Duel An Epica Duel of Epica Proportions

[Drystan Creed]

EPICA

His visible comfort with parting with that many credits for so little made him stand out.

Even his outfit drew attention. He'd gone for something casual—deliberately casual. A tropical-themed shirt, unbuttoned over a plain white undershirt, paired with cargo pants that matched his white socks and sandals. A yellow straw hat sat atop his head, and a pair of sunglasses hung from the collar of his shirt.

Overpriced was the first word that came to mind as he watched the bartender serve his drink. Coruscanti whiskey—single malt, on the rocks. He could've gotten the same pour for a quarter of the price back home in the Underworld. The picture formed in his mind: Eddie's, a dive he frequented after missions to unwind and think—cheap drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other. He'd trade the fine leather stool and lacquered wooden bar for that place any day, especially with prices like these. He wouldn't be surprised if the vending machines here had even more exorbitant markups—and those things were already overpriced by design.

But he supposed this was the norm. Epica was a place of luxury and wealth, and the businesses there were keen to take advantage of that fact. Well, he'd just charge it to the Order—or snag it during a mission. He had his methods, and they consistently kept the credits flowing. That said, even a stable flow wouldn't support overpriced whiskey like this for more than a few months.

Still… he had to admit—the place was nice. And nice places attracted the rich and powerful. But the rich and powerful weren't where the best fights were. He'd heard whispers about deathmatches hosted by the affluent, but hadn't bothered to chase down the rumors. Effort wasn't something he was looking to spend. Not today.

He was on vacation, after all.

Srina Talon

 

[Srina Talon]

Tag: Drystan Creed
Location: Epica [Bar]
____________________________________________________

The salty sea air wrapped itself lazily around the open bar, mingling with music, the low hum of laughter and the occasional clinking glass. It reminded her of the time she'd spent with Darth Empyrean on the Technicolor Beat before his more…Sobering, calling to Eternalism. The slender Echani moved through the crowd as if she were a creature conjured of myth. Real, but only just. There was nothing ostentatious about her presence, nothing that identified her as anything other than a patron, though she always carried the cloying scent of jasmine and rain.

Most would mistake it for perfume, rather, than excess power leaking from her being.

She would not correct them.

The Echani-born warrior wore a long white skirt that danced around delicate ankles and a silvery top that shimmered just enough to catch the eye without being too loud. The fabric skimmed her skin—cool and modest, though it left her shoulders bare and hinted at the line of her back. Matching sandals wrapped elegantly up her calves, silver ties drawn up with effortless care, as if she had strolled the coastline all morning before deciding, on a whim, to stop here.

Silver-white hair had been pulled up into neat buns on either side of her head, a playful style, that seemed to suit the golden-eyed woman despite the seriousness of her expression. Twin streams of long hair fell down her back from each bun, braided, while dotted with white-gold beads and charms. If one inspected closely enough, they would realize that the design on flat surfaces, wasn't just for show. They were glyphs…Alchemically created to hide who, or rather what, she was.

The Sith Empress making herself known in Galactic Alliance space was not on her agenda. What was intended to be a quick exchange could easily turn into an act of war. Not that she held any fault for their northern neighbors, were their places swapped, she wasn't entirely sure what her reaction would be. What nation would ignore the enemy on their doorstep?

Srina took a seat at the bar, the movement fluid, like water filling space. One leg crossed over the other. Her hair caught the sunlight like threads of dawn as she raised her hand to the bartender to signal that she needed service. He looked twice. Thrice. She was almost ethereal but so distant that she seemed untouched by it. As though, this appearance belonged to someone else, and she was merely borrowing the shape. "Something cold and non alcoholic…", she murmured, her glacier tones naturally smooth, and unbroken by the noise of the bar. Quick fingers caught the wrist of the bartender to halt him from leaving immediately.

A pause…"Not too sweet."

He nodded, flashing a grin, and she let him go.

There was no urgency or tension. She wasn't hiding—Only making herself slightly less visible as a Sith in a place where they would be wholly unwelcome. She waited, poised and patient, the perfect illusion. Her gaze, pale and unreadable, scanned the room once. Just once, before she settled.

The courier hadn't arrived yet.

Pity.

She had been very clear in her instructions and tardiness for one who dared to waste her time would certainly come at a cost.

 

[Drystan Creed]

EPICA

"Okay, I can handle the overpriced drinks. But a mandatory tip?"

Cortosis-plated fingers ran through raven hair as Drystan eyed the check, his relatively healthy skin going pale at the sight of even more fees stacked atop an already expensive beverage. This would be the last time he visited this place. Maybe even this planet. It had been a similar experience across the board—good quality, sure, but not enough to justify the exorbitant prices. The locals could afford it, of course… but they also wore watches worth more than his ship.

He elected to finish his drink outside, rising from his stool and paying the required credits, visibly unhappy about parting with such a large sum. At least now he could leave and get some air.

