Private A Duel. . of Fates?

[Arkryion Malachar]

The Sith Training Field at the Jutrand Academy sprawled like a vast canvas of shadows beneath the moonlit sky of the city-world. A thick, oppressive atmosphere hung over the area, as if the very air crackled with the dark energy of ambition and the promise of conflict. It's diameter, massive—a circular battleground, an arena of darkness and discipline, awaiting this friendly clash of wills.

Sparring Field 4, this particular configuration, only one of a myriad of options; ominous trees that appeared ancient and twisted, their bark blackened as if scorched by the very essence of the dark side of the Force. They cast long, creeping shadows that swayed with malevolent intent, obscuring the pit's boundaries in a shroud of foreboding. The sinister foliage seemed to whisper secrets from one to another, a haunting symphony of rustling leaves that echoed with ancient knowledge.

The forest within the pit was a nightmarish labyrinth, where the roots of the tall trees coiled and twisted, creating treacherous terrain. The ground was uneven and fraught with hidden obstacles, as if nature itself conspired to challenge the Acolytes who dared to tread upon it. Fallen branches and thorny undergrowth lay in wait like hidden traps, ready to ensnare the unwary.

As Arkyrion and Anak Darkstar stood within this sprawling forest of darkness, the daunting size of the pit and the sinister nature of their surroundings would weigh heavily upon them. The towering trees loomed like ancient demons, their twisted branches casting eerie, shifting patterns of darkness and moonlight. The dueling ground had become a realm of primeval malevolence, a place where every step carried the weight of caution over recklessness.

A battleground that mirrored the trials and tribulations of the Sith path. The baleful forest demanded not only combat prowess but also the ability to navigate its treacherous terrain and harness its eerie energy—a daunting challenge that awaited those who sought power within the Sith Order.

At the heart of this arena, Arkyrion emerged, silently stalking it's colossal shadow for his opponent. Standing at a commanding height of 2.09 meters, his frame was lean and sinewy, embodying the allure of youth and the promise of untapped potential. Arkyrion's hair, as white as freshly fallen snow, was meticulously bound and secured behind his head in a manner that epitomized precision and discipline. Each strand of his ethereal mane had been gathered with meticulous care, as if they were threads of starlight captured and tamed.

Tanzanite eyes gleamed with a curious mix of youthful exuberance and a wisdom beyond his years. They were pools of ethereal enchantment, with a gaze possessing a steady intensity, revealing a soul lustful for the thrill of combat. His bare chest revealed a physique chiseled by training, each sinew and muscle defined with rigor. His arms, long and graceful, exuded a deceptive elegance that belied the destructive power they could unleash.

His stance was poised and ready, his dual-phase training lightsaber held low before him, the butt of it's hilt nearest his left hip as he continued his prowl, both hands prepared to bring it's crimson blade to life in the flash of a mere second.

 

[Anak Darkstar]

IC: Anak Darkstar

TAG: Arkryion Malachar

The Young Apprentice walked into the cursed grove with an sir of conceit. He wore it as a mask to drown insecurity that veined his heart. In his insular life in the Outer Reaches he had greater confidence, there was nothing but necroworlds with beasts he could submit to his will and crush with his heel. All that was a memory, a fog of a former life not that he was on Juntrand, in the heart of Sith Space. He had been chosen by a Sangnir, and that should have quelled his apprehension, and this tension in his soul. However, the more Anak encountered Sith, spent time with them, the greater he felt he was a pretender, that he had no place being in the ranks of the Order. What could he offer? His ship, yes the harbinger of monstrosities, an heirloom of his kin. But what of him? Did he have the potential to delve deep into that dark place in his being and let it rise like a storm? Would he embrace his place? Such questions plagued him, made him ill, though concealss by his mask of hubris, his haughty gate, and vain features.

The Son of Darkness had agreed to meet a fellow Acolyte in this arena of decay, the trees bent their blackened branches in a pawing fashion, they even seemed to move, as if alive with some malevolence of their own. Anak then saw the One whom he would fence, he was titan in height like himself and possesed white locks of hair thay matched the bolts in the air swiming in black clouds of ashen shrooms.

