Objective: A Church's Duty
Location: Jutrand Jedi Enclave
Equipment: Lightsaber, Armorweave Coat
Tags:
Darth Strosius
Drako
Arette didn't wait.
As soon as the second set of hinges on her side of the doorway was done, the young Sith pressed her palm to the door and
Pushed.
The sudden burst of motion drew fire from some of the more skittish defenders on the other side. That gave Arette an opening, and she exploited it.
A burst of Force-enhanced
Speed got her through the blockade with only a few glancing blaster shots - and those stung to be sure, but the armorweave layered into her coat made sure they didn't do anything more than that.
And so Arette barreled through the wall of meat and bone and armorplas, carving a narrow and efficient path of destruction through the ragged defensive lines this enclave's security forces had put together. She ignored anyone not directly in her way - they were competent enough at what they did, but they still weren't worth her time. Besides, it would've been rude to deny the mob a chance to shed blood.
Once the guns were behind her, the young Apprentice exhaled, boots thumping rapidly against the stone floor as she reached out with the Force.
What Jedi remained?
A scattered array of sickeningly bright spots in the ocean of the Force. More than enough to go around.
Who was was worth bothering with?
Most of the lights were weak. Embers and sparks, never fed the kindling to grow. Young, inexperienced - mostly Padawans, if Arette was remembering the term right. Arette felt a pang of something close to admiration. The Jedi would've evacuated most of their students. The ones left must have insisted on staying and fighting. Respectable, but Arette wasn't here to fight children.
Who else?
A handful of brighter flames. Strong and stable. One closer than the rest. At peace, and at the ready, surrounded by a sea of knowledge.
Arette grinned as she settled on her target, and trusted Force-blessed intuition to guide her through the unfamiliar enclave.
Jedi Knight and Enclave Archivist Bann Ghiskera was, overall, happy with his life. He'd had Forty-Seven years of it, most of them peaceful and surrounded by friends and family.
He'd been a bit of a nomad for most of his life - that wasn't uncommon, given how prone to sudden regime change chunks of the Galaxy tended to be these days. A traveling mechanic and a consummate bookworm, he'd also always known he'd had a bit of a knack for the Force, but the Jedi hadn't interested him until he hit his thirties, and his days as a young, strapping Rodian man were starting to leave him behind.
He still didn't know why, to be honest. Maybe he'd seen enough injustice in the Galaxy. Maybe he wanted to make a difference. Hell, maybe he'd just finally gotten fed up with having to move around so much, just wanted stability.
Whatever his reasons, the Jedi'd taken him in, and for that he was still grateful. They'd taught him a lot, after all. Patience. Humility. A deep, earnest compassion for all living things. And, of course, how to move things with his mind and fight with a lightsaber. Less spiritually signifcant, perhaps, but no less rewarding in their own ways.
His latest position as the Jutrand Enclave's archivist had given him access to more knowledge than most sapients would get to experience in two lifetimes, let alone one. He'd lived a good life. He had no regrets.
He made sure to remind himself of that as the door to his archive splintered into a thousand pieces.
The Rodian sighed - like he was more concerned about having to clean up this mess than the impending violence - and rose to his feet. The invader, at least, seemed to have the decency to allow him that.
"You look so young, to be a killer."
Her prey's voice was soft. Deeper than she'd expected from a Rodian, too. Maybe it was the age.
A small part of Arette - a part of her that she'd mostly learned to ignore when it was convenient - told her that it reminder her of her father, reading her stories late at night. Kind. Caring. Gentle.
Feth that.
Her father was a killer. Her mother, too. It ran in the family. And here she was, on the cusp of her first
real kill.
Excitement. Anticipation.
Bloodlust. They flowed through Arette like a drug, drowning the spark of guilt in her heart before it had a chance to find fuel.
"Always was an overachiever." The Apprentice grinned, corpselike and malicious, while sulfur filled her eyes. A
decade of training for this moment. This wasn't just what she had prepared for. This was what she had been broken down and
remade for. No hesitation. No remorse.
Arette lunged.
The duel was on.
