Location: Pau City, top side
Objective: Quite impressive, a shame my interest in your skill is over shadowed by this unyielding rage at my friends apparrent death.
Gear: Hat is gone (saaaaaaaad), a few thermal detonators, a
big gourd, some
brawling gloves, and a whole lot of snark. Also, the gourd is filled with tea. Not alcohol, believe it or not.
New Friends: [member="Zesiro"] [member="Cotan Sar'andor"] [member="Nok-Krah-Nin"] [member="Jorus Merrill"]
New Enemies: [member="Darth Carnifex"] [member="Calina Ovmar"] [member="Darth Sibilus"]
The blind master watched as the force condense yet again. A dozen guns on the ground now glowed with the Sith's aura. A tinge of desperation and a whole lot of rage. The Sith had a firm grasp on telekinesis, if not tactics. A firing squad? How droll.
For a moment in time, a memory came. Vorhi's appointment to the Templars. His work under Daxton Bane. and the first man to truly push him to the limit of death--Jorus god-damned Merrill, who was currently running around in the sky like a maniac. A simple turn of events. A shotgun, at point-blank, filled with enough cortosis to shut down any saber-jockey. The cortosis, that when mixed with his own blood, and pumped out of his body after six hours of surgery, helped make these gloves. Vorhi grinned. Had it been that long since he face a firing squad? Was his trick ready?
Time to prove the Aang-tii right, the oracle thought with a smirk.
[youtube]https://youtu.be/6JapDyUwAu8[/youtube]
It would be hard to describe what others saw today. As the blasters fired and then flew towards him, Vorhi did not move his feet an inch. His, arms, however, moved more. And more than that, they
were more. A dozen arms seemed to appear, each looking like a phantom of the original, like a dozen false arms, the "original" two becoming clear and phantasmal as well. His torso seemed to be blur, vibrating, or assuming more positions at once than it should.
What was actually happening? That was easier to explain. The Aing-tii developed a technique for bending not only time, but their spirits. The Aing-tii's auras, they weren't as firm as most other species. They simply reached into other possibilities for themselves, ignoring light, and dark, and the supposed nature of the force as a constant, viewing as fluid. They did not teach this discipline to many, they didn't teach it to Vorhi. But an oracles eye taught him something different. Vorhi never learned Shatterpoint, either. He wasn't that kind of person. He wasn't disciplined enough. Focused enough. This technique was the inverse of both. Shatterpoint focused on the singular and extrapolated weakness. The aing-tii chose a moemnt in which to be, and made it so. What Vorhi did was extrapolate on every possible route, and take more than one of them at once. By thinking about each place his hand could be, by attuning the force to each possibility at once, he could block each attack. He could act as tough he had a limb in each place, because before the force and time and space said he had one his hands took at least thirteen paths between.
His hand blocked the third on the right, and the second on the left, and fifth on the right, in the same instance, before they could realize that was not what happened. He focused, his arms (more than he should have) rightly seemed to vanish and repulse the blasts, parrying the guns as they flew close.
Sadly, trial and error were part of the technique. He'd only done this three times, and none of those involved live fire. Two of the shots "hit" him, in one of the timelines, leaving two burns on the right shoulder. His right arm hung slightly limp as the left one was held up in a guard, the both gloves smoking. He grinned. By his own count, forty-seven punches. And he barely felt a thing.
A grin turned to a slight frown as a familiar intent rang in the sky. The desire to end it all, the desire to send a capital vessel crashing into a city out of spite. Gods, what a pitiful act. Druckenwell, Fondar, Roche, Mandalore, the Silken Asteroids. How many more times would mass slaughter by a losing army be viewed as some brilliant stratagem.
Then, nearly as quickly as it began, it was snuffed out. Jorus Fething Merrill was still stealing his god-damned thunder? Friggin' Prima Donna. A breath was had. "That was a command vessel? It appears the Mandalorians skirts your emperor cowers behind are starting to wrinkle. You should surrender before I decide to lose my temper again."
The blind monk was wounded, but his tone was far from idle. His movements were stern. "If you continue to fight me, I will use your body as a training dummy until every bone is shattered. Do you understand? I have grown tired of your playing at war."
