GBA: Mikhail Shorn vs Alkor Centaris

[Eralam]

If there was a place where good people went when they died, this wasn't it.

The Netherworld of the Force had many names throughout the galaxy. Most who had been there simply called it Hell. It was a singularly dull place, or at least that's how it always seemed after a few centuries wandering around with nothing to do but to test your might against other lost souls.

Our fighters find themselves in front of one of the few remaining portals into the world of the living. Such passageways are exceedingly rare, with only a few in the whole of the galaxy. The victor would be able to pass through and have a second shot at life. The loser, well, what do you call someone who was killed twice?

The ground is flat, featureless. It exists. It has to, or else how would the fighters know where to stand? Like everything else here, it is at once tangible and insubstantial, a nonentity in the fight. It's there, and that's about all that can be asked for.

A circle of blazing green fire, thirty meters across, springs to life around the fighters, undoubtedly the work of an interloper. The fire is more than just physical flame. It will burn the very soul of anyone who tries to cross it. And rest assured, it will remain until there is a victor. Whether or not it takes ten minutes or ten years, it doesn't care.

[member="Alkor Centaris"]
[member="Mikhail Shorn"]

 

[Lord Ghoul]

A figure armored all in black sat on a rock, staring at the portal to the realm of the living. His sable helm bore a trim of gold and the jagged dome gave resemblance to a crown. But no king was this, with shoulders slumped and chin propped on hand.

The aegised spirit gave a forlorn sigh. “They come in, but we never go out,” he thought.

All at once, the portal shifted, a shape emerging. A mortal man? The shade cocked a raven brow, an act hidden beneath faceless helm.

“Well, hello,” said the ghost, trying to remember how to speak.

It had been a while since he’d had reason, in this shapeless land. Unable to eat, unable to sleep, unable to feel. A restless existence, altogether meaningless. Bland but for the wrath and pain of chance encounters. For what can resentful spirits of murderous hearts do, but pit themselves against one another?

As spiteful in death as they were in life.

Mikhail Shorn was no exception.

A sudden circle of green flames erupted around the two figures. Mikhail frowned and got to his feet.

“Azarath, is that you?” He stared into the flames, but no reply was forthcoming. He shrugged, expressionless helm swinging toward the newcomer.

Shorn lifted his left arm and waved, before remembering that he was missing half a forearm and a hand. A last memento from [member="Anaya Fen"], that blasted twi’lek whore. He’d nearly taken her life. She’d wholly taken his hand.

He glanced at it ruefully, then back to the arrival.

“Welcome to hell,” he said cheerily,”I’ll be your tour guide.”

[member="Alkor Centaris"]

 

[Alkor Centaris]

The living often consider death to be wholly final, a sacrosanct and morose end to something beautiful and wondrous. Humanity treats it as a drab, opaque glass though which nothing can return. They believe it can only take, but nothing can return from its maw. C'thulu Plaga had proved them wrong. For many years, the black morass given form cheated years from the clutches of eternity, a profane existence with only a semblance of true life.

His student now entered that selfsame nether with all of that brazen indifference. The words of the fallen echoed all around him, intangible souls trapped forever in a place between worlds. Their thoughts painted a surreal portrait in the darkness, pastels of color blurred against an inky backdrop. Starlight in the heavens fell from grace with each moment that passed. This world was a dead one, no different from those who dwelt here.

Alkor heard the musings of a lifeless entity given form by the disjointed thoughts and shattered dreams of the sundered collective, and when the light faded he saw its face. A man clad in dark armor, sat upon a rock. "I am familiar with traversing the darker paths," he drawled in a bland monotone.

Plaga once warned him of the dangers presented by restless dead. The lightsaber slipped into his hand reflexively, but remained unlit. "Be gone," he commanded. "Or should I scatter your ashes a second time?"

[member="Mikhail Shorn"]

 

[Lord Ghoul]

Shorn's head tilted slightly to one side as he sized up his opponent.

Monotone? Boring. Lightsaber? Boring. And threats with nonexistent veils? Three strikes.

The Thronebreaker's snide tones came out muffled by the helmet. "Scatter my ashes, eh? Well, you can huff and puff all you want, but there's only one big bad wolf here."

Ignoring the green flames, of course. Someone was clearly having fun at Mikhail's expense.

