Two towering, tinted, transparisteel doors slide open to grant you access to the central chamber of the Combat Training Halls. The main room is wide and open and as large as as a holoball field. Tall walls stretch towards a domed ceiling that is made up of rows of ambient lights that spread out and fill the room with soft even lighting that eliminates any shades or shadows. Those same walls are lined around the perimeter with racks and stacks of varied weaponry: everything from swords and polearms to rifles and flamethrowers.

There are two signs that hover over each weapon rack to create an alternating motif in the Combat Training Hall: “No Explosions” and “Accorded Neutral Territory”. While the first is fairly obvious, the second speaks to the single law of the Training Halls: all members of the Brotherhood are welcome, and no member is to be killed or maimed without incurring the wrath of the Grand Master and the Inquisitori.

A trio of training dummies are statically set up and spread out in a line, each made out of a blend of alloys and padding that can withstand blows from any standard weaponry with the exception of lightsaber blades. To the side of the dummies, a large sparring matt has been stretched out to create a larger footprint than the typical Shock-Boxing ring. The padding is good for helping teach new combat students how to take a fall without injury and offers firm footing, but the hard durarubber mat is hardly forgiving.

Behind the sparring area is a door that leads to a small archives that combat students can use to view holorecordings of fights and duels from the past as well as relevant information on combat tactics, techniques, and forms. On the opposite side of the archives at the far end of central room is the locker room that members can safely store their equipment.

The final and probably most important element of the Combat Training Hall is the onsite Med Ward. The maglock door is sealed off and can only be opened by an attending Medic. The Medical facilities feature state of the art bacta tanks for recovery and aftercare. A combination of observation and waiting room rests adjacent to the recovery center and features two large monitors that display a live feed of the central room.

The Combat Halls are staffed around the clock, allowing combat students and mentors alike to come and go as they please at odd or regular hours. It also reserved for members looking to prove their worth to compete in the Antei Combat Center.

[Venue Note: Weapons incorporated into your match are allowed to be used, even if not listed on your Weapon Load Out for the match itself. Skill usage and all other ACC rules and guidelines still applies.]

Bentre walked around the room at almost a leisurely pace, deep in thought. Since arriving, Quo-Wing-Tzu had made a nice little splash in Shar Dakhan. According to his master, he had even put up a considerable fight against her, despite his relative lack of experience. It was not long before the Shadow decided to send the up-and-coming Journeyman a note with a simple message: Meet me in the Combat Centre at 0630.

Glancing up at the chronometer which read 0650, the Equite grunted. When I said six-thirty I meant six-thirty, Bentre grumbled. He had better not be one of these haughty little tykes who believe that being a Force-sensitive makes them special or something. Fingers traced along the handle of his lightsaber as Stahoes’ paced the room. If he had track down the student, he would be extracting a painful toll. Qyreia could hold down the fort while he went out to play, but he didn’t like leaving his Battleteam for very long on frivolous matters such as disciplining some other person’s kid.

The hiss of opening-doors brought Bentre back to the task at hand. As he turned to face the newcomer, his hand dropped from his weapon, and his demeanor became more relaxed. As he examined the room’s newest occupant, he tilted his head curiously. “Well, when Versea told me that I would know her student by his ugly mug, she wasn’t lying,” the slightest hint of a smile cracked his features, adding to the verbal jab, “Though I certainly didn’t think he would be so ugly as to have to wear a mask when he goes out.”

The Zabrak did not seem to react immediately. His hand twitched in the direction of the armory lightsaber at his side, and a dark electronic growl emanated from him. “I came as you requested, supposedly for some reason other than to stand and be insulted.”

“Oh no, no, please be don’t be that way,” Bentre waved a hand in the air, “I heard good things about you from your master. Seeing as you gave her a fair fight, I thought I would give you a little exhibition against a real warrior. You know, against a proper Sith. Now unfortunately,” the Equite jabbed a finger at the signs behind him, “the big wigs in the Brotherhood don’t like us doing dirty little things like killing each other in the training room. This means that I will have to hold back. So don’t worry, at least I won’t be doing dirty little things to like what happened to your face,” he reached up, tracing a finger below his left eye, “or mine.”

The dark-skinned Zabrak slipped a hand to the armory weapon at his side, remaining silent for a good ten seconds before unclipping it from his belt, and ignited it’s crimson beam. “Did you plan to actually take a swipe at me, or did you want to talk about yourself some more?”

