First Reply Fire in the Pit

[Zara Saga]

(Open to anyone who wants to do a little PvP. We can either make nice and take down the mercenaries, or you can thwart my fun.)
​

Location: Thule, Outer Rim Territories
Time: Midnight

Dust clung to the walls like old secrets. The pit reeked of blood, rust, and the sour musk of too many egos packed into too small a space. Torchlight flickered giving the crowd of mercs and lowlives a vaguely ceremonial glow, as if this wasn't just another night of punching each other into paste for a few credits and a bruised sense of pride.

Zara breathed it all in like perfume.

Her blonde hair, streaked with soot for camouflage, was pinned in a braid, but even under grime and cheap synth-leather, she radiated something too poised for this place. She kept her head down just enough to play the part: ex-ganger, looking to make a name, sell a few punches, maybe win enough to buy back a lost freighter or someone's respect.

She had been embedded for three days. Three days of pretending not to be a Diarchy Archon while drinking something called "Thule Wine" that absolutely wasn't wine. The Thugs of Thule were loud, disorganized, and laughably nostalgic for a time when "mercenary" meant something. Still, they were interrupting trade routes, burning Diarch convoys, and maybe, someone was feeding them intel.

Zara was going to find out who. But first, she wanted to punch someone.

"Ten creds to enter. No deaths. Mostly," the pitmaster grunted, waving her through with a bored swipe of his datapad.

Zara smirked, slipping him the credits and rolling her shoulders. The crowd around the pit shifted, jeered, and took notice. There were already bets forming about how long the pretty one would last.

She descended into the pit, boots crunching on dry, red dust. The air grew thicker, warmer, heavy with adrenaline. Somewhere above, someone banged a pipe rhythmically against metal.

Across the pit, a figure stepped into view, her opponent.

Zara tilted her head, a slow smile blooming like flame over dry brush.

"Well," she murmured to herself, "Let's see if you're any fun."

And then, she waited. Hands loose. Fire banked. Ready.

​

 

[Vulpesen]

Vulpesen savored the loud reverberating crack that emanated from one side of his neck, then the other. Most humanoids at his age would have broken their spine with such a sound, but at eighty-two, the Zorren Arch Wilder was in his prime, having aged like fine wine (Of the non-Thule variety.) It was that fine aging, gifted by his race which allowed him to still take on the occasional undercover mission. This far out into the outer rim, few were likely to recognize the ruler of Veradune, especially when the force wrapped itself around him, giving a slight alteration to some of his more distinctive features.

"I'd hate to disappoint a lady," he purred in response, his clawed hands raising up, but clenching into fists. As mentioned, even these barbarians didn't approve of needless death. At least, not within their own ranks. Still, given her chosen company, Vulpesen doubted this woman was anything but a lady. He'd only recently come into the mercenary ring, having gotten word that their shipping disruptions had caused no small amount of hardship throughout the galaxy. He personally had no view of the diarchy, but innocents were innocents, no matter what government claimed them.

"Thirty creds says I'm worth you're while." Slowly he started to pace around his opponent, a fanged grin fixed on his face though his eyes roamed her entire stance. He could sense something off about her. A level above this common riff-raff, but he wasn't sure yet what it was. Perhaps a few punches would sort it out. If not, then perhaps some kicks and holds. In his experience, combat was a wonderful way of holding an illuminating interview.

Zara Saga

 

[Zara Saga]

Zara's eyes narrowed just slightly as the man across from her cracked his neck like a flexing relic. There was something anachronistic about him, like he'd wandered in from a more civilized war. The kind of man who probably sipped actual wine while reciting old war poetry, and then beat you unconscious for misquoting it.

She liked that.

Her outfit, stitched together from scavenged leathers and dyed fabrics, was deliberately rough, dark brown flight pants with reinforced seams, a cropped jacket that might have once belonged to a bounty hunter, and a wraparound halter underneath that gave just enough skin to distract. It was part armor, part costume. The kind of thing that screamed I'm not afraid to bleed, while whispering but it'll be your blood first.

Her boots were scuffed and steel-toed. The braid down her back swayed gently as she moved, coiled like a fuse waiting for the flame.

As he paced her, speaking in that slow, seasoned drawl, Zara's smile thinned. His confidence annoyed her. Not because it was unearned, but because it was earned in a way that didn't include her. Yet.

"Thirty creds?" she echoed, voice smooth as polished glass, curling into something mockingly sweet. "Is that your going rate, or are you just trying to impress me with how little you're worth?"

