Duel Galactic Kaggath Round 2: Darth Malum vs Allyson Locke

[Mauve du Vain]

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!”

“Welcooome back to rooooound TWO of the Galactic Kaggath.

“Facing off across the platforms - oh ho ho - do we have a show for you TONIGHT. Reprising her role as the hunter in the shadows, the arrow in the darkness, it’s ALLYSON LOCKE!”

“And standing across from her, it is the Lord of Darkness himself, the Master of Shadows, the TSIS’KAAR, DARTH MAAAALUUUUUUUUUUUUM!”

Allyson Locke | Darth Malum of House Marr

 

[Allyson Locke]

//: Darth Malum of House Marr //: Mauve du Vain //:
//: Attire //:
//: Equipment //:
//: Bow & Arrows //: Cybernetic Eye //: Jacket //: Arrows of Absence x 25 //: Bag of Absencite x 5ea //: Sword //:
//: Non Transferable "Equipment" //:
//: Ava'kash Brand //: Emperor's Echo //:

Another battle.

Another opponent.

Allyson tried to remember why she was doing this. She had nothing left to prove. She had walked away from the Alliance on her own terms. When Darth Empyrean opened his arms, she stepped into them willingly, embracing the darkness he offered.

There were others too, Taeli Raaf , always striving to prove the Corellian's worth to herself, and Darth Carnifex , ambitious enough to turn a former enemy into a weapon.

Each of them had shaped the Shadow in one way or another. Allyson wondered, briefly, if her path had ever truly been her own—or merely a series of manipulations by others.

Allyson shook her head. Enough. Doubt didn't serve her here.

She was where she chose to be.

This wasn't about proving anything. This was part of a plan. Her plan.

Drawing a steady breath, she grounded herself. Just another fight. Just another target. Nothing more than another obstacle in her way.

With the exhale, the world around her slowed. The Force narrowed to a pinpoint—microscopic and focused—as she drew inward, folding her presence down to nothing.

Gone from the Force, she blended into the background noise of larger beings.

The Shadow disappeared.

Her movements were deliberate as she stepped forward onto the nearest platform. Heat rippled up her legs. This wasn't an illusion. This was real. And death here would be final.

She didn't bother waiting for her opponent to act. That wasn't her style. She moved first, always. Disruption was key. Break his sightline. Close the distance. Take the shot.

She had skimmed some of his footage, but a phone call took precedence over it.

Darth Malum—that was his name. It rang a bell, but not loud enough. The announcer said Tsis'kaar, which told her all she needed: he liked masks and was in one of those little Sith clubs.

If she could forget that meeting, she would.

She had come to learn the Empire's sub-factions were each twisted in their own unique way. The Kainites, for instance, after fighting Lirka Ka , Allyson was pretty sure they were masochists.

That was something she still hadn't brought up with Madelyn Lowe .

Jumping from the platform's edge, she let herself hang. Her feet brushed the metal, swinging her body into position beneath a lower platform. No scrape. No sound. Not a single pebble displaced.

Perfect for now. But she needed her opponent to make a move.

Drawing her bow, she ran gloved fingers along the string, summoning a fresh block of arrows into her quiver. Instead of grabbing one of those, she reached back and pulled a different one—an Absencite arrow.

She didn't know much about Malum—just that he was strong and a Force-wielder. She'd gone into worse fights with less information, but that didn't mean she liked it.

Silence settled until the whispers came.

One she recognized.

The other she didn't—but she'd seen it in dreams.

Still beneath the floating platform, unseen, unheard, Allyson centered herself and waited.

The whispers called again, patient and pressing.

Waiting for her to listen.

 

[Darth Malum of House Marr]

The thrum of the crowd strummed through his ears as he passed through the metaphorical gateway that represented the symbolic passage between the violence of battle and the tranquility of rest. A ghost of a smile parsed between his lips, as soon as his mask became visible, the black sheen of plate and steel, the crowd's excitement reached a feverpitch, tremours echoing along the stands, to even the magmaous arena. It seemed that after the previous round, as much as he could catch between the limited period between the first and second round, he had become something of a crowd favourite.