Seeing his opponet poised for combat, The Son of Darkness removed a training saber from his belt, his lethal Praetor hilt was still and cold, to remain idle in this conflict. For Anak had not come to slay, or maim, but to perfect his skills in saber combat. He took a stance with both of his black gloved hands on his hilt, he ignited the ruby blade that crackled, and made a more static hum than his trie weapon, indicating it was not a true blade capable of death.
The Sangnir Apprentice took a Tail Guard, the blade sweeping to his back right thigh. His ember eyes fixed on Arkryion as he moved his feet into a gate ready to strike, his nose anorting like a Reek.

 

[Arkryion Malachar]

In the midst of this malignant wilderness, Arkyrion strode as a wraith, his breath steady and measured. With an incantation that echoed with an eerie resonance, he ignited the blade, casting a foreboding crimson glow that danced upon the twisted trees like the shimmering specters of forgotten nightmares.

He hadn't had to hunt for long at all, amidst the unnatural stillness of the field, before an ethereal presence emerged from the shadowy veil. Anak Darkstar, a fellow Acolyte and adversary for this training duel, materialized from the obscurity of the sinister trees, his form enveloped in an impressive aura of conviction, much like his own.

"An honorable man, I see. " Said Arkyrion, his words permeating an almost gravitational pull, "You have my apology, " he continued, perhaps shocked, "I'm not sure I'd have shown you the same respect, were I to have seen you first. "

In response to this unholy encounter, which had seen Anak bravely and authoritatively reveal himself, Arkyrion's steps became even more uniform, as he began his cautious approach toward his opponent. The ground beneath him seemed to writhe with maleficent intent, the roots of ancient trees snaking out like the tendrils of some foul beast. The oppressive weight of the forest bore down upon him, suffocating his every breath with a palpable sense of dread and excitement.

As Arkyrion moved forward, his path seemed to warp and twist, as if the very fabric of reality conspired to confound his advance as he weaved himself around and through the trees. The eerie, shifting patterns of crimson light from his lightsaber blade only served to deepen the pervasive sense of unease that clung to the pit. Chasing the darkness away, only for it to consume what ground it gave once more.

In this eldritch realm of shadows and ancient malevolence, Arkyrion's lithe and spectral form drew ever closer to Anak, their impending clash to be a blasphemous dance amid the gnarled trees and treacherous terrain. When, abruptly, the crimson glow faded, snuffed out by the all-encompassing dark once more, only to reveal that the young man had fallen out of sight, his presence gone.

Tense moments ticked, fleeting as they may have been, before that sudden snap of hissing intensity cracked vociferously over the choir of shivering leaves. It came from Anak's right, where a broad tree stood robust and watchful. Arkyrion, keeping the tree between them, stretched around the horizon of it's sturdy bark, pale visage cast in crimson radiance as he swiped downwards with his left arm. His blade on an angled trajectory towards the neck and shoulder of his opponent.

Just enough intensity to make the man spring to action, and test what answers he had to give.

 

[Anak Darkstar]

IC: Anak Darkstar

TAG: Arkryion Malachar

The Son of Darkness watched as the arena teemed and seemed to be responding to his opponent who moved with such grace he almost suspected he was a ghost, not flesh and bone. When the blade did strike, Anak met it with a parry, the sound was like a bell that rang in a graveyard to rally those to a requiem. The Sangnir Apprentice took a step back after the crackle of blades, and then with s a breath he lunged with both hands at the hollow tree and his Sparring Partner. The blade was aimed at his torso, a conventional stroke, meant to assess this duelist’ style, not achieve its aim. Anak wanted to “know his enemy,” and sometimes that meant a seduction, a movement of the blade to tease like a serpent before the true bite.

He pondered the affirmation of his honor. Had only this Spectra known how little honor he had, how on distant worlds dissected the living and engulf peaceful beings in the shadow of horror. How he had derived plessure from their screams and the shattering of their flesh, wadding in the pools of their blood.

Now he faced foes who fought back, who did not let him play from a superior realm of safety. No, here he had met equals and superiors, and he had to be content with the sharpening that would come.

The Son of Darkness had swung his blade with great force at Arkryion. His blade passing through part of the trunk of the tree, spinters of wood flying like thorns around his curly hair, a crown of suffering in mid air.

