DA Marick Arconae vs. KAP Atyiru Caesus Entar

Obelisk Primarch Marick Arconae

Equite 4, Equite tier, Clan Arcona
Male Hapan, Obelisk, Shadow
vs.

Krath Archpriestess Atyiru Caesus Entar

Equite 2, Equite tier, Clan Arcona
Female Miraluka, Krath, Sorcerer
Comment

Battle has timed out

Hall Duelist Hall - Old Container
Messages 2 out of 4
Time Limit 3 Days
Competition Event: Figureheads - ACC
Battle Style Alternative Ending
Battle Status Closed by Timeout
Combatants DA Marick Arconae, KAP Atyiru Caesus Entar
Force Setting Standard
Weapon Setting Standard
DA Marick Arconae's Character Snapshot Snapshot
KAP Atyiru Caesus Entar's Character Snapshot Snapshot
Venue Selen: Arcona Citadel - Throne Room
Last Post 1 September, 2014 6:11 PM UTC
Member timing out Master Ruka Tenbriss Ya-ir
Posts

citadel
A pair of massive, ancient doors loom at the entrance to the throne room. Upon opening, they give way to a large chamber with a high ceiling carved smoothly into stone. The chamber itself is the size of a professional holo-ball court but the hard-tile flooring has been sand-blasted to perfection and patterned symmetrically throughout. Tall, rounded pillars frame a center dais that forms an elevator platform. Perfectly centered on the low platform is the heart of Clan Arcona's power--the Serpentine Throne. The ornate throne stands several feet above the head of even the tallest Shadow Lords. The dais is back lit by an ever glowing wall of flame that attunes itself to the order-color of the current Consul. A sable carpet trimmed with white lays down over the shallow steps and continues all the way towards the entrance doors. throneroom
The Throne Room is completely sound-proofed, and almost feels like entering a vacuum. Voices carry easily, but never leave the chamber. A combination of alchemy and engineering allow the room to be shut off from the rest of the Citadel while maintaining proper ventilation for the unique curtain of flame. It maintains a steady room temperature, ignorant to the climate outside and throughout the Citadel's ancient walls.

First, there was silence.

The walls of smooth sable stone and the enormous onyx pillars were seamless lies. This place was a castle of glass, beautiful and glittering. It was more fragile, perfect, and delicate than the first tentative, tremulous blossoms of ardor between young lovers. It was calm, quiet. Outside the sentinel doors, men and women bled and cried. But not here. Here only the flames breathed, whispering: hush, hush.

Then, there was the void.

Emptiness and hunger lingered on the crackle-soft air like the last note of a hallowed harmony. They were the silence beneath the serenity, the poison under the skin. This chamber was a voracious thing, its halls demanding constant sacrifices to offer their blood, their power, and their honor before its cold throne. A throne that was empty. No life touched here, not now, not anymore. There was just the bloodied floors and marbled silence.

And in the void, there was the flame.

Except for him. In the glass-cut lie of the quiet, there was him. He stepped from a cloak of shadow and into the firelight, shining through the dark.

That flame was the Stars, and they were loved.

“Ashla and Bogan, be praised.” Such were Atyiru’s thoughts as she finished her prayers aloud, standing at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the dias. She smiled very faintly, her face upturned to the Serpentine Throne and the figure that hovered there, almost touching the chair’s carved arm.

“A friend I love very much sits there,” the Archpriestess said into the heartbeat-broken silence. “Sort of, anyway. He doesn’t like sitting in it, so, more stands there, I suppose,” she paused. “My name is Atyiru.”

“Ghost,” replied a modulated voice, the single word floating down the steps.

The Aedile nodded, folding her hands behind her back and kicking her feet as she went on. “I know. I’ve nearly run into you a few times, heard a lot about you, Mr. Ghost. Trouty’s rendition was my favorite. Whiteyface McGhostVoice,” she giggled. “He wouldn’t say much else though. I don’t blame him. Anyway,” she began pacing slowly up the seemingly endless steps.

“Here’s the thing, Ghosty-dear: I know you. I don’t know how, but I know you. You’re familiar. I can feel it. I know you, but I don’t. And that’s what bothers me. I know every single person in this Clan better than I know my own face--literally! So my question is...who are you? Won’t you tell me? Please?” she queried.

Ghost did not answer, instead just waiting, a reticent shade..

Atyiru sighed. “It was worth a shot. Y’know..this whole time, I’ve just been thinking, if I can rally our side, if I can make peace with the others, if I can keep as many of us alive as I can until he gets home,” she gestured to the throne. “Then it will be okay. But that was naive of me. My people are dying,” her voice cracked. “And it’s not even the Council this time. It’s my friends, their friends. How is any of that going to be okay ever again?”

