Duel Galactic Kaggath Round 2: Antar vs Whottoomuz Chantin

[Mauve]

x

Molten rock covered the arena floor, churning under the pressure of its own heat. The dying corpse of the Wroyshr tree lit up with flame, descending steadily as its base burned away. Great branches broke away and were quickly consumed by the lava. As it devoured the last remnants of the first round’s environment, the second round’s stage took shape.

Platforms were scattered throughout the arena. They ranged from small ones which could barely hold one person to larger ones that evoked small duelling rings. Dozens of them floated at various heights, their machinery shielded against the heat from below.

Together, they formed the battleground for this round: a precarious battle above all-consuming lava with limited space to stand on.

Those who fell would be incinerated by the lava and forgotten in a tomb of molten rock.

The announcer’s voice cut through the excited chatter of the crowds as the combatants were ferried into the arena on small, floating platforms: “In remembrance of the Battle of Mustafar, fought by the First Order and the Galactic Alliance many decades ago, we present to you the second battlefield of the Kaggath!”

“Welcoooome to ROUND TWO of the GALACTIC KAGGATH!”

“BEHOLD ANTAR, THE ENDURING. CHAMPION OF THE BLACK SUN. WILL HE BE THE ONLY CHALLENGER TO BE DEFEATED TWICE?”

“AAAAND FACING OFF FROM HIM ON THE PLATFORMS - THE ONE AND ONLY, THE MAGNIFICENT, THE MAGNANIMOUS, THE WHOoooOOOTTOOOMUZZZ CHANTIN!”


Thirty minutes after the chaos and carnage of round one. Five minutes after the sudden announcement of a bounty that ripped through the arena like wildfire. The second round… began.

“CHALLENGERS! BEGIN!”

Antar | Whottoomuzz Chantin

 

[Whottoomuzz Chantin]

Spoiler: Whottoomuzz Chantin Combat Loadout

Shyran Dol: Chantin Heirloom Armor

Melee Weapons
• MagnaGuard Electrostaff
• ZX Wrist Flamethrower
• Double-Bladed Vibrosword
• Electrowhip

Ranged Weapons
• DLT-19 Heavy Blaster Rifle
• A280 Blaster Rifle
• Ion Rifle

Heavy Weapons
• E-Web Heavy Repeating Blaster
• RPS-6 Rocket Launcher
• Personal Energy Shield

Gadgets & Tools
• Life-Form Scanner
• Scomp Link
• Jetpack
• Stealth Field Generator
• Electro-Grappling Line

️ Deployables
• Probe Droid
• “Gonk Bomb” (Modified GNK Droid)
• Portable Energy Shield Projector

Consumables
• Stimpack
• Power Cells
• Smoke Grenade
• Ion Grenade
• Thermal Detonator
• Fragmentation Grenade

The floating platform bearing Whottoomuzz rose slow — as if gravity itself feared to rush him.

Beneath, the lava churned like a living furnace. Branches hissed as they were swallowed by heat, the scent of burning flora rising with the smoke.
And then he came into view.

Six tons of war-forged Hutt, encased in phrik and Voidstone. Electrum-trimmed armor shifting as it locked into place — the helm of Shyran Dol crowning his massive form. A larger than life idol of wrath carved from ancient destiny.

The crowd roared.
He didn’t wave.

The last warrior of Varl raised a single, hand to the gathered masses and flexed the clawed fingers of the gauntlet once — deliberate, the warlord reborn testing the air before slaughter.

"Mi kee cay uba ku hutteeska, an tee bu noleeya bai mi."

Then silence.
His platform halted. Mid-arena. Perfect line of sight to Antar.

He turned his body slightly, presenting no clean silhouette — the stance of someone who had survived too many wars to pretend this was sport.

Not a word for Antar yet, No pre match boasting. This was not a mere duel. It was a fight to the death, the flickering light of the Pulsar raging against the engulfing darkness of the Black Sun.
There would be time for words.

But first, he would lay his eye upon the other champion, sponsored by cowards and traitors.

He almost felt pity for the opponent. Antar would be praying the price of other's actions. The Hutt's retribution would not show pity.