How humbling.

Yet, at the same time disconcerting.

The noble scion basked in the praise, in the cheers, and the energy that drummed through his dark boots.

The Lord of the Tsis'Kaar could feel the heat at his cheeks, one who so masked himself in the shadows, so exposed.

He imagined there would be much to do with shadows this round, as soon as the next round had been announced, one who had scarcely taken a scratch the previous round, had been quick to find himself a recording of his opponent's match. What he had born witness to had hardly concerned him, but it did have him quickly raising a brow.

Though such an expression of interest had existed far beyond the fates... or more likely, the criminals that ran this little compeition's interference to have them be paired for this bout. He had been intrigued as early as when Darth Empyrean had asked... nay demanded his creatures's... this creature's presence at one of his meetings. It had been only good fortune that whatever feigned discussion held that day had been enough for the woman to have left early, and as far as he had heard, kept her distance far, far, away from him and his. Still, some agent of the Emperor had been enough to arouse interest, arouse intrigue... but little else.

Until she had returned to his life, in annoyingly public manner.

Her... her... this bow user, this complete unknown of a woman, she? SHE?! Was worthy of being made Champion of the Sith Order?! His pride had been rankled the moment of the announcement, their frequently absent Emperor, strode down from his ivory tower upon Jutrand, not to confer the honour upon one of his Dark Councillors, a Sith Lord, the only one of note, the only one of importance on this battlefield...

...But instead upon his no important agent.

The insult bit, it bit down with the power of a vornskyr's maw, and dug its fangs deep. It was an insult to him, it was an insult to the entire House, it was an insult to the entire Order.

...It was not the first time the Emperor had shown his utter hatred for those who he claimed to rule.

He could not deny, that it had been with an immense pleasure, one that flowed through his veins as easily as his heart pumped blood across his form, that he had been selected to fight her next. Indeed, to prove to all the power of his House? His blood? What better opportunity then to dash the Emperor's champion's corpse across these cold rocky walls. Yet, as the uncharacteristic rage passed, as easily as the whispers formented by his mind, the cool calculus began to spin the gears of his mind.

It had not been only the Emperor that had pledged their reputation, their sponsorship upon this complete unknown... there too had been others. Ta- Darth Arcanix, Ka- Darth Carnifex, Srina... and then others too, that had him bewildered. He did not know Judah Lesan, but he had read aftermath reports with enough mentions of his name... on the other side, to know he was a foe. While Locke and Key Mechanics... he had to growl in frustration at not linking the names together, that somehow this unknown was connected to one of the premier conglomerates of the galaxy.

He could imagine that some of those listed had joined in the Emperor's ridicule... but not all of them, let alone his Empress, who had granted him her favour. Yet, it spoke of something far grander, a conspiracy that wafted across from the skies of Coruscant to the galactic rim, she had too many connections, too many powerful supporters to be as unknown as the information he could find of her suggested.

And how he so hated not knowing.

And how he so hated knowing that a threat to their Order, one either who seemed to exist as a void in existence, or otherwise was so accomplished in hiding information about herself, had gained the backing of so many powerful figures... she had to be eliminated, that much was growing increasingly clear. The possibility had of course crossed his mind too, of another startling possibility, that she may in fact be more than a threat to the Order... that she was an engineered threat, nay, a solution... to him.

It made some sort of demented sense he supposed, a figure that seemed to just come into existence without a backstory, without a history, one who held capabilities that existed only within the bounds of the Tsis'Kaar or Shadows, and wielded a weapon that could be seen as a direct counter to his one way of combat. She held the support of those who at various times had stood in direct opposition to the youngest Dark Councillor... could it really be? Peace... well no, not peace, for that was a lie, but a tranquility had been forged with all his former opponents, but the old adage held true ever still, to maintain tranquility one should prepare for war.

