Round 1: Warok the Defiler vs Vrag [ToA]

[Darth Ayra]

| [member="Warok the Defiler"] | [member="Vrag"] |

The Tournament of Acolytes had begun. In front of the watching crowd of One Sith and the other Sith Acolytes, Warok the Defiler and Vrag would begin their first duel. Darth Ayra stood centre to both of them as they stood centre stage. "The two of you will now fight one another. You will try to kill one another. Show us what you are capable of."

The Sith Lord left the arena. Silence ensued. No word was given to begin. But since when did you need to be told to kill someone? It was at the dawning of that question at Warok and Vrag knew that it was time to fight.

 

[Vrag]

The very second her name rang out Vrag snapped from apparently bored to fully focused, her clear visor darkening to an impenetrable black. She let her hands fall to her sides and circled closer to her designated opponent, a furry beast that could perhaps reach up to her waist, if even that. Her body dropped into a relaxed stance — well, perhaps slightly lower than usual — her arms at the ready while her weapon remained unignited. She clearly had the advantage of height and reach, but the stunt he had pulled earlier didn't go unnoticed by the Sith; it was rather obvious, after all, when a knee-tall bear downed an adult rancor without so much as making a step. Her eyes narrowed at the dwarfish creature, wary of what else it might be keeping hidden up its sleeve — or in its fur, as the case may be.

Well, no time like the present to find out, Vrag added as an afterthought and brought her lightsaber to life. She kept the red blade in a neutral guard, prepared to counter whatever the beast might throw at her.

[member="Warok the Defiler"]

 

[Isar]

Aside from the icky tribal regalia of a necklace of shrunken heads, Warok wore a traditional Ewok head covering as well as two gauntlets. Strange, those. For a species that hadn't advanced past the stone age they seemed rather complicated. He held a blowgun fashioned from bone in one hand, like a club. Beady little eyes stared at the foe.

Warok gnashed his teeth.

Then he waved.

[member="Vrag"]

 

[Vrag]

Hidden by her helmet, Vrag allowed a bemused expression to flicker across her face at the creature's gesture.

Whatever, the Sith mused and started circling her opponent. Her eyes followed his every move, prepared to counter whatever attack he may unleash. With every step she took the firrerreo moved imperceptibly closer, trying to edge into the wide measure and exploit her reach advantage. In close-quarters combat the little beast's blowgun would be rendered completely useless, and as far as she could see her adversary didn't have any other weapons on his person.

A second before she came in range Vrag called upon the tendrils of the Force that the temple was exuding, pulling it in and using it to launch herself at the creature with a fast, devastating thrust.

[member="Warok the Defiler"]

 

[Isar]

Tiny feet shuffled as Warok sidestepped, but the speed and aggression behind the attack was undeniable and he was small. The glowing lightsaber sizzled hungrily through fur and flesh, leaving a long, charred furrow in his side. The zapping strike augured the ravenous appetite of such a weapon. A weapon to consume sinew and bone, metal and wood. Pure, all-devouring destruction.

A sharp intake of breath was followed by a grunt of pain. Warok scrunched dwarfish features, large cheeks giving him an impish appearance.

The Ewok stepped into his opponent's guard and held the already loaded blowgun to his lips. One puff was all it took to send a dart at his opponent's stomach. At point blank range it was almost impossible to dodge. Then again, it would also be impossible for Warok to dodge the opponent's counter strike.

[member="Vrag"]

 

[Vrag]

Her lips curled upwards ever so slightly when the beast failed to avoid her lunge completely, happier than ever that she was wearing a helmet; the smell of burning fur was so foul that she wouldn't wish it on her worst enemy. Still, there was no time to gloat over a small victory, for the creature had yet to fall to her blade. Before she could pull back and slash at him again, though, her adversary closed in under her arm, turning his small stature into an advantage. Had she not been directly engaged in a duel with him, Vrag would've commended the beast on his skill.

What she felt when the dart hit her hidden armor could barely be called a tremor, the needle most likely shattering on impact with the durasteel plates. Not waiting to see her opponent's disappointed reaction, the Sith sent her armored knee straight into his unprotected face, moving back for a diagonal strike as the creature recoiled.

[member="Warok the Defiler"]

 

[Isar]

But the creature did not recoil.