The former Sith Lord had never been one for flashy theatrics with the Force. And once he'd lost his hand, well, his saber skills hadn't been the most impressive in the first place. Tirdarius would be thoroughly disappointed in what he'd become. Odd, that Mikhail hadn't seen him around these parts. Strange to think that that curmudgeonly bastard had survived him.

Speaking of survival, Shorn doubted those flames would dissipate until one of them was lying in the dirt.

So, with an air of nonchalance, Mikhail stretched his hand to the side and curled his fingers inward.

"Now about that tour. Here you can see some of Hell's unique geological formations."

The rock behind him shattered into a hundred skipping-stone sized pieces. Mikhail smiled beneath the helmet, lifting his hand up palm flat. The pebbles floated into the air.

"Want a closer look?"

No flash. No pizzazz. Just brute pragmatism applied to that most basic of Force powers: telekinesis.

And what did pragmatism say? Mikhail gestured sharply and sent a half-dozen of those rocks whistling through the air fast enough to break bone. Two for the face, three for the chest, one for the groin.

[member="Alkor Centaris"]

 

[Alkor Centaris]

The Thronebreaker's snide tones came out muffled by the helmet. "Scatter my ashes, eh? Well, you can huff and puff all you want, but there's only one big bad wolf here."

At about that time, the saber snapped and hissed to life. Alkor wasted no time with his enemy's pontificating, opting instead to go on the offensive. That was how a practitioner of Juyo dealt with his enemies, after all.

With all the toxic and volatile energies that swirled in this place, it was easy enough to drink in the thrill of combat. Spirits long departed howled appreciatively from their eternal torment as they were allowed to witness mortal combat one last time. In turn, the dark energies of the netherworld imbued Alkor with their taint.

And he thanked them by making use of it.

The burning power swelled through his entire body in a fraction of an instant. The world around him seemed to slow, and he surged forward as the spectre held up his hand. Most force adepts liked to play with telekinesis, for whatever reason; and while it made sense to Alkor, he never had much love for the indirect approach to conflict.

One thing was certain, however: this man liked to hear himself talk.

The gap between them closed as the rocks began to levitate, and the rubble sped toward where the Jen'jidai stood only moments before. Alkor brought his blade down toward Mikhail in a thunderous blow intended to strike at the sinew of the man's throat.

The nature of his opponent's armor was unclear as of yet, but it would soon reveal itself.

"Less talking. More dying."

[member="Mikhail Shorn"]

 

[Lord Ghoul]

The rocks barely left Mikhail's grasp before the stranger was on him and moving at a speed only users of the Force could achieve. Worse, Mikhail didn't own a lightsaber, much less remember how to effectively use one. Eight years out of practice. The pointy end went in the bad guy, right?

Thankfully, this was familiar territory. Cavill, Anaya Fen, Rosa Mazhar, Diana Moridena, even Zaiden were all more accomplished lightsaber duelists than he could ever claim to be. And yet, they'd all ended their little meetings with a face-to-face introduction to the ground. Mikhail saw no reason for this time to be any different.

But more than that, he'd forgotten the thrill of single combat, the way he could focus a lifetime of resentment and project it all onto one person. Didn't matter who, so long as they were fighting him they represented everything he'd been fighting his entire life, from his father's control over him to the Sith themselves. In short, all the people who made him what he was today. A monster.

And unleashing all of that on a single individual, no fetters, no reason to hold back? Well, Mikhail called that cathartic.

The former lord of the Sith leaned back, away from the incoming strike, and tilted his chin down so that the jutting tip of the visor nearly touched the hollow of his throat. The lightsaber slashed down, connected with the visor, then skittered down and off his chest plate, leaving a smoking score behind it.

The heat from the connecting blow felt like the searing warmth from a volcano all focused to a central location. Uncomfortable. Painful, even. Physically painful.

I'd nearly forgotten.

The riposte was quick in coming. Shorn gestured upward with his hand palm flat and loose dirt rose up in a wave, straight for [member="Alkor Centaris"]' face. Ideally, it'd blind the man, but Shorn didn't stand around waiting to see. He twisted his wrist so that the palm faced the stranger and pushed.

A telekinetic shockwave burst forth at point blank range, more than capable of sending the man flying across the full length of the circle.

"I'm already dead."