With glass in hand, he turned around and took a step—

Splash.

Drystan halted mid-stride, staring up at a now-alcohol-drenched Dowutin. A massive fellow, even by his species' standards—three meters tall, a ton of raw muscle and horn, and clearly not someone who took embarrassment lightly. His now-soaked custom suit clung to him like wet tissue, gold jewelry glinting with every slow breath of rising anger.

Realization widened Drystan's eyes just as the Dowutin's scowl deepened.

Silence.

"…Sorry?" Drystan offered with a sheepish grin.

The Dowutin responded by bending an arm and launching a punch designed to crater skulls.

But in that half-second, Drystan's eyes sharpened—barely perceptible. His knees shifted just slightly, evading the blow with surgical precision. To the average onlooker, the punch merely missed. But a trained eye would've seen the deliberate movement—dodged at the last possible moment, using the smallest motion required.

Then his foot swept forward, exploiting the Dowutin's overcommitment. One well-placed kick tripped the brute, staggering him onto a knee.

The entire exchange happened in a heartbeat—seeming no more than a clumsy lunge and stumble to the untrained eye.

He had to act fast. Defuse the situation. Drawing attention was the last thing he wanted.

"You should leave me alone and find a seat at the bar." He waved a hand, his voice laced with quiet command, the Force slipping into the cracks of the Dowutin's mind.

"I leave you alone and find seat," the Dowutin muttered, before lumbering off—right toward a nearby stool.

"You. In my seat." He now loomed behind a woman—an Echani, judging by the unmistakable silver hair. The heavy perfume confirmed she was probably a local.

Drystan had just reached the exit. His head turned back slowly, eyes wide with horror.

I should've been more specific.

He rarely used the mind trick. And this half-baked command had just roped an innocent into his mess.

Kark. I better clean this up.

Srina Talon

 

[Srina Talon]

Tag: Drystan Creed
Location: Epica [Bar]
____________________________________________________

The faintest clink of ice in her glass was the only sound the Echani made.

Srina had felt the Dowutin's approach before the incident ever took place. It wasn't through the Force, not a premonition at all…But by the reverberations that rippled through the floor when it moved. By the way the tile beneath it groaned and creaked from the sheer mass it had to support. These were leathery-looking humanoids who never stopped growing, and this one was at least a century or two old. She didn't see the drink that got spilled, but gold-hewn orbs did follow the "fight" in the mirror behind the bar.

She hadn't expected service and a show…But so be it.

The bar quieted. Not completely—No one screamed, no one ran, but the shift was tangible.

It wasn't her problem, however…Until it was.

She felt anger pressing into her back as if it were heat…But the pale woman sat entirely still. Empty orbs took in the sight of the golem-esque descendant of a herd animal by way of reflective glass, his clothing dripping with whiskey, pride bruised, but relatively intact. Behind the hulking monstrosity that made the liquid in her glass shake like a wave when he so much as shifted his weight from one massive foot to the other stood the reason her peace was interrupted. Her head tilted…She could feel his eyes.

Not the beast, the man in the hat, hovering at the edge of it all—Watching. Eyes so wide. So...Horrified.

"You. In my seat." He now loomed behind a woman—an Echani, judging by the unmistakable silver hair.

The light around her bent, shifting when she started to straighten up, turning flaxen hair into silk-spun threads of white-gold. Srina exhaled quietly through her nose. Not a sigh. Never that. Just a soft acknowledgement of general annoyance. The Dowutin towered above her now, seething, but obviously confused. His mind was clouded. Addled with influence that was not his own. The subtle disturbance in the Force hadn't gone unnoticed, and she took another leisurely sip of her drink while evaluating her current position and the source of the Force ability on display.

She had seen minds bent, twisted, too many times not to know what this was.

This manipulation, however, was vulgar and unpolished…

Lovely. Just, lovely.

Her glass hung lightly in her hand, condensation just beginning to bead at the top. Time seemed to slow, but her expression remained the picture of tranquility. Such a clumsy attempt to patch a simple misstep, barely guided. The confusion of the much larger creature deepened, his focus redirected fully…To her. His lips curled while his chin horns rose indignantly, taking her silence as defiance.

A beefy hand with the weight of a small bantha behind it reached for her shoulder to physically remove her—But she rose.

Or rather, she unfolded, rising with unhurried grace. The movement was so fluid that it would appear as if gravity had suddenly decided to adjust itself around her. Up close, the full weight of her presence began to bleed through the seams of her glamour, but only slightly, like a warm breath to the skin. The scent in the air changed. Jasmine and rain remained…But there was another layer, subtle and strange, rising around her like something blooming in ruin. It was clean, sharp, metallic, and reminiscent of electrical sparks or burning wires. Ozone.

