Hidden in Felucia’s jungle lies a two hundred meter expanse marking the ancient burial site of this world’s deadliest creatures and the location of innumerable remnants of hundreds, if not thousands of rancors. A circular enclosure of sun-bleached bones are arranged in the center of the cemetery—no doubt the former dwelling of a powerful practitioner of the Force. Cobwebs cling to the fallen beasts, a testament to the primordial age of some of the creatures.

Somewhat obscured by surrounding cliffs and the luminescent jungle, the dusted bones and carcasses are cast in a faint shadow, leaving just enough light to see by. The atmosphere is thick and stifling, with a strong overtone of dust and bone suspended in the still air. The taint of the Dark Side's influence has polluted the landmark over time, giving form to a dreadful aura that has scared off scavengers hoping to sell off a rancor tusk or two. Unlike most of Felucia, the area is nearly devoid of life aside from ravenous predators dwelling within the hollowed-out husks of dead rancors.

The air was heavy with moisture from the surrounding Felucian jungle. No sound moved the air of the morbid clearing of the Rancor Graveyard as the Plagueian Battlelord Azmodius Equesinfernum meditated on the energies of this nexus of death. His slow breathing matched the measured pacing of the several wary predators the Sith was holding at bay with his connection to the Force. His sentient feline companion, Ozzy Pawsborne, watched anxiously as the beasts eyed him from afar.

A tall, wiry figure appeared from the jungle’s edge, striding slowly and deliberately to the center of the clearing, drawing the attention of the anticipating fauna who were waiting for a meal. His hair was blonde, but dirty and matted. His skin was tanned from weeks in the Felucian brush, exposed by his current minimalist garb. A mixture of blood, mud, and plant dye lined his skin for camouflage, covering his scars and forming striations on his face. A lightsaber hung on the hip of his crudely fashioned loin cloth. Furios Morega approached his concentrating apprentice.

“Azmodius,” he called flatly. “It’s time.”

The Arkanian opened his eyes and stood to face his master. “Looks like you enjoyed your survival training,” he stated, noting the painted markings and tanned skin. “How long has it been?”

“Too long,” the Epicanthix replied, cracking his knuckles in preparation.

“Not long enough,” the Battlelord stated with discontent. “Do we have to do this?”

Furios smirked at first. “I could always go fight a rancor,” he stated with a menacing grin. “Add another corpse.”

Azmodius was taken back by the affront to his Dathomiri heritage but concealed it well. Killing a rancor with one’s bare hands seemed impossible, but amounted to sacrilege to him. He had never seen his master completely exhaust his reserves, but could there really be that much of a difference in power between a Battlelord and a Warlord? It didn’t matter. He could not let that happen.

“Very well,” the apprentice replied. “It is time.”

The two Plagueians stepped into fighting stances, traditional Echani poses for their long, thin physiques, neither wearing much in the humid Felucian environment. The predatory beasts that inhabited the Rancor Graveyard eyed the two combats in hunger and anticipation, still held at bay by the mind of the Arkanian Battlelord. Ozzy Pawsborne glanced around nervously and bolted his way into the hollowed out skull of a young rancor, hiding from the creatures with a good vantage point of his owner.

Furios charged Azmodius with a rush and aimed a flurry of punches at his apprentice. His strength and speed were as powerful as ever, but the lower ranked Equite was able to match parries and blows at an equal pace. Strike after strike between the pair sounded through the clearing of bones, enticing the hungry creatures nearby to salivate for the loser.

The Epicanthix launched his punches and kicks faster and faster as the fighting continued, moving deeper and deeper into the violent dance that only two adepts at Echani can experience when battling. His Arkanian apprentice did everything to maintain the quickening tempo, blocking, dodging, and returning each blow with similar strength and speed. The two lean Sith fought and danced more violently.

The two remained in a perfect equilibrium for a while. Long enough for their movements to have pounded the soft earth beneath them into a small circle.

This is going nowhere Azmodius thought to himself. Time to change things up

The Battlelord dodged another powerful blow by somersaulting backwards, grabbing two fistfuls of soft dirt in the process.

The change in tempo didn’t throw his master off for more than a moment. As soon as Az planted his feet and returned to a readied fighting stance, Furios was already upon him with another flurry of blows.

