Storm clouds crackled in the distance; first lightning, then the thunder. In addition to the the blinding flashes, the landing platform was illuminated with an array of lightning rods and fluorescent lights. Beneath the protection of his weathered cloak, Marick Tyris had to squint his eyes against the wisps of water that were being whipped into his face by the wild winds.
The half-Hapan ran a hand through his tight beard in a futile attempt to dry it, straining to listen for anything beyond the persistent pattern of rainfall berating the slick metallic plating underfoot. There was nothing, only the clean smell and taste of moisture in the cool air. It was a welcomed change from the climate controlled comforts afforded by the Dark Ascent on Arx. The faint chill creeping up his spine reminded the Voice of the Brotherhood that he was still alive.
All variables considered, the choice of locale for the meeting had been thoughtfully calculated. As far as traps went, it was the perfect snare for a man who prided himself on his attention to detail. Marick could barely make out the few transports and ships that had been parked on either side of his shuttle.
Marick made his way past one—an interceptor of some kind—that he thought he recognized from his files, but couldn’t be sure through the misty haze. Concealed by the folds of his cloak, the Master realized that his hands had reflexively moved to rest around the twin dagger hilts sheathed at his belt.
Old habits die hard. A perfect trap, indeed.
Without the ability to trust his eyes, the leader of the Inquisitorius instead reached out through the Force. Closing his eyes, he probed the platform for any signs of a hostile threat. To his surprise, he felt nothing. Just a dull numbness that had nothing to do with the weather. Something was wrong. Whoever had arranged this meeting had anticipated Marick’s arrival perfectly. It showed a patience and insight that seperated an ameture hunter from a professional.
But Marick Tyris was no one's prey.
Primal instinct took control, years of borderline paranoia, training, and muscle memory kicking into high-gear as his mind pieced together the situation as quickly as it unfolded. From the shadow of the ship, a vaguely humanoid figure leapt down from above and struck swiftly with an overhead slash. Obsidian blades barely registered as they collided, their bell-like ring more prominent as Marick’s twin daggers met one end of his attacker's double-bladed sword.
The two fighters exchanged a flurry of parries and swipes that sliced through the falling rain with faint clangs and swishes. Purely on the defensive against his assailant's precise and powerful assault, the smaller-framed half-Hapan was driven back towards one of the platforms sloped edges.
No longer shrouded by the shadow of the ship, Marick was able to finally take stock of his opponent. It was a E-XD Infiltrator—close-quarters combat configuration, obviously, and with an ebony paint job that let it blend in perfectly with the shadows. Those same shadows did not exist without light, however, which made it stand out against the cloning facilities fluorescent luminescence.
Now that he knew what he was facing, the Voice was better able to calculate a counterattack. Just as he would have been toppled backwards over the ledge, Marick batted aside an alternating strike from the droid's double-bladed sword and then darted forward, sliding across the slick floor on his hip, boots first. The droid did manage to land a strike of opportunity as its quarry attempted to flee, scything the second blade of the double-sword downwards at the half-Hapan’s cloak.
Marick growled as he felt the sharp sting of the droid's blade bite into his shoulder, drawing a thin red line of blood. Gritting his teeth through the sensation, the Master maintained his focus and sprung back to his feet behind the droid.
Just as the droid swiveled and contorted to change direction, Marick extended one hand and pushed on its center of mass with an invisible hand through Force. The telekinetic effort was enough to send the droid cascading off of the platform to the tune of metal appendages desperately trying to cling to water-slick metal.
With his hood thrown back, Marick’s long raven hair quickly became matted and plastered against the sides of his face. His chest burned from the sudden exertion in the less than ideal weather conditions. He attempted to regulate his body temperature and steady his breathing with a familiar nudge from the Force. Again, there was something that seemed to be interfering with his ability to do so.
Marick turned to find a man in a hunter's cloak standing behind him, hand outstretched. As he approached, the hand lowered and the Voice of the Brotherhood was able to recognize a tall and lean man with what looked to be a cybernetic arm. Marick also realized that the Force was now more readily answering his call, the chill from the rain fading away as his body temperature regulated.
The man before him had medium-length dark hair pulled back into a tail with streaks of silver in it, and high cheekbones. As more of the man's features came into view, the Voice was able to piece together and recognize the former Inquisitor.
“You really are as good as they say,” Aiden Lee Deshra said, unable to keep a faint hint of admiration in his tone.
Marick responded by calmly cracking his neck from side to side in a stretch. His daggers remained firmly in each gloved hand at his sides. He glanced at the crimson line that had cut into his shoulder, but his visage remained stoic as his eyes flicked dispassionately to meet Aiden’s.
“You have my attention, Deshra. Speak.”
While the Master voiced his request, an unnoticed metallic hand grasped a hold on the edge of the platform.
