First Reply Flowers of Dantooine

[Mythem Yittreas]

The shuttle's landing struts hissed as they bit into the soft loam of Dantooine's rolling plains, the massive shadow of its hull sliding over the ancient temple complex. Mythem rose from the pilot's seat, her golden eyes narrowing against the sudden glare of sunlight slicing through the clouds. Red hair, bound in a tight crown beneath a simple green band, spilled loose strands across her pale cheeks as she stepped into the open hatch.

The armor's servos whispered as she dropped to the grass, boots sinking slightly into the soft surface. The temple lay half a kilometer ahead, its broken white-stone spires rising from the hillside like shattered teeth. Craters pocked the surrounding meadows, old orbital scars or ancient excavations, she neither knew nor cared.

Vines choked the outer walls; cracked staircases climbed to fractured platforms where wind moaned through empty archways. Mythem's lips curved into a thin, predatory smile. Somewhere inside waited forgotten holocrons, shattered lightsaber crystals, or perhaps the lingering echo of a long-dead Jedi.

She had not come for sightseeing as her feet carried her forward towards one of the entrances with practiced silence.

The Force coiled around her like a living shadow, tendrils of dark energy probing every inch of ground. Her golden gaze swept the path: no obvious tripwires, no fresh footprints in the dust. Yet she trusted nothing. One gloved hand rose, fingers splayed, and she sent a gentle pulse of telekinetic pressure ahead.

A faint click answered, stone shifted beneath invisible weight.

Mythem froze.

A pressure plate, cleverly disguised as a fallen lintel fragment, had nearly triggered. She circled wide, boots skirting the trap, and felt the faint residue of old Jedi safeguards still humming in the stone.

 

[Braze]

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Braze had been busy here, pouring his time into passion projects; chief among them was the work of sourcing materials and laying plans to restore the Dantooine temple, as well as a training vault he meant to establish elsewhere nearby on the planet. Even so, he became faintly aware of another Force-user moving through the area; a presence that brushed against his senses and pulled his attention away from the work. Conservation and rebuilding took time for a lone Jedi, and curiosity soon won out. After making certain his two younglings were safe aboard the ship, he went to see who was prowling about the temple. He did not need another incident like the one from a few nights ago.

From a distance, he spotted the redhead and watched her from the shelter of broken stone and shadows, his presence drawn tight and quiet, smoothed over until it left little trace. The wind carried low across the ruins, stirring loose ash and whispering through fractured columns muffling the sounds of his footsteps, while pale light settled over the worn stone.

Why were the Sith venturing to Dantooine…?

Braze stepped out at last, boots finding steady ground as he let his presence rise just enough to be felt. His gaze settled on her, calm and curious, though weighing without pressing.

“So… are you exploring, trespassing, or merely lost?”

 

[Mythem Yittreas]

Mythem's hand lingered close to her lightsaber hilt, the weapon partially ignited with a low, menacing hum as her golden eyes narrowed at the sight of Braze stepping out from the temple that was once believed to be deserted. His posture exuded the essence of an Echani, a species of warriors known for their martial arts prowess.

They are trained to strike at a moment's notice by interpreting their opponent's body language. She felt the warning like a cold blade against her spine. One twitch of her shoulder, one shift in balance, and he would already know her intent, read it in the subtle tension of her stance, the angle of her jaw, the way her fingers hovered near the hilt.

A look of caution was visible on her face as she steadied herself on the grassy ground beneath her boots. The dark side seemed to coil tighter around her, reaching out as if to sense his presence. The wind howled through the broken white-stone spires above, stirring the vines that strangled the ancient walls and sending dust swirling across the vine-covered atrium.

Sunlight pierced through the openings in the shattered ceiling, casting sharp golden rays over Dantooine's undulating plains in the distance. As she paused to reflect, remembering that this planet was meant to be sparsely populated, so she was not expecting company, especially not one that could hinder her exploration.

She kept her voice low, edged with dark amusement that carried clearly through the ruined courtyard.