 

[Arkryion Malachar]

Amidst the skirmish that had now began to unfold, Arkyrion moved with the lithe and feral grace of a hunting nexu. As Anak, the powerful Doashim, thrust forth with an energetic lunge of his training lightsaber, Arkyrion's blue-purple eyes gleamed with the keen instincts of a warrior, honed by the unnaturally brutal teachings of his Master, the Empress herself.

With a fluidity that spoke of unholy communion with preternatural entities, Arkyrion stepped rearward letting the titanic impact of his opponent's impressive strength whirl his arm behind his back, skillfully shifting his grasp on the hilt of his weapon in to his right hand. His lithe form becoming a mere shadow that danced through crimson bloomed caliginosity. His evasion defied mortal expectations, a supernatural display of swiftness and agility that left Anak's strike to extend through the gnarled trunk and plunge in to naught but empty air.

But the unearthly ballet had yet to reach its climax. As Anak pressed on, retreating his attack and unleashing a slashing blow, even more furiously than before, Arkyrion's senses tingled with a supernatural awareness. In a heartbeat, he pivoted with the ferocity of a cornered beast, and Anak's blood-red blade collided with the tortured trunk of an ancient tree, cloven in twain by the frenetic onslaught of his might.

The tree, a hoary sentinel of malevolence, shuddered and groaned in the throes of its agonizing demise. It splintered, releasing an uncanny, keening lament that echoed through the blackened forest, an ode to the horrors that had festered within that accursed pit for untold years.

Halfway between the chaos and ruin, Arkyrion remained untouched by the blade, his chest only bearing the scrapes of hardened bark that had pulled fiendish lines across his pallid flesh as he swung around the opposite side. A harbinger of eldritch might and primordial strength. He appeared as a conduit to forces beyond the ken of mortals, an avatar of the enigmatic and unsettling powers that lurked in the shadowy realms of existence. Bathed and bleeding in a coral glow behind his blade.

His movement unfurling in the width of that single blade stroke, he eased his mind upon his lessons. His eyes searched fiendishly, groping to read every twitch of muscle and shift of weight. His own blade howled in horror as the dual-phase switcher clicked to life, extending the measure of his striking distance by an extra half meter. His legs had shifted to a right lead, his knee bending to support the mechanical motion of his forthcoming strike. From a distance, he twisted the blade around his right shoulder, hatcheting it downwards towards the forearms of his opponent.

"I'd have taken the arm, " he spoke, with pleasant and respectful intonation.

 

[Anak Darkstar]

IC: Anak Darkstar

TAG: Arkryion Malachar

Anak felt the blade strike his forearms releasing a shock to his entire system. Had it not been a training blade, it would have cleaved through both arms, leaving The Acolyte handless.

“Such a disappointment.” Resounded his inner voice.

The Son of Darkness had allowed his ego, his mask to cloud his judgement. This Spectra Sith had been patient, and used the terrain around him as sword & buckler whilst Anak fought with the grace of a Bantha.

Stepping back the Sangnir Apprentice bowed his head in shame.

“The victory is yours.”

It was then that something rose in The Acolyte, a desperation to do better. After all this was training, could not they continue?

“The point is to you. May we resume?”

 

[Arkryion Malachar]

Anak's acknowledgment of defeat, even in something as noble as training, a rare display of humility among Sith, brought a momentary pause to the frenetic dance of blades. The forest pit, still resonating with the eerie echoes of the shattered tree, seemed to hold its breath as the two Acolytes came about and faced each other.

Arkyrion's training lightsaber, dual-phased and ensconced in an ominous crimson hue, emitted a low, pulsating hum that resonated with the ghostly stillness of the pit. His tanzanite eyes, once locked in a predatory gaze, now held a spark of reverence for his adversary. The man's admittance was rare indeed, rarer still here at this Academy, in his experience. It was a moment that transcended pride, a testament to their shared dedication to this unyielding path.

"You're strong, " he acknowledged of Anak Darkstar's raw strength, his eyes turning towards the fallen tree, the horrific wound upon it's severed trunk still smoldering. "Who's your Master? " He inquired, pawing at the blood painted across his ivory chest with his left hand.