The Miraluka, seemingly close to hysterics, drew her shoulders up. Her smile gone, she spoke through bared teeth. “I don’t care about allegiances, or stopping this war. Not right now. I need to hold on to something. I need this nagging feeling to end. I just need to know,” her tone turned desperate. “Who are you, and why can’t I forget you?”

A seraphic lightsaber appeared in her right hand, its radiance burning to life in the deep, flame-licked shadows of the hall. In her left, electricity crackled, its alacritous glow growing with each passing heartbeat. “I think if I fight you, I’ll know...” she whispered.

Then, she lunged, a single claw of lightning arcing from her unfurled fingertips towards Ghost. He moved. And then, like the light, he disappeared.

Atyiru pulled up short atop the dias, her attack exploding harmlessly against one of the far pillars. She strained her senses, saber at the ready, but there was nothing.

No. There. A faint something, a flicker of false light. Gone. There. Gone.

There. Two footfalls. Atyiru spun, blade raising across her body, too slow. A phantom materialized, arm darting past her guard. She jerked her head aside by a hair’s breadth. Cold metal kissed her ear with the lightest touch. Flames flashed behind them. Muscles recoiled, slithering away from shining plasma.

Gone.

The Miraluka growled, keeping her weapon loosely spinning to ward off the specter’s next advance, and clapped a hand over her ear, finding a small cut there. She stiffened when her fingertips probed it, noting the warm blood already congealing.

Poison? Oh, the Void take you, you little di’kut, the medic thought furiously, embracing the Force with the violent desperation of an impending farewell. She broke her mind, sparing a piece of its concentration solely on purging the venom. Her blood burned, but she ignored the pain until it finished.

The rest of her mental fortitude was put to planning. Alright, think! Tim and Marry always said I needed to seize the opportunities given me. What can I…ah, stifling a grin, the Krath slowly stopped moving her saber, letting all her limbs droop and relax. She wobbled on her feet, then collapsed, forcing back the reflex to catch herself as her head thudded against stone. She slowed her breathing and her heartbeat to that of the heavily unconscious, the terrible sensation of numbness creeping up her flesh while her mind laid awake.

And she waited.

He came from behind the throne, shaped in the fire for an unknown purpose. But he was not some weapon to be carried then cast aside. He was a man, and men had reasons.

Ghost knelt down, his silky robes brushing her skin. Atyiru maintained her composure, expecting to roll away when a blade touched her throat. Instead, gloved fingers searched her neck. A pause, then they retreated. Something rustled. The touch returned, hot skin pressing lightly to hers, feeling the slow thrum of her pulse.

The specter gave a tiny grunt, then stood and began walking away. Atyiru’s mind raced in disbelief.

Just like the others said. He wanted me alive. It must have been a simple sedative. But why? Gods take you, what do you want, if not to hurt us? Is this some sick test of your ability? A game? What?

She would know.

The Archpriestess counted ten heartbeats, gradually returning her body to combat readiness, blood pumping, adrenaline racing. One. Her fingers twitched. Five. She eased silently to her knees, gripping her blaster pistol in one hand and her unlit saber in the other. Six. Ghost reached the bottom of the steps. Eight. She got to her feet, stepping, quicksilver, to the edge of the dias. Nine. She aimed. Ghost padded across the carpet.

Ten.

Atyiru pulled the trigger.

-=x=-

Marick’s nerves lit with lightning, a flash of heat and warning igniting his muscles. They coiled in response, and he threw his body into the air with a Force-fueled leap on pure, animalistic instinct, klaxons roaring in his mind.

Veridian streaks of light seared across his dim vision as the world inverted and blurred. Between one flash and the next, agony blossomed in his arm. His nostrils filled with the stench of burning flesh. Then he was tumbling back to earth, the last bolt singeing the tips of his silvery hair as his hood fell back.

The disguised assassin’s feet touched stone as he landed with feline grace despite the smoldering hole in his left bicep. Behind his mask, his lips pressed into a thin line, but there was little time to attend to the wound. Atyiru fired again. A burst of green exploded in his vision.

Bone and sinew pushed as he launched from his crouch, twisting reflexively to avoid the next volley. He summoned his lightsaber to his good hand, the short emerald blade hissing to life in his half-relaxed grip.

Marick phased forward, closing in just as the Aedile dropped her blaster and activated her cerulean blade. He took one step, two, striking out, plasma screaming when she deflected his blade with a twirl of her own. He darted forward, left. Atyiru’s feet slid across the stone, gliding back, right. Their blades snapped and locked, the Miraluka’s scintillating ceaselessly. She pirouetted close, so close their legs brushed, ducking into his reach. Then away, lightsaber weaving. He chased her, relentless, eyes scanning everywhere at once for the opening he knew would come.