Still. It was carefully maintained…Showing only enough to remind an evolutionary predator that they were in the company of something higher on the food chain. It was not proclaimed, not stated, but a warning that attached itself to base instincts. She turned just enough to meet the eyes of the Dowutin, who seemed entirely perplexed that he couldn't put his hand down. He was frustrated. Shoulders twitching while he prepared to lash out…But the clarity of her hawkish eyes gave him pause.

There was no fear in her.

No offense taken. No escalation.

"Your seat?", the soft murmur was pointed, but frigid, like glass that had been rapidly cooled in a blast chiller. "No, I don't believe it is."

She didn't raise her voice, yell, or make a scene. Her eyes merely held the gaze of the half-ton beast, and he followed her will as if he were caught in a tractor beam. He hesitated. Blinked. And then slowly began to lower himself into the stool next to her, as if that had always been the plan.

As if the mental suggestion had found its proper mark after all.

Srina watched him settle for a long moment, then turned calculating eyes on the culprit of the whole debacle. In reality, the whole event had only lasted a few minutes. Seconds. The bar was already getting back into the swing of things, with music, dancing, and muted laughter that carried sweetly into the rafters. The bartender gradually relaxed, waving off security, while ordering the big man a new drink. He was sullen and compliant…But the Force lingered around him like a heavy fog.

It would take time for it to work itself out of his dim thoughts.

She set her mostly full drink down at the bar and politely paid her tab before turning to leave. Srina would need to make new arrangements with her courier. There was no way they would make an appearance now, not when there were eyes of the Alliance everywhere. Her gaze slipped over the man in the garish tropical shirt, wearing socks and sandals, and found that he was just about as confusing as the whole scenario. Was he a force-sensitive beach-hobo who knew a few tricks? Or a Jedi that had gotten rusty while slumming it with the rich and spoiled denizens of Epica?

He was understated…In the loudest possible way. But, he was clever enough to dodge a three-meter mountain and bold enough to bend another sentient being to his will. So. Not a complete moron.

Srina came to a stop just behind him. Close, but not too close. No contact. No spectacle. Just presence—Unmistakable and absolute. "You owe me a new drink."

—And about five seconds of her life that she would never get back. Once again, she looked him over. Not judging, not rude, just clinical. One might mistake it for the look a tailor would give to a poorly made suit. A ghostly smirk settled into the kiss of her mouth, there and not there, with a flicker of pale amusement making itself known before it died. "And next time you decide to weaponize incompetence…Do yourself a favor…Aim it somewhere else."

She didn't wait for a reply, didn't need one, and instead started to make her way back toward the beach. The cold sea was a much better companion than a Dowutin and a boy playing puppet master.

 

[Drystan Creed]

EPICA

Drystan watched the interaction unfold, unable to intervene. It wasn't that he didn't want to—it was as if something told him he shouldn't. And it wasn't the Dowutin who made him feel that way.

She moved before a hand could touch her. The timing was too perfect to be coincidence, and that calm, nonchalant demeanor said everything that needed to be said.

He felt a presence.

His gaze shifted to the smaller figure, drawn by something heavy—dense. It wasn't the Force. It was instinct. The kind honed through countless battles and a lifetime of reading foes before they made their move. The hairs on his forearms stood at attention.

Thousands of enemies, faced blade to blade, fist to fist. Thousands of battles survived. That long experience gave him something few ever mastered: a sense. A gut-deep ability to tell, with enough observation, if someone was strong.

And this Echani? She was strong. That much, his instincts screamed.

When she approached and spoke, it confirmed everything. No mistake—she knew what he had done. Not many would've caught that. Fewer still would have understood it.

Maybe this vacation wouldn't be a bust after all.

But before he could get a word in, she was gone—leaving him behind.

He wouldn't let the opportunity slip away. He had promised to take it easy on this trip, but… sometimes, exceptions needed to be made. And this? This was one of those times.

"Hey, wait." He moved after her, exiting the bar—whose name he'd already forgotten.

"Sorry about that. I'm not the best at giving directions."

Okay. Now what? How did he put this without sounding completely insane?

"I hope I'm not being too forward. And I already owe you a drink, but…"

He paused, searching for the right words.

"You seem really strong. Do you want to fight?"

Srina Talon

 

[Srina Talon]

Tag: Drystan Creed
Location: Epica [Bar]
____________________________________________________

She stopped.

Not because he asked her to.

Not because his voice carried any particular interest or gravity…But because she was curious about what sort of man would willingly follow her after that. She could only note that the thought process he held was absolutely absurd. The surf rolled ahead of her, waves brushing the edges of the white sand, before cool water rolled away from the shore. Her posture remained relaxed with one hand hanging loose at her side while the other rest on her hip. Eyes of burnished gold, aureate, and crystalline remained on the water. "Is that your approach, little one?"

