The forge roared almost as if to signal the entry of the next two combatants. Its mechanical heart pumped relentlessly, flattening sheets of durasteel and issuing them along an intricate network of conveyor belts that crisscrossed glowing rivers of molten earth. This cacophonous hymn of industry and fire drowned out whatever raucous cheers or boo-hisses the crowd offered to Majyc and Katrila.
Katrila dragged a hand across her face to smooth out fur matted by sweat. She enjoyed lazing in a sunbeam on a warm summer’s day, but this heat was oppressive. And that din didn’t help, either. It sounded like an amateur noise band she heard once at a party on Taris’s lower levels. At least then there was spice in the back rooms. No matter. Ice-cold blue milk waited for her on the Katnip after the match. And all that stood in her way was an Arconan pest.
Her perch on a platform near the lava’s source allowed her a view of her opponent three tiers below. Oh, how I love a high ground, she mused as she watched Majyc strut and rile up the spectators. Beneath the infamous Mandalorian helmet, the simple cut of his robes and the single band of color along their edges identified him as a journeyman. Maybe she’d sip that drink sooner rather than later.
You’re making a fool of yourself with your showboating. They’re rooting for your downfall. Katrila’s sibilant voice echoed in Majyc’s mind. He turned around and craned his neck upward to fix his gaze on the source of the taunt. The speed and precision with which he located her actually impressed the Plagueian.
His reply occurred to Katrila much like a thought of her own might. Please. You’re out of touch. They know they’re in for a one-of-a-kind Majyc show! It could have been the bravado that exceeded what one expected from a young man, or it could have been the absolutely repugnant wordplay on his own name, but any hesitation Katrila might have felt at the prospect of slaughtering a journeyman instantly evaporated.
Well, let’s not keep them waiting. The Togorian bent her knees before leaping into an aerial somersault. As she flew on the wings of the Force that strengthened her haunches, her crimson lightsaber blade snapped to life. Her landing meant a flurry of cyclonic slashes aimed at the human. Having tucked his elbows over his ribs and holding fists in front of his hands, Majyc easily blocked the strikes; sparks flew as the saber glanced off the beskar vambraces on his forearms. With each blow he stumbled back, the redirected momentum of Katrila’s attacks adding force to her strikes.
She had dealt with enemies like him before: cocksure, eager to prove themselves for reward or recognition. Once successfully goaded, they developed tunnel vision. Took risks that could be exploited. “Come on!” Katrila bellowed over the thunderous noises of the forge’s operations. “This isn’t much of a show!”