She turned with him, footwork light and almost lazy, like she wasn't trying… which meant she very much was. Her fingers twitched at her sides, itching with the promise of fire, but not yet. Not for this. Not while she could still feel out his form the old-fashioned way.

He was taller. Broader. Probably stronger. So she'd be faster.

Zara stepped in, sudden and sharp, a feint with her left to test his guard, followed by a pivot on her heel to swing a precise roundhouse kick at his midsection. She struck low, trying to take advantage of the one thing all proud warriors hated: being underestimated by something smaller and prettier than them.

"Let's find out," she said under her breath as her leg snapped toward him, "if you hit like you flirt."

Vulpesen​

 

[Vulpesen]

Rugged yet smooth. More and more, this woman, despite her exterior, seemed like she didn't belong. A diamond covered in dirt yet sparkling bright all the same. "All I got in my pocket. Round two, I'll have a bit more to spare." In all honesty, Vulpesen, once a trader's son, had more or less lost all sense of credits in small denominations. Such things happened when you ran a planet sized economy and a successful arms company in a galaxy racked by war. "Besides, I find its often best to understate and overdeliver."

Flirtations and banter aside, the jeers and cries from the crowd were a reminder that they were there to fight, a reminder that Zara had no need of as she snapped forward. His arm raised in response bending in close to his body to absorb the impact from her arm, only to find it came from another limb altogether. So she has tricks. He adjusted his stance, bending his knees to drop into her kick Rather than take him in the legs or side, he managed to deflect her strike down off his elbow. The blow to his ribs still drew out a growling grunt, but his body remained unmoved with the exception of his ears which flicked to her lowered voice.

"Better," he grunted. His other arm snapped out to her leg, wrapping his elbow over her knee as he stood up straight once more, the simple move meant to destroy any sense of balance she had. Zorrens might have been beings of above average strength, but Vulpesen had grown up on the slimmer side of his trials, never expecting to be the strong man in a fight. Indeed, even after his trials, he picked foes of massive size and strength. No, his weaponw as not in bulging muscles, but in experience. Its what had allowed him to infiltrate tis band of mercenaries so well. Who could turn down a young man who somehow fought as though he'd had almost a hundred years of experience in war and combat?

That experience only drove him on as Vulpesen would do his best to follow after his foe, keeping the distance as he attempted to drive her to the ground and grapple her. The closer they were, the more he could use his physical advantage. While he'd never been one to rely on physicality, he would be a fool to ignore it.

Zara Saga

 

[Zara Saga]

​

Zara felt the tremor of impact roll up her leg as her boot met bone and not air, better than nothing, but not by much. His body absorbed the hit like he'd been absorbing hits since before she was born.

Then he moved, fluid, efficient, and fast for someone built like a walking war story. She barely had time to register his counter before his arm was snaking over her knee, trying to turn her momentum against her, to rip the floor out from under her with nothing but leverage and gall.

Oh, clever man.

As he began to rise, Zara twisted with him, not to resist, but to redirect. Her arms shot down, bracing hard against his shoulder while she used the elevation to push herself into a backwards tumble. It wasn't elegant, and it definitely wasn't planned, but the sudden collapse of her own balance turned into a messy but serviceable roll that landed her low, crouched, and not flat on her back like he'd wanted.

There was a rip down the side seam of her jacket now, and the crowd howled like jackals. Fantastic.

"You'll be reimbursing me for that." she spat, brushing dust from her lip with the back of her hand.

The bratty lilt came back into her voice just enough to sting. Then she surged forward again.

This time she didn't go for finesse. She dipped left like she was going for another kick, but it was a lie. A distraction. As her left leg hit the dirt, she pushed off it like a spring, aiming to drive her shoulder into his side with all the force her lighter frame could muster. Not to knock him down, she wasn't delusional, but to shift him off-center, to put him on a back foot just long enough for her to slip behind and press the tempo.

Fire danced in her chest now, coiling under the skin, still leashed. For now.

But the leash was getting short.

Vulpesen​

 

[Vulpesen]

Vulpesen backed away, narrowly avoiding a kick to the jaw as his opponent flipped away. Her following comment and the sound of her ripping outfit drew a raised brow from him. "Darling if you expect me to pay for every bit of damage I cause, then I'm gonna need a higher stake from this bout." As she charged forward, he mimicked the attack, diving into her charge. The result wasn't pretty. Whether kick or shoulder, he'd prepared himself to withstand some sort of blow. As it happened, her shoulder check moved into his advantage.

He felt her slam into his collar as he ducked low into the crash, his arms extending to wrap around her waist. The jarring collision brought a slight fuzz to his eyes, more from impact than actual pain. Still, his arms snapped around and pulled her close while his head pressed against her chest, once again aiming to turn her center of gravity over as he bore down, attempting to drive both of them to the ground.