Most men cringed at being called "small" in any context but there was a light quality to it that smoothed over rough edges. She wasn't mocking him, nor, had she deigned to look at him instead of the scenery that she had long since been denied. Jutrand was synthetic, from sunrise to sunset, technology ruled the Capital of the Order almost more than her husband did. Epica reminded her of Eshan.

At least, in topography. The people of this world were far less refined.

"A half-apology and a challenge?"

Her voice was quiet, crisp, almost bemused…But she turned her head just enough to glance over her shoulder. Her expression was unreadable, but everything about her seemed controlled, deliberate. Cold. The pale Echani always had a particular look about her, a look of otherness, of eyes that saw things much too far away…And thoughts that threatened to wander off the edge of the world. In this ethereal state he would find a sense of dry, dry amusement even though she didn't smile.

"Perhaps you find Epica boring…You ask as if it is a novelty.", she mused aloud, her words distant, but precise. "As if it is a game to be played…I promise you…You do not wish to fight with me."

Srina, after all, had not come to Epica to spill blood in Alliance territory without provocation. There was a time when her skills were required and a time when they needed to be controlled. Some Sith were content to do evil deeds for shock value, for clout, but every act the Sith Empress took held some sort of value that could be linked back to her true purpose. Duty. Being married to Empyrean meant that she had to manage a whole horde of angry little murder moppets daily.

Was this boy worth her consideration?

The breeze stirred, and it pulled at the white cloth of her skirt, making it flutter and twist about her ankles, while the sun filled alabaster skin with a healthy glow. Srina surprisingly didn't burn but had spent years on Geonosis acclimating to the heat, blistering, and profound. Few who hadn't visited the desolate planet would know what true desolation was…Isolation. Where the very air became walls of heat that were designed to suffocate, drown all, in unbearable humidity.

This wasn't that. This was…Pleasant. Warm.

"I prefer forward behavior over mind games. I am not offended…", she added softly, "Just surprised at the request. Combat is a way of life for my species, but alas, I am far from home. This side of the verse is far more judgmental about proper etiquette."

The slender woman turned her eyes back to the water. Her plans were…All but ruined, now. She couldn't deny that part of her itched to speak as her people would have spoken. To return to her first language, where every motion had meaning, where posture replaced pretense, and every strike was a declarative sentence. A jab could be a question. A feint, a lie. A counter could be a sharp reply—a correction. Timing became tone.

"Come then…Fight me."

And if he paused?

That, too, was a message for an Echani…It would mean that he wasn't ready.

 

[Drystan Creed]

EPICA

Little one?

So, she was older than she looked. Either that—or she had a true form, one bigger and taller than the one he saw now. The former seemed more likely.

He scratched the back of his head. Was she trying to deter him? Telling someone not to pick a fight usually had the opposite effect. At least in his experience—it rarely worked on him. If she didn't want to fight him, that would be the end of it, but that wasn't what she said.

"But I do," he replied with a smile, undeterred by her warning. "I do find fighting fun. But it's not just that. I honestly can't think of anything I'd rather be doing."

He shrugged lightly. "And I can relate to how your people see it."

That smile shifted into a smirk.

"It's a way of life for me too. I haven't lived long enough—or experienced enough—to know what fighting truly means to the Echani. But I've lived my life long enough to know what it means to me."

There was a strange kind of purity to his words. He didn't come off as bloodthirsty, sadistic, or even masochistic. It was something else entirely.

It sounded as if he were talking about a passion—like how an artist might speak about their craft, or a musician about their instrument. That's what fighting seemed to mean to this man. And there was no hesitation in his voice, no trace of deceit. Just truth.

He did pause, though, as she gave him the go-ahead to fight her. Not out of fear or hesitation. Something else.

"Uh... should we go somewhere more secluded?" he asked, gesturing subtly to their surroundings. "We're still in a public—and honestly cramped—area. I'd hate for anyone to get caught up in something they didn't sign up for."

Though they were on the beach, they were still close to the bar they had just exited. Beachgoers strolled by—no dense crowd, but a steady stream of people, coming and going.

Srina Talon

 

[Srina Talon]

Tag: Drystan Creed
Location: Epica [Bar]
____________________________________________________

Srina listened.

Not to his words at first…But to the space between them. The lack of bravado. The cadence. He didn't posture nor beg to be taken seriously. That in itself made him more interesting than most of the self-declared warriors who littered the galaxy like broken glass. Her hand slid from her hip whilst he spoke, fingers brushing down the length of her skirt to still the wind-tossed fabric. The movement was idle, thoughtful.

A way to keep her hands occupied while she considered the strange tourist before her.

He wasn't Echani.

She knew her kin like the back of her hand, even if they were several generations removed. There was something about her species that seemed to telegraph one another's presence like a beacon in the dark. Even if they weren't full-blooded. The way they held themselves and, even more naturally, the way they saw the universe was even more telltale…They could not hide from her.

This creature, this human, spoke of combat the way a sculptor might describe a stone.