Dark, beady eyes watched with an alertness known only to those who lived in the wild. Beneath the arbor shadows of Endor, in the untamed forests, all manner of beasts preyed upon the little folk. It was the way of Nature that the Gorax and the Boar-Wolf fed upon the Ewok. Nature had also gifted the Ewok with the use of fire, tools and the cleverness to use them... to fight and to restore balance. So it was that clever little eyes saw the way the dart glanced off his opponent's black robe and then the armored knee as it parted past the folds of the robe and rushed toward his face. The proximity and speed of the impending blow confirmed Warok's earlier assumption. He would not be able to dodge this blow, but then again, he'd never planned on avoiding it.

The Ewok drew back a gauntleted fist and launched a punch toward the incoming knee.

Warok was never considered a great warrior among his people. He had no magnificent skill with sling, bow or dart, spear or knife. Yet, he knew how to use them. It was his cleverness, he thought, that made him great. Cleverness in using the tools he'd been given. His people called him a defiler, but why would they deny him his right to survive? He knew the proper balance of nature. It had been prophesied. He would be the Shaman of Shamans. He would bind spirits of all manner, spirits of the dead, of the trees, of the air. They would all serve him. This half-made Sith was simply a stone he would have to step on in order to unite the two banks of the river, the world of mortals... and the world of spirits.

Striking an armored knee seemed like a supremely stupid idea. As such, it would also be the most unexpected move. With his opponent's knee already whipping up toward his face, there would be no time to pull back. No time to rethink. Both had the speed of the Force behind their movements. Both held experience in combat, her perhaps more so. But he held the element of surprise. The knuckle bones had been cast. Both would have to suffer their results.

Under the aegis of his gauntlet, he lashed out, aiming directly at her armored kneecap. There came a whir of electronics as the shockwave generators built into the gauntlets came to life. Miners used these same generators in power hammers in order to smash through slabs of rock with ease. The use of such technology made Warok feel powerful. With these gauntlets he could smash a boulder with a single punch, or send a foe flying. His people would be awed, for they would not understand. But then, so would the people of the so-called civilized galaxy if they saw the magic of the shamans. Warok would create a union between the two, magic in one hand, science in the other. The power of the Force blossomed in those eyes, like dark flames dancing with gleeful malice and a hunger for power.

If the blow connected with the durasteel armored knee the armor would concave, bending metal and shattering the patella, possibly pushing the front of the knee completely backward and tearing tendons and ligaments in the process. It would not be fatal, but it would even the odds. And it would give him satisfaction for the searing pain in his side. Blood cried out for blood.

[member="Vrag"]

 

[Vrag]

White-hot pain exploded in her knee as the small beast retaliated with surprising agility, catching Vrag off-guard with a sudden surge of power behind its punch. Where a normal strike against the durasteel plating would've broken all the bones in the attacker's hand — and very probably sprained their wrist as well — the gauntlet he was wearing apparently protected him from such a miserable fate. Not that the Sith had time to linger on that as she gnashed her teeth behind her mask, pulling back from her opponent in sheer instinct; ironic, really, how the more humanoid of the two seemed much more like an animal in that moment.

Vrag did not scream.

Her blue eyes found the creature, burning with a fury borne of a lifetime of suffering. It is nothing, she growled in her mind, smothering the pulsing pain radiating from her knee. She maintained a safe distance from her opponent for now, buying herself time to regroup and reassess the beast. His blowgun was still useless against her armor, and if he wanted to try anything again he'd have to get close, only this time he would be without the advantage of surprise on his side.

Her nostrils flared with another sharp intake of breath, the familiar taste of blood caressing her tongue like a long-lost lover. Vrag's gaze remained glued on the beast while she took a few seconds to review the damage dealt to her knee. Thanks to the ample padding underneath the durasteel plates her joint remained largely intact, which meant she could still move, albeit at a much slower speed. The patella would have turned into a messy gore of bone splinters and muscle in a human, but she was a firrerreo, and her healing factor was working its magic as she bid her time in the relative safety of the wide measure.

There was only so much one could delay in a fight such as this one, and with a final mental push Vrag steeled herself for the pain that would surely come. She carefully moved closer again, keeping the creature at bay with precise but guarded strikes; she would not fall for the same trick again. Flirting with the narrow measure the Sith Acolyte employed her skill with Makashi and went in for a feint, her red blade slashing towards her opponent's wounded side. With a twist of her wrist she guided the lightsaber around his small torso in a downwards motion, aiming for the unprotected upper arm of the beast.

