Some scars never heal...

[Julius Sedaire]

The call had came swiftly after Adumar had fallen to the One Sith in recent times. In his youth, Ijaat had spent a long span of time on Adumar, learning their ways of dueling as part of his early education in the art of the sword. Father had insisted he learn to fight as well as smith, so he would spend lengths of time there with an old associate of his dad's, training in their arts as well as what his father had taught him. Somewhere in his house still rested his old blastsword probably, unless Nyr had moved it or packed it away somewhere. So he had mourned his friends when he had heard of the fall of the planet, but had realized they probably didn't even remember him, let alone would they have survived.

Unexpectedly, the message came to Ijaat on a quick wave, and he had listened with horror to the story his friend, a woman he had once almost thought to marry, describe the slaughter of her husband and small daughter. There was raw panic and terror in her voice as she pleaded with him to come to her rescue. It was with regret he wrote the letter and sent to [member="Xander Carrick"], his young friend and cohort, warning him of his destination and to not follow unless he had been gone more than a month.

Sending the comm, Ijaat boarded his ship, and stopped a short hop away from Adumar. The white and gold armor he wore was repainted a dark, rich red with angular black knotwork, and he had dispensed with his markings as a protector, even painting over the jaig eyes he so proudly wore on all his helmets. With that accomplished, he booked transit to Adumar claiming to be a mercenary seeking employ with the One Sith, and landed in Yadegon without arousing too awful much suspicion, or so he thought.

Landing at the port, Ijaat was processed, interviewed and more before allowed to proceed to a seedier part of town where the mercenaries were pouring into. Sith meant business for ones such as them, for the Sith almost always meant war. Straight away he had begun searching the palace, as Katya was a noblewoman and would likely have been here, or left some clue for him here he hoped. It was amazing what the glare of a mandalorian visor did to silence most low level troopers.

Finally he happened upon a broad empty room he recognized as a dueling training room. Luck was with him tonight, as he knew not even a few clipped words in mando'a would shake a trooper to believe he belonged here of all places. As he opened the door to where he had spent a good portion of his teen years after his family had disappeared, he saw only one lone man in it, and was turning to leave until he caught sight of the mans features just barely.. And he hissed in surprise and hatred.

He knew the face, had burned it into his memory and cursed it every night. Every day even. It was the first thing he saw when he woke and he last before he went to sleep, when he slept, next to the frantic face of his wife as the owner of those features dragged her by the hair after assuring he could do nothing to stop it. There was rage burning in him, and he stepped into the room and let the door slam before he even really knew what he was doing.

[member="Reverance"]

 

[Reverance]

Yedagon City, as much a point of comfort as one for despair. And while it had laid bowed and bent to the usurping power of the One Sith, recovery came in influx and crescents of forces that swore promise of fealty and words of loyal effort. The Wrath of the Emperor, a man doused in hatred and spent on the woes of those beneath his boot, found deposition of turmoils in such a place, one resounding in reverberations of effort well spent. In his conquest of the city, he had plied forces to the controlling facets of the land: power and refuse. His proclamation of victory came in the pleas of those formerly in power, looking to help their people with bribes of resources in exchange for deed and property rights. In the strictest sense, Gabriel owned this city. Company licenses, residential deeds, metes and bounds parcels. He couldn't seem to give it away so now he laid upon the apex of his economical sense, writhing in money like a mobster, taking a bath in currency.

A lightsaber needs repair, a sword needs a whetstone, a body needs excercise, and armor needs oil. Despite his typical nonchalance towards the care of his items, he was quite meticulous in his as-built maintenance of the tools upon his person. As a person practices their force powers, so must he find time to ensure the quality of his merchandise. The War-Torn armor rested upon his body as he stood idly in the training facility, facing the door, amidst a seething prayer of his own concoction. The armor, composed of overlapping layers of phrik with under-lapping panels on lotek'k hide, was shined to a vibrancy that indicated it's care and maintenance. Often laid beneath a fan, after cleaning, there was not a sign of rust or the corroding effects, upon the armor. But there were plenty of dings and scratches, as he had never been one to choose his enemies, but instead one to experience them.