 

[Alkor Centaris]

Phrikite, or beskar? Some highly resistant alloy, either way. It mattered little. The enemy soaked the attack without much difficulty and retained his unlife in the most disappointing manner possible. That was to say, he not only persisted but he continued the struggle as well. Alkor did not waste time thinking about any of it. The fact his blade had not ended the life of his opponent served less as a surprise and more as a stimulant. Overwhelming disgust rippled through his body and he latched on to it, a leech bleeding the universe itself.

Hatred blossomed within Alkor as he allowed the crippling, toxic negativity to drive every movement and augment his frail, mortal frame. Unlike a Sith however, the Jen'jidai seized the power it held and focused it. The immense speed drained from his frame, but his weapon moved with sufficient quickness to compensate for the loss.

As [member="Mikhail Shorn"] raised his hand for a reprisal of some sort, the lightsaber spun viciously around to take another bite. In an erratic blur, the blade came this time at the opposite vector from before: the other side of the walking suit of armor's neck.

Dirt blasted into Alkor's arm where his body had twisted into the strike, flecks of dust and dirt sprinkling the air just in front of the Jen'jidai's eyes. His narrowed focus and hardened senses allowed for him to turn his gaze just enough to make it a non issue.

However, the second attack came from nowhere. Alkor grunted as the wave of utter desperation knocked into his form and sent him airborne. His body moved across the room with ever ounce of graceless rage that now coursed through his veins.

He skidded across the dirt with a stoic expression at odds with the inferno in his eyes. He pushed off his knee and stood once more, now at a distance from his victim. No matter how much breathing room the enemy managed to steal back, Alkor would still cut off his air.

With a hellish crackle, the lightsaber blade bit into dirt and gave off sparks as it whined in displeasure. Dirt offered more resistance than flesh, and made for much less fulfilling prey. It hungered to taste the apparition.

"Tch."

 

[Lord Ghoul]

The other arm, the half an arm, shot up vertically, elbow bent, stump at eye level, warding away the blow aimed for his neck. The blade sizzled against the surface of the armor. Overlapping plates of akk wolf scales, their keratin surfaces bonded with stygian triprismatic polymer. Resistant to the blade, but not impervious. Angry sparks leapt from the point of contact in a coruscating shower.

Not for long.

The stranger took the full force of the shockwave and went skidding through the dirt, meters away.

Mikhail wasted no time. The left arm dropped while the fingers of the right stretched out, then curled inward. Not to pull, but to bind.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he did so. The fight was playing out like so many others before it. Lightsaber against telekinesis. A few scored hits, a surge of hope, all foiled by a backhand with the Force.

Oh, his opponent was no amateur. Those reflexes? Force enhanced, or cybernetic augmentations. Mikhail couldn't match that speed, but he didn't have to in order to put the outsider down. After all, what could speed and fury do against a man whose will became reality?

The smirk turned to a sneer of anger. Idiot. Coming here when he could be out there, should be out there. For what, some cheap thrill?

The longing returned. Grief, remorse, guilt even. Call it what you will. Quick shades of spiteful emotion. Shorn's mouth grew bitter at the memory of all he'd left behind, all he'd left unfinished; at the unfathomable thought that someone - anyone - could choose to go to the Netherworld of their own accord when they might spend, would spend, an eternity trapped in it.

The futility of existing in a plane where only wrathful shades lingered sparked against vitriolic resentment. Dark flames roared in his heart, which was hollow but for the furnace where he burned scraps of conscience to ash.

The caliginous rage of a dead Sith Lord focused in on one single task: rendering the newcomer immobile in a crushing telekinetic grasp. The more Mikhail's fingers curled, the more pressure he tried to exert on the man's body.

If the grip proved successful, [member="Alkor Centaris"] would feel as if a giant's hand had suddenly wrapped him up and then begun to squeeze. The more seconds passed, the more bones would stretch, bow, and finally, exquisitely, snap.

 

[Alkor Centaris]

There is no hope. Not in this world, the next, or any one that came before. The powerful forged their own destiny with their will. Hope is the bittersweet lie that the weak tell to rationalize their meager conditions. Alkor held no such delusions. His opponent reached outward once more, and the brush of force power around the Jen'jidai became stale. Darkness laughed in his ears as it twisted inward threateningly, but Alkor had already blasted into motion.