Spoiler: Combat Summary — Round 2 Post #1/24

• Defensive Actions: None yet; passive arrival.
• Offensive Actions: None initiated; maintaining etiquette.
• Mobility / Positioning: Deployed onto a stable mid-sized central platform. Maintains altitude, upright posture.
• Armor / Gear Use: Full Shyran Dol armor engaged; helmet sealed; repulsors primed but unused. Voidstone field active (passive).
• Damage Taken: None.
• Status: Fresh. Focused. Reading the crowd and his opponent.

Antar​

 

[Antar]

Whottoomuzz Chantin

Equipment: Lightsaber || Personal Energy Shield || Shockmitts || Devaronian blood-poison dagger || Armor (Image) || VT disruptor pistol || Mass-nulling clip || Gravity snare || A positive attitude​

---

The platform carrying the Black Sun's champion slowly glides across the arena, and Antar is deep in contemplation enhanced by the strong presence of the Force within the arena. What occupies his thoughts is the powerful essence engraved within the armor presented to him not half an hour earlier. Just as he perceives the future, so does he with the past as memories of conquest and bloodshed race through his mind. It is a remembrance that would have laid dormant within the armor were it not for the Force-rich environment. As if it were a second skin he wears the armor comfortably and as it yearns to again enter into battle and so too does Antar share that sentiment.

Antar hears the platform's repulsors hum a new tune as it lowers him to the middle of the arena. Clad in all black layers, Antar descends to meet with Whatto like a specter. His garb, worn over the armor's layered black scales, flap as a hot breeze blows past him. Holstered to his left thigh is the disruptor. Sheathed in the small of his back is the poisoned dagger. The rest of his gear is attached to his belt. Antar clenches his empty hands into fists a couple of times and is satisfied with how the shockmitts fit. The bitter stench of sulfur burns his nostrils and he can hear the loud crackling of Wroshyr bark beneath him.

He regards the armored behemoth across from him with a wry smile. Well, look who was primed and ready to go. Antar summons his lightsaber into his right hand and he holds it pointed down. It ignites with a yellow blade.

Well, here we go. Time to endure.

 

[Whottoomuzz Chantin]

Shyran Dol: Chantin Heirloom Armor

Spoiler: Loadout

Melee Weapons
•MagnaGuard Electrostaff – Charged melee weapon effective against Force-users
•ZX Wrist Flamethrower – Cone of high-heat fire for crowd control
•Double-Bladed Vibrosword – Heavy melee weapon for cleaving and sweeping
•Lirka's Electrowhip
Ranged Weapons
• DLT-19 Heavy Blaster Rifle – Suppressive long-range firepower
• A280 Blaster Rifle – Armor-piercing rifle for general infantry use
• Ion Rifle – Disables electronics, droids, and shields
Heavy Weapons
• E-Web Heavy Repeating Blaster – Tripod-mounted anti-infantry cannon
• RPS-6 Rocket Launcher – Homing, high-yield warheads
• Personal Energy Shield – Wearable generator for temporary defense
Gadgets & Tools
• Life-Form Scanner – Detects biological entities through walls
• Scomp Link – Terminal hacking tool
• Jetpack – Short-range vertical mobility
• Stealth Field Generator – Temporary active camouflage
• Electro-Grappling Line – Tether that stuns and restrains
️ Deployables
• Probe Droid – Recon and support drone
• “Gonk Bomb” (Modified GNK Droid) – Walking explosive payload
• Portable Energy Shield Projector – Ground-deployed stationary defense field
Consumables
• Stimpack – Emergency healing injection
• Power Cells – Refuels weapons and gadgets
• Smoke Grenade – Obscures line of sight
• Ion Grenade – Disables droids and shields
• Thermal Detonator – Devastating high-yield explosive
• Fragmentation Grenade – Anti-personnel shrapnel blast

The Force, once vibrant in the arena, began to dim immediately under the oppressive field of the Voidstone in Shyran Dol.

By the time the distance closed to just under one hundred meters, Antar would feel it: a creeping deadness pressing in around his senses. Merely the absence—an unnatural calm. The Voidstone woven through Shyran Dol drank hungrily, dulling the edge of the Force like rust on a blade. The Force would not guide him here so readily here. No clarity. Only his own volition. Only pain.

