You enter one of the dozens of sparring chambers within the Shadow Academy of Lyspair, the simple square room utilized mostly by those learning the ways of the lightsaber. This five hundred square-foot room, rectangular in shape, is nearly barren. The floor is lined with simple padding, while the walls are made of dull, grey durasteel, gauged by innumerable lightsaber strikes, scarring the metal permanently.

The ceiling towers above you, nearly twenty feet in height, allowing for plenty of movement from the more acrobatic of Force users. There are no other adornments within the room, save for the entrance and lighting that bathes the entire room, yet seems to come from nowhere. All corners of the room are perfectly lit, with no visible shadows to speak of. There is nowhere for you to hide within the room, but… there's no room for your opponent to hide either.

What memories these walls hold. Bentre looked around the room, taking a moment to breath it all in. He had been away from this for what felt like eternities too long. It was as though for every scar the walls bore he had a memory. He had spent hours with his old master here, and even more after reaching Knighthood. His matches against Zagro Fenn, the now-Proconsul Sanguinius, the Mercenary Qyreia and even his wife were engraved more deeply than any lightsaber could score the walls of the chamber.

Returning to the Brotherhood after his wife's ill-fated attempts to rehabilitate him made him feel alive. He would have to restart his old training regiment. He wasn't sure how often he would be able to have this kind of time to devote to his own desires. The Aedile's seat and whatever chaos had unfolded in his absence awaited him- assuming that Darkblade hadn't chosen to replace him in the mean time. Lifting up an old armory lightsaber, Bentre ignited the sapphire-hued blade with a crack-hiss.

Closing his eyes, he tried to recall his old training regiment. Gripping the weapon with both hands, he gave it a vertical swing. Planting a foot he swung the weapon horizontally, letting the momentum of his action carry him around in a circle. As he came around in a one hundred and eighty degree about face, the Sith planted a foot and let the weapon travel until he felt his arm snap back like a whip. The Corellian smiled, opening his eyes to reveal the appearance of a red-haired woman standing in the doorway, her mouth twisted in amusement.

The Battlemaster's gaze flitted to and fro as he sized up the intruder. His mind raced but he could not recall having seen this particular individual before. Drawing himself back and squaring his stance, Stahoes shook his head before pointing the tip of his lightsaber in her direction. “Is there something that I can help you with? Did you come to the training room just to gawk at my skill with a lightsaber?”

“Oh yes, master saberist,” laughter danced in Inyri's icey eyes as sarcasm laced her words, “I am positively stunned.”

The Corellian Shadow considered the woman for a second. “As you should well be,” annoyance was evident in his words, “and as you came to the training rooms, I can safely assume you are prepared to defend yourself?” Without breaking his gaze, he twisted his hand, bringing the weapon from the left side to the right in a controlled swing.

Inyri mentally cursed herself for opening her mouth, since she really knew better that many people in the Brotherhood really had a poor sense of humor, if not none altogether. The Force gave her enough warning to hop backwards away from the humming blue blade before it made connection with her, which she took advantage of, leaving Bentre’s blade to slice once more through open air. Inyri then drew her Glie-44 blaster pistol, coming up in a two handed grip, her right shoulder pointed towards her opponent.

“Draw your saber.” Bentre commanded as he took up a wide stance, both hands on the grip of his lightsaber, the blade angled more towards Inyri than him.

“Yeah, I’ll pass.” Inyri stepped backwards slightly, but kept her pistol up and the sights leveled on Bentre’s chest. In response, Bentre shuffled forwards, bringing his lightsaber upwards to make a diagonal slash from left to right. Inyri shifted her off hand off the grip of her pistol and held it palm outwards, squinting her eyes. Bentre flinched from the sudden flash of light that overtook his visual senses, hesitating in his swing.

Inyri took her chance, stepping inwards under her opponent’s blade, and then jabbed quickly with the barrel of her pistol into his stomach, before executing a hip throw to knock Bentre onto the floor. However, as Inyri looked over her opponent from behind the sights of her pistol, she realized that the intended goal had not been completed; the Battlemaster still held onto his lightsaber. Worse, he was grinning.

