Beyond the Blind Eternities

[Kal Strife]

It seemed the long years had stolen the fire from Norongachi's heart; the first strike, when it came, was little more than a cursory gesture. A simple sai tok slash that even a Padawan would have blocked. Strife didn't even bother offering it the dignity of meeting his blade, instead merely swaying aside, letting the searing blade pass through the air his hip had occupied moments previously, while his eyes remained fixed upon those of his ancient foe.

"Come now," he murmured, forgoing a riposte as the other man fell into an easy guard, reminiscent of the old Djem So style. Not that the Corellian was fool enough to believe the other man relied upon one of the classical styles; no, while Norongachi might have based his methods upon the Way of the Krayt Dragon, the years of conflict would assuredly have resulted in him twisting it to suit his own nature, just as he himself had merged elements of Makashi and the psychological warfare of Dun Moch into his own style of duelling, the style he dubbed the Death of a Thousand Cuts. "Are you trying to insult me?" he added after but a moment, "One of Churs' pet vornskyrs would have been ashamed of that effort."

The words were cruel, yet Strife stole a fraction of their sting away with a rare, genuine smile. He had, after all, been looking forward to this for no small amount of time.

 

[Salem Norongachi]

"Always." Norongachi smirked. "And they had a lot of practice with their Master." He quipped, not breaking his step as Kal moved aside. So they slipped into the familiar flow. Words, memories. They all rose up with a pang of something lost, something missing. Names and faces that had turned to dust, eroded by time and calamity. Only they were the keepers of such ancient memories now.

The lethargy of his initial attack became faster with the second as he kicked up a gear, a burst of speed carried him half a step forward and sent the arc of emerald energy to Strife's left only to dart back a hairs breadth from connecting, his footing shifted backwards with the movement, boots a blur. The feint gave the saber a twist and plunge straight toward his foes chest.

 

[Kal Strife]

Lip curling in marked amusement, the Corellian let the insult at one long dead pass by unanswered. Churs had ever been a fool, a hothead who embraced a philosophy of rage over reason, and Kal felt little inclination to defend him now.

And then the time for words was gone for the moment, overtaken by the dance of blades as Norongachi launched a scything sai tok, only to twist back at the last moment and transform the strike into a spearing shiak. Stepping back, half turning, Strife brought his still deactivated lightsaber up, igniting it just long enough to turn aside the stabbing strike in a flash of molten quicksilver before allowing his blade to vanish once more. Then, whilst the sparks still lingered in the air, he brought his arm sweeping down once more, finger playing across the activation stud to summon forth the silvered blade to strike at Norongachi's leg, hoping to inflict one the shiim that his style relied upon.

Such a blow - if the other man didn't manage to evade it - would be miniscule, almost beneath the notice of a warrior. But that was what Kal Strife relied upon; the opponent overlooking the impact of the tiny wound even as it sapped at their strength, making it ever more likely that he could inflict another, and then another, with each successful strike increasing the odds of another following. Eventually, inevitably, the opponent would be defeated not by a grandiose sai cha or mou kei, but by the cumulative impact of a multitude of lesser cuts.

It was a war of attrition forged for combat with the blade.

 

[Salem Norongachi]

And this is where they differed, Salem mused as the ghostly light of Kal's blade zipped toward his leg. The blow held not the power to cut deeper than an inch, maybe less. The slow game, the long con, it was always the Corellians way; Patience without end. Norongachi was power, raw and unbridled, contained by sheer force of will but forever threatening to snap the chains and unleash untold devastation upon the world.

The quickness of the parry and riposte was testament that not even 700 years had dulled his opponent and Salem found himself taking a swift hop to the side as his hand glanced viridian against mercury and denied it the taste of his flesh. He shifted his momentum forward as the swords kissed, bringing him close to Strife and rammed his shoulder into him. Balance was everything in melee, lose your footing and death would surely follow.

 

[Kal Strife]

Barely had Norongachi deflected Kal's initial essay onto the offence than he shifted his weight, thrusting himself forward to slam his shoulder into the Corellian's chest. It was a dangerous move; had Strife been so inclined, he might have twisted his lightsaber up between them, risking a few singes in exchange for allowing his foe to spit himself upon the quicksilver blade. Instead, he merely allowed the force of the impact to wash over him, stepping back, moving with the momentum instead of fighting against it. He was the tree, swaying in the wind rather than standing firm and breaking.

Quickly enough, that backstep became a turn, a shun, that ended with his blade flicking out once more, its coruscating edge reaching for Norongachi's thigh. Parrying would be difficult; his brutish assault had drawn him from guard, left him open and exposed, yet that assured nothing for over the years each of them had counted dozens of 'impossible' feats amongst their achievements.