And it came quickly.
There was no war cry, no boasts. There was no hesitation.
Whottoomuzz simply fired.

The shoulder-mounted rocket launched train targeting the place Antar stood – to destabilize the platform at the very least, assuming Antar was quick enough to escape the blast, that is. The warhead arced with stabilizers flaring, if Antar leapt or dodged, the platform behind him would be its collateral. Fire would bloom somewhere either way.

Before the shockwave even reached him, Whottoomuzz turned—cold and deliberate—and swung his bulk toward the right.

His heavy repeating blaster spun up. Opposite should mounted turret roared to life.

The target wasn’t Antar.

It was the sky.

A drone, or courier droid, buzzed into view on the far right perimeter, blinking lights and a glimmering canister beneath it. A care package from a “sponsor,” no doubt.

He shot it down.

The blast shredded the droid mid-air. It spiraled downward and struck the lava with a splat—the canister rupturing as its contents sizzled and sank beneath the molten waves.
Whottomuzz's message was clear.

No help was coming.

"Uba jeejee cahkee da nopa, an mi cah chuba goba to bu faranta.”

Whottoomuzz remained planted—still central, but now slithering forward to the central platform. His silhouette churned in the heat-haze, still too large, too real.

And soon, too close.

Spoiler: Combat Summary — Round 2 Post #2/24

• Defensive Actions: Passive. Platform stabilized. Voidstone field suppressing Force sensitivity in radius (100m).
• Offensive Actions: Shoulder-mounted RPS-6 rocket fired directly at Antar (or platform behind him if dodged). Follow-up E-Web burst destroys courier droid attempting to deliver supplies mid-air.
• Mobility / Positioning: Holding central arena. Minor angular shift to right for field-of-fire. No platform transition yet.
• Armor / Gear Use: Shyran Dol active. Voidstone field engaged. E-Web mounted/linked into armor bracing.
• Damage Taken: None.
• Status: Cold, calculated. Taking initiative. Denying aid. Establishing control of environment.

Antar

 

[Razmir Tezhyn]

Je'ames the Duro watched over a cannon operator aboard a warship in Ruusan's orbit. He didn't need to have his blaster out, the credit investment had been enough to motivate the young officer.

"That's it, bub, nice'n'slow," Je'ames instructed. He knew nothing about ballistics or starship operations, but he liked to feel in charge. "Get 'er lined up properly, we don't want none of that atmospheric interference to cause problems, y'dig?"

The cannon operator took some time to calibrate the shot's trajectory to be as precise as possible. Je'ames had been given a specific target and capital warship-grade weapons were no joke.

"Let 'er rip."

From the arena, a bright streak of light would cut through the clouds, cutting the skies. An ion cannon shot, red and angry with ionic energy, broke the heavens to explode right on Whottoomuzz Chantin head.

Antar

 

[Mauve]

From the skybox, Mauve watched a bolt of energy cook in through atmosphere. She typed on her datapad - another encrypted transmission.

“I thought I said wait. If that wasn’t you - take the shot now.”

Sars Sarad

 

[Antar]

Vibes

Whottoomuzz Chantin
​

---

Discomfort weighs on Antar like a wet blanket. But, that's all it is. A minor inconvenience about as annoying as feeling a sneeze coming on. His grasp on the Force is indeed dulled, but not to the degree it should be thanks to the Force Nexus beneath the arena.

Antar's foresight is momentarily clouded, yet he can still vaguely sense Whottoomuzz's intent and the imminent danger he would be in. Antar propels off of the platform and leaps a great distance in a graceful arc to a higher platform behind him, escaping a breath before the rocket hits its target. The platform explodes in a fiery spectacle and is damaged beyond any usability. Its repulsors sputter and flicker and it begins an uncontrolled descent.

Antar reaches out with his sword hand, his pointer and ring fingers extended and directed at the spiraling platform. It stops, suspended in the air, and Antar adjusts his aim at Whottoomuzz, commanding the platform towards a new direction. It tears through the heated air, sparking and burning, its target the underside of the platform that the Hutt stands on.