Arkyrion stood before Anak, a figure of primal and relentless determination. His training lightsaber, once an ominous crimson fury, now rested lowered to his right side, its blade retracted to its normal length. The aura of battle still clung to him, a palpable presence that seemed to emanate from every pore of his pale skin. He gave a nod, accepting another round.

As he regarded Anak with a piercing gaze, there was no triumph in his demeanor, only an unspoken understanding. The forest pit around them, stood haunting and nearly silent, save for the frail whisper of shivering leaves and creaking limbs.

 

[Anak Darkstar]

IC: Anak Darkstar

TAG: Arkryion Malachar

At the nod, Anak hoisted his saber hilt up in air and began a flurry of powerful strikes, his blade became a cudgel, that familiar song of Djem So, only this was different, The Son of Darkness was holding nothing back, he channeled a fury inside that seemed to turn the kyber in his blade into a sweeping flame, he let out a primal yell, unable to contain the spirit that had possessed him. He tore into the ground with his strokes, causing cracks that became fissures, his blade which in principle is suppose to be light as stardust, became heavy as steel. This mania, this abandonment of measured techniques revealed the face behind the mask, a Rancor of ferocity that had been kept chained beneath the surface.

Anak leapt into the air, and swung his blade with both hands to descend on Arkyrion. The force would be gravity and the brute strength of a feral warrior, none of this was the tapping of the dark power, this rage was from inside The Son of Darkness, put there by truama and suffering, like the magma flows of Mustafar were the scars on his soul. His howl as he came down shook the gnarled trees, so much anguish that they would cherish.

 

[Arkryion Malachar]

Anak, consumed by a maelstrom of fury and hatred, lunged at Arkyrion with the ferocity of a vulgar demon. The surprise attack sent Arkyrion stumbling backward, his lithe form thrown off balance by the sheer intensity of Anak's assault. It was as if the very fabric of the universe conspired to unleash this tempestuous onslaught upon him.

Arkyrion's senses tried to reel themselves in, in the face of Anak's relentless fury. His blue-purple eyes, usually keen and observant, struggled to keep pace with the frenzied onslaught of crimson strikes that came crashing down upon him. Each blow was a savage declaration of Anak's anguish, a testament to the torment that gripped his soul.

If his Master learned that he had been caught off guard, his bones ached already at the mere prospect of the lessons that would come to haunt his darkest dreams.

The pale, young man, gave ground with capricious abandon. His mind pouring over the situation in any attempt to take the lead away from Anak Darkstar. Every loft of his blade, battered away, every shift of his trajectory, fiendishly followed.

The forest itself seemed to tremble in response, its gnarled trees whispering in sinister approval as they bore witness to this harrowing clash. Arkyrion's training lightsaber, a shimmering beacon of crimson energy, met Anak's gleaming blade with a defiant sizzle of sparks. But it was clear that this was no longer a calculated sparring match—it was a convulsion of pure, unadulterated, hatred.

Anak's strikes were a relentless barrage of unbridled power, each blow carrying the weight of his suffering and rage. Arkyrion, his lithe frame contorted in a desperate effort to evade the onslaught, could feel the sting of sweat trickling down his pallid flesh and across his ragged wounds. The ground beneath him quivered as Anak's strikes sent tremors through the earth, creating jagged, glowing, fissures wherever his blade caught purchase.

With a daring leap, Anak descended upon Arkyrion, a tempest of anguish and fury. There was no finesse in his attack, no calculated strategy—only raw, immaculate force. As he descended, the very fabric of the Force trembled in recognition of the turbulent tempest that raged within him.

Arkyrion solidified his stance as the man catapulted himself upon him, his legs torn and bloody from the greedy grasp of thorns and undergrowth. Capturing the hilt of his weapon in both hands, he lofted the blade up high, catching strike of the man as he came back down with a resounding howl that sent a shockwave of sound through the trees. His body folding down to one knee under the weight and connection of Anak's strike.

 

[Anak Darkstar]

IC: Anak Darkstar

Nearby Tag: Arkryion Malachar
Mentioned: Adeline Noctua

Anak’s abandon to the storehouses of sorrow in his soul had made him powerful. He now had his opponent on bended knee, and yet rather than glee, he felt demeaned. Rather than expiating his pain, this indulgence of anger seemed to only make it endure.