[member="Warok the Defiler"]

 

[Isar]

Metal squealed and bone crunched beneath his gauntlet, the sound of the blow like the crack of thunder. Yet the human remained silent. Strange, how the spirits of ore and ossein screamed when mortal flesh did not. Warok thought little on that as he raised his gauntlets before him, elbows bent, fists pointed to the sky.

Her armored knee was caved inward. Even if she did heal, the constriction of the bent and twisted durasteel would prevent proper movement, leaving her with a limp. Though of course, Warok knew nothing of her innate healing abilities. Healing took time. A Firrerreon could heal a minor wound in minutes and a major one in hours. And duels like this rarely lasted above two rounds in a shock boxing match, or six minutes. Warok had time. She did not.

The wounded Sith limped backward, away from Warok. The Ewok's features snarled, his breath coming heavy. He'd put strength behind that blow and it'd twisted the cut on his side. Pain emanated from that spot, a prickling heat that rolled across his body, nerves firing off in rapid succession. He drew in a breath against clenched teeth and delved into the power of the shamans. Now was his chance.

At once, the Spirit World enveloped him. He could feel the life forces of the trees, the grass and even the currents of the air. They whispered to him. He took their whispers and knotted them into ropes that he used to bind them, dragging forth the cold spirits of the north. They would bend before him. Though his might was yet burgeoning, he could command them enough for his purposes.

Warok stretched out his blowgun toward his opponent, like a rod, and channeled the spirits. A thin layer of ice began to form across [member="Vrag"]'s visor even as she moved toward him.

With a shattered patella, the mere fact that she remained standing was a feat in and of itself, but even still she attempted to move in on the attack, using a form that required intricate and precise footwork. Footwork was no longer a luxury she was afforded. She lunged, blade becoming a red blur. Warok tried to block the strike, but was too absorbed in his magic to notice the feint.

While the layer of frost became complete across her helmet, her lightsaber hissed across his upper arm. He flinched back, arm whipping up as he caught the rest of the blow on the cortosis-woven durasteel gauntlet. It glanced off, impotent but for another furrow in his blackened fur that burned with pain.

 

[Vrag]

A string of colorful expletives fired off in her mind, never uttered, as the thin layer of ice formed across her visor. She felt her target jerk away from the searing heat of her blade, her strike ending in a full moulinette. Instead of attempting to slash at the beast again — he had displayed quite the unnerving fleetness of feet before — Vrag used the rest of her momentum, shifting her weight on her good leg. Her whole body followed, first a twist in her hips, then the shoulder and finally her durasteel-clad fist flew through the air with Force-augmented speed.

You would blind me, rage boiled inside her, its flames reaching ever higher. I shall do you one better, flashed through her head as she aimed for his unprotected skull. The ice he had somehow manifested upon her helmet was far too thin to stop UV light from reaching her eyes, and the blood and fat she had exposed with her strikes were as visible to her as a shining beacon in the night. From there on it wasn't very hard to discern the position of his head, and it was Vrag who was now banking on the advantage of an unexpected blow. Should it connect it would easily shatter the fragile orbital and zygomatic bones, stunning the beast and crippling its depth perception.

[member="Warok the Defiler"]

 

[Isar]

Blood and fat would have been ample guidance, had blood and fat been exposed by her strikes, but a lightsaber did not merely lay open the flesh. It cauterized, welding fur and sinew in black, melted burns. A more civilized weapon, they said, but one which left no splash of blood, nor bared tissue. His wounds were charred, smoke still curling from them. Thus, if there was any blood at all it was small in quantity and a poor guiding light.

Her fist swung wide, clipping the side of his head and opening up a deep, welling gash that quickly blinded his left eye with a stream of blood. He flinched his head to the right, agony exploding inside his skull with a sudden thousand-drum chorus.

The complexity of his opponent's maneuvers, both the end of her saber's 'little windmill' and the shift in the hips, were lost on Warok, but he too had the power of the Force augmenting his speed (and that of technology empowering his strike). Even as she swung he launched his own attack, dropping the blowgun for a vicious uppercut toward her outstretched arm - too late to stop her punch - but quick enough that it should land at almost the same time in which her own strike connected with the side of his head. His gauntleted fist carried the same power behind it that had shattered her kneecap, only this time it was aimed at her extended elbow.