Despite his position as arguably one of more powerful and uncontrolled ranks within the One Sith, he was a man of a specific moral code set. The trick was discerning where he defined them, and even then, they had a tendency to derive importance from context. A child slain in cold blood was far different than one killed in collateral. Accepted sacrifices were always a flavor he cherished, more mental anguish and pain and regret for things not necessary but done for the good of his own vision. A crippling burden that evened the field, back hunched from the weight of remorse. One he bore with little contemplation towards his own prosperity. The vision, the purpose, the mission: it would always come first.

The door opening didn't unlatch his lone crimson eye from the floor, but the slamming of it arose a certain irritation within him. Lifting his gaze, he felt the wash of anger and hatred, like an electric blanket in the winter time. The force culled to his request, a beaten dog begging for more, as he focused upon the figure before him. He didn't recognize him, but he didn't need to. Either the newly entered figure didn't know the name or face of Reverance, or he did, and was wishing to settle terms. Ones the Sith Lord would be more than happy to sign...in blood.

Upon his person, Roecnar rested against the small of his back. Above, a standard lightsaber and a sith dagger. Like a display of weapons, prepared for the unsheathing, they merely waited for his call. As he lifted his head, to reveal the face of the monster that haunted this man's dreams, he smiled and tilted an expression, hands clinging to armor just above the breasts.

"That anger...that rage. Don't let it go to waste..."

[member="Ijaat Akun"]

 

[Julius Sedaire]

There was silence in the room, except for the creep of his steps and the chink and clink of his armor. He strode forward a few steps and stopped, the cannon at his shoulder whirring up and beading on the dread lord. It was a nasty, deadly weapon and he knew what it would do to such a relatively lightly armored man. With ease, he hand floated down to his saber's hilt, the gleaming device not yet drawn, but a few inches of the beskar blade bared, showing a beautifully folded hada and strong hamon of unique design. Tightened grip but no further did the blade creep out, his crushgauntleted hands easily capable of cracking the wood core grip and bending the tang, but he had trained with them, and knew his strength, and avoided such amateurish moves.

"Rage? Anger? You don't even know what I feel you animal... This goes beyond hate, this goes beyond fear and desire for vengeance... This is something you only know when you love and lose... And you are incapable of love, filth... You probably don't even recognize me like this, do you?"

With that, the helmet came off, thudding to the ground in a final manner and rolling halfway between the two. Ijaat was exposed now, thinning black hair with a few sparse sprinklings of grey at the temples. Eyes that glared with all the fury of a sun, the same golden-brown as a hawk or falcon, narrowed with pure and unfilitered rage. Tanned skin from the light of a hundred suns or more, his right eye suffering a nasty scar at the corner, he stalked forward another step, his saber sliding another few inches, his dominant right hand still gripping it firmly, keeping a sturdy and open stance, his face contorted in barely restrained grimace.

"You took her... There was no reason... She wasn't some princess... No jedi... She was nothing to no one but me and our children.... Yet when our planet burned, you took her for sheer sport. You cut my leg with your pretty little glowstick and made me try to crawl after you as you drug her in your ship by her hair... You didn't even have the grace to kill me, you left me alive knowing what you would do to her before you killed her...You even took our babies, barely able to walk and talk... I stalked your kind for years after that... I killed more troopers, sith, and all their ilk trying to find you. I courted death as I once courted the woman you took from me. My own people reviled me for what I did and become...And then I gave it away until today, tried to put aside the monster you made me to be a good man... Now?"