"Exploring," she answered, lips curving into a thin, predatory smile. "Though the weak would call it trespassing. These stones hold secrets the Jedi abandoned long ago. I've come to claim what belongs to the Dark Lords." Her golden eyes never left his, weighing every micro-shift in his posture for signs of movement.

 

[Braze]

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Braze regarded her with that cold jade stare, though it was devoid of aggression and malice. His gaze was intense, unabashedly fixed on the towering woman with curiosity as he drank in the image of her form from head to toe, doing exactly what she had expected of him. Although he was nearly an entire foot shorter than she was, his posture seemed relaxed.

"Then you're a woman after my own heart," he mused, reminded of how often he had absconded from field trips to stumble upon Sith tombs and satiate his voracious appetite for adventure.

"To what end do you hope to use such secrets, should you unearth them? Do you not know that the ways of the Jedi and the Sith are one and the same? The Sith are but wayward Jedi, turned from the path and led astray by their own hunger for power, pride, or vanity…"

 

[Mythem Yittreas]

Mythem let out a soft chuckle, a sound laced with a dark amusement that never truly reached her unblinking stare. She paused for a moment, her eyes scanning through Braze towards the structure beyond, searching for any carvings to document later should she need to abandon her quest for artifacts within.

One gloved finger tapped lightly against the hilt of her still-half-ignited lightsaber, as if she were measuring the distance between them and calculating every potential first strike he might attempt. Her weight subtly shifted onto her back foot, the heel of her boot grinding a small divot into the moss-covered stone; the movement was nearly imperceptible, yet it conveyed a readiness to defend herself if the need arose as the boy's statements crossed her mind.

"Oh, I won't deny it," she said after some careful consideration, her tone shifting to a more softer edge. "The Sith are wayward Jedi from a certain point of view." She took another step forward, her stance relaxed yet perfectly poised, knees slightly bent as if ready to leap sideways or backward at a moment's notice.

Her eyes darted briefly to the cracked pillars beside him before returning to his face, interpreting the relaxed posture of his shoulders, even as her own jaw clenched with suppressed desire. "However, you overlook the most crucial truth of all." She halted about eight meters away, close enough to engage in conversation, yet far enough that any sudden attack would still grant her a valuable half-second to respond.

Her chin rose slightly, her eyes narrowing with icy determination as her free hand fell to rest lightly on her hip, her fingers tapping once again in contemplation. The dark side swirled visibly around her now, a subtle shimmer of shadow that disturbed the dust at her feet.

"The Jedi created the Sith the moment they became complacent. It was when they shut their minds to alternative uses of the Force, perceiving this power as a tool for the greater good rather than empowering the select few to rule the galaxy. The Sith understand that the force is an uncaring deity so we are not wayward in the traditional sense, merely following its will." Her breathing remained steady, chest rising and falling in deliberate rhythm, each inhale drawing power inward as she studied the subtle play of sunlight across his white hair as her expression changed to a noticeable frown.

 

[Braze]

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Braze watched her carefully as she started to advance though he made no effort to move from where he stood.

"Sith propaganda at its finest," Braze chirped simply. "Plenty of dangerous things can be useful. That does not make them fit for careless hands. Fire can cook food and warm a home… or burn it down, or even... consume an entire ecosystem. That is why the foolish are not trusted to play with it. The Sith sell a beautiful lie of freedom, painting the rules the Jedi set forth as oppression… all while enslaving those desperate enough to buy into their promises of power, only to use them to further their own gain...

The truth of it all is always the same...Those who seek power to subjugate others fear a world where they are not the ones in control.

You say the Jedi created the Sith..? Do we then blame the parent when an errant child refuses good counsel? They still reach for the embers, because they do not yet know better… despite the wisdom freely offered to them.

A Jedi serves the will of the Force. It is the way of the Sith to twist that will in to a perversion, to claim master over it, and to chain it to their own ambition. They bend the Force to seize control, wearing its power like a crown and call that freedom."