His other arm was raised, ready to ward off her saber, or make a quick jab.

All living things had their birth rights. The Gorax were imbued with strength. The trees were gifted with longevity. Warok? Warok had been granted a promise of power at his birth. A power he had not yet attained. He would not let nature deny him his due, nor this temporary foe who faced him now. He had the scent of blood in his nose, the taste in his mouth and like the insatiable boar-wolf... he craved more of it.

[member="Vrag"]

 

[Vrag]

"Sithspit!"

This time, the word was actually voiced with a breathless gasp as both their blows struck true. The curse was an old habit, one she never got rid of even after she had joined the very people it insulted. It felt ironically fitting in her current predicament, though; a mauled knee, and now a luxated elbow, all because of the Order. Her left forearm fell limp against her side, adding to the pulsating agony. Even with the hormone cocktail coursing through her veins and the nurtured resistance to pain, Vrag was becoming acutely aware of it. Her armor cushioned some of the crushing force delivered by the beast's gauntlets, but whatever technology imbued therein did its job well; and were she not on the receiving end of its efficacy, the firrerreo might have expressed her approval.

Not today.

She grinned though the blood in her mouth and unclipped the short, short leash of her rage. A busted leg rendered her favored form II practically useless, and the only advantage she had left was the sheer weight she could throw around compared to the furred creature. With nary a sound but the gritting of teeth, Vrag used her whole body as a Force-accelerated projectile, aiming for the wall behind them. If the beast got slammed against the stone by two hundred pounds of Force, Vrag might just introduce the Galaxy to a new delicacy; Ewok pâté.

[member="Warok the Defiler"]

 

[Isar]

Thick globs of scarlet ichor clung to the fur around his left eye. He squinted against the sting of that flowing stream and the steady tambour of pain in his head. His wounds flared with pain, the cut along his side had seared some rib along with flesh and fur. It made twisting his torso pure agony. The cut on his upper arm left it weak and slow, though the numbness of adrenaline surged through his tiny form. Blinded by a veil of red-spotted black, Warok glared out of his one good eye at the woman. Limping, one arm useless, she looked close to broken. But not dead. Not yet.

The humanoid rushed him with supernatural speed, the power of the Force behind her movements. Warok only had the single eye with which to see the impossibly swift charge, but it was enough. He thought it a trick. Surely she would not rush him head-on? Perhaps she held some other ploy in mind. Wary, but decisive, he struck.

His gauntlets had many downsides, one of them being Warok's pitiful reach, but the foe had just done the equivalent of running onto a short man's even shorter spear. Considering her visor was still frosted over, it was unlikely she'd even see the strike.

Warok grunted as his unwounded arm whipped forth to meet her charge, aiming for whatever was at his eye level - probably her stomach. The shockwave generator built into the gauntlet emanated a soft whirr. Force times mass equals acceleration is pure physics, and had it not been for the technology of miners Warok would have ended up a bloody smear on the wall. But in this instance physics worked against the taller Sith. Should the blow meet her stomach the durasteel would either shatter or be dented inward. The transference of kinetic energy could cause blunt abdominal trauma, possibly rupturing organs, causing gastrointestinal hemorrhaging and internal bleeding. It could also make her puke in her helmet.

The shockwave generator's extra oomph would also likely send her flying backward should it connect, as blows from power hammers were wont to do. Of course, if she was sent flying backward she could slash at him with her rather considerable reach. He hadn't thought of that. Oh well. All in all it was not a mortal strike, but it would be an extremely painful one.

What do we say to being made into an ursine delicacy?

Not today!

[member="Vrag"]

 

[Vrag]

His sudden shift was akin to a supernova blossoming in her vision, the twisting motion of his upper body tearing his first wound open anew. The Sith followed her partner's moves in this dance of death, albeit with a slight delay and much more awkwardly. The woman's right hand shot out on instinct, dropping the lightsaber as she defaulted the basics of her hand-to-hand training; using the bright stone floor beneath them as guidance, Vrag knocked the offending appendage out of the way, ramming into the furred beast with the whole right side of her armored body.