The saber drew with a silibant hiss barely heard due to the soft lining of the scabbard, not the big metallic ring and rasp you saw on all the holo-vids of famous actors and the like depicting legendary fights. It hung in his right hand, low, an inviting guard designed to look very relaxed and calm, almost inviting. But only a fool would take the invitation this guard presented. It was usually a waiting guard, a testing guard, a way to try and probe and prod at your opponent to get them to react first and let you be able to counter and get a feel for how the moved and struck, things that were invaluable in such a fight.

"Now comes the end..."

[member="Reverance"]

 

[Reverance]

~​

The world burns, cinder rising from the mountain​

A lord razes flora and fauna and township alike​

What was a callous eye turned to one of direct spite​

That he should so taunt those already oppressed​

​

Men lie upon the ground, smoldering​

But perhaps they got the better end of the deal​

As he recalls the woman now spoken of​

And the torture he beset upon a man cut down​

​

He remembers her screams most vividly​

Like children playing in the grass​

He can't seem to draw upon mired sadness​

So passionately articulated by a man now presently wounded​

​

The smell of blood left mineral after tones in the air​

The grip of hair in hand rubbed the hand raw​

Flowers let out pollen, a haze to the lifting smoke​

As a wounded man was left to rot​

By a Monster​

~​

​

He blinked steadily, a dream cast across his vision, a memory given back by the one within, who so often removed unwarranted knowledge with the power of flashburn. And as the Mando removed his helmet, brandishing weapon, and speaking angry words, the Sith Lord couldn't help but cast the visage of a smile. He recalled her face, like a painting one could stare at for hours, only to close there eye and see the negative impression. Her pain was exquisite, his was more so, and now the presentation of it currently set his heart to a flutter. It was almost too much, as he lifted his head, and breathed in deeply, as if his whole body had been plunged deep into the scent of roses and washed in scalding water.

"I am an animal...but my kind?" He tilted his head, his voice closer to a growl then true annunciation. "There is no one else like me. As for your wife...I can't seem to remember her, she must have not left an impression." He said with a toothy smile, the scar over his eye, his body covered in the marks of former strikes against flesh, the tattoos across his skin- all things to show his truest and purest form of commitment to the only thing that was certain in this universe...pain. It was pure, it was certain, and it was fair. And while this mando may have felt it's sting for a small fraction of time, compared to Gabriel, he would soon knowing it's lasting taste, metallic and loathsome, as he watched the Sith Lord ruin any chance of vengeance this day.

"A thousand civilizations, a thousand worlds..." He pulled the rancor tooth from his back, the root cavity would soon emit that crimson hue that [member="Ijaat Akun"] would recall so well. "Scream out at the edge of my blade." It's snap hiss recoiled in a split second, a solid indication of his use of trakata, as he aimed it towards the floor in preparation for the attack. Should this man seek less glorious manners of introspection and reckoning, such as that cannon, he would discern this room a much darker place than how he initially found it. But for now, Gabriel wanted to dance with the warrior, to remind him of the power of those whom he stalked. "Please forgive me...but your pathetic tale of woe fails to move me."

 

[Julius Sedaire]

There was no reaction from the Mandalorian after a time. Indeed, he seemed to not breath for a second as he watched the blade ignite and hiss into something from the very fabric of his nightmares. Fathoming the depths of this monster was something beyond him, and beyond what he could process. A point in rage had been hit where he felt hollow, cold, and clinical. If anything, Reverance would notice that, would feel the sudden almost absence of emotion from the warrior as he strode forward and with the toe of his boot kicked up his helmet into waiting hands.

It sealed to his face with a hiss, still not a word passed the lips of the warrior as he stood, eyeing the sith behind a reflective slit of chromed visor, his armor so atypical from the standard mandalorian design that, truly, it was impressive he hadn't been noticed. Full pauldrons so like a clone troopers of old, the segmented and scalloped breastplate with it's fluting and designs to reflect and redirect blows away from the face. Bicep bands of armor studded in beskar rivets, vambraces and crushgauntlets gripping the blade in his right hand tightly. Indeed, he was literally armored from head to toe, even his thighs covered in beskar to the point where only the inside of joints and thighs were truly exposed consistently.

