Faction You Just Need To Hit Each Other [Sith Order]

[The Red]

It'd been a long while since he last taught anything. Memories of Bastion flashed through his mind, the Sith Academy there, the lessons and Overseers of the Sith Empire teaching the best and brightest. From what he learned after his resurrection, that place was burnt to the ground in the Imperial rebellion and civil war. So much to find out about, to adapt to. One thing that wasn't? Swinging a lightsaber. The old Zabrak stood within one of the vast sparring rooms of Korriban, an idle smile on his face. Hands clasped behind his back. Being alive again was so drastically different from the years spent dead. The warmth of the air, the dryness.

So many sensations to learn about.

"No two Sith will ever fight the same." He spoke aloud now, his gaze shifting to the group of students before him. Oh yes, he left them waiting as he day dreamed. In part to test patience, in part because he wanted to seem the old aloof fool. "There are countless weapons at your disposal, from the Force to a gun. A lightsaber. Which is what we're here for today. Do you have talent with a lightsaber? Is it even worth teaching you? In what way should you be taught?" The Red reached down, idly tapping a weapon rack beside him. On it, Sith Training Sabers, waiting to be selected. Each was identical.

"All good questions. So we're not going to answer those and instead you're going to take one of these and hit each other until I say stop. Should be fun!"

Which, of course, was how he was going to learn what would suit them best. The students all looked at each other, confused as ever, before they'd start to make their way up to collect their training sabers. If all they were doing was messing around, why not? In that messing around though, the hints of how they could fight would be seen. Their habits, if they chose the defensive, if they just swung wildly, if they were methodical. If they had no talent at all.

It'd be clear soon enough. The Red leaned heavily on his cane, smiling wide as he watched on. He'd figure it all out soon enough.

 

[Naamino Zuukamano]

Eager to participate in any martial training available, Naamino had made sure to add this new instructor's course to his schedule. He listened with natural and learned stoicism, standing as a soldier with spine straight and hands clasped behind his back until bid to select a training saber. This was not his first go with the pelko barbed blades and he'd come a long way since that first spar against his friendly rival, Leshanna . He'd crafted two lightsabers since then, consistently sparred his battle brother Gavin Vel and had even gotten a few pointers from his friend Kivah .

Naami tested the heft of the blade, swinging it in a lazy few arcs about his body to casually show off that he already knew his way around a saber. The zabrak, who seemed to be filling out with height and muscle every new day that passed, turned to size up the gathered students. He had no interest in choosing a weak opponent, in fact recent events had him feeling antsy to vent some steam. Nothing better than picking a fight against a bigger opponent to keep things interesting. Naami leveled his blade at Aiwaz Khath while lowering his brow in a zabrak style challenge. The teen stalked to more open ground so they had ample room to swing, away from some of the less experienced students but still within view of The Red . He was a guy of few words for those he didn't know but his voiceless challenge to the Sith Pureblood was clear.

 

[Darth Imperius]

The Red | Naamino Zuukamano​

He had not set foot into the Valley of Dark Lords since a long time, a very long time. The Academy had been a different one and only thanks to that craven-purist Gizea he was released from his tedious duties. But everyone who would remember that is dead, the Academy razed more times than it already had been at that time, suffering through a petty attempt of cleansing from the Ashlan hypocrites. But now it was rebuilt and formless, shapeless, meaningless beings were forged into Sith here.

It were his own eyes with which he observed the lightsaber lesson, the helmet clipped to his belt. The Dark side does not do well with flesh and skin, his wrinkled and pale skin looking like it would break into dust upon touch, the eyes an intensity of red that almost rivaled his helmets lenses as they looked at the Acolytes and their teacher from a gallery above.

The teacher, The Red was understanding his craft. He seemed well versed in the art of lightsaber combat and especially to share it with the supplicants, it was a relief to see someone capable imparting practical knowledge to a new generation of Sith. Even though the physical appearance and behaviour of the hunched alien was curious, either a fake show or a potential weakness that he probably was able to overcome somehow.

The Acolytes were a mixed bunch and he was so far passionless about them, but the flourishing of the Zabrak one, Naamino Zuukamano , looked at least smooth. The intense stare moved to look at who he challenged.

 

[Aiwaz Khath]

A lingering smell of faint sweat and burnt fabric clung to the air. The dojo was sizeable, able to house a decent amount of students in a single session, but for all its openness the stench of frustration and failure could not be missed. Among the handful of acolytes that trickled into the room in anticipation for saber practice was the Sith Pureblood Aiwaz Khath. Looking at him now, one would be mistaken for thinking he was a younger version of his grandfather, with wavy black hair grown out long, a bulkier body, increased tattoos scattered about his body signifying his position in his tribe, and keener eyes than he had ever had before. His demeanour had darkened somewhat, but he was awake. He was alive. He was here.

He had been at the Academy for several months already, and in that time had learned to embrace the newfound sense of freedom from his tribe, family and their stubborn ideals. Go to the academy of the Pretenders, his father had told him, and master their ways so we may use it against them. But as he spent more time amongst a diverse range of students from all over the galaxy, he started to wonder if all these aliens were really so bad after all. A 'neti' - whatever that meant - 'zabraks' like this instructor, who were all far too horny for his liking, and... "humans"? They were all very weird, but in his own stoic way, Aiwaz was slowly learning to... like them, all of them, dare he admit.

He felt the weight of the training saber in his hand, much accustom to it from using his own academy assigned weapon, only this one had much more wear to it. He could feel the frustrations of a dozen or more students before him pouring all they would muster into the weapon. He breathed in slow as if to drink in the lingering, faded feelings of years passed into his own awareness. Exhaling, he scanned the now filled classroom, sizing up any potential opponent, but it didn't take long for someone to challenge him. One of the curious horned ones; Naamino Zuukamano he recalled.

He was so small, but there was a certain fierceness in his eyes that Aiwaz resonated with, and those horns were not friendly-looking. The zabrak stood holding the saber at him in indisputable challenge; he was very serious business. Aiwaz, silently and with stoic resolution, raised his own blade in response, his crimson eyes levelling with his. He clicked the button and the blade activated with a loud shriek, followed by an ominous hum.
"Come," he said calmly, inviting the boy with a brief gesture of his hand.

 

[Naamino Zuukamano]

Striking a stance which brought the training saber up to an aggressive angle, Naamino took a deep breath in then slowly released. He'd not allow his opponent all the virtuous signs of calm composure without claiming some himself. Despite his eagerness and pent up energy, he slowed his movements in preparation for fast bursts of movement. He knew he faced a rare Sith pureblood, knew too that their size difference was something to stay keenly aware of.

A few heartbeats passed between Aiwaz Khath speaking and Naami's pounce into action. Springing forward, the teen employed Juyo strikes- ferocious and fast, pressing into the young man's defenses with surprising agility for such a stocky boy. He struck out once, twice, then feigned for a third before whirling to the man's flank where he hoped he could score a hit on a leg with a low sweeping swing. His robes flowed with the acrobatic movements and somewhat obfuscated the angles of his form.