Had a cabal formed against him, and their solution been her?

Better than to nip this in the bud now, to throw her descicated corpse into the fire, and humiliate all those that dared stand against him. Another obstacle, another opponent, another felled who would lend a lustre, daring, to his great enterprise. He had stood upon the shoulders of these giants for so long, why not stand on the ground himself?

He gazed across the arena, as his feet took the first steps forth, the lava bubbled up at him, smoke parsing through the gaps between the platforms, as air bubbles hissed as they broke beneath the slow moving waves. If she played to her strengths, she would be in hiding already, drawing her bowstring, readying in position to fire upon him. In that moment then, distance would be his ally to find exactly where she stood, distance and positioning, to find her, and close the distance as quickly as possible.

He stepped across the pillars with practiced ease, seeming to not even concern himself with the heat beneath, a strange warmth as much as physical as it was metaphorical lulling him to a sense of certainty, ironically, a sense of cool.

Even as the sweat began to form by his forehead, he found himself far preferring this arena to the last.

He found himself by the central platform, the largest in the immediate area, no weapons drawn, even as a small arsenal existed beneath the armour, tall and proud, the Lord of the Tsis'Kaar had one leg back, as he dropped to an exaggerated bow toward nothing at all, the cheers of the crowd if possible growing ever louder.

"Did our Emperor not teach you proper manners?" Malum's poised voice called out to nothing, as he raised his head and form back to its readied position, "Neither seems any of your other sponsors, Locke." The hint of sneer was inserted into his voice as precisely as a needle drew blood.

"Why not make a pact with me..." A voice whispered, right at her ears, "...If I win, you tell me what I want to know, if you win, I'll tell you what you want to know." His voice continued on, but went unspoken, Malum may not know where she stood, but transmitted by the Force, it echoed along the walls of the arena, it would be heard.

It demanded answer.

Allyson Locke
Mentioned: Darth Empyrean Taeli Raaf Darth Carnifex Srina Talon Judah Lesan John Locke

Spoiler

Equipment:
The Amulet of Darth Marr's Ashes x 1
Band of Conjuring x 1
The Eliadian Ring of Flames x 1
Mk. 2 Ophidia Assassin Armour x 1
Lionskin Defence Gauntlet x 1
The Blade of Storm and Flame x 1
The Soulsabre x 1
Jin'Wodasir x 5
A Lover's Healing Potion x 1
A Seer Stone x 1
Grenades x 10 (2 Incendiary, 2 Chemical Gas, 2 Fragmentation, 2 Stun, 2 Smoke)
Shikkars dipped in Devaranonian Blood Poison x 6
Tsaisibola x 1
Tsariquira x 1
HG-88 'Big Iron' Hand Cannon x 1
Dishiarza x 1 (Carrying the Soulsabre)

 

[Mauve du Vain]

"What's this? Looks like the crowd has spontaneously picked up a chant."

The crowd rippled, doing the wave with a following, crescendoing shout of, "AAaaaaaaaaaaaalllyyyyysssoOOOOOOON! LOCKE!"

"Wooooooaaaa AAaaaaaaaaaaaalllyyyyysssoOOOOOOON! LOCKE!"

"Wooooooaaaa AAaaaaaaaaaaaalllyyyyysssoOOOOOOON! LOCKE!"

The crowd seemed highly emphatic. Perhaps... too much so?

Another chant began.

"Who's the wanker! Who's the wanker! Who's the wanker in the cape! Hey!"

Allyson Locke | Darth Malum of House Marr

 

[Allyson Locke]

//: Darth Malum of House Marr //:
//: Attire //:
//: Equipment //:
//: Bow & Arrows //: Cybernetic Eye //: Jacket //: Arrows of Absence x 24 //: Bag of Absencite x 5ea //: Sword //:
//: Non Transferable "Equipment" //:
//: Ava'kash Brand //: Emperor's Echo //:

The moment his lips parted to speak, Allyson stopped listening.