Since coming to learn of his heritage, Vulpesen had dived deep into all aspects of it. The weapons, the force traditions, and even the martial arts of his people. He'd focused his efforts on two of the three forms over the past few decades. One of them focused on attacking weak points and using the opponent's actions against them. The other focused on grappling and restraining the opponent with as little damage as possible. It was the latter that Vulpesen now employed to the best of his ability. Not because he had any extra practice in the forms of rerrotryx and rerrosyn, but because he figured he could use the practice and a knock down drag out against a mercenary was the perfect time to get that practice without the increased risk of death and dismemberment.

Usually one of grace and refinement, Vulpesen snarled and flexed as he did his best to take a position of advantage. Perhaps it wasn't the prettiest of tactics but it drew a roar of approval from the crowd and there was some aspect of technique however crudely it was presented. "Quick on your feet. But how's your groundwork?"

Zara Saga

 

[Zara Saga]

Zara's breath left her lungs in a surprised grunt as his arms cinched tight around her waist. She'd barreled in fast, expecting a shoulder collision or a glancing impact, but he absorbed her, folding her into him like a trap that had just been sprung. Her boots lost contact with the ground for the briefest moment, and that was all it took.

Frak, she hissed inwardly, her center yanked off balance as the roar of the crowd swelled around them.

They hit the dirt hard. Her back slammed into the pit floor with a bone-rattling thud, and her breath came out in a harsh wheeze. The force of the takedown scrambled her for a second, limbs caught, momentum wrong, his weight bearing down in all the wrong ways. She'd been in her share of fights, real ones, brutal ones, but this wasn't a brawl. This was a man who had trained for this exact outcome, and it showed.

Still, Zara wasn't the type to stay pinned. Not without biting.

His head was low, pressed to her chest, pinning her arms with his bulk. She squirmed underneath him, twisting like a serpent caught between rocks, and slapped her forehead hard against his temple in a desperate, inelegant headbutt. It was messy. It wasn't pretty. But it bought her a flicker of space.

"Get off me," she hissed, voice tight with effort and pride, "You're sweating on me and it's degrading."

Using the moment, she brought her knee up, angling not for a decisive strike, but for leverage. She shoved it between their bodies, twisted her hips, and threw her weight sideways, trying to roll them both. Not to reverse the pin entirely, she wasn't delusional, but to slide out from under his frame long enough to strike.

The second she felt her arm free, she used it.

Fingers balled into a tight fist, Zara punched upward toward his exposed ribs, aiming just under the arm, where armor often left a blind spot. It was a precise, mean little jab. Not designed to stagger, but to sting. She didn't need him hurt, she needed him distracted.

"Groundwork's not my thing," she grunted through grit teeth, "But I'm great at making people fall."

Vulpesen​

 

[Vulpesen]

Well, so far so good. Once they hit the ground, Vulpesen wasted no time in crawling up the woman's body, using her momentarily stunned state to press his advantage. Though it didn't last long. His head had just neared hers when she reared back and crashed back into him. Stars rang in his head and his vision blurred once again, this time more intensely. She was certainly a scrapper and determined beyond measure.

His arms adjusted, doing their best to slip under hers to lock her more into place. Of course, that did free up her arm to take a rather painful hit to his ribs. If not for the fact that some of his soldiers had centuries, if not millennia on him, Vulpesen might have stated that he was getting too old for this. He'd certainly be feeling these bruises in the morning, and his ears were starting to ring from both the head trauma and the roaring of the crowd which constantly filled his ears, growing ever louder as their spectacle continued.

"I thought," he began in response to her demand, just as she tried to roll them over, "we were just starting to grow a bit closer." He shot an arm out as she flexed her body, using it as a kick stand to keep him rooted where he was rather than turned over. It was a precarious game and it felt like riding a bucking arlusk. "Best start learning," he growled. Unable to drop back down on her due to the knee between them, he used his slightly raised position to drive his own knee forward. Already having the advantage of position, he did use it to strike, driving it towards her ribs in a very retributive blow for her punch.

Zara Saga

 

[Zara Saga]

​

Zara's world was rapidly narrowing, down to grit in her mouth, bruises forming under skin, and the growing realization that she was, in fact, losing.

Not by a little. Not by a tactical stutter. She was really losing.

His arm planted like a durasteel strut as she twisted, killing her leverage before she could roll him. And then his weight shifted again, cruelly efficient, and that knee drove straight into her ribs with the grace of a freight transport.

