Galactic Tournament: Alkor Centaris vs Darth Ravik

[Sirak Kolar]

The soft whur of the starship filled the silence of the ship’s arena, hidden deep in her durasteel belly. Mere hours before, each contestant was blind folded and taken not only aboard the ship, but into the room itself.

The stands near them were all black, not a person in sight, but the more force sensitive of the bunch may feel a presence, over-watching the fight with sinister intent, while others may feel the energy dampening fields around the arena to ensure a safe battle. Above them, a small cube with four screens, one on each of it’s faces, each lit up with nothing more than a quiet buzz.

The arena itself seemed to have a downward slope to it’s center floor, various blockades made of durasteel erected for cover dotting it’s contrasting elevations. At the arena’s edges, stood a tall energy barrier that could only be disabled from the outside.

Suddenly, a pre-recorded voice, masked by a simple changer, would erupt from the loudspeakers;

“Congratulations, Gladiators! Today, the fight between [member="Alkor Centaris"] and [member="Darth Ravik"] shall take place. When the screen counts to 0, you may begin.”

And as the voice went quiet, the static of the screens was replaced by harsh digital numbers, starting at 10.

Another moment would pass, and 9 replaced it.

8…

7…
6...

 

[Alkor Centaris]

Screams of delight and cheers teeming with bloodlust resounded through the ship's gullet. As the footsteps slowly dispersed, the sensation of hands near his face warned Alkor that their highly ritualized introduction was finally at its end. Light filtered into his eyes, now free from their former prison. He never needed them, of course.

Each step he took, every time they changed direction- even the distinct sounds that the floor made when the surface subtly changed told him a story written not with words, but toils. Even with a mastery of the Force, a man with no other training lacked the wisdom that came with experience. Truth be told, Alkor had no intention of leaving the way he came. Otherwise, why would he have volunteered to begin with?

Though the voice had stilled, the crowd only grew louder. With each tick of the screen above, they chanted numbers in absolute glee as they prepared themselves for bloody entertainment. By now, Alkor had grown accustomed to the ambiance and his senses grew still in response. It was one thing to be taken off his guard, it would be another entirely to fight while on edge. The fluidity of the eternal mystery swirled around him as Alkor shed his cloak and looked all around. A barrier, not unlike a prison cell. He supposed that the benefactors of this tournament feared a terrified combatant might attempt to flee.

It was a humorous, albeit fleeting notion.

Black fabric jostled as it touched the floor, and Alkor kicked it dismissively aside. His fingers brushed over the bloodied fabric wrapped round his torso, and then felt the familiar hilt of his lightsaber where it remained unlit at his waist. Scars riddled his chest and back, burns and wounds from both blades and blunt force trauma. Eyes deep as the ocean skimmed the arena for any hint of a surprise to come, though only as a formality.

To stand before a crowd was nothing short of familiar for a Jen'jidai. He did not offer a smile at their praise, or even gaze into their sea of faces to find favor. His mind remained focused, and his body poised.

Their voices coalesced, one powerful sound: "five, four, three, two..."

[member="Darth Ravik"]
[member="Ebon"]