Private Detention In Dungeon

[Haro Aven]

Lysander von Ascania | Naamino Zuukamano ​

Haro noticed the signs of Naami's piqued danger sense long before he noticed any movement in the shadows. Lysander asked some weird question about Naami's preference of how to stab people with his lightsabers, but Haro was too busy watching the Zabrak for signs that they should ready themselves for combat.

"What is it, buddy?" As if in answer to his question, a couple of shambling creatures crawled out from the shadows and pursued them as if the three boys were the first sustenance these things had seen in decades. They were similar to the Jen'ari hordes that stalked the surface of Korriban but somehow more diminished and far less controlled. They practically clambered over each other to get to them, mummified flesh dangling from sinuous limbs, hollowed eyes animated by an unholy hunger.

Haro's expression scrunched up into a look of disturbed disgust and he swiftly tucked away his datapad, slipping the dagger from his belt and dropping into a ready stance. Haro had become somewhat accustomed to the ever-present undead guard that hung around Kor'ethyr and Vardin, but they still freaked him out, especially when they were coming after him like this. Bodie hovered nearby, shining light on their pursuers to provide a better visual. With the boys and Bodie focused on the impending battle, it gave a couple more zombies the chance to close some distance and flank the group from behind before being noticed.​

 

[Naamino Zuukamano]

Despite the forewarning of forthcoming dangers, Naamino didn't think far enough ahead to recognize that the risks of using Force blast in such a narrow space might in fact outweigh the benefits. It was only after he fired off the first blast, which hit one of the figures in the shoulder and cracked the wall beside it, that he paused before releasing another.

"Chit," Naami growled, allowing the second blast to fizzle out painfully on his palm.

Tightening the grip on the dagger in his right hand, he suddenly charged at their pursuers with a bellow. Just as it seemed he might swing with a stab, Naami shifted his momentum into low, sweeping kick. He hoped to knock the already injured creature into the path of its fellows and buy his companions time to join the fray.

Lysander von Ascania | Haro Aven​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Haro Aven | Naamino Zuukamano
​

Lysander locked onto the figures emerging from the shadows. The teen's brows furrowed in a mix of disgust and strange curiosity. First he saw hollowed eye sockets, then decaying flesh that was flapping. His lips twisted while instinctively pushing the academy's datapad back into his pocket, freeing up just enough space to wield the dagger provided to them.

Lieutenant Horn’s Force blast tore through the air, echoing loudly in his ears. Oddly enough, the jagged line of the wall made him think of his injured knee; but beneath all of his current thoughts, there was one idea dominating his mind: the suffocating bacta tank.

Memories surfaced of feeling pale and deathly, hard-earned muscles atrophying from lack of proper nutrition.

There was absolutely no way he was returning to that.

This alone kindled a raging fire deep within him, sharpening his breath and suddenly pumping adrenaline through his veins. And as he detected movement in his peripheral and realized they were being flanked from the side, his wish for greater knowledge and ability in the Force grew stronger.

Part of him felt ill-prepared.

Without any further hesitation, Lysander lunged forward toward the nearest target. The acolyte's footwork was nimble, honed through years of hand to hand combat training. His plan was to strike with precision, while managing distance like an experienced fighter, even as a silent prayer to Bogan escaped his lips, along with pleas for survival.

The weapon flashed, piercing repeatedly below the foe’s sternum, just off to the side by the ribs.

In, out, with all the fury he could summon.

The acolyte danced the rhythm; each movement was measured. The thing snarled, trying to reach him with both hands, but he was able to slide away on his backfoot.

Pivoting on his heel, a knee lifted, his boot thrusting outward, sending it crashing into another.

“Fark you!” he screamed, voice tinged with defiance, continuing to fight with all the strength he could muster.