He slowly crossed one foot over the other as he moved starting to circle around her in time with her own steps.

"You're restless. Even now, you hunger for violence, fearing what I might do to you when I have given no threat. That is the sickness of the dark side. Left unchecked, it clouds judgment, feeding paranoia until it closes its grip around those who lean upon it drawing its users further into a prison of their own making…"

He gently drew the hilt from behind his back and held it out to the side. The blade flared to life in a flood of chalcedony-teal light as he rolled it through a sharp flourish, then settled into a Makashi saber salute .

"If violence is the only language you mean to speak… then so be it. Let the Force judge which of us speaks truth."

 

[Mythem Yittreas]

Mythem remained utterly still as Braze began circling her with a form only an Echani had mastered. Her golden eyes followed his every movement with unusual focus, never once blinking as his chalcedony-teal blade painted soft glowing arcs through the dusty air. One gloved finger continued its slow, rhythmic tapping against the curved hilt of her partially ignited saber a deliberate tell of her racing thoughts.

She was measuring him. Letting his words wash over her while she dissected every sentence for weakness. Her weight shifted again, boots pressing deeper into the moss-covered flagstones as she turned in place to keep him centered in her vision. A faint crease formed between her brows, and her jaw tightened with growing irritation.

She exhaled through her nose, slow and controlled, while her free hand flexed at her side, fingers curling and uncurling as if testing the weight of the air itself. The dark side responded to her mood, thickening around her shoulders like a mantle of living shadow.

When Braze finally finished and settled into his elegant Makashi salute, her lips peeled back into a sharp, humorless smile. She tilted her head slightly, red strands of hair sliding across her pale cheek as she regarded him with open disdain, her shoulders rolling once in a slow, dismissive shrug that betrayed exactly how little his philosophy had moved her.

"How touching," she drawled, her voice low and laced with mockery that cut through the wind pouring from the broken spires. "Another self-righteous sermon on the mound. Fire and children and freedom… I've heard it all before. You Jedi truly never tire of listening to your own voices, do you? Do spare me the lecture, and lets get down to business."

In a single fluid motion, her thumb pressed the activation stud fully. The curved lightsaber howled to life with a vicious snap-hiss, birthing a brilliant, crackling orange blade that illuminated the grass beneath her feet. It was clear that this weapon did not belong to her but instead had been stolen from an Imperial Knight of the former New Imperial Order.

She offered a bow in mutual respect, before adopting the form known as the Medium style for its offensive and defensive capabilities. The orange glow of the Incineration crystal was clearly visible as the lightsaber blade moved in a high-aggressive strike on his left side in order to test how his Makashi would hold up against an unusual stance.

 

[Braze]

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Meeting her strength for strength would be a poor choice, that much Braze was certain of. He knew the form she was using; he had trained in it on occasion, and had practiced alongside more than a few Jedi within the New Jedi Order's sect. He did not so much stop to analyze the maneuver as he let his honed reflexes take over in natural, idiomatic motion. With a short dash, he stepped swiftly toward her, flourishing his blade once through the motion to meet hers in passing along the upper edge. The contact came with a small downward hit, one that leaned into her own momentum, yet carried just enough angle to guide her blade off the center line as he moved toward the outside of her sword arm in passing.

Light and precise, was his method of attack. After the barest touch of contact, he twisted the hilt into a reverse grip, drawing the heated blade along with him as both guard and threat, positioned to scrape across her outer sword arm should it be left unprotected. The motion stayed smooth and seamless before he rolled the hilt back into a forward grip once more, one foot pivoting into a sliding crescent as he turned to face her flank.

 

[Mythem Yittreas]

Mythem's golden eyes tracked Braze pivot to her flank with razor focus. Rather than pursuing the motion, her wrist turned in a controlled arc, pulling the curved orange blade back close to her body to utilize the protection provided by the Medium style to knock away the attempted attack on her sword arm.

She turned gracefully on the ball of her back foot, her boots softly scraping against the mossy stone as she adjusted her position to keep him in her sight. With her knees slightly bent and shoulders both relaxed and poised, she prepared to move sideways or pull back at a moment's notice.