Not something to inherently conquer, but something to understand. That was a rare thing to behold outside of her people, in her experience.

She didn't reply right away. Instead, she turned fully this time to face him. The wind that blew in off the sea lifted her hair again, beads chiming gently against one another, creating tiny notes of music in the air. Her gaze settled on him. Unnervingly focused—Present.

"Seclusion…"

The word was delivered as if it were an afterthought, though, she couldn't imagine anyone trying to willingly get between her and an opponent. Surely, the people of Epica weren't that deranged. Her head inclined in silent agreement, though, the gesture was a little too formal. As if it were…Strange for her to follow the lead of anyone else, for any reason. "How very…Considerate."

Her hands fell and clasped in front of her for a moment while her swan-like neck briefly inclined in agreement. She remained that way for a few seconds, before drawing up, and turning to walk in the opposite direction. Further from people. Further from the attractions and people…Until she found a section of the beach that was bare. There were no swimmers here, no locals chatting, no tourists. The waves were too rough, crashing against the shore.

She gave it a moment. Listening with metaphysical fingers crawling through the Force to discern if anyone was nearby. So far…It seemed adequate.

"Will this suffice?"

Srina turned around to face her would-be opponent…Fully aware that this could very well be a trap. It was elaborate, were that the case, but it wouldn't have been the first time an enemy had tried to lure her away from public places. She had been chased by many. Rival nations, mercenaries, enemies of state for war crimes, paid bounty hunters, and just for turning down marriage proposals… The list went on and on. She was known far and wide but often her assailants made the mistake of assuming the rumors surrounding her were false. Her features were so soft, so unassuming, that believing her to be weak was easier than accepting the nightmare they were willingly engaging with.

It was simple, easy to deduce that the bride of the Corpse King was, of course, soft and gentle.

An easy mark, his only weakness.

She did not ask for terms, nor did she repeat that he come forward and fight her. Srina had already expressed herself once and rarely did so a second time. He would find her the picture of calm, with her hands still folded, and her head just slightly inclined. Her posture was relaxed, allowing him to make the first move.

It also gave him the chance to back out if his nerves had failed during the long walk.

"By your will, little one."

 

[Drystan Creed]

EPICA

"Don't get the wrong idea. I'd just hate for someone to stick their nose into my business—especially when it comes to this." Drystan was relieved that she acquiesced to his demand, hoping to find a spot unsullied by the presence of others. He had no need for crowds, nor to be observed as he fought.

He kept pace with Srina, his eyes scanning the location before they arrived. This would be satisfactory. The sights, the sounds, the smells—everything confirmed the same conclusion: there would be no interference.

As Srina turned to face Drystan, she would find a different scene. His tropical shirt had been tossed aside, along with his slippers and socks, leaving him in cargo pants and a form-fitting white undershirt. Beyond his sharpened gaze and honed physique, one other feature stood out—the black prosthetic that replaced his left arm. A cortosis-plated, phrik-based construct.

With his outerwear discarded, it became evident that his challenge was not born of bravado or foolishness...

Just as the lightsaber is built solely to cut, or the blaster to shoot, or the speeder to move as fast as possible—anything honed for a singular purpose, stripped of excess, becomes a marvel. Regardless of whether such creations are used for good or evil, the heart cannot help but be fascinated by the designs of simplicity and purpose.

In many ways, Drystan's form could be likened to those tools crafted with a singular goal.

The functional beauty of:

STRIKING
GRAPPLING
MOVEMENT
DEFENSE

A body forged, honed, and sharpened for the sole purpose of FIGHTING.

And now, that body—built for pure combat—settled into a stance. Dominant leg forward, knees slightly bent, poised to spring. His left hand hung low and loose, swaying like a tethered blade. Right shoulder tucked to chin, fist leveled to guard and strike at a moment's notice.

It was not a stance recorded in any archive, taught by any master, or captured in any footage. This was not a learned stance.

No, this was his stance—and his alone.

It bore no origin, no identifiable style, as it synthesized all he had learned into one expression. Some might call it a custom form, an all-encompassing hybrid. But in truth, it was the opposite.

It was, at its core, formless.

And with that formless stance, Drystan paced forward, refusing to fall for the soft, gentle façade she wore. His instincts and experience warned him otherwise.

He opened with a simple probe—a strike designed to test from a distance. A straightforward sweep with his rear leg, thrown low as sand exploded along the curve of his strike, thrown with enough speed to cut through the air with a snap.

Srina Talon

 

[Srina Talon]

Tag: Drystan Creed
Location: Epica [Beach]
____________________________________________________

"…And what would this idea be that I…"

The soft and vaguely amused statement might become lost while he discarded non-essentials. He had layers to remove, but his pale opponent only had the soft silver of her blouse and the fitted skirt of ivory shimmersilk. It seemed so delicate now, made of gossamer and delicate needlework. The laces of her gladiator-style sandals unwound themselves from her calves, and she slipped them off inaudibly before setting them aside. "…Surely, wrong…Shouldn't have?"

