They were a storm of bolts and blades.
Blue and white plasma rained like starfall, screaming and sparking. It was a spectacle too frightening and radiant, blinding anyone who looked too long; Braecen's quarry fled.
It was not a thought the Elder could spare. He was a focus of fury, a tempest of motion as both his blades whirled, powerful and swift. His body flowed with them, the Force feeding the cyclone of his arms and twist of his torso. Opposite him, Atyiru was immovable, a mountain, erupting with a steady stream of bitter light that could only blind and burn. She stood straight, her hand steady, the trigger of her pistol depressed without care or aim.
The Corellian grit his teeth, blocking shot after shot and wondering, peripherally, whether or not the Consul's blaster would sputter in her grasp before he was given reprieve. His sabers, held tight and fast, responded to his every command, but he was growing bored of this clash.
It was time for him to end it.
Braecen dove into the Force, threw himself into its poison tides. It filled him, obliterated him, and when he was gone, he was the Dark. He directed that, an easy flicker of his own thoughts as he advanced forward resolutely.
That thought was directed at Atyiru. Its mission simple.
Across from him, the Miraluka gasped, a cry torn from her chest and blaster clattering from her hand as she recoiled, stumbled, stuttered, fell to one knee. It was all the opportunity the Elder needed. He surged forward, flipping his trailing blade forward and, leaping, brought both his sabers crashing down in a devastating strike—
Plasma screeched as her seraphic sword clumsily caught his. Her block was sloppy, her arm trembling as she bent low, catching herself on her free hand. Her face was a pale-lit expanse, smoothed from its brief upset save the rictus of her clenched teeth behind parted lips. Braecen pushed, and all three humming blades sunk closer to her skin, but she resisted.
"Did you think," the Miraluka hissed, "that no one had ever blinded me before? It's unlike you to miscalculate so." A faint smile passed over her lips. "If you're feeling your years, you're welcome to retire back home. Selen has lovely villages."
"I think it might be you who's lost touch, Atty," countered the Corellian as he beared down. "If you think I'd ever really retire."
"No, my friend, I suppose not," she managed, just as her arm buckled and she let the momentum take her, throwing herself into a roll and springing gracefully upright while the Adept's blades carved through the duracrete underfoot. Her lightsaber lifted before her, a humming prelude to a ceaseless whirlwind of woven song, and he knew, then, that he would not breach her defenses again, not directly.
"You won't walk away?"
"No more than you. You'll have to stop me." That faint smile returned. "Best hurry, before your acquaintance finds some hole you can't flush him out of."
"Don't worry. I'll hunt him to the ends of the galaxy. I always win," Braecen returned, but what he really said was, I won't stop. I can't.
Atyiru laughed and then vaulted forward, saber scintillating as it spun high. The Elder didn't budge, not so much as a flicker, throwing the full, domineering force of his mind at her instead of the might of his blades. He centered only on that, on stopping her, and—
It was a crash with no impact. The Miraluka froze in place, her hair and clothes ripping forward and fluttering about her with her arrested momentum even as her body remained as stiff as stone. She couldn't open her mouth to croak, couldn't twitch a brow or finger; she was an angelic, avenging statue, captured mid-strike from the scene of some ancient battle.
The Corellian stayed focused on that even as he deactivated his weapons and belted them, retreating slowly, pace by pace. He kept his gaze fixed on her form, his will on the task at hand and nothing else. It was agonizing.
Her voice whispered in his mind, I'll see you again soon, clever boy.
But it was a victory.
Braecen did not grin, too concentrated. He simply released his grasp, pivoted, and ran, tearing off into the hive-like streets in search of his target.
He would win both battles yet.
The Wally is conflicted. He wants to make a joke about The Boulder, but this is a professional match and professional grading. Yes.
Of course this is why she's upset. It's perfect.
+4 Force Lightning - The Jedi can put themselves into the required mindset almost instantaneously and can call on Force Lightning repeatedly before being drained.
So, you go into painful detail of him needing to really dig deep to pull out Force Lightning, and it draining him. At +4, Braecen shouldn't struggle this much just to use the power.
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Overall, I really really love the set up for this post. It's perfect for the two characters, fun to read, and enjoyable. The way that the "blocking" (position of the two characters) is very confusing, though. I wasn't sure if she was above him, on the other side of the ring, or what? I think it was that she was above and firing down "pinning him there", but it took me two re-reads to kind of visualize simply where both of them were standing.