He reminded her of the boy posturing for his peers, promising power he didn't possess. The memory rang louder now; she mostly remembered who he was.

Didn't matter. Allyson didn't care.

Darth Malum was just another bump in the road toward what she wanted.

While he continued his little performance for the crowd, Allyson took advantage of the moment.

She didn't move—but the shadows did.

Six flickers of herself emerged beside her, hidden in the Force like their master. Silent and unseen, they scattered, surrounding Malum on the central platform. Each carried a bow, drawn and steady. Illusions—each of them, except for hers. Her absencite arrow was real.

The instant his whispers tried to brush against her mind, the real arrow and several phantom ones were loosed. His attempt at making a deal fell on deaf ears.

And even if she had listened, he'd still be disappointed with the answer.

This wasn't like her fight with Thalia.

The bow she held now mirrored the brand scorched into her skin the day she pledged herself to the Asha'Kurat.

She had torn free from the Force's chains—the illusion of fate—and the weapon crafted from the light she bled reflected that defiance.

The Shadowfall's enchantments tapped into her mark, frustrating precognition and danger sense. Every arrow was harder to track, harder to predict.

It gave her the edge.

Still hidden (from sight and sense) Allyson heard the crowd roar. She tried to ignore them until she heard the chant.

Her name.

No one had ever chanted her name before.

A flush of pride bloomed in her chest. For the first time in a long time, she wanted to win for herself.

She drew another arrow. Her illusions mirrored the action. With precision, she nocked the long nanite arrow she had prepared earlier.

She didn't bother to check if the Absencite shot had landed. It was strong—armor-piercing and void-touched, but she knew better than to rely on just one shot.

Enhancing her aim with the Force, the nanite arrow flew faster than before. Mid-air, it fractured, splitting into eight smaller arrows, a deadly rain descending on the Sith's position.

Now she moved.

Deeper into the shadows, she clung to the underside of a faraway, spinning platform. A swipe of her hand across her nose came back wet, golden ichor streaked her skin.

She was reaching for it, tapping into the power gifted through her Sith lineage.

The whispers were louder than ever, arguing, jostling, fighting for her attention.

But Allyson pushed them down.

She stayed focused.

This wasn't over.

 

[Darth Malum of House Marr]

It was not everyday that Malum fought an opponent who used doppelgangers as he did, in any other circumstance he might have been ecstatic about the matter, another like him, another to parse over notes over with, another who might understand the shadows as deeply as he did. Unfortunately, he felt none of the exhuberance, none of the excitement, none of the joy.

Because his opponent was Allyson Locke.

His whisper went unanswered as he half-expected it to. It was signal enough in his mind of what her intentions were.

How utterly disappointing they were.

It had not been difficult to predict her move, especially with review of her duel with the Jedi, one who masked their presence in the Force, one who masked their presence in general, one who wielded seemingly exclusively a very powerful ranged weapon, and one who held within their capability the power to summon copies of themselves.

Copies without real weight, his mind reminded.

He had nay dared her to employ the move, positioning himself at the centre of their arena, mocking her, all the while platforms orbitted the greatest one, in perfect for her to fire at him from all directions? How could anyone possibily resist such an action.

He flicked his gaze over the surrounding platforms, the cry of the crowd fading away (for perhaps the best for the young Sith Lord's ego), in the face of the gravity of battle. She was somewhere, indeed, she was possibly everywhere. It was a pity that the duel with the Jedi had only gone on for so long, because as the grim reminder at the back of his mind foretold that she would have far more tricks to play that he could not predict.

Indeed, it would have been a strategy he employed, revealing what had already been revealed, removing what certainty his opponent could have.

