Well ain’t that just a kick in the flaps.
He had been dreaming of flies. Ant-flies, to be specific. Ant-flies thinly sliced in root vinegar. Ant-flies a la mode. Ant-flies in honey amber, crystallized like the confines of the chamber. A preternatural sense of danger gripped him and Otho pushed his way to his feet. The last thing he remembered was foggy…Bastion? He had read plenty about the geology of Bastion and if the planet had
anything like this massive cave, crystalbound as it was, then he would have known about it. The Ithorian steeled himself as bright light filled the room for but a moment, his sense overwhelmed as words swam before him like liquid light searing its way to the pits of his eyes.
Fight. The victor moves on. The loser becomes nothing.
Otho noticed amusingly that the images left in his eyes were in his native Ithorese. Thanks for the homey touch, you charverin’ skeezer.
Massive hands, brown as a nut but mottled and almost scaly, patted the sides of his burly physique. The master had worked him over and a layer of fat had dropped off him completely. He was unarmed. Would his opposition have the same handicap? Perhaps not. There was light at the center of the chamber and Otho started to jog heavily towards it. What sort of opponent faced him? Was it a Sith, some brute warrior, a pack of ravenous beasts, with jaws and teeth that hunger for prime Ithorian meat to rend, high endurance to wear him down?
This was no time for questions. Pull yerself together. Otho set his jaws and focused on his breathing, reaching out with extrasensory perceptions for currents in the energy as his towering form was gradually illuminated by increasingly saturated light, like a cold sunrise in this bizarre chamber, its ceiling glittering like cyclopean ice floes drifting through the void. His ears felt a tight pressure on them – difficult to know the exact number of atmospheres but it was certainly higher than surface pressure. The soporific effects of whatever had subdued him wore off quickly and in this premium state of danger, he felt every impact of his heavy feet on the hard terrain but also a heightened awareness of his own muscles and a flush of pleasure at the prospect of joining battle for his own glory and that of the Sith; his heart was beating fiercely but not in fear, but anticipation. Otho could feel the currents of latent energy from the environment curve around him seductively, awaiting his command and manipulation and a sense of calm, but alert readiness settled upon him as he became fully enveloped in light.
The Ithorian pumped his arms back and forth, taking a delight in the utter freedom of Sith puissance flowing through him in conjunction with his healthy body. Otho took up a relaxed stance, artificial hands planted almost casually on his hips. His breathing was slow and rhythmic, to saturate his blood with as much oxygen as possible for whatever tribulation lay before him. Slowly, he inhaled and relaxed his barrel-shaped chest.
Me, in a crystal chamber. The Ithorian smirked venomously as possibility played in his mind.
| [member="Darth Abyss"] | [member="Ignus"] |