The impact was blunt and deep, an immediate white-hot throb that rocketed through her side and stole a gasp she didn't mean to give.

Her face screwed up into a snarl, pretty and vicious. "That is so illegal in, like, five systems."

She lashed out instinctively, trying to turn pain into momentum. Her arm, still half-trapped, jerked up again, this time to rake her fingers down his flank in a messy clawing motion. It was undisciplined, inelegant. Pure street-fight tantrum. But it bought her a breath.

She needed to get vertical.

Her body twisted again, lower half arching in a wide, clumsy buck that forced him to shift weight or risk losing position altogether. She kicked her heel up, not with precision this time, but like someone slamming a boot into a locker out of spite. The blow angled toward the back of his thigh, a sloppy, desperate attempt to deaden the muscle and create space.

"Ugh, get off!" she snapped, breathless and flushed with frustration. "You are not winning this pit fight via cuddle."

Her braid was undone now, hair spilling around her like a banner of discontent. One strap of her halter had torn halfway down her arm, and she looked less like an archon and more like a very sweaty, very angry baroness of chaos.

Every part of her screamed with effort, but not surrender.

"You may have skill," she growled under her breath, "but I have spite."

Vulpesen​

 

[Vulpesen]

Victory was in his grasp, that much was clear. But firmly was not the adjective he would use. No, victory was in his grasp much in the way that one grasped a lolth cat while attempting to bathe it. Certain and inevitable but only for those with the strength, dexterity, and will to keep it pinned down while avoiding as many bites and scratches as possible. Speaking of scratches, Vulpesen shuddered, his body stiffening all the way down to the tip of his tail as her nails raked down his side, leaving deep red furrows down his ribs.

He bit down a yelp, even as the woman bucked and dislodged him, partially at least. His legs swept around with his hips making a loud double pop. Bent at what would ordinarily be an uncomfortable if not improbable angle, Vulpesen's legs took full advantage of flexibility offered by his extra joints and wrapped around Zara's waist even as he found his own back hitting the dirt. "Nice to know my cuddling skills are acknowledged," he grunted. Then, dragging the brawling lady overtop him, Vulpesen threw up several strikes one at her jaw with a closed fist, and another with an open hand, using his claw like nails to send a knife like jab at her cheek. That last blow was more for retribution than effect. A silent message that bringing this into a clawing match would place her at a distinct disadvantage against the zorren.

Adrenaline was what kept him from feeling the soreness in his body. Bruises from each relentless determined strike. By now he would have usually drawn a dagger, a saber, or a gun, if not the force itself. There was something satisfying about fighting in the flesh. It was exhausting but in an exhilarating way. Zara had spite but Vulpesen had a fervor that grew with every moment, an excitement that he had long ago learned was impossible to keep down. Beyond victory, he lived for the struggle. Not just in his enemies, but in himself. To hear his blood pounding in his ears and to know that every action was a hairs breath away from victory or disaster. That's what he lived for.

Zara Saga

 

[Zara Saga]

Zara let out a sharp grunt as his legs snapped around her waist like a vice. Frak, that flexibility wasn't just inconvenient, it was insulting. She could feel the pressure constrict her ribs, right where the earlier knee had bruised deep. Pain flared up like a signal fire. And then, as if the universe wasn't already being unnecessarily theatrical, he dragged her down atop him like a prize catch.

"I hate you so much right now," she spat, her hair hanging in his face now, lips curling back in something between rage and a breathless pout.

Then came the fists.

The first strike hit her jaw square-on. A loud, fleshy crack echoed in her ears. Her head snapped to the side and for a moment, her vision blurred in a haze of heat and static. The world spun, and she tasted blood, sharp and metallic on the edge of her tongue. She barely registered the second blow until it slashed across her cheek, the sharp sting of claw on skin searing a bright line through her face.

She yelped, more from fury than pain. Her hands, slick with dirt and sweat, slammed to his chest for leverage. One eye was already watering from the impact. Her cheek throbbed, warm with a trickle of blood.

"You scratched me," she gasped, as if he'd just committed fashion treason at a royal gala. "Do you know how long it takes to heal a symmetrical face?!"

She rocked her hips violently, trying to jerk back just enough for clearance. Her body fought him every inch of the way, her limbs slick, her breathing ragged.

With his legs still locked around her, she bent one knee in close to her chest and shoved it downward, aiming a brutal stomp at the inside of his calf. A pressure point strike, barely remembered from a Crucible sparring match. If she could deaden the muscle just enough, even momentarily, she could break the hold.

