Marick Tyris Arconae paused before setting foot into the next arena. He glanced up at the large vidscreen overhead. His face was an unreadable mask as he watched the Voice of the Brotherhood, resplendent in his iconic crimson beskar plate, introduce the match. Words were wind and faded from his mind, but he did finally get to observe Adenn’s ritual that he had missed in all his previous matches.
Idris swayed with a feline grace despite his heavy armor. He shimmied his shoulders while gliding sideways and criss-crossing his heels. In the same fluid motion, the Voice shifted his weight to his toes, pirouetted in a full three-hundred-sixty-degree cycle, and then delivered a picturesque ‘dab’ as Zig and the kids called it.
His elbow bent perfectly and covered the eyes like a second visor while the opposite hand struck up towards the sky with a hand flat like a knife. The crowd roared. Idris knew his business.
Perched on the half-Hapan’s shoulder, Biddy let out a whistling beep of appreciation for the showmanship. Marick shrugged at the BD-unit and then padded into the arena without further fanfare.
The Exarch’s attention was immediately drawn to his opponent, who similarly looked to be pushing the pageantry of the competition aside to focus on the match itself. Both advanced towards the center of the center of the platform.
Aiden Lee Deshra strode gracefully in his beskar plate like it was a second skin. Marick moved like quicksilver in his armorweave cloak and simple robes. Neither brandished a weapon.
As they drew closer, Marick attuned his senses to his surroundings. Unlike the previous matches, nothing immediately leapt out at him as a life threatening variable. There was solid, sturdy stone underfoot. There was no molten magma, no jungle humidity, no vertigo inducing suspension bridges or lurking land mines. It was just a platform.
A final destination with no items or obstacles? No. Too pedestrian.
Smaller platforms floated up above, but at the center of the platform was an opening. The two Arconans came to a stop on opposite sides of it. A spiraling staircase sunk down into the opening and then out of sight.
Both Arconae glanced down, then back up at one another. Marick’s stoic mask was mirrored by the Mandalorian-Disciple’s visored visage.
“Can’t be this simple,” Aiden and Marick spoke at the same time. Deshra’s modulated voice hid a hint of playfulness while Tyris’ tone was calm and clear as still water. Aiden grinned behind his helmet's visor, but Marick’s expression remained stolid.
“After you,” Marick nodded and then gestured politely towards the steps.
“Lord’s first,” Aiden countered, mimicking the motion.
The Exarch didn’t seem to take the bait for banter. He shrugged and then started down the spiraling steps.
Aiden Lee Deshra took note of how his opponent showed him his back. It could have either been a sign of trust and respect, or an indication that the Mandalorian-Disciple did not register as enough of a threat.
He hoped it was the former. While they had yet to cross blades, Deshra was more than familiar with Tyris’ history and service record to both the Clan and the Brotherhood. He had also taken the time to study the Force Lord’s previous battles closely. While he had teased his fellow Arconae holder about his new title, he acknowledged that the Grand Master did not doll out such honorifics lightly.
When they reached the bottom of the staircase, the hairs on the back of Aiden’s neck immediately stood at attention. Years of hard-earned danger reflex synergized with the Seeker’s awareness through the Force. The arena was not what it seemed, and neither was his opponent. Peril lurked beneath both.
“You can drop the veil, by the way,” Deshra commented as they squared up a few meters apart on the lower platform. “I can see through it.”
Marick seemed to consider compliance for a moment, but then nodded. Quick as blinking, the Arcanists' aura went from a pale glowing ember to a roaring furnace as the Force flared out and around him like a pair of demonic wings.
It was a stark contrast to the calm, tired demeanor of the man Aiden had seen open a new orphanage on Selen, volunteer at his free clinic on Port Ol’val, and still have time to execute as Exarch and serve as a fellow advisor to the Arcona Summit. This did little to dissuade the Mandalorian-Disciple from his approach to the battle. If anything, it fueled the competitive spirit and desire to prove his prowess to someone he respected and considered a peer.
The BD-unit on Marick’s shoulder chirped a question that Aiden faintly picked up on. Tyris shook his head, and the little droid dispensed a cylindrical lightsaber hilt into Marick’s open palm. The backpack droid then hopped down and scampered away.
Deshra’s helmet swiveled slightly as he tracked the droid's egress.
Marick narrowed his eyes as he took note of where Aiden’s attention had shifted to.
“If you treat my droid like you did Diyrian’s, there will be no sum of credits that will balance that scale or keep you safe.” There was no actual malice or vitriol in the half-Hapan’s words. It was not a threat. It was simply a promise spoken aloud. A statement of immutable fact without humor or hubris.
“Fine,” Aiden replied evenly. “But don’t hold anything back, and fight me for real.”
The Mandalorian-Disciple drew his twin lightsabers and thumbed the activators. Both blades snapped to life in unison. The ghostfire crystal in the first soundless saber cast half of Aiden’s helmet in a pearly glow. The second saber sheathed the opposite side of his helmet in shadow with a hiss to create a dyad that represented the thin line between the dark and the light—between balance and instability.
Marick remained silent but answered by igniting his own lightsaber. The black-cored blade with its ghostly shroud was a mirrored fusion of Aiden’s diametric sabers.
As soon as the combatants’ lightsabers sparked to life, the arena around them shuddered and sprung to life as well. The sky above darkened. A cool mist materialized and created a haze around the two Elders.
Then, a cyclonic current whipped across the platform, billowing Marick’s cloak wildly behind him and exposing the rest of his weapons stashed on his person. He squinted as his ashen hair veiled across his face, but managed to set his feet. The Soresu master held his lightsaber back in a one-handed grip, angling it forwards with his blade arm held parallel while his free hand extended outward in challenge.
Across from him, Aiden remained steadfast in his ready stance. His armored figure seemed unaffected by the sudden shift in the elements as he coiled his body like a spring. He took it as a cue to begin.
The Seeker darted forward, sabers trailing at his sides as he accelerated through the winding wind. Marick dug his heels into the solid ground and anchored himself against both the onslaught of Aiden’s attack and the anger of the wind.
Aiden unfurled all of his momentum into a sinuous series of strikes. Marick deftly wove his saber into figure-eight pattern before him, catching and turning away each sweep and slant of the Seeker’s slashes. The Arcanist shuffled, circled, and repositioned so that the two duelists were now both being buffeted by wind equally.
Ebony and pearlescent plasma light danced through the mist in flickers and flashes. Aiden’s form was flawless, his flourishes fast and furious. Marick’s defense was far from perfect, but where he trailed in technique he more than made up for with his timing and perception. The half-Hapan remained patient, never over-extending or over-committing to any feints or fake-outs. Each parry was precise, and when necessary, he augmented his balance and speed with the Force for a brief moment to compensate.
Aiden felt his pulse quicken at facing a worthy foe. The lust for battle boiled in his blood, but he managed to tamp it down and focus on his technique. Any weakness, any opening, could prove fatal.
Marick ducked under a scintillating cross-cut from both of Aiden’s sabers, and then leapt backwards to create separation. When he landed, he felt his footing falter as the wind swept across his knees and forced him to flail in place. Deshra seized the opening and planted a swift kick into the half-Hapan’s torso.
The Arcanist tumbled backwards, off balance, but somehow managed to recover his footing, right before his boots would have slid right off the side of the platform.
Then the wind stopped, and was replaced by a sudden sandstorm that swallowed both combatants' whole in an ochre cloud of obfuscation.