Unnatural vigor took hold of him once more, and his body began to protest against the effort. Alkor drew heavily on the vicelike pain that threatened his head as he jumped forward for his opponent recklessly, reaching out with his right hand in an attempt to cup the man's neck as he slammed the lightsaber forward toward [member="Mikhail Shorn"]'s face, seeking to drive it through the helmet emitter deep. No matter what the armor could do, the heat would ideally be enough to kill the other man's concentration. Either way, Alkor had drawn fully on his rage.

He would leave only ashes in his wake.

 

[Lord Ghoul]

Raven brows shot up beneath the helmet in surprise as the stranger surged toward him in a jump, lightsaber held out like a spear. The meters of distance between them shrank in an eye blink.

Well, that wouldn't do at all.

Mikhail liked his breathing room.

Not entirely sure how the Force grip had failed to immobilize the man, yet still having a split-second to react, the Thronebreaker slapped the air as though swatting a fly.

The grip shifted in nature, no longer seeking to immobilize the outsider, but to instead grab and hurl him sideways straight toward the barrier of green flames with an invisible hand. The airborne fury had no means to anchor his body. No way to stop himself from being thrown, least none that Mikhail could see.

"Wrong way, stranger."

Mikhail wasn't entirely sure what would happen if the man tumbled through that fiery wall, but he was most certainly interested to find out.

[member="Alkor Centaris"]

 

[Alkor Centaris]

A wail of disapproval ripped through Alkor as his body ceased to move forward, and his opponent successfully halted the attack mere meters from his face. The Jen'jidai grit his teeth in unabashed rage as his body- seeped in the dark side of the Force- permeated that power and gave it an audible form. It began as a howl, then doubled in decibel, tripled, quadrupled.

The scream ripped from his vocal chords like the wail of a banshee.

Pain stoked the flames of hatred inside him and pure power blossomed outward in the form of blackened streams of force power. The invisible hand around his body wracked Alkor as he defied it with something far more feral and uncontrollable. His eyes burned bloody red, blood vessels in his face now visible from the sheer strain of raw emotion and adrenal flow.

Kinetic force tore outward from his lungs, not like a push or anything directed, but a wave of raw and unchecked energy that would tear through reality until it abated. It plowed toward Mikhail, closer than anyone would care to be to such a thing.

[member="Mikhail Shorn"]

 

[Lord Ghoul]

Saber wielders didn't generally scream in Shorn's face. And when they did scream, they most definitely did not produce shockwaves from their kriffing mouth. As such, Mikhail was caught entirely off guard.

The primal shriek tore from the man's throat and surged toward Mikhail. The rippling wave of blast overpressure slammed into him, clawing at his limbs, at his footing, at his face. A howl that rose in intensity until the armor plates covering his chest vibrated with the force of its might.

The blast ripped Shorn's helmet off and sent him flying backward. He lost his grip in the process. The Thronebreaker slammed into the ground hard with a grunt, rolled backward, and came up on one knee, bruised and breathing hard.

"Mortal again?"

He could feel more than just physical pain. He could feel the air against his face. The texture of the glove against his fingertips. The smell of the Nether, a scent the stench of rotten eggs. The crackle of that hungry veil of flame roared at Mikhail's back, not two meters behind, and he could feel the heat on the back of his neck.

"AZARATH."

Face exposed, Mikhail glared up at his opponent. Locks of unkempt raven hair hung damp with sweat over pale, angular features. Piercing eyes like shards of ice glinted in the light of the flames, wide with fury.

Shorn expected the man to be moving again at that insane speed, so he gestured in a backhanded motion.

A telekinetic slap materialized from his will, a brunt wave of force meant to send the unarmed stranger flying.

[member="Alkor Centaris"]

 

[Alkor Centaris]

But he did not rush headlong toward his opponent.

Use of the Force, however small, took an amazing toll on a man. The price to pay for any amount of power was like a tax, voraciously taken off the top of every purchase that an adept made with their own being. That fact rang even more true for those who drew on the darkness, especially when they did so heavily.

His body sagged in the wake of not only two bouts of unbelievable speed, but a Force Scream- a power so seeped in darkness, so uncontrollable that it drained its unfortunate user of all connection that they had left to the force, at least for a small amount of time.

In a fight, it was hardly the most ideal way to go about things. But it wasn't a matter of strategy. Force Screams were a build up of emotion, so much that the pressure needed to be vetted before the body could take no more. It was a nuclear power plant taking on water to prevent meltdown. A blaster overheating. It was a man letting out all that he had to prevent his body from breaking down.