He had trained her, after all.

The ghostly Hapan rolled his left shoulder back, letting the injured arm flop as if useless. Atyiru’s whirling blade flew from its arc, momentum carrying it into a warding slash towards his exposed side. The heat of it scorched through his clothing, blistering his skin.

But the strike did not carry through, and she left herself open.

The Primarch’s leg shot out in a graceless kick, ugly but effective as it connected with the overextended Miraluka’s abdomen and shoved. Atyiru lost her footing completely, tumbling in a tangle of limbs to the edge of the dias and tottering there dangerously as she scrabbled not to fall. Her saber clattered at Marick’s feet as he strode over to her, palming one of his daggers.

“Predictable. Weak,” he stated in his twisted voice, face grim behind the safety of his mask. Atyiru bled Arconan blood, but that was just it: she would always bleed rather than kill.

“Gloom. Doom. Darkness,” she wheezed at him, voice thrown low in mocking. “That’s what you sound like.”

“Disappointing,” Ghost replied, leaning down with the intent to press his blade into her wrist this time. She smiled brightly at him, white teeth flashing, eyebrows wagging jauntily.

Then, with a little whoop, she threw herself off the dais and plummeted to the ground.

She landed on all fours, like a nexu, but lost her grip on her lightsaber in the process. The blade hissed as it dissolved back into its emitter and rolled away into the shadows. The sound of metal clattering across tile cut through the din of crackling flames and the mixture of labored breathing.

Something in the back of Atyiru’s mind screamed at her to get up. The Miraluka scrambled back to her feet and looked back up towards the dais. Every fiber of memory carved into her muscles told her to move. The single word of her mentor’s flashed across her conscious: dodge.

But no attack came. Oh, and Ghost was nowhere to be seen.

Atyiru turned in place, stretching her senses outward. She had no baseline on the mysterious specter's aura, however, and was met with only the odd hues that signified shadows to her unique vision. She was alone.

And yet, there was only one way in or out of the throne room. She would have noticed if the heavy doors had been opened. Which meant...

Frak.

Her pulse pounded in her neck and reverberated through her head like the drums of war. She couldn’t afford to panic, so she instead focused on controlling her rapid breathing: in through the nose, out slowly through the mouth. Rinse, repeat. Just as Marick had taught her.

The pounding in her temples softened as her chest rose and sank in a more natural rhythm.

He’s obviously waiting, she thought as she carefully padded in the direction her saber had run off to. It couldn’t have gone far. She swept her Force-vision across the floor like a siren, looking for the familiar shade of her lightsaber. Which is good because it gives me time to-

Heal, she said to herself. Double-Frak

No sooner than the thought registered, a metallic clink-clink from behind caused her to whir about, leveling her DL-18 in its direction. Her lightsaber rolled to a stop a few paces away, and Atyiru furrowed her brow in suspicion as she extended her hand and called the weapon to her hand--

And immediately ducked under the sweeping slash of a echani dagger that materialized from the air. The blades edge seared through the trailing strands of her long white hair, but she threw herself into a forward roll, desperately clutching both her lightsaber and blaster close to her chest. She landed awkwardly and lost the blaster but maintained possession of the lightsaber. Atyiru barely had time to activate the weapon before a blur of emerald light crashed down against her, sparks hissing as the two sabers locked.

From behind the bone-white mask, Ghost looked down at her with dispassionate, glowing eyes. As a pair of heartbeats passed, she realized that he was gripping the saber in his previously wounded hand. Which meant that his offhand was--

Atyiru frantically pushed off the saber-lock and threw herself into a sidelong roll. If she had hesitated a fraction longer, Ghost’s dagger would have poked a neat little hole through her lungs. That would have been...uncomfortable.

Thankful to not be leaking unnecessary oxygen or body fluids, she reached out with her free hand to call back her blaster. Meanwhile, she kept her lightsaber interposed between herself and the specter and her attention on him. She wouldn’t lose him again.

The DL-18 wobbled shakily through the air, and just as it was about to get to her hand, a sudden ripple of displaced air knocked the weapon aside. She frowned and gave her best glower at Ghost.

“That wasn’t very nice,” she grumbled, rising slowly to her feet and pulling her second blaster pistol free. “Fortunately, there is more where that came from.”

“Compensation?” the Ghost spoke dryly in his modulated tone. If she didn’t know any better, she thought she sensed...snark behind it? Oh no he didn’t.

“Listen Ghosty,” she growled. “I’ve had just about enough of you. You could have killed me, but you didn’t, so, either tell me what you’re really doing here or let’s dance.”

She got her response in the form of an emerald lightsaber pinwheeling through the air at her like a plasma-edged boomerang.

Okay, then...