And with that one second of freedom, if she got it, she'd drive her elbow down toward his chest, aiming high and fast, reckless as a firework.

Zara was losing. Clearly. Brutally.

But if she was going down, she was going to be loud about it. Bloody. Dramatic. And absolutely, violently memorable.

Vulpesen​

 

[Vulpesen]

There was a pang of guilt somewhere deep in Vulpesen's chest. A sympathy born from watching someone rage and fight against the storm, even as it wore them down bit by bit. Vulpesen had not just lived long enough to learn a trick or two, he had been training and fighting along fellow warriors who had centuries, sometimes millennia of experience, and he had used that experience in real combat against foes that sometimes outmatched even his own considerable skill. In his eyes there was no shame in her performance. He would feel her fists long after this fight was over. Every bruise to meat and bone was something that marked her out as a fighter of some great measure. It was because of this, that even as she spat her disgust at him, he offered her the respect of not showing his trepidation. Come what may, she was a warrior. She earned every blow that came and holding back would only dishonor the effort she put in. "Oh don't worry. Scars add character. They tell a story."

He growled as her struggles gained her a few inches of room, inches which she used to slam herself back down on his chest. The sudden numbness in his leg was nothing compared to the pain that blossomed from his sternum. He could have almost sworn he heard a crunch and the breath left his lungs in a whoosh. Even still, he raised his arms, locking them around and behind her before tightening, pinning the woman to his chest as his good leg hooked around hers and pushed, sending his arching body into a roll to put the lady back on her back. "Story of how... you fought a zorren hand to hand.. and got your licks in." The words came out as a wheeze, hoarse and pained. That shot to his chest had hurt, but he still had some energy to burn before he needed his lungs to work again.

In the meantime, he lifted his body just enough to give his arms room to move, a quick efficient elbow aimed at her head. Then another and another, each vicious strike meant to wear at her defenses until either he ran out of gas, or her defenses broke. She was good, and while his body was still in its prime, there was a part of his mind that screamed, 'I'm too old for this chit!' Perhaps it was too much time in an office or behind a desk. Odd as it would be to find in a den of thugs, but perhaps she was simply that good. In any case, win or lose, it had been a while since he took this kind of punishment somewhere other than a war field. Even then, he'd grown skilled enough to avoid any major damage even in those. Seemed the Valde needed to get with his battle master for some more hands on practice. Weapon work was good. Hand to hand it seemed, needed work.

Zara Saga

 

[Zara Saga]

Zara's galaxy had narrowed to blood, pressure, and the metallic ring in her ears from taking one too many shots to the skull. Her body ached. Her limbs were trembling, not from fear, but from the sheer exertion of trying to beat someone the polite way: with hands and charm and whatever force of personality she had left not leaking out through the split in her cheek.

And still, he wasn't done.

The roll slammed her back into the dirt again. This pit was going to have a Zara-shaped crater before long. She coughed hard, another jolt of pain lancing through her bruised ribs, one boot scraping in a useless arc against the dust as his weight pressed her down like a final judgment.

Then the elbow came. The first caught the side of her temple with a dull, white flash. Her world fuzzed for a second, vision swimming. The second she blocked sloppily with her forearm, barely. The third skidded along her crown and tore a line through her scalp. Warm blood began to trickle down through her hairline and into her left eye, blurring her vision even more than the ringing in her skull.

"You're... the worst massage therapist I've ever hired," she hissed, voice hoarse and cracking from behind clenched teeth. Her lip was bleeding. Her cheek was bleeding. Her everything was bleeding.

But even pinned, even dazed, her hand crept downward. Slowly. A last desperate flick of fingers along the inside of her boot, slick, practiced. Hidden, but not forgotten. Her fingers closed around the hilt of the blade she'd smuggled in under the guise of a boot rivet. She didn't even think. She felt.

Zara's eyes caught on something, someone, just outside the ring. A man in a rust-colored cloak, trying too hard to look like he belonged. Square jaw, old Diarchic collar pin turned sideways on his jacket. Darmis Kale. A former port warden. She'd seen his face in an old Crucible report two months ago. Dead, allegedly. But there he was, laughing, eyes trained on her.

He wasn't watching the fight. He was watching her.

Son of a...

Zara wiggled free... just a bit to get enough leverage, yanked the knife free and in one smooth, bloodied motion flung it. Not at Vulpesen, but past him.

The blade flew like lightning before thunking deep into the base of Kale's throat. He choked. Gurgled. Collapsed backward into the stunned crowd.

There was a half-second of silence. Maybe two. Then...

Chaos.

Shouts. Screams. Someone fired a blaster in the air. The audience turned animal in an instant, panic mixed with opportunism. Zara took advantage.