Thinly, he smiled as he strode forward towards the man, systems blinking into life on his armor. Checking ammunition, connectivity, and a hundred more little status things. Beskar'gam was an intricate thing to operate when you went to the level of care and makesmanship as Ijaat had, and he had spared little to no expense or device in this suit. To his estimation, it was the finest armor he had created yet, and this would be a glorious test of it, even if he felt prepared to die in it as such.

The emotion he kept bottled up began to leak suddenly as he strode forward, and right as he was but a few paces from the Sith Lord there was a dark amusement flitting through his mind as the cannon at his shoulder barked and bucked at the same time as he leaped forward to swing a crushgauntleted hand punch at his foe, the ostrine and ionite knuckles and spikes on his shuk'orok encased hand gleaming as the simple left hook flew at him, the cannon at his shoulder spewing out five rounds at just over three miles a second, aimed in a spray from left to right right around the shoulder height. The rounds were meant more to test just how fast the Sith could move, and the punch there to add insult to injury if he were not fast enough.

[member="Reverance"]

 

[Reverance]

There was a discrete difference in body type between the two individuals, even looking beyond the utilization of the armor - the differences were substantial. And while he was given the opportunity to speak and taunt his opponent, soaking of the anger and hatred, a mind split in two took advantage of partitioned ram. Ijaat was small only in height, likely weighing more than Gabriel standing toe to toe - but that didn't account for the unique armor and the cannon upon shoulder. Gabriel couldn't help but smile at the approach, the balance had to be difficult to compensate for. There was a reason why armor was often built to be symmetrical on the core, as it allowed one to properly manipulate their weight without having to first counter balance. It could be argued that training would and could likely overcome such substantial disadvantage, but a weakness was a weakness, through and through.

The Sith Lord, on other hand, was built for brutal sprints of speed, the force a power culled in gales to his sails and whipped into submission. A dog that barks when commanded to. And like any lowly Mando, Gabriel mentally winced at the notion that he would likely open this fight with the use of technology instead of steel. It was the nature of their kind, a leaning upon things not their own - a dependency on something that couldn't be depended upon. Wires fray, circuitry blows out, and barrels jam. The Lord of Pain used a lightsaber and some would call him a hypocrite for such thoughts. He would merely smile and point towards Kashyyyk, a lightsaber given up for the call of the fight and the quickening of a storm uncontrolled. He paid the price that day and relish at the thought of a return trip. The beam of energy was more of a symbol anyway, something given up and replaced on a whim.

He wouldn't dual wield against this man, he didn't need to. The armor would suffice for the blows suffered and he would use his free hand to treat the hilt of his saber as a pivoting lever upon main hand fulcrum, true and meticulous mastery of his form. The strides of his opponent were low and subtle, but purposeful. That much was sure, but his attacks were easily anticipated and Gabriel would treat him as the slow and cumbersome thing he would be. At least until proven wrong, a thing Gabriel never considered as an option.

The Sith Lord wasn't one to stand still as his opponent moved, and he wasn't one to stand in one place when seeing the long end of a barrel strafe towards him, cracking the sound of the air with semblance of lightning and thunder, rumbling the room with explosions. Good thing they were, unknowing to Gabriel, purposely muffled to prevent hearing damage. Side stepping back and to his left, he was intent on removing himself of range of both the swing of the fist and the reach of the right hand blade. A spray and pray style of firing, the Sith Lord could appreciate the technique, as punching while firing likely would render low accuracy as it was. Two of the bullets trailing behind him, he reached over with his left hand, crossing his chest, just in time to deflect the 7.62 slugs up and away from him with a Force Barrier, mass propelled tungsten slinging holes in the ceiling and walls. It was a fortunate thing he didn't try to use his lightsaber, such things would have just turned into flung molten to continue upon path.