A subtle line appeared between her brows, her jaw tensing as red locks of hair brushed against her fair cheek. Her chest rose and fell in measured breaths, each one pulling the dark side deeper into her body to empower her strikes. Another controlled half-step carried her in a small circle, boots whispering over tangled roots while her free hand flexed once at her side before settling lightly on her hip. Fingers drummed a single thoughtful beat as she calculated his next angle of approach.

Now, she decided.

In one burst, Mythem moved a single measured step, close enough to threaten without overcommitting. Her curved orange blade snapped upward in a compact diagonal slash aimed at Braze's left shoulder and collar line, the hilt staying locked tight to her core so the strike never fully extended.

 

[Braze]

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The smaller of the two combatants suddenly stepped back, yielding ground to her. Her attack had been well-constructed, disciplined, and above all… dangerous.

She was skilled at adapting in the midst of combat. That alone set her apart. It was excellent to see, and rarer still to find. She was not some typical boorish, overpowering sort of opponent, but something far more uncommon, and far more lethally refined. She thought while she fought. She adjusted, measured, sought leverage, shifted the board beneath their feet even as the exchange unfolded.

For a fleeting instant, Braze looked almost stunned by it from sheer fascination.

The expression that touched his face did not belong there, not on a Jedi who spoke so often of peace, not on one whose voice could so often settle into calm instruction and measured grace. Yet it came anyway: a smile slipping across his features in a manner just shy of manic, small at first, then a shade too pleased and almost too alive. His eyes widened slightly, and there was something queer in that restrained excitement, something that sat strangely against the image he so often gave the world.

To him, this was not the general read of a crude struggle. It was movement more akin to a beautiful language, displayed as thought made physical… a game of tag played with lethal precision in a match of the mind carried through footwork, angle, timing, and careful restraint. Moving meditation becoming that of a living puzzle, and she had just answered him with a line so elegant, so immediate, and so intelligently placed that he watched it a breath too long.

Her blade glided past and sang along the edge of his sleeve and dug through his collar, shearing fabric and taking with it a few pale strands of starlight-colored hair as it passed.... He scarcely seemed to mind the near death experience.

There was a fine tremor in his jade gaze, subtle at first glance, though constant once seen. His pale green eyes never wholly settled as he watched her in unabashed earnest interest; they moved in tiny, involuntary corrections, drinking in more information than seemed natural, gathering vast amounts of visual detail all at once… her foot placement, the set of her shoulders, the path of her recovery, the choices still waiting inside her posture. He wanted to see more, and better still he wanted to know what she would do next.

Braze gave another step as though the near miss had nearly carried him off balance, his body yielding with what looked like a belated, imperfect recovery owed to poor foot work getting tripped up. The opening left at his ribs seemed clean, almost carelessly so.

The truth of the matter was it was a risky yet deceptive invitation to bait her in to attacking right there.

His gaze however remained transfixed on her and bright with that same faintly unhinged delight, waiting to see whether she would take what he appeared to offer.

 

[Mythem Yittreas]

Mythem's eyes were sharp, catching every moment of the conveniently staged stumble as it happened. A clever little trap, she mused internally, her expression shifting to reflect the way her shoulders relaxed, as if the opportunity had lured her in and she had fallen for the ruse.

Her orange blade darted forward in a quick, probing jab aimed at the visible opening near his ribs, appearing almost eager, with the hilt still positioned around her waist to ensure the strike remained tight and easily recoverable in case Braze had a surprise in store for her.

At that very moment, her other hand, concealed by the warm orange light and the forward tilt of her body, suddenly opened.

A concentrated Force push formed in her palm, then shot forward, unseen and silent except for its blue outline, aiming to potentially throw him off balance and vulnerable to another attack should she choose to make one. The push was small, precise, and viciously timed to exploit his own deliberate imbalance.