The second Vulpesen's attention shifted, even slightly, her hand darted to his face, fingers jabbing toward his eyes, not to injure, but to distract. She twisted her body sideways, wriggling with the desperation of a wounded animal and the cunning of someone who knew exactly how to weaponize panic.

"Sorry, handsome," she rasped. "Your ground game's solid, but I've got a date with chaos."

With a grunt and an agonized twist, Zara broke free, barely. She rolled toward the edge of the pit, spitting blood and curses, her boots slipping in the churned red dirt. The crowd above had turned into a mob, bodies pressing toward exits, shoving and shouting.

She didn't wait.

Zara grabbed the edge of the pit and hauled herself up, one arm trembling, blood still dripping from her chin. She was going to be purple and swollen by morning, but she was moving.

And unless someone stopped her, she was getting out. The Thugs of Thule had a rat. Had.

And now they had one very angry, very injured Archon slipping through their chaos with every intention of burning this entire rotten operation to the ground.

Vulpesen​

 

[Vulpesen]

His retort was lost somewhere in his still burning lungs as he tried to suck in air. But he could see the shake in her eyes, the weakness in her body as each hit took its toll on her. As bad as he felt, he knew that she felt worse. Then he felt it, a tingle in the back of his mind. A shift in the force like a ripple in a lake. Danger beyond what he expected. His eyes darted to her hand just in time to see the flash of steel. He heard the shlik of steel sliding through flesh, the gurgle of blood in an airway. But he felt no pain. What's more, the sounds were distant. His head whipped around to see the collapsing victim of his opponent's blade.

Curiosity would have been an understatement but as he turned back to the Zara, he found himself growling at a sudden assault on his face, clawed hands raising to protect himself as she shoved him a way and squirmed her way to freedom. "What the hell!?" Months of planning, vetting, and surveillance to tell whether or not Vulpesen even could infiltrate and suddenly this woman was was nothing more than an intense if recreational sparring partner, had killed a man and was sewing absolute chaos into the den of thieves.

The mission dictated that he either detain her, which would surely lead to her death, or quietly facilitate her exit so that she could be removed as a factor. Yet somehow, Vulpesen found himself snatching a blaster from a nearby thug, and putting a bolt through the knee of one of her pursuers. Maybe it was respect for the fight. Maybe it was the pretty face. Maybe it was an old warrior getting caught up in the moment. in any case, Vulpesen now found himself in a room full of criminals with weapons rapidly being drawn and pointed at him and one other person. "Damn it!" He wheezed.

The first shots at him met empty air as he seemed to simply shrink out of existence, the zorren being replaced by a much smaller more agile creature which fluttered after woman. With a body that hadn't just been through the ringer and an agility to weave through the air, it was far easier to catch up to her and dodge the blaster bolts in this borrowed form, even if it did tip his hand to all who could see.

Zara Saga

 

[Zara Saga]

Zara didn't look back when she heard the first scream. She didn't flinch at the second. She didn't even pause at the third, which sounded suspiciously like someone catching fire, though that might have just been optimism.

Her entire body was a battlefield. Every breath rattled through broken pride and bruised ribs. Her legs moved like they belonged to someone else, someone less thoroughly pummeled. Her scalp throbbed, warm blood still streaking down into one eye, and she was pretty sure one of her earrings had fused with a clump of dried sweat and dirt on her neck.

But none of that mattered, because she had won. Not the fight, but the real one. Darmis Kale was dead. Her mission, technically, was a success. Except, of course, for the escaping alive part.

She was about to hit the back exit tunnel when she felt it, that ripple again. Not the Force exactly, but something just as uncanny. Just as stupidly convenient.

A blaster bolt zipped past her shoulder and punched through a support beam. She ducked, hissed, and pivoted mid-sprint, just in time to see one of her would-be attackers clutching a blown-out knee and screaming in a very satisfactory way.

And there he was.

Well. There was a bat. Or was it a bird? A very fancy bat? Large, agile, flying directly at her, weaving between bolts with frankly irritating elegance. But Zara had seen enough shapeshifting weirdos at the Crucible to recognize a power flex when she saw one.

"Oh you," she muttered, dragging herself behind a half-collapsed vendor stall as the crowd devolved into pure murder.

The bat fluttered low. Zara glared at it.

"Really?" she growled, barely able to lift her voice above the chaos. "You're a flying creature now?"

There was a crash. A fire ignited somewhere on the upper deck. Someone was chanting "Blood for the Wampa" in the background. Zara groaned and wiped her forehead, smearing blood with more blood.