She let him ready himself, though Srina didn't flinch when her opponent struck.

The sweep of his leg carved a shallow groove through the sand, forceful and clean, in a well-measured test that Echani eyes couldn't help but recognize. The technique was common enough in flame-dancing hand-to-hand styles, used to judge reactions, shift balance, or create distance. It was simple and efficient, and spoke well of his discipline. For her…It was a question.

So, she answered.

Without breathing, she raised her leg just enough to let the attack pass harmlessly beneath her. The motion was just as fluid as it was economical. Sand brushed her calf with a whisper before the grains settled on the warm white beach. She stepped back down, landing softly, before her weight redistributed itself evenly. Her center was lower; hands still relaxed at her sides.

Gold-hewn orbs, hawkish, and in some ways…Entirely inhuman—Never left his. It was the same way she held the attention of the Dowutin without resorting to mental tricks a second time. She was a Daughter of the Six Sisters, a soldier, a warrior, before she had ever been the Queen or Empress of anything. She had felled greater men with a glance, fearless and inexplicable. There was no reason someone so unassuming should be able to command a room, let alone armies, and yet it was so.

"Not bad."

It was an assessment, not a compliment. Plain. Neither ego-boosting nor insulting. It held the emotional equivalent of reading the ingredients from the back of a bottle of whiskey. Factual. She said nothing else aloud to explain what her thoughts were, instead, answers were reflected in her posture. In the subtle tilt of her chin and the slight forward angle of slender shoulders. He opened the dialogue correctly. Not with force for its own sake, but with intention.

Thus…She watched. She didn't retaliate immediately. That would have been too eager.

Too loud.

One step to the side. Then another. Encouraging him to follow her body without telegraphing exactly what she might do next. Her movements were not aggressive, but present—The way rising water was present in the earth. Without threat, but always there. Her feet moved almost silently across the uneven sand, unhurried, while her body aligned, knees slightly bent, her frame falling into a stance of her own that echoed nothing, and everything.

There was no formal Echani flourish. No bow. No salute.

Only motion, practiced a thousand times, used a thousand more, stripped of excess and ornament. Srina didn't enhance her speed or strength, but focused on timing. A single open-handed jab toward his shoulder, deceptively casual, while maintaining her guard. It was the sort of gesture one might use to tap someone on the arm and get their attention. It certainly didn't hurt, but its placement was deliberate. Meant to catch his timing, not his flesh. A nudge in the tempo. A disruption in rhythm.

It was the way a musician might pause just before executing the downbeat, the bass drop, that made the air feel electric.

He would recognize it if he knew how to read someone like her.

//I see what you are…Now show me something else//​

Her eyes studied every twitch, every minuscule movement, as if he were the only solid thing that existed on the beachfront. It wasn't that she was unaware of her surroundings, but this type of duel was a rarity for the alabaster Empress. She wasn't trying to win.

She was watching, listening.

Srina flowed like water because she was water. Quiet. Constant. Patient. He moved and struck like stone. Firm, formed by will. But water didn't bend or break before stone. No, no.

It most certainly did not.

She pivoted suddenly, smoothly on her heel, using the shift in momentum to glide inside his reach. There was nothing empty about it—Just a sharp liquid instep that brought her closer than he might expect. Then came her second answer… A flick of her wrist sent the edge of her palm facing upward, precisely aimed, to land right beneath his chin. It wasn't an attempt at a knockout, but a movement designed to tilt his head. To move him.

Once she knew how he moved…

It was likely over before it began. Not because he wasn't skilled, talented, and practiced…But because she had not become this way. She had been born this way. Srina never had to reach for her weapon.

She was one.

 

[Drystan Creed]

EPICA

Drystan scoffed as she casually avoided his blow. Such confidence—to evade with only the barest movement necessary, nothing more. He had used that same technique on fighters of exceptional caliber before, and it struck like a slicing hammer, capable of breaking bones and bruising muscle despite its probing nature. He had been right. She was a monster in her own right. And that realization only widened the smile on his face—he was pleased to have found such a worthy challenge.

His gaze sharpened, locked in on every twitch of her muscles, every joint's motion, every nerve firing beneath the skin. He was analyzing her, piece by piece, formulating a strategy to break through her defenses. But he would need more data.

Then came her jab. He pawed it away with his lead hand—quick and efficient. From the way it landed, he suspected it hadn't been meant to inflict damage. A test, then. Strategic.

There was little time to dwell on it, as she stepped into his guard, and the exchange turned into an infight. Drystan noted the fluidity in her motion—smooth, precise, with no wasted effort. Efficiency and stability—hallmarks of true speed. It was no wonder she could act so quickly.

Fortunately, her strike came for his chin—his right hand was already positioned near it, and with a simple rotation downward and inward, he intercepted the blow. He didn't need to move his head.