As he stepped out of the strike box, as it were, his right hand slipped loose, crossing from his left to right horizontally at chest level, to smack the punching crushgaunt across the knuckles with the outstretched crimson beam. He assumed they were so crushgaunts, Mando's tended to enjoy those gloves. If not, well, it was better to be safe than sorry. And in the end, the gun would inevitably do in the user of the weapon. One thing he knew, from being shot at his whole life, was that these bullets moved far faster then typical slugs - the sound, even at this range, echoed behind the impact against erected shield. That sort of force, that sort of recoil, couldn't be healthy for any practitioner - especially upon such a concentrated and structurally weak portion of the body. Gabriel would know this especially, considering his traditional training in anatomy and his use of Shatterpoint. Either way, perhaps toys would be set aside, for the finer side of the fight, as sanguine stare gauged the impact of the lightning speed lash of energy against extended glove.

[member="Ijaat Akun"]

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Shock would have registered on his face for a moment if he had not been hidden behind the helmet of his beskar'gam. The gun was usually a pretty good diversion and almost always produced results. Most only thought to try and parry the bullets, resulting in molten globs of the metal speeding at them well beyond the speed of sound, or others tried using sheer speed to dodge out of the way. Neither of those methods tend to work, and if often resulted in dead Sith, or whatever he was fighting. Obviously, his usual bag of tricks and gadgets would not avail him much here. That was discomforting. Against a force user, such things were what enabled one such as him to level the playing field. It would require something more, in this fight, and he began to regret coming alone, arrogance reeked of it really. He was no spook.

Stepping back as the lightsaber smacked out at his hand, he was grateful the glove was such that it was, and the smack merely threw his punch off, allowing him to backstep and eye the Sith Lord. For his opponent was obviously no mere Knight or untrained Acolyte. There was little thought that it could be possible he was anything else from Ijaat's memory, but this was obviously one well beyond him. There was little chance of victory today, but he would still give the Dark Lord a run for his money, just to see what was possible. Anyone who knew Mandalorians knew no matter their walk of life they all relished and damn near worshiped war, and Ijaat was no different in the end. Reaching up as he back-pedaled, Ijaat hit a pin on the shoulder mounted canon and managed to press a button on his gauntlet.

As the pins were pressed, the cannon fell with a final like thud to the ground, rolling a few feet behind and to the side of the mandalorian, the jet pack clanged off the hard point on his armor with a hiss and thud, wobbling unevenly as it hit the ground and Ijaat smiled, his voice tinned behind his vox as he spoke. The words were mostly stripped of emotion, but the Sith lord would be able to sense utter calm, resignation, and a bubbling eagerness and almost joy. Here was the contest every true warrior desired, an overpowering foe with little hope of being able to outclass. Firm and classical, he adopted again the fool's guard, and waited as he spoke.

"Impressive... Most of your kind fall for the tricks I design... You think, even when you act. Let us decide this a little more on the old terms... Blade to blade, skill to skill"

Hefting the saber a bit and gripping just-so, his right hand near the guard, the left hand just barely on the grip near the pommel, he waited for the Sith to move or speak. There were still surprises on his armor, but he would not open himself up further to damage. He had, after all, trained to fight in armor for years, if not decades, and fighting outside of it he would be less a challenge, he was sure... So he would sell his life dearly and see what could be made of what was to yet come. The saber seemed to calm his mind as he focused on it like he had back on Dantooine when the Jal Shey had worked on his blade, feeling the sense of calm readyness their worked always brought to him.

[member="Reverance"]

 

[Reverance]

Pound for pound, Ijaat was a contender. Gabriel was well aware of that, dual minds accounting for the significant difference in not only physical nature, but in armament. Being the physically less stocky individual in the pursuant duel created a cognizant sort of sense, as if switching roles mid step. That was fine for him, he was Sith after all. And among his kind, he tended to run on the small side. But what he remained ever vigilant towards was the armor, the likes of which likely contained numerous devices within it and enhancements for the Mandolorian to use at any turn of his choosing. Which was unfortunate, he preferred to know the weights before placing against scale. Mentally he shrugged, deciding to keep his distance as the opponent removed portions of the armor with the sound of click and the drop of pieces.