"You helped me," she muttered. "Which is very confusing, because I was planning to put you in a shallow crater by morning."

She glanced up again, eyes flaring with sudden clarity, bratty, brilliant, and burning with momentum. A blaster clattered to the ground nearby, kicked loose in the frenzy. She scooped it up.

"Alright, Batboy. You get one chance. One. Try to be helpful and mysterious, or I will shoot you out of the air."

Then she was moving again, firing wildly, erratically, not to hit, but to clear a path. She darted through the exit corridor, not caring if he followed.

But she knew he would.

He wasn't done with her. Not yet.

And she wasn't done with any of this.

Vulpesen​

 

[Vulpesen]

Fluttering behind the stall, Vulpesen landed himself next to the woman, simply watching her with a tilted head as she espoused her confusion and her rules for conduct lest he find a bullet in his wing, or worse. There was no verbal response besides an indignant chitter as she mentioned shooting him out of the air. Of course, as she ran off, her suspicions were proven true. He couldn't lose her. She owed him. There was no way that she could state that the fight hadn't been worth her time, even if she ended it in the most chaotic possible. The simple truth was, she had yet to pay him his thirty credits! Or at least, that's what Vulpesen told himself as he wove through the hair of fire and death that was a room full of blaster firing mercenaries.

Another bolt sailed between his wings, heating his carapace. Too close. Certainly too close for someone who wasn't currently able to defend himself. Tucking into a roll, Vulpesen shifted himself back to his original form. Blaster lost in his previous shift, he was left with few weapons was a trio of men jumped forward with vibroblades and batons. "Thirty creds and a drink!" He shouted to the fleeing form of his opponent turned accomplice. Still trying to catch up to her, Vulpesen kept his fight short and simple. Claws found flesh, rending tendons and arteries asunder. Those who had thought it a good idea to enter a close quarters fight with a Zorren who was done holding back would find themselves alive, but perhaps wishing otherwise. Their wounds would take some time to heal, if they healed at all without urgent medical attention.

"Would you slow down! Not sure if you've noticed, but you've got me running through a hornets nest over here!" Snatching a few of the vibroknives from his fallen foes, he went back to his run, chasing after Zara Saga into the corridor.

 

[Zara Saga]

Zara sprinted like a woman possessed. Or concussed. Honestly, at this point, the line was thin and mostly theoretical.

She ducked under a swinging pipe, slid across an oil-slicked tarp, and leapt over a pair of gamblers too slow to move and too drunk to realize the night had turned into a war zone. Blaster bolts zinged around her like angry insects. She laughed, half-maniacally, half because her ribs hurt and she needed to drown that out with something.

Behind her, the sounds of mayhem crescendoed beautifully: men screaming, metal crashing, and one very agitated Zorren shouting something about thirty credits and a drink.

Zara twisted mid-sprint, called over her shoulder, "That's the point, darling! You're the distraction now!"

And with that parting gift, she vanished into a narrow crevice between two stacked freight containers, scaling them like a feral cat with a government salary and a personal grudge. She didn't stop until she reached the rocky ridge overlooking the mercenary camp. Her breaths came in jagged gasps, blood drying tacky on her skin, hair a matted halo of gold and red. But her hands were steady as she reached down, fingers slipping into the top of her other boot and retrieving a small, worn remote.

Days of playing pit-kitten. Of tolerating watered-down wine. Of inserting discreet charges beneath fuel cells, under key pylons, in carefully neglected supply caches. One wrong detonation and the whole place would've gone up too early.

But Zara Saga had always been precise when it counted.

She clicked the trigger.

A rumble rolled out beneath her boots, followed by a crack of flame. Then another. And another. A blossoming chain of fire tore through the Thugs of Thule's camp like judgment made manifest, each explosion synchronized to create not just damage, but panic. Tents folded inward. Weapons stores ignited. A landing pad buckled and collapsed into itself.

She stood there, battered and bleeding, backlit by orange firelight and smoke curling around her like a crown. Her blue eyes shimmered with tired triumph, watching the mercenary camp dissolve into chaos and ruin below her.

Mission accomplished, she thought. With minor, cosmetic injuries and a vague emotional vendetta pending.

She turned to go. Then stopped. Just for a moment, she scanned the burning camp again, not for enemies, but for him.

The stranger. The bat. The warrior who had slammed her into the dirt like a training dummy and then saved her life like some kind of inconveniently noble idiot.