A moment later the sky begins to glow from ionized plasma.

Antar looks up, only slightly concerned, "Huh."

 

[Whottoomuzz Chantin]

PINSTRIPE PARASITE​

The crowd was a living wound.

Laughter, screams, spiceclouds thick enough to stain memory—spilling through the gladiatorial gullets of the Black Sun’s opulence, built atop Jedi graves and desecrated myth. The perfect place to rot something holy.

A man in a black pinstripe suit and wide-brimmed hat sat five rows behind the blood-slicked barricades, the brim tilted just enough to keep his glass-lens eyes from catching the light. Too still to be comfortable. Too smooth to be real. His hands were folded neatly over a cane he did not need, and where his breath should have fogged the chill-stabilized air, there was nothing. Only a subtle flicker where his form didn’t quite belong.

One proxy among many.
One drone of the Choir.
But this one was watching.

"Curious, isn't it..." the husk murmured to no one. "How something presumed carrion can still inspire panic in scavengers."

He meant Whottoomuzz. An ally of a past agreement.

That name had not rattled its way across the hive in cycles. Mr. Usher had assumed the Hutt dead—swallowed by bureaucratic voids and cartel purges. But here he was. Still breathing. Still loud. Still dangerous.

And very much alone.

Beneath the arena’s floor, deeper than any crowd could cheer over, a gentle slither began. Not of rats. Not of cables. But of repurposed biomass—slipping through ventilation seams and security tunnels, slow as growth in a dark cellar. The kind of thing no one noticed until it was too late. The kind of thing that could listen. And, in time, do more than listen.

"He was betrayed, then." A pause. "Strange that betrayal still offends me."

A flicker dripped across neural relays as memory reasserted itself.

The first time Mr. Usher had seen Mauve, she’d been poised in a stolen lounge above a club burning itself clean. He'd been there to assist the theft of a sith Wayfinder device. He still remembered the scent of the pheromones exchanged. The taste of Falleen Flesh.

As for Razmir, that was older. Simpler. Back when he was just an apparent slicer-for-hire on Makeb, eking out credits working a job for Tera while the team cracked open Stronghold One for its Isotope-5. Black Sun had come later. Or perhaps it had always been there, waiting to offer more than either of them could refuse.

Neither were visible now. Hiding, perhaps. Or waiting for new odds.

"All debts revisit their lendee, in time."

Elsewhere, dozens more of Mr. Usher's quiet-faced emissaries were threading through the crowd like docents of entropy. Some smiled. Some did not. All were listening.

The stage is charmingly elaborate. But I did not come to wager.

The brim tilted down once more. Silent. Patient. Hungry.

Location: In the bleachers. In the walls.
Objective: infiltrate the swarm
Tags: None. Not yet.
​

Je'ames the Duro watched over a cannon operator aboard a warship in Ruusan's orbit. He didn't need to have his blaster out, the credit investment had been enough to motivate the young officer.

"That's it, bub, nice'n'slow," Je'ames instructed. He knew nothing about ballistics or starship operations, but he liked to feel in charge. "Get 'er lined up properly, we don't want none of that atmospheric interference to cause problems, y'dig?"

The cannon operator took some time to calibrate the shot's trajectory to be as precise as possible. Je'ames had been given a specific target and capital warship-grade weapons were no joke.

"Let 'er rip."

From the arena, a bright streak of light would cut through the clouds, cutting the skies. An ion cannon shot, red and angry with ionic energy, broke the heavens to explode right on Whottoomuzz Chantin head.

Antar

From the skybox, Mauve watched a bolt of energy cook in through atmosphere. She typed on her datapad - another encrypted transmission.

“I thought I said wait. If that wasn’t you - take the shot now.”

Sars Sarad

THE FLESH CURTAIN​

The shot was coming.

Atmosphere parted. Clouds curled. The ion bolt descended, a massive bolt, precise as an executioner's axe. The kind of payload no electronics could hold. It was not merely sabotage, it was an execution that was planned.

A man in a pinstripe suit leaned forward from his seat. One gloved hand tapped the end of his cane—once.