“So our little upstart thinks he has what it takes to square off with the big-leagues?” Bentre chuckled as he stepped back. “That sounds fine, just let me do something first real quick.” Rolling his shoulders, the Corellian let his jacket slide to the floor, revealing his plain white shirt below. “Well, I think I had better even up the odds a little more, just in case.” With a sniff, the Sith pulled his lightsaber up from his belt, reached back, and dropped his inactive weapon upon the jacket. With a smile, he kicked the small bundle backward across the floor. Clapping his hands together, he nodded at Quo. “I think that will do,” he cooed, motioning with his flesh-and-blood hand, “so come at me.”

“By the end of this, I will make you regret throwing your weapon away,” the Journeyman growled as he raised his weapon up in both hands. A fiery determination in his eyes, the Zabrak stepped forward and brought his weapon down in a hard over-head swing. A smiling Stahoes stepped sideways mid-way through the strike, striking hard against his opponent’s arm and forcing the blow even further off-target.

“Looks like you are a little far from making me regret anything,” Bentre taunted, “except maybe not calling my own apprentice here this morning for a spar.”

Quo reversed the grip on his saber with his left hand, angling it downwards away from his body. Bent kneed, left foot forward, with the toes pointing inwards he moved his weight onto the balls of his feet.

"Maybe I should put on a blindfold for you, make you feel like you are actually taking part in this little exercise," Ben chided, a twisted smile crossing his features.

Quo stepped forwards, his left foot sliding forwards, right foot following. As he did he dropped the lightsaber to the mat, a slight puff of smoke erupting where the blade struck before the fail safe turned it off. Striking to Ben's centreline with a flurry of chain punches, the onslaught relentless. Bentre reacted through instinct, his own punches trained on the fists and forearms of the young Zabrak, few of them actually landing, so fast came the blows. Bentre noticed however that none of the punches followed through, merely tapped him on his chest, forehead, shoulders and upper arms. With deft footwork Quo danced around the tall Corellian, his fingertips and knuckles brushing him as he placed his shots. Ben reacted with a monster of a punch, starting at his waist line, his right hip rotating forwards adding weight to the force of the punch, aiming at the solar plexus of the yellow and black Zabrak warrior. All of his force was directed at landing the punch, and the speed was like a bolt of electricity, his arm extending like a striking cobra. Quo's movement was as liquid, the fluidity and synchronicity of his feet and hands balletic in it's nature, graceful and seamless. Moving his to his right his left arm came up in an arc palm upwards catching Bentre's mid way up his forearm, using the power of his own punch to ease the strike outwards, away from his own torso. His right arm executed a perfectly timed three inch punch, flicking with his fingers at the last second, catching Ben on the tip of his nose. Involuntarily Ben's eyes started watering. Quo stepped backwards opening the gap between them, his stance relaxed, but ready.

Bentre tried to blink the tears away to little avail. He shook his head, biting his tongue halfway between amusement and frustration. "I have to hand it to you," he hissed, "that is a nice trick. I will have to have your Master show me how to do something like that later.” Bringing up his hand, the Warrior wiped the tears aside as he tried to suppress the pain stemming from his nose.

“She taught me well,” the Zabrak spoke softly, “and your ego is a bit swollen.”

A brief flash of anger flashed in the Corellian’s eyes. Chuckling slightly, he reached up and traced the scarring below his left eye with his flesh and blood hand. “You might be a bit right,” he spoke slowly, menace behind his words. As he rubbed the scarred tissue, the white and hazel of his left eye faded, being supplanted by a red glow. “Sometimes my ego can be a bit much.”

Quo was not phased by the spectacle. Stepping forward, he took a swing at the taller man. Bentre barely side-stepped out of the way of the attack, with an almost satirical smile on his lips. As the Arcanist swung around with his other arm, Stahoes did not step aside, instead throwing out a hand. The shorter Hunter felt an invisible hand pushing against him

Before he could properly respond, the Zabrak saw the Human close the gap with an almost inhuman speed. Five blows hammered into his gut in quick succession. As the Journeyman doubled over, Stahoes delivered another strike to his shoulder. The movement threw the shorter man off-balance monetarily. In his mind’s eye, Quo-Wing-Tzun already had his retaliation in mind. The thought was driven from his mind as the Sith threw out a hand, and the spear of light struck him hard in the chest.

The arch of pain was so great the Hunter involuntarily recoiled as he grabbed at his chest. His eyes clenched shut as he fell to a single knee, drawing pained breaths. The world went silent, save for his ragged breaths. As he tried to force open his eyes, he saw the flash of something metallic as Stahoes extended a hand outward.