Alkor coughed hideously and spat blood from his mangled vocal cords, which would inevitably heal, but the pain would linger longer than anyone would enjoy. His gaze lost focus as he watched the green fire lazily, and he began to fade from consciousness.

The Force Push took him, but only after he had already done himself in.

His body flailed through the air, a doll dismissed by a petulant child.

[member="Mikhail Shorn"]

 

[Lord Ghoul]

A vain, cruel and petty manchild, rebelling against any form of authority that dared try to tell him no. All these, the worst parts of Mikhail, flowed through him now in excess. Vanity, for he would not let some miscreant dark sider lay low the man who had toppled emperors. Cruelty, for he could not deny the thrill of watching an enemy bleed. Petty spite, for that was all that was left to him now. Here in the nothing. Here in the Nether.

Shorn sneered as he watched his foe's blood wet the ground, sating its thirsty cries. He rose painfully to his feet, the stump of an arm clutched to his stomach. Mikhail could feel the dirt coating his neck from the blast wave, each granule rough against his skin.

The fingers of his hand curled into a fist and trembled.

Here he stood, body reformed at last. A man of flesh, who could hurt, who could feel. What else had he wanted for the last six years but this only? No longer some wandering spirit, but a mortal again. He'd noticed the change the moment that circle of flames sprang up and it grew stronger by the minute. Freely given the thing he wanted more than anything else in the galaxy.

Hot anger blasted through the wasteland of his heart once more, because he knew the truth. This form, it was too good to be true. And it was a trick. Some stupid ploy by a malevolent Sith demigod who mocked his heart's desire with a taste of life. The sort of Sith who would find a man lost in the desert, dying of thirst, and give him only a single drop of water, just to see the flavor of his anguish before he died.

Hatred burned at the heart of Mikhail's fury, a hate born from guilt, because he knew that despite the cruelty of the ploy, it was no better than he deserved.

Wasn't that what the voices told him in their whispers? Wasn't that why here he could taste nothing but ash?

Memories of mayhem.

"Murderer."

Unborn children, their blood on his hands. The Republic Senate, torn down and slaughtered like the animals they were by his power. Alexis, his first love, her dead eyes a glassy, hateful stare.

"I still love you."

"I don't, I never did."

Her corpse, still warm in his arms, a smoking hole through the chest. Her husband's body, hands pinned to the wall by curtain rods. Crucified and slit open like a pig. His children butchered before him while he died. So he could watch. Wasn't that what Mikhail had said? So he could watch.

Spencer, the woman he could never have. Too good. Too forgiving of his wrongs. And he'd spat it all back in her face.

Rosa Mazhar, the woman whose child he'd killed. The woman who he begged for forgiveness in his drunken stupor. And she'd given it to him.

Andra, another woman whose child he'd murdered, all in pursuit of putting Jared Ovmar in the ground. The same woman who somehow saw some speck of good in him. The mother of his children. He'd felt so close to the light with her. So close to being what they all wanted him to be: a better man.

But there was no light in this damnation. Not even from the shimmering flames that licked around them in a hungry circle. Nothing but tricks and shadows.

"You can kill your father. And then you can die. And then... you'll have my forgiveness." That's what Alexis had told him.

He'd killed his father. And now he was dead.

"So where is my forgiveness?"

But Mikhail knew. He'd sacrificed those scraps of redemption years ago. Why? Because he wanted to survive? Because he wanted to get back to his daughter? Didn't he have some noble goal to achieve, some better reason to live?

No.

The fact that terrified and thrilled Mikhail more than anything else was so idiotically simple. All the murders, all the killing, all the pain and all the power...

"I enjoy it."

Shorn's lips curled up into a crazed smirk and he felt plumes of stygian strength curling from the embers of his hate. He drank in the dark side until his body swelled with that foul, atramentous energy. A hideous, swirling venom that poisoned soul and sinew.

He guzzled it all down like it was nectar from the gods. Sweet but for the bitterness of his suffering.

The short, quiet, persevering stranger who opposed him meant nothing. A pawn in someone else's scheme. But Mikhail didn't see the pawn. He saw only the hand pushing it into place. And in that moment it didn't really matter to him who [member="Alkor Centaris"] was, or where he'd come from, or what he strived to achieve.