Still, the impact left his hand trembling. It hadn't been a strike of raw power—it was precision incarnate. And in a real fight, precision always triumphed over brute force. Power meant nothing without the accuracy to land it.

He understood the message behind her movements—this was a test. And he would answer in kind.

The moment her strike landed against his right palm, as bone met bone, he countered.

A sharp left hook whipped toward her ribcage, driven by a pivot of his hip. His middle finger was slightly extended and bent, concentrating the force of the strike into a single joint aimed for a specific rib.

In certain martial disciplines, such a strike—delivered with the knuckle of the middle finger—was used to target vital points. The natural alignment of the finger allowed for deeper, more concentrated impact. A precise strike, answering a precise challenge.

Srina Talon

 

[Srina Talon]

Tag: Drystan Creed
Location: Epica [Beach]
____________________________________________________

He was a strange man-child.

Smiling almost joyfully in the face of one whom had brought literal planets to ruin was bizarre. The absurdity caused the kiss of her mouth to twitch in return with a ghostly smile, barely there, and easily missed as it disappeared as fast as it arrived. Srina felt the tension in the air shift swiftly as his hand caught her rising strike. He didn't retreat, didn't flinch.

Good.

Her balance was barely altered, and she remained poised as if the blow had never left her. The impact didn't concern her. The way he received it did. Stalwart, clean, and controlled. Not reflexive. He caught her attack skillfully, and the nearly imperceptible tremble that traveled through his hand told her everything else she needed to know. He felt it.

The strike hadn't been for pain. It was an acknowledgement—And he answered succinctly.

The hook came up low and quick, sharp, as if it were a demand rather than an act. She felt the hip rotation before the fist moved, the shifting of weight beneath the strike, textbook, but with his own personal twist. The formless nature of his combat would have been hard for many masters of the craft to counter. It was only the eyes of an Echani warrior that kept her from taking the hit. The extension of his knuckle whispered his intent. Not to strike, possibly, to break. To mark her, perhaps, with the same precision that she had had offered him.

Her response was not to block or step away.

Instead, she flowed sideways into the strike—Not out of reach, but through the empty space between his strength and the point of contact. The movement wasn't evasive as one might think. It was…Participatory. She moved with the arc of his attack like a river that wrapped around a boulder, brushing against danger to feel the shape of it, without being taken unaware. Her ribcage turned with her, and the sinuous movement guided the strike narrowly past her core. His knuckle grazed the silvery fabric of her top, close enough to feel the warmth of her skin beneath it…But not enough to land.

It was close. He was so close, so near, that it would seem as if she had only barely escaped.

Until the Empress turned.

Her right hand slid upward along the underside of his extended arm, gliding from wrist to elbow, a motion so subtle that it might have looked accidental. Affectionate, even, to someone who didn't know this dance. But for those fluent in her language, in combat, it was a trap being woven in real time. Srina wasn't just measuring the length of his arm. She was looking to control it, be it metal, or flesh.

His was not the first prosthetic she had faced.

For the sake of his comfort…She would do her best not to destroy it.

Her hand halted just beneath his triceps, fingers curling slightly, not gripping, or restraining.

Just anchoring.

And then, she stepped into his guard even further. Not aggressively, not overwhelming. It was another instance of fluidity seeking to disrupt him. Like water, finding the cracks in a dam. Her left foot slid behind his forward stance at a delicate diagonal, shifting his foundation without taking it. In the same heartbeat, her left elbow rose, just a fraction, and passed across the plane of his chest.

Not a strike…Another question. A suggestion.

She left openings on purpose.

Did he see it?

Srina's entire body moved with a certain grace that would have turned any ballerina green with envy. Each step, every shift, was a continuation of the last. She was shaping the conversation they were holding, folding his choices in on themselves, showing him where he stood, and where he would likely eventually fall. Her expression remained constant, breathing steady.

Not even her gold-hewn eyes flickered with exertion. She let him feel…That she was holding back. It was not an insult, but an opportunity, to see how he would react.

To understand how far he wanted to go.

 

[Drystan Creed]

EPICA

He should have expected it—the way she moved with such grace, flowing with his strike to nullify its force entirely. It was a principle he knew well: ride the momentum, align with the power, and reduce the blow to nothing. Of course she would understand such a concept. And of course she would execute it flawlessly.

That same fluidity left him vulnerable. Her sweep and elbow came in swift succession, too quick to counter, and in the next breath, he was slammed onto the sand.

For most, landing flat on one's back spelled defeat. But Drystan's elbow bent at the last second, absorbing the fall just enough to give him a window—a chance to retaliate.

Even grounded, he was still dangerous.

He swept his legs in a wide arc, attempting to catch Srina or at least force her back. Regardless of whether it connected, he used the momentum to kip-up, rising to his feet in one fluid motion before charging back into the fray.