"Unacceptable."

And from the veins of the arena, something he intervened.

The vents which once poured lava now screeched as something rapidly burst forth. A fountain of meat, shooting just beneath Whottoomuzz’s platform, which twisted. The metal screamed. It peeled back like skin beneath a scalpel, and from its depths burst a mass of living matter that had no name in any sane language.

Meat and skin and sinew. Cartilage veined with reinforcing bone bracing, Tendons lined with reptilian scales, A wall of living meat rose from below like a cancerous ribcage, its crown flaring upward into a gnarled bubble encasing both Antar and Whottoomuzz Chantin .

The ion cannon struck, but it did not strike Whottoomuzz.

It struck the Flesh Curtain and detonated in sizzling hissing, seared gristle. Some of the crowd screamed in confusion, fear, or awe. The bolt had vanished into something that was not supposed to exist. The holocamera feeds could only see a wall of flesh, for the time being.
Scales of steaming husk flaked like meat ash.

Whottoomuzz remained.

The pinstripe figure remained seated.

"There is no guarantee in chaos."
"But there can still be terms."

And now the arena was changing.
Not just the floor. Not just the air.
The audience.

Something moved behind the eyes of the spectators. A few too many wore wide-brimmed hats now. A few too many blinked out of rhythm. Vents exhaled slowly. The walls seemed to breathe. And somewhere, deep in the foundations of the Black Sun’s stolen theater, the biomass fed.

Mr. Usher had not saved a life. He upheld his end of a pact. He would collect due payment from the Hutt later.

"Play on."

Location: Arena bleachers
Objective: Intervene with precision
Tags: Whottoomuzz Chantin | Razmir Tezhyn | Mauve
​

 

[Mr. Usher]

(wrong sub but I endorse the above post)

 

[Whottoomuzz Chantin]

They moved before the crowd could scream.

The Deathmark Collectors had always been inside.

The moment the Flesh Curtain rose to intercept the orbital cannon, the plan shifted from passive threat to open extraction. Twelve assassins buried across the coliseum moved with perfect violence—each synchronized to Whottoomuzz’s final contingency: “If the game turns rigged, burn the board.”

• Gorruk yanked his vibro-axe from the false crate and buried it in the spine of a security officer manning the exit tunnel’s shield node.

• Durok finished slicing the maintenance junction and released every anti-fire suppressant pipe in the arena, flooding key corridors with smoke and hissing steam.

• Vexla detonated a series of microcharges in the north utility conduit. Lights flickered. Emergency gates jammed halfway. Panic surged.

• Threx hauled open a blastdoor with a concussion mine, flattening two guards and opening the main hall toward the hangar bay.

• Lorra leapt down from the rafters, slicing a Black Sun sniper’s throat before he could line up on the arena’s central ring.

• Nymara smiled faintly as she whispered the wrong security code into the ear of the arena’s VIP control officer—just before jamming a vibrodagger beneath his ribs.

• Zarin blocked the west corridor with a spinning vibroblade flourish, dispatching a six-man rapid response team in seconds. His blade didn’t touch the floor once.

• Mordo stood in front of the docking bay's automated turrets, taking a dozen blaster bolts with a portable shield and then throwing it—and himself—into the defense systems. Sparks showered.

• Kholak led the charge, vibroblade raised, intoning a warrior prayer. He cut through Black Sun officers like they were meat for the gods.

At the rear of it all, a hangar bay door was forced open. A mighty barge powered on—sleek for its size, adorned in ancient cartel sigils and modern weapons alike. The Kajidic’s Pride.

Durok barked through the comms:

“Engines warm. Shields precharging. Three minutes to jump—if he makes it here alive.”

They would see to it.

Every exit would burn before Whottoomuzz fell into enemy hands.

They were no longer ghosts.
They were wrath made visible.​

Backdoor created for Whottoomuzz’s withdrawal | Blood has already been paid.​

The Flesh Curtain sizzled still—smoking meat and shielded bone peeling like burned fruit from the crater where a warship-grade ion cannon had struck.

Whottoomuzz did not move at first.

The moment stretched like a breath before an execution… but no execution came.