"I have no kind..." He said as he tilted his head. If the history between the two, as murky as it was, couldn't prove such notions - then the battle ahead would. In the field of combat, on the ground with saber in hand, his arrogance and ancientness left him with a sense that he was with few peers. There were many weaknesses he could claim, readily given in the right company, but for the world of sabers and physical domination of an opponent - that was a certain vocation he studied with burning passion. Nevertheless, had it not been for the magnitude of the gun, it's capacity to do damage as easily as had been shown, Gabriel would have charged the man while stripping himself of weight. But he was fine taking this slow, a viper curling up before the strike.

He studied the man once more as footwork moved him forward, watchful and ever immersed in the notion of where the core of his weight was. Feet never crossing, he extinguished the right hand held blade and dropped the arm to his right, hanging out in a dove tail form, with no blade to speak of. With no facial indication, he swung forward, the blade igniting in a snap-hiss as it would attempt to smack the mando's sword to Ijaats right. The saber would come up from a shallow low, with a low upwards angle, as the swing would move from ijaats left hip to right elbow height. But without full commitment to the swing, his wrist would precipitate a rotation that followed through to the elbow, looking to tag Ijaat on his right shoulder, across the pauldron, where the shoulder plate and torso armor would overlap, to allow flexibility with non metal suit beneath. While some would argue that the Sith Lord shouldn't cross over to where he had intended to knock the sword in the first place, he expected that Ijaat would attempt to push his own blade to his left, countering the initially sprung swing. Either way, he was but testing the water, looking for damageable gaskets in the Mandalorian armor.

His left armor remained something anchored to the chest, until he would need it to change the angle of the hilt or to counterbalance the shift in his own body weight. And of course, should the force be needed, it would have a medium for activation. Ever constant, his attenuation to the force kept him peaked as the damaging machine he was. And for now, he would take advantage of the differences in armament.

[member="Ijaat Akun"]

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Ijaat saw the move as it came towards him, and had time enough to register a few things. One was that his opponent was blindingly fast even with his Jal Shey aided reflexes thanks to his saber from Shule and the Ithorian. There was something different, in this man. A savagery he hadn't seen in all his years of hunting and killing Sith. And he had enough blood on his hands from these folks that his hands were darker than black in the end. It hadn't mattered who, where, or why back then... If you were associated with the Sith, you died. Somehow though, Ijaat felt it was paramount he not fall into that trap here and become what it was he was fighting.

Shifting his weight to his back foot, Ijaat quickly stepped, almost crab like, back a few paces and to the left, tucking and curling that shoulder inward. It was not the most elegant of maneuvers, but it was a classic one. Easy to execute and when the blade came at his shoulder he was in a position to slightly shift the grip he had on his saber and aim a clearing blow at his opponents groin from the inviting lower guard he had adopted, and then at the last instant shift his weight forward and almost hop step and lunge inward, the upward slash to the groin becoming instead a lunging thrust to the kneecap of the inside right leg of his opponent.

Eyes narrower, time seemed to slow the longer he fought, and he felt the 'flow' effect Shule had described. His thoughts became clearer, stronger, purer feeling. Almost, it felt that he could see the blade coming for his shoulder before it actually turned at him. It was like holochess, or something. Weird and all together different, but logical in it's own way of understanding. You just had to trust in the feelings that seemed to flow from the blade into your mind when wielding it, sort of becoming one with it, denying emotion and thought and floating in a free feeling sort of state of non-being. It was unsettling, but it was also undoubtedly keeping him alive at current point, so he didn't question it too terribly much or overly worry if it would have insidious consequences.

[member="Reverance"]