The copies had really been the only true trick that she had employed that had caught his notice, she had kept everything else remarkably close to her chest, he supposed... Tutaminis and Darkshear counted too, but what ever else she beheld in her arsenal? It was a mystery that he imagined he would be the one to uncover unfortunately firsthand.

The arrows appeared out of seemingly thin air.

Time seemed to slow, as if a lever was flicked at the back of his mind, the Battle Sense activating as he quickly counted what was coming his way. As he processed what he was seeing. It had hardly been in the traditional manners of the bows usage, the arrows had not been nocked, drawn... and it was as if he was catching them mid-loose. Of course, that was only what he perceived, the previous actions having been likely conducted outside of his purview.

Seven, he counted quickly. Seven all beheld at the arrowhead with crystals that seemed to be a crossbreed of ice and diamonds, she had not used them in her duel with the Jedi if he recalled correctly.

He strummed his foot along the ground, as out beneath him, as if his foot the epicentre, waves after waves of Force Pushes were unleashed, like an earthquake but in the air, he watched each arrow cascade through the air in mounting speed, their terminal velocities having long since been reached, and their deeceleration aimed to be immediate, yet, there could only be one.

The first faded as the wave struck it, a cascading rhythm, as soon followed the second, then the third, until all had evaporated as easily as rain forced against the sun. Leaving only one.

Leaving only one, who had the most particular reaction to his waves.

It was as if... his waves could not touch it. No... they could, but it was the touch of numbed fingers along one's own skin, the doubt of the reality of the experience struck high. Every assault of the wave struck the arrow, but as if there existed a sandback right in front of the oncoming projectile, protecting it from the destruction of the deluge. It slowed, that much was achieved, but drawn with such weight, slowing it slightly meant entirely little.

His mind wandered to the voidstones used against him a mere hour ago...

...So she had watched, she had learned.

Annoying.

As if the conductor of the orchestra, he flicked his hand forth, curling the will of the Force unto his own, demanding its allegiance, forcing its obedience, as the very ground became his plaything, the metal platform where he stood brought under his fealty, as the metal itself reforged itself, raising a makeshift pillar high, catching the arrow in its maw.

The crystal cracking, at the impact.

Yet it's presence still felt.

Annoying.

How many did she have in her arsenal? The question eluded him, for one who knew, who made a career of knowing, the ignorance was sallow in his mind. He had little time to think about it, as across his periphery, another wave of arrows made for his position, their tips did not glow with icey blue visage of the previous.

Instead their trick had been in watching as they fractured in mid-air, for barest moment, he wondered if some contraption had misfired, instead, the second passed, and Malum watched as from one arrow, eight were spawned. The mathematics were quick in his mind, even as his mind did not venture to attempt to count them all, fifty-six, fifty-six arrows.

Let him fight in the shade indeed.

He strummed his foot against the metal again, as once more the waves erupted out from beneath his feet, the tremours reaching the impetus to affect the lava, as each arrow brought to terminal velocity was struck aside, most fading from view as they fell away from view, while the eight remainder, the eight real ones, slowed with each gentle caress, deecelerating, before descending, most fell and burned into the lava below, the rest reached harmlessly his platform.

He flicked his gaze over the platforms again, red eyes careful beneath the mask, would she try a third attempt?

"It seems none of them did, well that is a matter we can correct." Malum hummed loudly across the pavillion, "After all, the Champion of the Order could not be seen as a coward," As the conductor of fate and destiny raised his hands, the whispers reached a fever pitch, for one as made as the Heir of House Marr, whispers were not an uncommon phenomenon.

His ancestor.

His Mistress.

Yet, there too had always been a third, one who had long ago without his knowledge infected the deepest confines of his heart, the deepest reaches of his soul and being. He blinked, his gaze filled with flames, a ruby red becoming a hellfire orange, the flames licked at his lips, licked at his fingers, with the tremendous power and will he held at his fingers.