The punch and its augmented power did not miss its target completely, however, brutally tearing off the superficial chest plate and heavily denting the one underneath. Not that she had time to voice her pain; the very next moment the two acolytes made the acquaintance of the sturdy barrier separating the arena from the bloodthirsty spectators, the impact knocking the wind out of them both.

[member="Warok the Defiler"]

 

[Isar]

The furrow burnt into Warok's side did not reopen, since the wound hadn't even had time to heal yet reopening it really wouldn't make all that much sense now, would it?

Anyway, the big, hulking form of Vrag slammed into Warok and smushed him against the wall, knocking the wind out of him as was so adamantly stated in the previous entry.

Ouch.

Breathless and bruised, but still functional, Warok did the sensical thing and sought to escape from beneath her crushing mass. He shoved her, then leaped to the left. The Force strengthened his body, allowing him to jump farther than should be possible - a basic ability for Force Users. As he jumped through the air he used the Force to summon her dropped lightsaber into his hand. The hilt smacked into his gauntleted paw and he activated the crimson blade.

Several meters now separated them and Warok was struggling to drag in lungfuls of air. Blood had matted the fur to one side of his head, leaving him blind in one eye. His head throbbed where she'd clipped him Every motion caused his wounded side to scream at him. His nicked arm felt drained. The bruises to his chest ached, he must've injured his ribs more several than he thought when she ran him into the wall. Maybe one had a hairline fracture.

But, he had his gauntlets, the power of the Spirits, and now... her lightsaber.

Mwahaha, he thought, though hurting and breathless, Fear me, the mighty Saber Stealer!

[member="Vrag"]

 

[Vrag]

But of course the injury had reopened, seeing as a lightsaber strike would burn the flesh on the surface, creating a thin layer of caked skin, blood and fat over the initial wound. Such fragile things have a tendency to tear when enough torsion is applied, which is nigh staple when one delivers a blow.

The beast recovered from a wall slam with astonishing speed, pushing two hμndred (200) pounds of durasteel and muscle away with agility rarely found in so many broken ribs as he leaft the other Sith to stumble. Vrag sought to recover her balance, but with a shattered patella her knee did little more than buckle before it gave up beneath her weight. She collapsed on the hard floor with an unceremonious flail of her good hand, letting out a sharp breath when her helmet connected with the stone. The pain spread lazily along her skull, almost as if it was relishing the experience. Still, there was a silver lining; her helmet had absorbed the brunt of the impact, finally shattering the delicate ice covering her visor.

She helped herself into a half-sitting position as her icy eyes followed her opponent's path from the bloody smear on the wall to the other side of the arena where the furry beast was currently standing. Surprised to find the creature a) in possession of her lightsaber and b ) still conscious, Vrag let out something akin to a chuckle; though to the closest of observers it might have sounded more like a hysterical gurgle.

Her lapse into madness was brief, though, and as she regained her coherence the Sith was able to look at the situation from a slightly more favorable angle. Considering the weapon he had been using at the beginning of their fight was more typical of troglodytes than men, Vrag was seriously doubting his ability to actually use the lightsaber in his hand; then again, the gauntlets he was wearing were the polar opposite of primitive.

Oh, kark it, flickered though her head with surprising serenity. She'd just have to take that gamble. After all, she didn't really have much of a choice.

"Come at me, bro!" she shouted the ancient battle cry of a bygone era, hoping to provoke the beast.

[ooc note: for some mysterious reason the word "Hμndred" auto-edits into Attila the Hundred XD]

[member="Warok the Defiler"]

 

[Isar]

Turns out, Warok was in the gym pumping Attilas every day, whatever Attilas were.

Anyway, he was definitely still conscious, but really quite tired at this point and - though his injuries were not life threatening - he still physically felt ready to keel over. He didn't have a shattered kneecap and a broken elbow, but then he also didn't have innate regenerative abilities and the ability to see into the U.V. spectrum. Where he would take weeks to heal, she'd probably be fine by tomorrow night.

Of course, he didn't know any of that. All he knew was that he was winded and didn't feel much like charging a big woman in durasteel.

So he didn't.