The Son of Darkness removed his blade from pressing on Arkryion like a winepress of wrath, the grapes of which he saw bursted at his sparring partner’s legs, painting them in scarlet splotches.

Anak stepped back into a Shien stance. A singular hand grasping the hilt as he face grew a veil of reticence. Here Arkryion had been courteous, even complimenting him on his honor and at the first opportunity he became a savage, bursting forth like a hungry pack of Kath Hounds.

As The Son of Darkness held a low guard, his mind recalled a query, “who is your Master?” One that in his rage he had not answered.

“My Master is Adeline Noctua.”

The Young Acolyte said this in an almost child like tone, denoting insecurity. The truth is he was not certain how his Master would feel about this outburst. Maybe she would be pleased? She was a Sangnir after all.

 

[Arkryion Malachar]

In the aftermath of ethereal struggle between the dueling Sith, Anak's relentless onslaught become akin to the oppressive weight of an infinite cosmic abyss, a ceaseless surge of power that crushed Arkyrion to his knees. It served as a harrowing reminder that the wellspring of strength, born from the deepest wells of torment, recognized no boundaries. The title of the Son of Darkness, fittingly awarded, held true as Anak withdrew his blade from Arkyrion's bowed form, though as of now, the young man would have been unaware of it. The aftermath of their brutal combat etched haunting patterns of anguish upon the Sith Apprentice's limbs, imbuing his legs with the somber hues of suffering, reminiscent of eldritch nightmares.

Arkyrion pondered Anak's query, almost as if he had not expected it mirrored back upon himself. But it was a question of lineage, of tutelage, and it demanded an answer. But Arkyrion's response was an enigmatic reflection of his own experiences within the dark corridors of the Sith. His voice, steady as a blade poised for combat, cut through like the discordant clash of their weapons.

"The Dread Queen, herself. " Said Arkyrion, smooth and resoundingly, "Srina Talon. Our Empress. "

In this revelatory moment, Arkyrion laid bare his allegiance to the woman, a choice that bore a certain weight of consequence given the inner-turmoil of the Order these days. The revelation, an incantation of fate, lingered in the air like a haunting refrain, an eerie specter in the midst of their relentless combat.

"I'd call that your point, Warrior. Well met. "

As Arkyrion emerged from his kneeling posture, a reborn sentinel of the abyssal battlefield, his lithe frame seemed to flow with the sinister grace of an otherworldly serpent. He cast aside the shackles of submission that had briefly ensnared him, now poised at the precipice of renewed confrontation with Anak.

The pale tapestry of his silhouette, decorated by swathes of gleaming crimson. His eyes, twin beacons of sapphire malevolence, glinted with an eerie luminosity as if they harbored the secrets of eldritch knowledge. "Shall we settle the debt? "

In this tense interlude between their relentless combat, Arkyrion exhibited an uncanny readiness, an unsettling determination that coursed through his veins like a current of malevolent energy. His body, marked by the ordeal of their previous exchange, remained as taut as the strings of an otherworldly instrument, ready to be plucked to unleash the dissonant melody of their impending clash.

Making curious notes to himself on the man's shift in demeanor after releasing all of that rage upon him, such an intriguing individual. Arkyrion twisted his head slowly to one side, popping his neck, as his legs shifted to a shoulder's width apart, his weight sliding down evenly upon them. His right hand shifted rearward upon the hilt of his weapon, his left assuming a higher and firmer grasp further above.

His blade swung diagonally across the front of his pale body, it's tip laggardly dipping to point towards Anak Darkstar's feet as his right arm bowed forward and moved slightly askew from his frame—beckoning his opponent to descend upon him once more.

"When you're ready. . . "

 

[Anak Darkstar]

IC: Anak Darkstar

TSG: Arkryion Malachar

The Acolyte seeing that the Spectral Swordsman was preparing for another round, took his saber hilt and rolled it in his fingers till the hilt rested on his back wrist, the blade rising behind his arm and shoulder. This reverse grip unnerved most duelists, for it was unorthodox, and the usual technique of assassins.