Vulpesen​

 

[Vulpesen]

The mercenaries had become hesitant. The man who could claw and bite like an animal, felling men with his bare hands was something to be apprehensive about. The man who had vibroknives flying around him like angry wasps, shooting them out like bullets with a boomerang property was something to be kriffing terrified of. Round and round the blades went, creating a spray of blood in the air as they slashed arms, knees, ankles, everything that could debilitate without taking a life. "Great, you want a distraction." he grumbled, "You'll get a stars damned distraction!"

Golden eyes flashed bright and he hunkered down more behind the durasteel crate that had thus far kept him alive. The wind started to whip around him and clouds above darkened. "Here's your distraction!" Thunder roared with the Wilder as he shouted to the open air and lightning cracked from the sky. In that moment a fireball engulfed a nearby tent, and another took an arsenal. For his part, Vulpesen hurled lightning bolts at any clusters of mercenaries, taking preference for those that braved the fire and storm to fire an ill advised bolt in his direction.

"Friendly spar turns into a murder party. Murder party turns into a war zone because now things are exploding," he growled. Sure their fight had left a few bruises cuts and scrapes, but the lack of gratitude was truly astounding. Thankfully the old warrior had been in far worse scrapes than his present predicament. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small comlink. "Vixen, this is Trident. Prep the for exfil. Mission complete... in a fashion."

A moment later the device crackled to life. [Vixen copies, Trident. You good, Boss?]


Zara would find what she was looking for. Rising above the smoke and dust was not a bat, but a man. A man with large black wings, launching into the sky then gliding away from the carnage bellow with a series of lazy flaps of his wings. The blaster fire had died down as men focused on running for their lives or attempting to salvage what they could from the flames and wreckage. For Vulpesen that was the perfect time to make his own exit. While he'd have preferred to have removed the camp more surgically, he couldn't deny the affects of the sabotage. He did however have far more questions about the woman who'd managed to hold her own in their match.

Zara Saga

 

[Zara Saga]

Zara squinted into the smoke-choked sky, one blood-crusted hand raised to block the swirling cinders and ash. Her breath caught, not from the pain (though there was plenty of that still gnawing at her ribs), but from the unmistakable silhouette cutting through the haze.

Wings. Of course he had wings. Because why wouldn't he? Why wouldn't the brooding bat-man-warrior she just sucker-punched and fled from casually ascend over her smoldering chaos like some dramatic Force-blessed myth with perfect gliding form?

She watched him for a long beat, arms crossed over her torn, soot-stained jacket, lips pursed like someone who had been thoroughly outmatched and didn't appreciate the aesthetic implications of it.

"Ugh. That's so on brand," she muttered. "You couldn't just crawl away like a normal man with broken pride and mild internal bleeding? No. You had to fly off like a misunderstood opera character."

Still, she didn't shoot at him. That was something.

Instead, she turned and limped up the last rocky incline toward the dark shape of her ship tucked into a narrow gorge further up the mountain range. The Lady of Fire, an eye-roll-inducing name she chose entirely because she liked how pretentious it sounded when port authorities said it.

As she stepped onto the loading ramp, blood streaking her collarbone and boots clunking like broken percussion, Zara winced and muttered to herself, "Right. Medkit, caf, and a mirror. In that order."

Inside the cockpit, lights flickered to life. Systems hummed. She pressed the ignition with one shaking hand and flipped a few toggles with the other, teeth grit against a rib that was absolutely cracked. Maybe two.

Vulpesen​

 

[Vulpesen]

The Twilight Vixen, a YT-1930 painted in azure and black made its entrance as it sped in from the horizon, stopping just before the flying figure and turning around to present its opening loading ramp. With a flap of his wings, Vulpesen landed in the shop and strode in with the ramp closing behind him. "Umm... Boss, that's a lot of fire. You sure everything went good down there?"

"There were complications. Send down a team to snatch survivors if there are any. Also run a facial recognition. See if we can get a hit." Even as he spoke, Vulpesen worked his flesh, weaving the force to shift his facial structure and mask any blemishes with a veneer of illusion. The result was a near perfect mimicry of Zara Saga .

"And she is?"

"A complication. She owes me credits and a drink. Speaking of-"

"Ice chilling in the glass, Boss."

Vulpesen waved his thanks to the captain of his personal guard and headed towards the bar on board, dropping the illusion and returning his form to normal. As he walked, he placed a hand on his chest, still sore from the one hard strike, and with another slight glow to his eyes started to mend the damage done, channeling the force through his body to even close the angry read streaks along his legs. The woman had certainly left her mark and quite the impression. Whoever shew as, he was certain that she was no mere mercenary. Especially with their exit, there had to be some to her presence. Some large part of him suspected that it was a purpose very similar to his own.