This time, he planted himself. His posture shifted, his approach adjusted.

If grace and finesse wouldn't win the exchange, he'd shift the rhythm. Force her into his domain.

He had shown her the fighter—now she would meet the brawler. He would trade.

Every blow she landed, he would brace for. And in return, he would strike back at her openings—harder. A show of grit, of resolve, of sheer bodily constitution.

No dodging. No evasion. Only collision. Whatever Srina left open on purpose he would exploit with a synthesis of pinpoint accuracy and brutish power.

This was the gambit: that his blows would wear her down faster than hers could break him.

This was his reply. Not just defiance—but challenge.

He would drag her into one of his many domains, until he found the one where he reigned supreme.

Srina Talon

 

[Srina Talon]

Tag: Drystan Creed
Location: Epica [Beach]
____________________________________________________

He hit her.

There was no warning, no build-up, just a sudden and deliberate hook that curved beneath her guard and landed. It was the opening that she had left for him, low in the ribcage, just under floating bone—And he didn't hesitate. The world didn't spin. Her knees didn't buckle…But something inside her went very still. Srina didn't cry out or outwardly react…That would have been theatrical. Useless.

Instead—She listened to the sound of air leaving her lungs in a thin, silent stream and waited for her body to absorb the shock and redistribute it. There was a flare of heat under her skin, sharp and immediate. Pain, yes…But it was precise, bound, and clean. He'd aimed well, and the impact had caused her to stagger back a step. Not far. Just enough for her foot to draw a crescent in the sand and adjust her weight to prepare for the next hit.

Her eyes didn't leave him, not even for a moment, and gold-hewn orbs seemed to become almost hawkish while she re-evaluated. Pain wasn't unfamiliar to her, but she hadn't expected him to earn it so soon. She would carry that feeling, quiet and close, and use it for fuel now that she understood the terms. She moved just as swiftly as she had before…There was no choice.

This new approach he took gave no quarter, no room to breathe, and she stepped forward like a tide returning to the shore. It seemed light she might be prepared to do something large and direct to deflect the fists of a brawler, but her movements changed in the last moment. Her shoulder brushed past him as she passed…Close enough to blur the line between contact and connection. An open palm slid along his forearm, feather light, until her fingers hovered at his elbow. She could feel the tension beneath his skin, the readiness to attack, to strike again.

He had already landed one solid hit…Why not press forward when the enemy was at a disadvantage? Why let her recover?

Srina turned on her heel as if she were dancing and whirled behind him to let the moment breathe. It wasn't an act of laziness, fear, or kindness—But a way of measurement. There was an artistic edge to her form that made even the most skilled fighter seem clumsy and unprepared. She changed the field of combat by remaining fluid, and this man had chosen to step into her world willingly.

Fists first…An oddity, a rarity, but an acceptable greeting.

For a moment…She let it seem like bearing down on her might work. That strength alone could shape the outcome, that perhaps, his quick movements and determination could bend her…

Srina struck.

A reverse elbow—Sharp, narrow, and perfectly placed, aimed toward the base of his skull. If it landed, it would snap at a pressure point and rattle his footing, blurring the line between his will and the failure of the body to obey. If he stumbled…

She would follow. No more waiting, no more tests.

Just the fight.

 

[Drystan Creed]

EPICA

His shot landed true. A sharp grunt escaped him, satisfaction cutting through the haze of pain—finally, some purchase. She absorbed it well, far better than most, her composure unbroken. But Drystan knew the weight of that blow, and the sting it left behind. He knew every strike he threw down to its most intimate details.

This shift in strategy seemed effective—at least by his estimation. The pain was sharper now, but Drystan gritted his teeth and pushed through. Even as his offense found traction, he felt she was still holding something back, testing him. No matter. He wanted a win, and he was never good at resisting what he wanted—for better or worse.

Just as he thought he was securing the upper hand, an elbow flashed toward his head. Its delivery carried elegance and precision, speed snapping behind it. Physically, from someone her size, it might not have looked devastating. But Drystan knew technique mattered more than muscle, and he wasn't foolish enough to dismiss it.

Before the strike landed, his eyes lit with a grin.

CRACK!

He drove his skull forward, stomping into the sand as he stepped in, his right arm tucked tight with elbow against rib. He met her elbow head-on, almost as if he were headbutting it, funneling his weight into the collision. Pain seared, the impact numbing his senses, but his parry blunted the worst of it.

With his stance rooted and his arm coiled, he struck—an uppercut ripping upward from its tucked position. The motion climbed through his body, from the twist of his foot to the snap of his hip, delivering all the power he could muster.

He had answered her counter with one of his own, absorbing her strike only to fire back from the position it left him in.

It was his doctrine in full view: Drystan would rather take damage if it meant forcing an opening. He believed whatever punishment he endured, he could withstand it better than his opponent could withstand what came next.

Srina Talon