The crowd stared, hushed. The cameras blinked static. Antar still stood within the bubble of charred sinew—unstruck, but not unshaken.

The Hutt raised one clawed finger. Toward Antar.

Not in accusation.

In judgment.

"Dis arena tonka. Uba tonka."
"I would fight you under unbiased circumstance."

He turned his back.

Then he rose.

With a blast of repulsor coils and a howl of jet-assisted weight, the six-ton titan launched into the smoke-veiled air, blasting open a hole in the flash curtain with his shoulder mounted repeating blaster.

He offered a brief nod to Mr. Usher – an old pact remembered.

His armor flared gold against the blood-orange haze of fire and sabotage-born chaos. Molten lava danced far below. Bystanders scattered. Cameras craned wildly to track his ascent.

He passed above the stands.

He did not wave.

Only a single pulse of encrypted signal left his suit. A signal to the Kajidic’s Pride—already screaming to life in the spaceport, its hull hot from stolen fire.

As Whottoomuzz cleared the final stretch of arena walls, he turned midair for one last look at the battlefield below. Where a duel had almost occurred. Where a syndicate had fired a cannon at a contestant rather than let him win.

"Mi boa jujuma. Jeejee nopa."

He vanished over the horizon, taking offering to the prize pool, Shyran Dol, with him.

Moments later, the Kajidic’s Pride launched skyward, the stadium's anti-air systems already sabotaged by the deathmark collectors.

Its engines roared loud enough to rattle the colosseum teeth. Its transponder flickered once—and then it was gone.

He would not find glory here. But he would find something far more enduring.

Memory.

And the name Razmir Tezhyn was etched into his.

Spoiler: Combat Summary — Final Post / Extraction

• Defensive Actions: Flesh Curtain intercepted ion cannon. No damage sustained. No counterattack necessary.
• Offensive Actions: None. Duel called off due to external interference.
• Mobility / Positioning: Used repulsors and jetpack to exit arena. Flew over audience. Navigated to spaceport.
• Armor / Gear Use: Full repulsor and jetpack function from Shyran Dol. Voidstone field retracted. Systems green.
• Damage Taken: None.
• Status: Extracted. Vindicated. Unbowed.

Antar | Razmir Tezhyn | Mauve

EXIT | Concede to Antar​

 

[Mr. Usher]

This was meant to go in the main thread, my mistake

 

[Antar]

Whottoomuzz Chantin , Mr. Usher, et al.
​

---

The biomass dome goes up. It smelled like a cutlet that had been left over a grill far too long. Burned. Bitter.

"Uh-huh..." Antar anxiously adjusts his grip on his lightsaber.

The orbital strike hits the dome and the shockwave causes Antar's platform to sway violently. He is forced to take a knee to keep from tumbling off into the lava. Well, Antar is certain he'd be fine if he falls. Best not to risk it anyway.

He watches Whottoomuzz as the Hutt makes its move. The platforms crash beneath it and plummet into the lava.

The Hutt raised one clawed finger. Toward Antar.

Antar looks to the left. Then the right. Then to Whottoomuzz. With his brows raised to the roof of the meat dome, Antar points at his chest with his free left hand.

"Dis arena tonka. Uba tonka."
"I would fight you under unbiased circumstance."

Antar raises his left hand to half-cup his mouth. He shouts in response to the fleeing Hutt, "No thanks, man!"

When Whottoomuzz retreats fully and the dome retracts into the lava, Antar deactivates his saber and casually clips it to his waist. With Whottoo gone, broadcast drones circle around Antar now. He stands there for a while, processing everything that just unfolded. He takes note of the bedlam taking place in the audience.

Fuck all of that, though. Antar focuses on what's really important. He's moving on to the third round, albeit under questionable circumstances again, but at least he's proceeding without so much as a scratch taken! Oh, this is great.

What would a victor say in these circumstances? Think, Antar... Call upon the words of an enduring champion!

He sharply raises his pointer finger and holds it to the nearest lens.

"If you're not first-"

With the same hand, he points his thumb down. He cries out in triumphant glory.

"You're last! Bespin Gas!"