikhail assumed so since he couldn't frakking see! He let out a snarling curse, ceasing the flow of lightning almost as soon as it had begun and leaving the stench of ozone hanging in the air. He had not expected the Arbiter to know any art of concealment tricks. Alen always seemed straightforward. A misstep. One which could cost him his life.

From the lack of screams, Mikhail thought it a safe bet that the lightning performed as usual these days... doing absolutely nothing. Of course, the sand cloud provided zero visibility. Mikhail needed it gone, needed everything gone. He felt nauseous, a knot beginning in his stomach and bubbling up. A volcanic rush of pure hate. His arms trembled with that fury which he would not restrain. Anger. So much choler without source, without reason.

Yellow eyes flared wider. Danger whispered all around, until suddenly it leapt forward and wrapped tendrils of power around his legs. Alen held him fast in a Force Grip. One which Mikhail did not as yet mean to escape. He did not attempt to concentrate his rage to a focal point, nor did he have anything with which to aim it at. He unleashed the roiling energy in the best way he knew how.

Telekinetic energy exploded from Mikhail in an omnidirectional wave that scoured the very sand from the ground, several meters in all directions, revealing the floor of the arena beneath his feet. On Tatooine, a sandstorm could not only blind someone, but with a heavy enough wind it could blast the skin off the body, leaving raw, bloody flesh. The effect of tiny granules of sand hurtling in every direction outward from Mikhail was much the same. Yet they merely preceded the true attack.

The rippling wall of Force energy, known by many as the Repulse ability, carried enough power to deliver a blow comparable to a giant's backhand. Enough to send a humanoid ragdolling through the air. The surge of telekinesis swept away all the sand in the immediate area - though whether the same could be said of Alen remained to be seen - leaving the night air clear and restoring visibility, at least for Mikhail.

If the attack worked as intended then the blasted sand would abrade Alen's skin from his exposed flesh, blind him, and leave him a pink and red mess, but probably not kill him. After which, the wave of telekinesis would slam into him and hurl him across the arena, away from Shorn. One thing was for sure, the Force Grip, concealed presence, and the preparations to both attack and defend could not all withstand Mikhail's counter. Something would have to give.

[member="Alen Na'Varro"]

 

[Aran Finn]

A wave of sand so fast and vicious that it could tear the skin from Alen's body. A wave of Force energy so furious and powerful that it could violently smash him away, dashing him against the stone wall of the Cauldron. The attack was twofold, and extremely dangerous to boot, but once again it held its advantages for Na'Varro. Firstly, there would no longer be a wall of sand between himself and Shorn ... which meant that concealing his Force presence would be fairly useless. In a close quarters fight, concealment of your Force signature could work against your opponent's precognition and reflexes. This was no close quarters fight. Not yet, in any case. Alen let his concealment drop. The Force Grip had ceased being useful as soon as Shorn Repulsed with a wave of Force energy to regain some distance ... Alen did not wish to budge an inch. His specialty Force power was the Shield ... and to use it to his full effect it would require his utmost attention. He erected a powerful Shield swiftly and reflexively to defend against the rapidly encroaching sand and powerful wave of Force energy.

Mastery was not just power, but excellent technical application. Not only could Na'Varro conjure a huge amount of power into his Force Shield, he could shape it to the situation at hand. It was engineering efficiency ... and that allowed him to conserve his energy. He was in this for the long haul ... a more impatient opponent would have erected a tight, powerful Force Shield that would break against Shorn's superior, almost god-like power. That kind of Shield was like an oak, strong and unyielding, until a heavy wind knocks it over. Alen's shield was more akin to a reed ... which would bend in the same wind, but remain standing and intact when it abated. The Shield he erected was curved; a tight compact center that protected his form surrounded by more flexible edges that would bend as the wave of Force energy washed over him. It did not seek to stop Shorn's wave ... instead, it sought to merely divert the energy around Alen's form.

The sand hit the shield and flew off on various, countless tangential arcs. An accumulation of millions of tiny blows thudded against the Shield, but due to its shape very few of the tiny grains managed to hit the Shield at a perpendicular angle. The wave of energy hit the Shield next, washing over it with incredible, thundering power. Inside the curved Shield, Alen concentrated and gritted his teeth as the outer edges of his construct of Force energy shuddered violently. But it held, and due to its shape Alen's form barely budged. He was exactly where he wanted to be now, and as soon as the Wave washed over his Shield, he dropped it, not wanting to waste a single iota of unnecessary energy. His grimace remained, and he stalked forward. Not with reckless abandon, but slowly, looking to back Shorn against the walls of the Cauldron. He knew that Shorn didn't want to come into close quarters with him. He'd use that survival instinct against him.