Mythem was already snapping her saber back to center guard before he could even begin to possibly fall, maintaining her current stance of caution as her red hair whipped across her cheek from the sudden motion, her breathing never faltering despite the circumstance she found herself in.

 

[Braze]

Tags: Mythem Yittreas ​

The small Echani had been watching her blade, reading the line of her body, only for that hidden push to catch him at exactly the wrong instant. He had half anticipated the probing thrust, enough to twist with it and spare himself the worst of its line… but the precise Force push shattered the elegant answer he had been hoping to set into motion, forcing him into something far uglier, and far more improvised.

Braze was hurled backward by the force of it, his pale form cast through the air before a few precise bursts of Force Wind broke across his path. The small bursts failed to halt the momentum so much as they correct it, righting his posture mid-flight and sparing him a complete loss of control.

Even so, there had been little time to judge the angle of his landing. His boots struck poorly, then tore across the moss-slick stone, sending him skidding hard over the ruined floor. He folded low into the slide, one hand dropping to the ground and scraping harshly across the rough old stone in search of further purchase. Moss smeared beneath his palm; jagged grit bit into skin beneath his nails as he fought to carve some measure of control from the wild drag of his own momentum.

 

[Mythem Yittreas]

Mythem denied him the chance to recover, while Braze scraped the grit from the temple floor with his hand.

She was swiftly closing the gap to capitalize on the moment, the orange glow of her blade casting elongated shadows on the shattered pillars and the tiny fissures in the restored temple's corridors as she approached quickly to press her attack against the Jedi.

Transitioning from her cautious approach to a sequence of swift, upward slashes.

Each blow aimed to keep him on the defensive and close to the ground, attempting to trap him against the moss-covered stone he was trying to navigate. Her saber sliced through the air with a distinct hum each time it passed through the spot where his head or shoulders had just been moments before.

"You do enjoy the taste of dirt, don't you." Mythem mocked in a softer tone of voice than previously in an effort to unnerve him. She could feel the physical exertion of her own movement weighing her down from truly finishing the engagement, likely due to the heavy protective armor surrounding her.

The Echani was efficient in moving away from her strikes but she never overcommitted, when her blade missed she simply flowed with the motion to make up lost ground. She used the momentum of the missed strike to snap her hilt upward, aiming a heavy durasteel pommel strike toward his jaw.

 

[Braze]

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Still bent low from the skid, Braze barely had time to gather himself before Mythem was upon him again, her orange blade rising in swift, punishing arcs that kept him pressed near the ground and robbed him of any clean chance to stand. Stone grated beneath his palm as he dragged it across the ruined floor, searching for purchase while her saber hissed past his head and shoulders in merciless succession.

Then her pommel came down like a judge’s gavel, looking to crack its verdict across his jaw~

Braze brought his own hilt up in a tight, sudden inelegant motion, not so much meeting the strike as spoiling it, just enough to knock its line awry before it could find his jaw cleanly. The near impact still jolted through his arm, but by then his other hand had already found what it needed. His palm bit harder into the rough stone, his body twisting sharply around that point of contact as one boot carved through moss and gritty, slippery, sludge. Instead of remaining pinned under where she had him, he slipped off her line in a low, turning pivot that forced her to follow and reorient if she meant to keep him pinned.

"You're making a rather committed, and eager effort to get me onto my knees… I may have to revisit the meaning of manhandling."

Each short little step that followed was small, and measured to be intentionally mean in the efficiency of it all; a half-step here, or a narrow turn there, his recovery dissolving into footwork as he gave her just enough ground to keep her chasing him like a game of tag. Armor certainly had its virtues, but pursuit always asked its price, and Braze meant to collect it a little at a time in infuriatingly small dribbles. He wanted to Let her keep advancing upon him and kept to guide her in to keep spending herself in every turn to hold the advantage she had won.

And all the while, he wore that queer expression… that small, ill-placed smile, far too pleased by this bout.