Bann sidestepped Arette's opening play with the efficiency of a Soresu master, and countered by telekinetically launching her into a nearby bookshelf. Arette, for her part, responded by cackling, and continued doing so until the fight was finished.
The Jedi brought his lightsaber to bear in a method that was almost mechanical. His movements were stiff, rigid, and stacatto. There was no joy or artistry to his combat, only a grim determination to preserve his home. He was an unyielding wall, upon which he intended to break the Sith invading his home. The Sith, meanwhile, was feral and fluid. She was constantly moving, attempting to flank the Jedi or capitalize on a weakness in his defensive wall - even in the rare moments she stood still, her body twitched with excitement - and she was never so crass as to simply
block an incoming strike. Her defense was in deflection, parrying, sidestepping, and in keeping her foe on the defensive himself.
And yet they were oddly complementary. Both seemed to favor speed over raw power. Both moved efficiently, exerting only as much strength as was judged necessary, and rarely with any unnecessary flourish. And both seemed keen to bring the might of the Force to bare.
The first hit Arette landed was a punch. She struck high, forcing her enemy to raise his saber high to defend himself. The only correct move, obviously, but one that was punished nonetheless. With a split-second burst of Force enhanced speed, Arette landed a blow to the Rodian's chest, discharging a jolt of lightning as knuckle met ribcage. She paid for it seconds later, when a telekinetic blast knocked her off balance long enough for a saber thrust to leave a hole clean through her left leg.
A cracked rib and seared flesh on one hand, a crippled leg on the other.
The fight slowed, then. It wouldn't have been fair to either combatant to say they got sloppy; both had over a decade of training for high-stress situations under their belts. But adrenaline and pain have certain biological effects on everyone, no matter how skilled they are. The Jedi's blocks and deflections became a fraction wider than they needed to be. Arette's sidesteps and encircling maneuvers became less economical, as she leaned on the Force to propel her in place of her crippled leg.
That lack of control would, almost, be Arette's downfall.
Bann Ghiskera executed the killing blow without artistry, but with admirable skill. The Sith was injured and at the height of bloodlust. One or the other, she might have been able to control herself. But with both pain and madness to contend with, Bann reckoned that he could outmaneuver her.
He let her come to him. She'd disengaged a second earlier, catching her breath. And, as predicted, when she re-entered the fight, she threw herself in recklessly.
He muttered an apology as he centered himself, blocking out the pain of his wounds, and disengaged his lightsaber. Perhaps too eager for the kill, the Sith took the bait, rushing towards the Jedi with superhuman speed.
He simply stepped to the side.
The lightsaber passed a few centimeters from his face. She'd predicted his evasion, and almost,
almost got him.
His lightsaber roared back to life, and the beam seared through the young woman's midsection. He'd missed her spine, intentionally - she was young, after all. A few years in containment, with therapy, might help her overcome whatever dragged her to the dark side.
Arette let out a wheeze of pain. Kidney? Yeah. Bit of intestine, too, probably. Her hands started to shake, and so did her legs. She could probably keep herself standing, if she wanted to, but fight?
No.
She was done. No more fighting for her. Not today.
She let out another laugh, staring down as the bright green beam in her torso began to recede back into its housing.
"Almost got me." A bit of blood dribbled from her mouth as she spoke. The Rodian made a curious noise. He probably would've followed it up with a question, too, if the lower emitter in Arette's saber staff hadn't flared to life and bisected him.
Still shaking, the young Sith knelt down beside the soon-to-be-corpse of her fallen foe. Lucky for him, it looked like he'd passed out from shock. More blood dribbled from the Sith's mouth, dripping down onto the unresponsive face of the Jedi. Fumbling fingers narrowed the beam of her saberstaff.
Arette smiled. She did love this shade of crimson.
"You fought," a small cough interrupted her,
"damn fething well, Jidai. For felling you in combat, by wit and by blade, I name myself Knight. And if the rest of the Force-Damned Order has anything to say about it, they'll take it up with my blade."
Moments later, a tall, lanky figure crashed through a stained-glassteel window on the Enclave's second story, with both a new lightsaber and the severed head of a Rodian strapped to her belt.
