The Rapture of Nature

[Lark]

Lark perched himself above the ground, hidden behind dense foliage atop one of the many trees in the forlorn forest he found himself in, like a stone gargoyle in those Gothic tales he dabbled with as a child. The shrill song of native birds reached out to him, but he blocked out any extraneous noises. There was only one thing he listened for: the presence of his enemy. So far, he had sensed nothing. Their arena on Dantooine was deceptively large; a thick, misty forest stood atop an extensive network of caves underneath the soil, still stained red with the blood of the Sith's enemies. Dotted around the forest were entrances to these caverns, although one would need to take extra care not to lose themselves in the labyrinth below.

As he normally did, Lark dressed lightly, wearing the dark, foreboding cloak traditional of the Sith. He carried his snow-colored Sith sword, enchanted with the same properties as a lightsaber, and a blood-red dagger with similar gifts. They were gifts from his master, and he had grown oddly fond of the hunks of metal.

A light rain fell from the sky, further adding to the dreary atmosphere. Mist hovered above the ground, haunting the forest like a wraith. It was nearly the dead of night, which is why Lark opted to listen instead of look. But even that proved challenging. Every shuffle of leaves, every crack of a branch, every noise made by this forsaken woodland could be his opponent, or it could be his imagination constructing illusions that weren't really there.

Yes, one thing was becoming increasingly obvious. The two Sith were outsiders, unwanted by the forest. They didn't belong. An eerie silence enveloped the jungle, quiet save for the increasing cadence of rainfall. Graul were known to hunt in the nearby hills, and Laigreks dwelled in the depths below. They'd need to be as mindful of the native wildlife as they were each other.

Soon, Lark would need to leave. He had no luck from this position, and while the cold didn't bother him, being wet would only compound it's effects. Throwing up his hood, he silently descended the tree, ready for whatever challenges came his way.

[member="Enoch Zambrano"]

 

[Enoch Zambrano]

Steam rose from the wounds of his enemies. He'd cut them down easily, his saber a red flash in the fog and rain. Dantooine had been a good choice for a fight. A bit of a gladiator fight, but a fight nonetheless. Enoch finished off a Chiss warrior with a slash. More steam puffed into the air as the Sith's lightsaber cauterized the wound. Ziost, Panatha, and all the other worlds Enoch had lived on, only one place felt like home. This was his home. Sweat pouring down his bared chest, his heart thumping so loud he could barely hear. He felt like some feral beast anytime he fought, not the cold man he normally was.

With a click, Enoch turned off his lightsaber, and slipped it onto his hip. He crouched down, the low mist further hiding him. Taking slow steps, Enoch prowled through the mist. Not one enemy he'd found had been worthy, but his senses told him this next one would be. Perhaps the last enemy in the arena.

A cruel smile plastered his face. The sounds of Dantooine, the fog and mist, made this place seem haunted. Shadows moved like wraiths in the jungle, with animals scurrying through the branches over head. But Enoch knew the truth. Here, he was the wraith.

Then he spotted it, a small clearing in the forest. A patch of grass, surrounded by thick foliage. Yes, this seemed a good a spot as any. As if from nowhere, Enoch appeared in the clearing.

[member="Lark"]

 

[Lark]

Slowly but confidently, Lark descended the large tree, sacrificing his vantage point in an attempt for a different view. The trunk was slick with moisture, one false move and he'd slip and fall into a rather embarrassing demise. Fortunately, the conditions now were nearly identical to how they were back at his childhood home on Myrkr. This forest felt as forlorn as his youthful days. But he didn't have time to reminisce on those days that felt like a lifetime ago. There was little point in dabbling with nostalgia. There was work he needed to do.

As he reached the base of the tree, a figure appeared from within the shadows, revealing himself inside a small collection of mist which faintly shined with the reflection of starlight. Lark stopped immediately, squatting on a low hanging branch a dozen or so feet above the ground. The figure looked as though it had simply apparated there, as though he had been born from within the mist. Lark studied him for a moment, but he dared not risk more time than he had to. Did he see me? The drizzle of rain might mask the sound of my descent, but a keen ear could tell the difference between the sound of water falling on leaves and the light tap of sole on wood.

In situations like this, is was always best to assume the worst case scenario. Lark couldn't risk waiting only for this new opponent to launch a quick, surprise attack. He took out his enchanted dagger, considering whether or not it was worth throwing it. Save it, a voice deep from within whispered. Instead, he held the knife tight in one hand, and leaped from the tree directly above his opponent, like a crow taking flight in the night sky, silent save for the barely audible flap of his cloak. He raised his knife, ready to plunge it into this final opponent's neck.

[member="Enoch Zambrano"]