 

[Salem Norongachi]

It was worth a shot, Salem thought, as Strife became as liquid turning the force of his attack into a fluid turn to the side. If anyone knew just what it felt like to exchange feral, physical, blows with Salem Norongachi it was the man he faced. More than a few bones had been shattered by the former Prex's fists.

It was instinct, or perhaps by the grace of the Force which forever lingered for Masters such as they, watching from the shadows with a whisper or a warning, that made him dive into a roll. It brought him a heartbeat from cauterization and yet he could smell the acrid aroma of synthetic fabric having met its end. He turned on his knee as he righted himself and grinned across at [member="Kal Strife"].

"I always wondered what it would be like to cross blades with you," He spoke rising up to his feet, emerald eyes glimmering with hunger for the fight. "I don't imagine, that if we had in those long distant bouts, I would be here to tell the tale."

 

[Kal Strife]

Though the noxious stench of scorched flesh did not accompany the scent of seared fabric, Kal nonetheless allowed himself a moment of satisfaction as Norongachi rolled aside. The first mark of contact was his, and that gave him an edge. However, he didn't press his advantage, but instead lowered his arm, once more allowing his quicksilver blade to vanish with a crackle of dissipating energy whilst the other man spoke.

"Likely not," he murmured contemplatively, before his voice became harder and entirely devoid of false modesty as he delivered his verdict, "Back then... you were little more than a brute. And whilst you made your first faltering swipes at a remote, I was already crossing blades with Diabolus, Yotam and their ilk. A duel between us would have been brief, and the outcome easily predictable." He had been still as he spoke, but as his words lanced out to spear at Salem's pride, Strife began to move, to slowly pace a circle around his foe, whilst his eyes regarded him appraisingly. "You have improved, though," he noted thoughtfully, "I didn't believe it, at first. But when you met me on Exis Station, I saw everything I had heard since my awakening had been true."

Pausing once more, he shrugged - a surprisingly expressive gesture for so cold a person - and added, "Alas, I still don't think it will be enough to triumph here. What say you?"

 

[Salem Norongachi]

There wasn't any shame in that, Norongachi thought as he walked the opposite path to Strife. He'd been little more than, as the man had said, a brute. A broken animal that had lost all the best parts of himself long before they had ever known each others names. What a difference a decade and a whole lot of soul searching makes. It took the past to make him what he was, to allow him to see the future beyond his narrow field of view. By that point [member="Kal Strife"] had vanished from the Galaxy they called home.

Dargon Yotam had been his first Master in the Jedi Order, before the call of the Corporate Sector had drawn him away. Even then his former Master had respected his decision and trained him further, as far as he could given the constraints of conflicting governments. The others had come before his time, names he only knew from the annals of Galactic history.

What could he say, as his saber hummed its thrist into the gloom of the hangar, except what they both knew to be true? "Words are cheap."

 

[Kal Strife]

It was with a subtle darkening of his brow that Strife marked [member="Salem Norongachi"]'s words, and he stepped back, abruptly drawing himself out of their duel to regard the other man with cold intensity.

"Truly?" he murmured, his voice soft with menace, "After all this time, is that what you truly think? I'm disappointed; I'd thought the years had brought you wisdom." As he spoke, he returned the silvered hilt of his lightsaber to its place upon his belt, signalling quite clearly that this test of mettle was over. "Words are the greatest of weapons, Salem," the Corellian continued, "Greater than any blaster, any lightsaber. Greater-" and here he gestured around at the innards of the Hand of Fate- "Greater than any battleship." These words were spoken with absolute confidence, for they were the words that Strife lived by. The words that had seen Empires go to war, that had seen entire planets burn.

"I suggest you remember that, Salem," he finished, "For out in the void, our words may be all that determine who become our allies... and our enemies."

With that, he turned on one booted heel and strode toward the exit.

 

[Salem Norongachi]

"Between you and me? There is nothing cheaper. Nothing less worthwhile. We've said all we need to, we've lied and spun half-truths to one another and now, finally, here we stand. Is there anything cheaper in this moment than the same old song? Soon, very soon, we'll be the only two people in our rapidly shrinking world. Lets not waste it with an act that gains us nothing." He spoke to Kal's back and then turned back to the quiet of the sub-hangar.

The blade still hummed in his hands, thoughts dancing behind emerald eyes bathed in viridian light. One day, if he were lucky, he'd be back. Even then, he knew he'd never be the same and nor would those he'd left behind. We always seemed to think the world and the people in our lives remained static, a picture of who we knew, frozen in time. Like the tides and the shifting of the stars, people changed. Little by little or all at once. It didn't matter, what he returned to wouldn't be the same.

The blade rose in the half light and cut the air asunder as the ship gave a lurch and fired into hyperspace.