Alen did not wish to rush Shorn, or engage him in a telekinesis battle. To do so early in a fight would be stupidity of the highest order. That would be underestimating his dangerous, undefeated opponent. So now he strayed into the realm of unorthodoxy ... he had a feeling that he'd continue to surprise his opponent with his wealth of knowledge.

Na'Varro was no mentalist. It was something he spent very little time on anymore while training, but he had studied under high-level mentalists. They had made sure that their most promising apprentice at least had a fundamental understanding of the most subtle art ... he was never going to rise above journeyman level with his use of mentalism, and would never think of engaging any sort of mentalist in a mental battle ... but he could use the art effectively. Never as a damage-dealing, primary weapon, but it would always be an effective set-up. So as he stalked forward, he began prodding, awkwardly and obviously, at Shorn's mind. It was an arrogant move. He showed no intention of even trying to disguise his intention of cracking into Shorn's memories, and did so with the grace of a blind bantha. But he still knew what to do. That much was obvious. If undefended, he would be able to find a way into the other Sith Lord's mind. It was just like loosening a knot. However, this was more aimed at distracting and irritating Shorn than actually doing him any harm.

Meanwhile, Na'Varro concentrated on his footwork, stalking Shorn down.

Shorn was not fighting a bladesman. He was fighting a battle architect, one who would use every trick he knew to win. Every move was calculated ... this fight wasn't a bloody slobber-knocker or technical swordfight ... it was a game of chess, memorised from hours of preparation and practice. And Na'Varro was playing Shorn three moves from now.

[member="Mikhail Shorn"]

 

[Lord Ghoul]

Perhaps Alen played as one would a game of Dejarik, every move a step toward the end game, but Shorn danced to the Call of the Wild. To Mikhail, this was no game. Every lungful of air could be his last before the fires of Chaos took him. He didn't believe in a better place after. For most, death led to a return to the Void. Some said that people's essences merged back into the Force and became part of that vast, permeating power. Maybe that was better. To be part of the whole. He didn't really know anything except that which he'd seen with his own two eyes. He'd looked into the beyond and seen the Netherworld, a place of eternal torment. That was his future if he died now. Maybe he deserved that fate, but he refused to accept that as his ending.

Mikhail would not die face down in the sands like one of the slaves which this world slaughtered for sport. He obeyed the Wild's most primal urge. Survive. Fight. Live. Alen might be the careful hunter, but Mikhail was no prey. Cornering a wolf and living to tell of it is easier said than done.

Yet this hunter seemed to have many weapons in his arsenal. Almost immediately after the swordsmaster tanked through Mikhail's telekinetic blast, with some shield-like construct, he launched an attack - if it could be called that. The Sith Lord bludgeoned at Shorn's mind, like some irritating neighbor incessantly ringing the doorbell. No finesse. No real purpose either, leastways that Mikhail could discern, save to enter. As Alen rang away, he stalked toward Shorn with precise footwork.

The mental assault elicited a growl from Shorn, who clutched at his head with his right hand. It felt as though a gong rang repeatedly inside Shorn's head. Yellow eyes narrowed on the man whose figure was once again revealed to him. Purposeful. Entirely too purposeful. Alen might have a breadth of knowledge upon Shorn, but this would be a battle of depths. Two could play at parlor tricks, for Shorn - while not gifted at defense - could certainly launch his own mental barrage. Though it would be wasted. One was a telekinetic master, the other a master of blade and... shield, apparently. Neither was formidable at telepathy, and it would not be through that medium which this battle was decided.

If this was a game of chess, then Alen had failed to put Mikhail in check. The cornered predator would not make the same mistake. Mikhail always went for the throat.

Face contorted due to Alen's mental gongs, Mikhail retorted with a silencing blow. He did not move an inch from where he stood. He simply raised a hand in Alen's direction and curled his fingers. At once, pure telekinetic will wrapped around Alen Na'varro. Perhaps he would snap up a Force Shield to protect himself, perhaps not. Either way, it would do him little good. Shorn grabbed Alen as an enraged giant would, enormous fist closing around him with crushing strength. Shorn sought to pin Alen's arms to his side. If Alen erected that shield of his Mikhail would simply wrap his telekinesis around the shield too. Shorn raised his hand up, then brought it crashing back down, attempting to lift Alen into the air, then body slam him into the ground feet-first.

As with Jared Ovmar and Darth Ferus, both of whom had been clad in full suits of some of the finest armor in the galaxy, Mikhail intended to obliterate the Arbiter. He listened as much as he watched, hoping his ears would be greeted with the soft, sucking pop of bones tearing through flesh to indicate Alen's demise.

[member="Alen Na'Varro"]