Shorn needed to hear the sound of bones snapping and the gurgle croaking of a shattered man. And pawns snapped as easily as kings. All of them, in the end, just bundles of meat and ossein.

Gauntleted fingers stretched out toward the man. Mikhail focused on the man's left ankle. He brought to bear a will that had crumpled buildings like sandcastles. His fingers curled inward and he sought to crush the fragile bones of that foot, to hobble him.

Crippled by a cripple. Shorn snickered.

He should have fought smarter when he had the chance.

Thought the Thronebreaker. There were chinks in his armor. From knees to hips he was unprotected on the thighs. Under the armpits. His palm. The gaps between overlapping plates in his chest. All bare. All vulnerable spots capable of receiving debilitating blows. And Shorn didn't think he'd have been fast enough to stop them. But the stranger had gone only for the obvious blows. Only for the killing ones. That was a mistake.

It wouldn't do to simply kill a man. Mikhail wanted to watch the hope leave his eyes first.

"The tour. I wasn't finished."

 

[Sinistra]

Alright guys, this has been an interesting fight to read. Let's get down to business.

From the thread description:

“Our fighters find themselves in front of one of the few remaining portals into the world of the living. Such passageways are exceedingly rare, with only a few in the whole of the galaxy. The victor would be able to pass through and have a second shot at life. The loser, well, what do you call someone who was killed twice?”

Now I would take this to mean that the fighters are spirits in Chaos and as such, they would not retain their physical limitations. The choice by both fighters to treat this as an extension of the physical world seemed rather odd considering that Mikhail could have been whole and Alkor need not suffer from the effects of physical exhaustion as there is no physical body to tire out. Perhaps this can be something y’all talk over in your next fights in order to make sure both combatants are on the same page about the setting because it came off a little disjointed because of it. Mikhail seemed to shift between spirit and physical forms through his vague observations.

Moving on from there, it was different to see a staunch saber master taking on a wizard of telekinesis. You both have a firm grasp of those skills, and it was evident in your descriptions. There was a good give and take of dominance between you but how ever masterful of your chosen weapons, there were a few troublesome spots.

Alkor, your descriptions were fairly clear, your prose was tight. You came in, you knew what you were doing and you didn’t mess around. When your hits didn’t land with the effectiveness you had hoped for, I could sense the frustration coming through in the posts.

By post 8, I lost what arm of whose was doing what. I couldn’t tell what arm of Mikhail’s is missing, what arm is whole, what hand of Alkor’s has his saber or what arm blocked the dirt. It made the motion hard to visualize in what is supposed to be fast sequence of motions. Throwing in some directions for ease of understanding would go a long way to helping a bystander follow the fight.

Mikhail, your exposition on your character’s backstory was compelling and not knowing much of the character, it was a nice insight into his mind. When it came to his movements and taking damage, I was left wanting. You just need to tighten up the descriptions of your movements, not only for your opponent but for the judges as well.

Alkor post cut Mikhail using telekinesis on the stones but Mikhail continued to write it all out. I’m not sure if this was intentional or if Mikhail was just unfamiliar with the idea of a post cut and how to write against an opponent who utilizes it.

Regardless of Alkor’s attacks, there was no real damage taken from his efforts by Mikhail. I read up on the armor, I know there are spots that not impervious. The underside of the arm for instance. Rather than take some damage in a vulnerable spot of the armor, his blows connected with the akk wolf plates. In post 7, Mikhail felt the heat of the saber strike but there is no acknowledgement of the effect. Just that it was hot. And then you moved on.

Taking a hit is not the same as taking damage. Did you take hits on your armor, absolutely. Armor stops the blade, but it doesn’t absolve you of damage. It softens the blow but doesn’t erase it. I need to see the effects of the attacks and damage in future duels.

Alkor, you powered through a master level force grip. I needed to see more of him struggling to get through it. On the flip side, a force scream is devastating blow that is an involuntary release of fury and pain. I needed to see some damage from that on Mikhail other than being knocked down and losing his helmet.

Overall, this was an entertaining fight to read and I look forward to reading another with both of you. Next time, nail down your actions, check your damage and I expect that the rematch will be epic.

Since [member="Alkor Centaris"] was incapacitated by the end of the fight, [member="Mikhail Shorn"] wins.


If you have any questions, please let me know.