Throughout the entire fight - save blowing the dart and then the one instance of frosting over her visor - Warok had literally only thrown punches. Not even highly skilled punches. He was just under four feet tall and couldn't measure up to this woman in speed, or strength, or height, or weight, or skill, or... etc. The only reason he was still breathing right now was because of his brain. That was the one area he could match her. Intelligence. Intelligence... and the Force.

Warok entered the Spirit World once more and quested out with his mind for the spirits of the air. He found them and bound them, reworking them to the same task as before: thickly frosting her visor.

Then he stomped toward her, not charged, stomped. With tiny little legs.

[member="Vrag"]

 

[Vrag]

In the language of her people there was an expression, forgotten by most and heeded by fewer still, 'A Tabaga doesn't slip twice on ice'. Vrag wasn't a Tabaga, and didn't have the slightest idea how one looked either, but she did agree with the sentiment. Instead of waiting for the layer to form, the Sith retracted the visor as soon as the first ice flower blossomed in her field of vision, maintaining an untainted view of her surroundings.

Therefore, when the angry little creature advanced on her, Vrag didn't have to rely on silhouettes to betray the position of her enemy, and watched instead how the furred beast moved towards her in some sort of tribal dance; well, at least that's what the Sith assumed, ignorant of the ways of the Ewok. Whatever the performance was meant to be, it didn't leave her all that impressed, especially since he was taking forever to traverse the spacious arena. Well, the pitfalls of being four feet tall. The firrerreo briefly entertained the thought of filing her nails whilst she waited for the beast to reach her, but dismissed it as an all-too-overt show of arrogance.

Finally, when the creature came in jumping distance of the Sith did Vrag choose to react, Force pulling her opponent's face into her blade while he was in mid-fall.

[member="Warok the Defiler"]

 

[Isar]

Or at least, she attempted to.

In truth, Warok was never a graceful figure to begin with, nor did his knowledge of sword play extend past putting the pointy end in the bad guy. Thus, [member="Vrag"] had an easy task if one only measured based on skill.

The Force Pull caught Warok by surprise. Telekinesis hadn't been brought into play until just now. Too late to do anything but grunt, the Ewok fell forward. His head jerked toward the lit blade as he fell. The crimson hummed eagerly and his eyes widened as it took up the whole of his vision. His thumb fumbled for the activation switch. Too slow.

A burning sensation engulf the side of his face, from the cheek and down as the plasma sword seared through the skin and bit into the top of his shoulder before his thumb hit the activation switch. The blade hissed into non-existence, leaving charred fur and flesh on cheek and shoulder.

Then he hit the ground.

Oof.

Warok let out a squeak as he fell on an injured rib.

He managed to push himself back to his feet, mostly with his uninjured arm. The other was now doubly wounded.

One beady eye narrowed at Vrag. He would not fall for such a trick again. He could keep fighting. The end result would be his victory. She was too wounded to continue and he would outstrip her in use of the Force. He had deprived her of her finesse, left her near-immobile and - despite his injuries - could still dance circles around her with his uninjured legs.

But Warok didn't wish to kill her. It would be a waste.

"Yield," he squeaked.

[member="Vrag"]

 

[Vrag]

It was like the glow of a warm fire, the feeling that spread through her body at the sight before her. Burn, she thought with epicaricacy, her smile full of malicious glee. Still, she did not waste time on pointless gloating - the creature was not dead yet - using the window of opportunity to prop herself up against the wall. How delightfully usable that barrier was, indeed; first a weapon, now a crutch... Vrag started wondering if the blood-spattered stone could be advantageous in other ways still. Her good hand slid along the hard surface behind her, searching for purchase that the smooth stone couldn't offer. The Sith smiled inwardly when her fingers found air, and a moment later she established a firm grip on the edge of the wall. Blessed are the tall, she felt a significant amount of confidence return to her now that she was erect again, but she couldn't deny the pulsing ache in her limbs; whatever adrenaline she'd been running on before had been expended in her wall-slamming stunt, and now the pain was back.

Not that her opponent was in much better shape.

Her gaze found his one good good eye as she did her best to look intimidating, which wasn't all that hard when you were more than half a meter taller than your adversary. Vrag bared her teeth at his presumptious request and spat a glob of red saliva at his face.

"Go kark yourself, furball," she growled, her blue eyes dark with anger. She had walked through the better part of her life with a bowed head, and she sure as hell wasn't going to do so again; not for the pathetic runt before her, and not for anybody else.