Anak swung the blade like scythe, his elbow and for arm aligning with the blade as if one. He aimed for Arkyrion neckline, his fluid of movement like that in water. This was a differencd face of the Son of Darkness, not fire and ire, cold precision, like the chill of the grave. The jabs and stabbing motion of Anak met this display of Arkyrion who sweeped at his feet. He had answered the call, and now the true duel had begun.

 

[Arkryion Malachar]

"Not my favorite technique, " the pale man remarked courteously, and calm. Regarding his own personal distaste for the reverse grip.

With a swiftness that defied the mortal coil, Arkyrion pivoted from his stance, his lean frame a study in calculated grace. Anak's strike, laden with vengeance and hate, surged toward Arkyrion's neck like a incensed serpent poised to strike.

But Arkyrion was a well studied student of the dance of death, a connoisseur of the brutal ballet that was the art of the duel. As Anak's blade hissed through the air, its malevolent intent laid bare, Arkyrion's response was a symphony of violence and precision.

With a fluid motion, his body rebounded back, letting the strike quite narrowly glide by his face. He transitioned to offense immediately, shifting his arms upwards as his feet carried him around the outside of Anak's right. The blade, guided by his unerring hand, ascended beneath Anak's outstretched weapon arm, its Crimson fury looking for its mark with chilling accuracy across his chest and in to his armpit. A strike that, whether it found purchase or not, chained directly in to another.

A split second was all it took.

Following his circular sweep around the outside of Anak's blitz, Arkyrion found sturdy purchase with his feet once more. His chest towards the man's side, but off at only the slightest askew angle. His arms had instinctively followed the rise of his blade and hilt. From his stable base he let it reach the pinnacle of it's former motion—with a sudden and graceful motion, the duelist initiated the follow up. His entire body moving in a harmonious orchestra of power and precision. Muscles tense, and breath held in concentration, to unleash the full potential of the strike.

The lightsaber cut through the air with a mesmerizing grace. Its blade, gleaming as it slices through the dimly lit space shrouded by dark shadows. The blade descended upon Anak Darkstar with uncanny accuracy, aiming for the opponent's shoulders and back. It moved with an almost hypnotic swiftness, seeking to claim this point over his powerful foe.

"It leaves you open, and bare! "

 

[Anak Darkstar]

IC: Anak Darkstar

TAG: Arkryion Malachar

Anak paid the price for his vain style. The Spectra moved about his strokes as a serpent, coiling around till he was now poised to stike from behind. The Son of Darkness was unable to reposition, he would have to dabble in the dark, meet the blade without a clear view. He could not call upon The Force to see, they had agreed to suspend such advantages. Instead, he swept his red blade behid in a jab, creating a javilan to parry. It was a desperate move, and he would only know its victory or failure if his body jolted with the burning Left Hand of Typhojem or not.

 

[Arkryion Malachar]

Arkyrion and Anak's lightsabers clashed for but a brief moment, the fleeting union sang with a resounding crack, as if the very sky shuddered in response to that violent embrace. Arkyrion's dual-phase lightsaber, radiant in crimson brilliance, had been halted from devouring the mans back—but the melee continued.

The pallid man, nimble as a fervid gale, twisted once more. He followed his own momentum, a fluidity that bordered on the otherworldly. His lithe form, seemingly untouched by the laws of mortal physics. His movements, a relentless manifestation of the harrowing training his Master thrust upon him—defied sanity. As if he were a creature not bound by the feeble constraints of the material world.

"You have the means, student of Noctua. " His voice jaunted out, always great care taken to wreathe them in respect, "But what do you do when your opponent seeks to deny you your greatest assets? " He was starting to sound like his Master now.

His line of propulsion had saw him attempt to maintain his advantageous position, his frayed legs carrying him over gnarled roots, and through ravenous thorns. His hands retained position upon his blade, left over right, the air hummed with the tension of opposing wills. The red radiance of his lightsaber, flickering in the unholy gloom, swirled around him once more, corroding the suffocating darkness away.