Azmodius found himself in an awkward position. They were back in the rhythm, but his punches landed softer. Furios seemed determined to make this a battle of stamina and the Battlelord had no interest in that. During what would have been a standard exchange of blows to the face, Az opted to take the punch and open his hand, spraying dirt into his opponent’s eyes.

Furios lost his momentum immediately and recoiled.

“You frakking womprat!”, he yelled as he quickly slid backwards, rubbing the dirt from his eyes.

“If you thought that was bad…” Az laughed as he closed the distance with his fist raised to strike.

As the Arkanian moved to strike, the blurry eyed Warlord moved to block a blow to his face. Only, at the last moment, Azmodius had dropped down and out of his vision. Suddenly, Furios felt a sharp throbbing pain rising up into the pit of his stomach.

“Look, if you didn’t want me to hit ‘em, you wouldn’t have had ‘em out there for the world to see” Az mused.

The Epicanthix roared in anger and brought his fist down at the collar bones of his opponent. Had Azmodius been any slower to block, they would have snapped under the pressure. His arms throbbed in pain from the sudden force of the blow and he had to backpedal to regain his footing. The steps were in vain as his master pressed his raging flurry, striking harder and faster than before, bringing the full power of his connection to the Force to bare upon him.

The strikes grew harder and faster as the Warlord increased his strength, speed, and stamina. Each punch rocked the muscles and tendons of their targets and the pain Azmodius endured rose more and more with each blow landed. Furios aimed punches at joints, pressure points, and weaknesses, making it more and more difficult for his apprentice to block them. Every point of contact screamed in pain. Every punch he threw in return slowed and weakened further.

“You made a mistake by not taking this seriously,” Furios growled in anger. “You had a chance.”

The larger Sith swung wide, a feint which his apprentice had seen many times before and went to take advantage of all the same. He thought he would be ready for the spinning backhand strike to his head. When the Warlord spun and aimed his blow, the Battlelord raised his arm to protect his head, but the strike landed on his torso. The knuckles connected between his side and his abdomen, sending shockwaves directly into his internal organs.

The Arkanian doubled over in pain, clutching his side, but was immediately silenced with a powerful uppercut to his jaw, knocking him unconscious almost instantly. Azmodius landed on his back with a thud, laying still and silent. The Battlelord’s concentration was gone and the predators surrounding the two Plagueians began to feel confident enough to charge. Furios hefted his apprentice over his shoulder and drew his lightsaber from his hip.

“Ozzy!” the Epicanthix shouted. “Let’s go!”

The feline emerged from the young rancor’s empty skull and leapt onto his owner’s master, grabbing on by the dangling white hair as the Warlord, turned and readied himself to fight his way out from the pack of ravenous beasts.

Furios felt the pain subside as his rage began to boil over. As his apprentice danced, assured in his victory, the Epicanthix thought of nothing but bringing Az to his knees.

“I WILL KILL YOU” he roared, as the Arkanian froze with a look of a teenager caught in a particularly naughty act. Ozzy shivered in his makeshift skull fortress as the words echoed around the arena. “Oh he is so boned”, the cat muttered under his breath. (pun intended)

Furios leapt towards his opponent with an enhanced downward strike in an attempt to break him with a single blow. Azmodius barely managed to roll out of danger, but was caught in the resulting dust cloud.

Coughing and rubbing his eyes, Az couldn’t help but think of the irony of the situation. He let out a laugh as he saw Furious readying another assault as the dust cleared.

“Whoop Whoop Whoop Whoop Whoop!” the Battlelord cried as he raised his arms, shifted to a crab stance, and scuttled into the the jungle.

Furios immediately took off after him. It was moments like these when he felt he had the most clarity. He was driven by a single purpose. Every torn leaf and broken branch served as a waypoint to his goal. He flew through the jungle as if the terrain was second nature to him. Clearly his training had paid off.

Az could feel his master closing the distance with each step and before he had a chance to turn around, he was out. Furios had caught him with a fist to the back of the head, knocking him out in an instant.

As he stood over his Apprentice’s limp body, he heard the growling of the jungle’s predators.

“Frakk, I had better get back to Ozzy or next time Az will have a reason to get serious.”