For an instant, she had driven him hard and cleanly into a corner, each passing strike cutting away another path until escape had become a matter of inches. His back foot met the wall behind him and stalled there, with nowhere left to slide, robbed of the space he had been reaching for. His head started to turn, almost drawn toward whatever old stone he had just collided with, but he caught himself at once and snapped his gaze back to her, unwilling to surrender even a glance.

His shoulders drew in wards as his posture a turned cramped, the line of his retreat now pressed firmly under strain. Another opening seemed to threaten at the edge of his frame, narrow and fleeting right there if she was quick enough to seize it.

 

[Mythem Yittreas]

The hilts of their lightsabers collided, as Mythem's attack went astray, yet she could sense that her relentless pressure was having an effect on the Echani Jedi in front of her. Her gaze narrowed in disdain, as her orange blade narrowly missed slicing across his palm, failing to make contact as Braze turned to evade it and made a hasty withdraw.

A look of revulsion appeared on her face at the very thought of what Braze was suggesting with the idea of manhandling. "Do not worry, tiny man. I have no desire for your repulsive Echani genes to blend with my own." Mythem's tone was a deep, menacing whisper as she moved into the area he had just left, her boots crushing the temple dust into the stone.

She offered him no opportunity to catch his breath or regain his balance. Rather than executing a broad, tiring swing, she flicked her wrist, unleashing a flurry of quick, punishing jabs aimed at his midsection. Each strike was precise and deliberate, intended to keep his hilt occupied and force him into the corner.

When he tried to pivot again, seeking another low opening, Mythem didn't follow the feint. She planted her lead foot and threw a heavy, front-kick aimed straight for his hip. It wasn't a move of martial elegance, but one of raw utility, a strike meant to bruise bone and halt his lateral movement.

 

[Braze]

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He had meant to pull out of the corner he was backed in to, but her foot caught him at the hip and drove him back into the temple wall. Braze barely managed a minor use of Soft to Solid before impact, just enough to keep the collision from breaking his small frame outright. Even so, the force of it jarred through the old stone behind him, loosing dust and grit in a dry scatter as the structure seemed to groan beneath the blow.

The stone cracked behind him, and Braze winced at the sudden surge of pain that flooded through his frame. He braced only for a breath as moved to action despite the pain. With the wall at his back as a springboard, he kicked off sailing upwards and sent his saber crashing down in a hard overhead Ataru arc, seeking her blade in a bright, violent meeting of light. He had no intention of lingering there; the bind itself was only another surface to work from, serving as a second point of contact from which he could push away and launch himself on wards through the air. He landed several meters back and staggered a few steps as his body adjusted to the pain that rattled through his body.

He stood up straight and leveled his saber out point at her, "You are making an awful mess of my restoration efforts… I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to take your vandalism elsewhere." He warned her in a chiding tone as if scolding some ill-behaved teen with a can of spray-paint.

 

[Mythem Yittreas]

Her lips curved into a triumphant smile as Braze was sent crashing through the wall. But her movement of victory was short-lived as in an instant his lightsaber descended in a swift Ataru strike, moving past her defenses and leaving a deep stinging gash across her face, an injury that would scar her but not disfigure her entirely.

"Little brat!" Mythem bellowed, her frustration bubbling beneath the surface. She wanted nothing more than to charge after him, to reclaim the momentum, but the weight of her armor slowed her down, and the rapid beat of her heart against her ribs served as a stern reminder. Engaging an agile opponent like him without careful consideration could drain her strength with little hope of reward.

As Braze stumbled backward, she seized the opportunity to catch her breath, her orange blade dipping perilously close to the charred stone floor. Her piercing golden eyes observed his faltering recovery with curiosity, weighing her own waning stamina against his. His saber now trained on her, he hurled a jab about his restoration efforts.

"Restoration?" Mythem repeated, her voice dry and devoid of the previous snarl. She took a slow, deliberate step back, widening her stance to a more sustainable defensive posture. Her gaze swept over the cracked pillar and the fresh carbon scoring she had carved into the ancient walls.