The Emperor had sought to free himself from the will of fates and destinies, to bring the battering ram of all his strength against a power unknowable.

Malum sought to free the entire galaxy of that will, and he would take control of it, command it, bring its will under one more superior.

Himself.

The lava burst forth in a cataclysm of titantic proportions, as all around him, the whispers of one who had not sat the throne for decades broke across his brow, the urge, the instinct to belch up smoke and flame intoxiciating, as all around him, the warmth of the lava pulled him closer. That same lava that lapped up to the take the orbiting platforms in its maw, the metal hissing as the heat further intensified, melting through the seems, but if failing that.

Swallowing the platforms up whole and pulling them beneath the waves.

"Show yourself coward!" The voice that hissed out of his breath was primal, primordial, animalistic, "SHOW YOURSELF AND BURN!"

Spoiler

Equipment:
The Amulet of Darth Marr's Ashes x 1
Band of Conjuring x 1
The Eliadian Ring of Flames x 1
Mk. 2 Ophidia Assassin Armour x 1
Lionskin Defence Gauntlet x 1
The Blade of Storm and Flame x 1
The Soulsabre x 1
Jin'Wodasir x 5
A Lover's Healing Potion x 1
A Seer Stone x 1
Grenades x 10 (2 Incendiary, 2 Chemical Gas, 2 Fragmentation, 2 Stun, 2 Smoke)
Shikkars dipped in Devaranonian Blood Poison x 6
Tsaisibola x 1
Tsariquira x 1
HG-88 'Big Iron' Hand Cannon x 1
Dishiarza x 1 (Carrying the Soulsabre)

Allyson Locke
Mentioned: Darth Empyrean Darth Vulcanus

 

[Allyson Locke]

//: Darth Malum of House Marr //:
//: Mentioned Darth Virelia //:
//: Attire //:
//: Equipment //:
//: Bow & Arrows //: Cybernetic Eye //: Jacket //: Arrows of Absence x 24 //: Bag of Absencite x 5ea //: Sword //:
//: Non Transferable "Equipment" //:
//: Ava'kash Brand //: Emperor's Echo //:

He avoided the arrows.

She expected as much.

Each attack taught her something new about the Tsis'kaar leader. He kept talking—likely trying to goad her into replying, to bait her into revealing her position. If she had still been a rookie, someone ruled by emotion, he might've succeeded.

But not anymore.

Only one person had ever made Allyson break her mask—had forced her to reveal her heart in a way no one else had.

Serina Calis.

She had known exactly where to strike. With the precision of a honed blade, Serina had carved into her until that carefully constructed composure shattered.

Malum's words were nothing in comparison. They washed over the Corellian's mask, one forged from mockery and spite.

Calling her a coward? That wasn't an insult. That was the truth.

Allyson had been designed to run and hide—until the moment the Sith's pride made them sloppy. She had been conditioned, time and again, to withstand the wrath of Darth Carnifex and his ilk.

Every time the Butcher King threw her down, broke her bones, and sneered at her for clinging to the Light, she rose. She wiped the blood from her lips and charged once more into oblivion.

Being called a coward was child's play.

She smirked as she heard the anger lacing his voice. Rage poured from him, saturating the air. Allyson could feel it was reckless and perfect.

This was her art form. Annoy them. Frustrate them.

Let them burn out on their own rage.

Spicy, she thought, crouched still and hidden beneath one of the smaller, higher platforms. The lava below churned like the emotions in his chest. While he showed off his power, Allyson listened. The guttural sounds in his voice, the tone, the pitch—they rang with something familiar.

She stilled. Let her fractured mind search.

Csilla.

That feeling…

Vulcanus.

A voice not her own whispered the name of the seven-day Emperor. Allyson pursed her lips.

So. He had been touched, too. Same as her.

Whatever gift—or curse—Empyrean gave his chosen, Malum had received it as well. It changed little. But enough for her to shift her plans.