The crackling sound of an activating lightsaber seemed to echo in the room. Blinking away tears of pain, Quo-Wing-Tzun could see that Bentre was now holding the Journeyman’s weapon out, to use against his shorter opponent. With a bellow the Warrior strode forward, raising the weapon up threateningly. Involuntarily, the Hunter lifted his hand to ward off the blow. It did nothing to stop the lightsaber as it passed through his wrist.

There was pain. Quo knew his severed hand lay on the ground before him. He could smell the burnt flesh. The twisted smile he saw on the Human’s face before the weapon rent through his flesh had been feral. The Arcanist did not recognize the sob of pain that came from his throat. The world seemed clouded and muted through all the pain. Several moments seemed to pass before he felt a hand slipping under his arm.

“You did well, kid,” Bentre chuckled, his voice more gravelly than before. Clearing his throat, the Human lifted the Zabrak up. “Let’s get you fixed up by the medics.” Quo-Wing-Tzun felt a distrust toward the man who so easily had cut through him a moment ago. “You nearly forced me into a spot. You know a bit more of what you are doing with the fancy moves. Couldn’t let you do that.”

“What?” Quo managed to grunt out the single word.

“You forced me to pick up a weapon again. Your only slight mistake may have been considering me unarmed. You shouldn’t have thrown away your weapon like that.” The Corellian paused as he slowly led his fellow Sadowan along. “We better get you patched up though. You are going to have to be at your best when we do this again.” Sighing, the Sith waved an arm at the medic in the Ward to give him a hand with the injured Arcanist.

"So the little man has some spirit after all," Bentre snarled at his opponent, "but you are no match for me." Bentre's saber leapt from the floor into his right hand, igniting as it impacted with his palm. With both hands on the pommel now, the human shuffled his feet with lightning speed, closing the distance between himself and his prey.

Quo's saber performed a similar arc, a split second after Bentre's had started it's journey. Pivotting as it reached his outstretched hand his blade fizzed into life, completing the arc of its parabola in a blur of crimson.

Bentre's blade crashed into the young Zabrak's, a cacophony of noise erupting from the tortured beams. Ben's brute strength pushing the opposing blade Quo stepped to his right, both blades locked in a crackling, sparking battle for supremacy. Quo released the pressure slightly against Stahoes' blade, giving an inch against the aggression of the human's power. Releasing his left hand he allowed his blade to pivot, the tension releasing from Ben's attack, rolling his own lightsaber around the blade of his foe. The speed of the release unbalanced Bentre for a split second, but a split second was all that Quo required. Leaping over the Bentre's form his blade arched in a fluid motion, rising and falling in an oblique curve, zeroing in on the back of the combatant below him as he somersalted.

Ben's blade recovered its control, the power of the strike giving speed to the parry. Raising the saber over his head, its tip pointing to the ground he blocked the probing strike of the young Sith. A leap of his own took him backwards over the Zabrak, his feet landing shoulder width apart. Ben's strikes came with alarming speed, the ferocity and quantity of them making Quo's defence become reactive, his counter strikes becoming an intricate tattoo of scarlet on scarlet energy.

Quo became a blur of motion, his blade blocking every powerful, bullish strike initiated by the human. Bentre was trying to break him down using attrition. With seemingly impossible speed Quo's feet shuffled him back a meter, his left hand extending, tendrils of lightning exploding from his finger tips. Stahoes parried the raw energy bolts on his blade, twisting it to confine the blue/white ribbons. Dismissing the gesture Quo summoned his vibroblade into his left hand in a reverse grip.

Bentre snarled, charging the inexperienced warrior, his blade crashing into Quo's own. Quo's footwork danced, circling away, using the spinning to keep Ben's blade away from his body, blocking with both blade and saber. The onslaught continued, the blows smashing into his resolute defence. Ben's jarring blows landing again and again, the power of his strikes seeming to make no inroads into the Zabrak's determined resistance.

Releasing one hand from his saber Ben's hand shot forward, a dark gleam in his eye. Quo was hit in his chest plate with the force of a charging rancor. Sparks obscured his vision, as his body flew backwards, propelled by Bentre's anger. The concussion of striking the wall made his vision swim, momentarily making him lose focus on his surroundings, the blurry images merging into one kaleidoscope of colours. His breathing was coming in short breaths, electrical sparks coming from his regulator on his chest. It was still working, but it was damaged. Focus returning he saw Bentre standing over him, the lightsaber in his hand dormant.

"That was better," he said to him, seemingly through a fog, "there may be some hope for you yet, now get up and we'll go and get a drink, and celebrate my victory. We shall discuss how great I was later, but for now clean yourself up...... and you're buying." Spinning on the spot he headed for the exit, pleased with himself, showing it in his swagger. Quo's red and gold eyes burned into the back of the retreating Stahoes.