Those limber legs of his strode forward in to position yet again, one fluid motion, the left foot sown firm—supporting his weight as faithfully as the trunks of this contorted trees. His right governing his shift of motion, as his sweeping blade launched down upon the man. Ascending from behind Arkyrion's back, left elbow held aloft to the side, his right closer to his ribs—seeking a cut that vaulted downwards upon the man as suddenly as a bolt of lightning cast released from the heavens above. Targeted towards the back of Anak's head. (Or the the front if he scrambled)

 

[Anak Darkstar]

TAG: Arkryion Malachar

The gamble had succeeded, his Hail Merrin had prevailed. The reverse grip jab had met his opponet’s blade, but the Spectra waa not finished, this was a chain of strikes and Anak had to shift if he was to get into a better position. Seeing the unnatural movement of Arkyrion, who seemed to be moving through plains of existence, his very body hard to track, when The Son of Darkness contorted his head to see the blade coming for her nape, to escape would mean a daring move. The Sith Apprentice dropped to the hround and taking hold of his saber, and arching it up like a spear, he bid Arkyrion to fall upon it. Anak had turned hinself into a living spike, his bidy one with the hilt and crackling blade, a true Sith Saber, Warrior. The entire duel The Acolyte had taken risks, but he remebered the adage, “those who risk win.” Too many duelists were timid, sticking to the orthodox, expecting their enemy will follow rules in combat, that was naive. The point of combat was to take life, and take it quickly with minimal injury to one’s self. That required using everything to win.

 

[Arkryion Malachar]

As Arkyrion's crimson blade descended upon Anak, his vision narrowed to a single-minded pursuit of victory. In that solitary moment, his focus on striking down his opponent clouded his judgment entirely, eclipsing the foundational rule of any duel: self-preservation. It was a moment that let the young mans age slip through the cracks to the surface, showing his penchant for recklessness, something he had controlled quite spectacularly up until this very moment thus far.

Arkyrion's descent into this paroxysm of violence had been swift, and in his relentless hunt to follow through, he had momentarily forsaken the art of defense. It was a cardinal sin in the art of combat, a lesson he had learned in countless hours of grueling training under the unyielding gaze of the Empress. Something he would need, perhaps, innumerous more hours being reminded of.

Anak had seized upon this lapse in judgment with the precision of a viper striking its prey. With a fluidity that belied his former, furious onslaught, he shifted his stance to counter Arkyrion's aggressive strike. Casting himself low to the ground, his lightsaber heaving forth like the spear of a phalanx. The crimson blade of his own weapon, an extension of his relentless spirit, thrust with deadly precision towards the exposed chest of his adversary.

As Anak's blade closed in, Arkyrion's instincts kicked into overdrive, a desperate attempt to salvage his precarious position. With a surge of raw power, he had begun to twist his body, attempting to evade the impending strike, even as the searing heat of the lightsaber drew perilously close to his exposed and bleeding flesh.

Then, the moment Arkyrion's weapon crashed down upon the crown of his opponent, he felt the searing sting of the training lightsaber punch deeply into his bare chest. The weapon, though dull and incapable of penetration, still carried a disconcerting bite that echoed through his flesh, awakening a visceral response within him. The impact of the blow sending a jolt of numbing pain coursing through his body, causing his muscles to tense involuntarily.

With a grim cognizance, he shucked off the pain, his eyes never leaving his opponent. He lifted the blade of his weapon off from the head of Anak Darkstar, his body shifting backwards several paces. "Well, warrior, " he said calmly, yet with a clear sense of dissatisfaction, from allowing such an amateur mistake to emerge from within himself, "this appears to be a draw. "

 

[Anak Darkstar]

TAG: Arkryion Malachar

It all pass in slow motion, the blade descending on his head and the strike that met Arkyrion’s torso. Anak head buzzed with a ringing ftom tye electromagnetic shock, he fell on one knee as Ark had done earlier during the hurricane of hate. The double hit was a suprise, it meant push ups if a Blade Master had been present, and yet the draw was a boon from Bogan, that the two Acolytes could end this duel on even terms, making room in future for a rematch.

The Son of Darkness rubbed his head. Feeling for a lump in the thicket of his brown hair. The lasting effect would pass, and yet Anak would wear it as a badge of honor as this Apprentice of the Empress had been the most noble combatant he had crossed sabers with.

“Well met! This has been a most glorious battle dance. I wish to extend my hand to you sir.”

The Son of Darkness deactivated his saber and clipped it to his belt. He extended his hand to offer gratitude.