The Blasphemer
Still in the process of falling from the Fire Witch's cybernetically enhanced kick, the Sith Lord Ptolemis dragged on an invisible rope, forming a fist and bending his arm backward, and tore at her leg to hopefully knock her over and buy some time for himself.
In the end, the two impacted with the steel floor, tumbling along the path of each Force-induced momentum. The Mask of Ptolemis cracked as it slammed into the ground, several spikes already missing from it, scattered all over the place. His face, hand and leg in tremendous pain. But he was… alive. For now. Barely did he push himself off the ground; for only enough time to have his lightsaber hilt pulled back into his hand from behind Elpsis, when the Fire Lady called on the Force again.
Just as the hilt impacts with the prone Sith's reaching hand, a relentless push sends his body hurtling even farther down the empty corridor that was rocking from external impacts on the worldcraft itself. His helpless form drags and spins backward, sent forth by the crushing strength of the Fire Witch, flipping and rolling to the chaotic whim of the powerful kinetic blast.
His weathered body finally stops far down the walkway, with sirens blaring and dousing their surroundings in the color red. Ptolemis painfully pushes himself up and stands on his feet, but right as he would continue the duel, several blast doors slam shut before them in an unexpected sequence. – What's the meaning of this!? – Furious, the Shadow Hand demands on his comm. After a couple moments of static audio bleed, an officer replies. – My Lord, several New Sith Order acolytes have called for your aid in person and are awaiting your earliest arrival at the attached coordinates. A group of marauders with heavy weapons have been dispatched to slow down the target you've been engaged with.
Still angered, but also aware of the importance of military macromanagement, he shelves his annoyance for now. And in truth, the Shadow Hand had once again suffered greatly at the hands of this peculiar nemesis of his… the Fire Witch.
In the end, the two impacted with the steel floor, tumbling along the path of each Force-induced momentum. The Mask of Ptolemis cracked as it slammed into the ground, several spikes already missing from it, scattered all over the place. His face, hand and leg in tremendous pain. But he was… alive. For now. Barely did he push himself off the ground; for only enough time to have his lightsaber hilt pulled back into his hand from behind Elpsis, when the Fire Lady called on the Force again.
Just as the hilt impacts with the prone Sith's reaching hand, a relentless push sends his body hurtling even farther down the empty corridor that was rocking from external impacts on the worldcraft itself. His helpless form drags and spins backward, sent forth by the crushing strength of the Fire Witch, flipping and rolling to the chaotic whim of the powerful kinetic blast.
His weathered body finally stops far down the walkway, with sirens blaring and dousing their surroundings in the color red. Ptolemis painfully pushes himself up and stands on his feet, but right as he would continue the duel, several blast doors slam shut before them in an unexpected sequence. – What's the meaning of this!? – Furious, the Shadow Hand demands on his comm. After a couple moments of static audio bleed, an officer replies. – My Lord, several New Sith Order acolytes have called for your aid in person and are awaiting your earliest arrival at the attached coordinates. A group of marauders with heavy weapons have been dispatched to slow down the target you've been engaged with.
Still angered, but also aware of the importance of military macromanagement, he shelves his annoyance for now. And in truth, the Shadow Hand had once again suffered greatly at the hands of this peculiar nemesis of his… the Fire Witch.
Perhaps both of them were bruised enough.
Perhaps not.
Perhaps not.
What is certain is that the Blasphemer's first task after the conclusion of the day's engagements shall be one of planning… planning of vile revenge.