"If this is the best restoration work you can do, don't quit your day job," she snapped, the insult landing with the weight of an objective fact. She didn't reset her guard completely, instead opting for a loose, inviting grip on her hilt. She was baiting him now, letting the silence of the temple stretch between them.

 

[Braze]

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Braze had expected her guard to rise higher…

He had not truly meant to mark her face in such a way… yet this was the end toward which combat so often strained when blades were allowed to keep speaking where words could not prevail. Injury was the language waiting beneath every exchange, whether either of them welcomed it or not.

His mouth tightened at her words. There was little point in trying to explain restoration to someone who so clearly viewed age, memory, and sacred architecture as little more than scenery to be broken through on the way toward something else. The desire to preserve the original character of a place, to mend what time and violence had damaged without gutting the spirit that still clung to its bones, was not a lesson likely to find purchase in her. Such a lecture would fall on deaf ears.

And yet, the irony of it was almost too perfect; she had left a scar upon the temple… and now bore a scar of her own.

Pain still rattled through his hip from where she had driven him back into the wall, but it scarcely dulled the bright little look that had taken hold of his features. His jade eyes fixed on her anew, not on the blood alone, but on that step back… that subtle concession to distance, rhythm, and cost. She was thinking now… measuring now. No longer was she simply pressing to overwhelm, but reading.

That pleased him far more than the line he had left upon her ever could.

"This place has stood longer than either of us," Braze said, his voice low, though carrying easily through the ruined corridor. "You chose your actions carelessly and left a scar upon these ancient grounds… and now you bristle when the cost returns to you in kind. Let your face remind you what careless hands earn."

The chalcedony blade turned once through his fingers in a neat, controlled motion before settling again, its light washing soft blue-green across the dust and fractured stone between them. His posture eased, and there was something almost serene in the way he held himself even now, with that queer little smile still lingering where it had no business being.

"Very good," he went on, and that note of approval in his voice was perhaps more unsettling than any open mockery might have been. "Rage less, read more. An opponent is easiest to read when rage narrows their vision and anger begins choosing for them."

He spoke earnestly, as though he were giving saber instruction to a student who had noticed their fault and corrected it. He did not rush her after that.

Instead, the smaller Echani resumed his advance in slow, languid steps, light and deliberately sure-footed despite the pain still threaded through his frame. Each movement remained economical, every angle chosen with care as he began to circle once more, guiding rather than chasing, watching the set of her shoulders, the line of her jaw, the shape of her recovery with that same unnerving, almost scholarly hunger. More than anything, he selfishly wanted to see what she would become now that the exchange had pivoted toward drawing first blood.

And, perhaps more importantly… he wanted to see whether she had truly learned anything at all. Despite himself, he offered stern words as the playful edge faded from his tone.

"Take what remains of your pride and leave. You have been warned once already. I advise you not to mistake my restraint for weakness a second time… or I will answer your challenge far less gently."

 

[Mythem Yittreas]

Mythem's gloved hand rose, her fingers tracing the raw, cauterized line across her cheek. The physical pain was secondary to the sheer insult of his statement. To be lectured by an Echani in a shoddily built temple of his own design was the last thing she desired, the bitterness far outweighing the scent of her own burned skin.

Rather than allowing the rage to cloud her vision as it had before, she channeled it inwardly, harnessing the power of the dark side of the Force, which drew its strength from pain. "If you think a mere scar will drive me back like a frightened pup, you're sorely mistaken," she declared, her venomous words echoing down the corridor.

Mythem's approach was deceptive, her orange blade humming in short, restless circles. As she reached the edge of his reach, she avoided a single, high-powered strike, instead testing his guard with a flurry of light, flickering stabs that lacked lethal intent but forced him to keep his blade moving in a constant, defensive dance.

Without a change in her expression or a shift in her breathing, she altered the weight of the assault. Mid-flick, she stepped deep into Braze circle and transformed a feather-light feint into a crushing, two-handed overhead chop. The sheer physical force of the change was designed to jar his wrists, but as soon as their blades sparked in a bind, she collapsed the tension.