“Your fight with Locke is not unknown to me, whelp. Nor is your inclination to engage your enemy in hand-to-hand. And I know you will not pull the trigger, so allow me to speed things along.” Bentre’s right hand shot up and Inyri’s senses only knew pain as she fell onto her back, blue lightning coursing from her opponent’s hand to cover her. After a moment, it stopped, and Inyri felt weakened, still nowhere near used to being hit with that particular Force power, despite Locke having hit her repeatedly with it.

“Now, get up and draw your saber like I commanded you to.” Bentre demanded, standing up and assuming his ready stance once more. Inyri slowly got back up to her feet, coughing slightly. For a moment, her pistol was down, and then she resumed her stance, her pistol tucked close towards her body and canted at an angle inwards. And her icy blue eyes now were colder than the harshest blizzard on Hoth as she stared down her opponent.

“No.” Her voice was weakened by the blast of Force Lightning, but the resolve behind it rivaled the quadanium armor of a Star Destroyer in its strength.

“You do not seem to understand what you are being offered.” Bentre shook his head mockingly. “Honestly, it is like you don’t even know who I am.” As he spoke the words, the Sith wiggled the end of the lightsaber disapprovingly. Deactivating his lightsaber, the Corellian returned the weapon to his side before sliding his hand up into his jacket. Stahoes saw Inyri’s eyes widen and the grip on her blaster tighten in the moment before the Corellian withdrew his blaster, brandishing the weapon with its muzzle pointed into the air. “I am not some wee bit of a Journeyman, girl.” The Equite smirked at the slowly-approaching woman. “I was training with blasters while most of my fellow Hunters were-”

The words were cut short as Inyri finished closing the distance between the two of them. As though Stahoes had been anticipating this move, the man dropped his S-5 blaster to the ground, spreading his feet and opening his hands slightly. The training with his wife took over and the man turned his body as he struck out at the Journeyman.

Ginovef was not dissuaded by the attack as Stahoes had expected however. Instead the Hunter twisted her Glie-144 blaster around, stepping inside the Battlemaster reach and driving the side of the muzzle into the left side of his face.

The Corellian recoiled in unexpected pain at the strike, his free flesh-and-blood hand sliding up to cradle his cheek below his left eye as he staggered back.

“That was a bit of a mistake.” Bentre’s tone was matter-of-fact, the anger in his eyes betraying the calm facade. When Stahoes let his hand drop she could see that his eye had began to fade into a glowing red. “Now prepare for your reckoning.”

“You keep talking like I should fear you, like your presence alone should bring me to my knees. Tell me, how many people did that actually work on?” Inyri asked sardonically. But she didn’t wait for an answer, instead, she struck, moving far faster than normal as her presence in the Force flared for a moment.

Bentre brought up his hands to deflect the first blow, pushing Inyri’s left hand and blaster aside, but her right slammed into the Battlemaster’s right side, aimed for roughly where his kidneys were, causing him to recoil to the side. As Inyri stepped to execute a hip through, Bentre drew back and slammed an open palm into Inyri’s chest that sent her flying to the floor, and her own blaster went skittering across the room’s floor.

Pain seared through Inyri, and she was pretty sure that she had a cracked rib or two now. Each breath she drew sent sharp pains through her chest. She rolled from her back to her hands and knees, coughing. That caused even more pain.

“Every trick you’ve pulled, I’ve seen a hundred times before. Anything you can think of, I’ve done it or seen it done by far better than you, girl.” Bentre said as he started towards his S-5. Inyri rolled onto her back once more, clumsily swinging her A280C from her back into her hands. She sat up, shouldering the rifle as Bentre approached his pistol and a single shot rang out. The pistol clattered further down the room, a scorching hole next to where it had been evidence of what Inyri had done.

“Hardly an effective attempt, child.” Bentre chided.

“...wasn’t aiming there. Slapped the trigger a little hard.” Inyri replied, wincing in pain as she pushed up to her feet, keeping the rifle up and tucked into her left shoulder while using her right hand to push off of with. Once she was on her feet, her right hand gripped the forearm of the rifle once more.

“So.” Inyri forced a smirk, “Does the Dark Side cause you to go on like a Hutt used freighter dealer, or is that your own natural charisma? You must be a handful at parties, assuming you’re allowed at any social events.”