She needed to move. Higher.

Fire was never her ally.

Under the shadow's cover, she returned to the original platform where she had first arrived. From here, she had distance from the lava and full sight of Malum and the rest of the arena.

Closing her eyes, she let the noise fall away. Machinery hummed, brilliantly clear in the Force.

He may have bent the arena to his will, but machines had always answered HER. She was their Master, feared for her ability to unravel entire starships with nothing more than the flick of her wrist.

Tapping into the power that bled through her—Empyrean's Echo, the Asha'Kurat's brand—Allyson reached out.

And took control.

Pain spiked behind her eyes. Blood on her tongue.

This gift was always a curse.

But it was worth it.

The platforms surrounding the center stuttered in place, then changed trajectory.

One after another, they launched themselves toward the center like orbital strikes, crashing in a constant stream, hammering the ground beneath him.

He wanted to see her.

So she let him.

For a breath, she stood visible, gold ichor seeping from her eyes and ears. Allyson grinned at him, knowing that she was his better.

And then, in a blink, she vanished.

Back beneath the starting platform, just as the center one began to tremble…and fall.

Down into the lava below.

As Malum's platform began to plummet, her voice echoed from the mouths of her shadow clones:

"You talk too much."​

 

[Darth Malum of House Marr]

Malum smirked beneath the mask.

He would wonder what thoughts had brimmed beneath the facade of the cursed Corellian's face, they had to be amusing indeed, for her to use the exact same words he had used against so many of her superiors. It confirmed in his mind all that which he had imagined so far, they had been training this unknown for specific purpose.

A specific purpose that had contended discussion of him.

Yet for all that which she had not been buoyed by his taunts thus far, she just could not help herself, just could not simply resist the snark that he had so dearly hoped had existed within the woman that faced him. One born out of a pride that despite all attempt to hide, all attempt to exist within the shadows.

Burned with a rancor that refused to be totally hidden.

The face that greeted him, had not been what he had expected. It was not the face that which had greeted him so long ago on Alvaria.

It was face that a mother may have struggled to love, if only managed due to the concern even an enemy felt, at the golden ichors, the golden blood that seemed to leak out of her eyes and ears like a particularly broken faucet. Weakness, the echo had strummed into a scream, and she was succumbing to it.

He remembered what his Mistress had taught so long ago, their lineage born out of a monster. How control... how in like all things, control was the key to all matters of their existence, how a rage that transcended the life and death of the Graug Emperor, the Seven Day Emperor had seeped into their veins, that if not controlled.

Would find itself controlling them.

She had an Imperial master...

...T- Darth Arcanix had never taken the imperial colours, but her masters had... K- Darth Carnifex had been Emperor once... indeed, twice, apprenticed to another Emperor too, and then of course Darth Empyrean, their own Emperor... had he an Imperial master too? There was a sign in the echo, but golden ichorous blood hardly provided much evidence.

It mattered little if she would be dead in the next few minutes.

The smirk widened, as she began to fade from view.

Oh she would not.

He communed with the Force, every piece of equipment upon his form, that which he had utilised all in his effort to once triumph over all his foes. The ring ringed in Sarassian Iron, the band formed with the same iron, and held within its confines the Kasha and Qixoni crystals all brought his breathing into tempo, brought his will to the forefront. The amulet, that which was his most prized possession, that which he would only lose through prying it off his cold, dead neck, that which was his blood made ash, that which whispered, calmed, and made warm in familiarity of his purpose, of his existence. Even the Sith Steel of his blade empowered him with a strength that put him far beyond what should have been possibble.

Put him at a strength that had him duelling Sith Emperors and surviving.

With a blink, time and space contorted around him, masking himself beneath the Force from eyes both seen and unseen. Leaving behind, as where he stood once there was a copy, masked in the same face of their ancestor, its flicked its gaze lazily, finding the platforms converging against the main one.

It would have to make this convincing. Turning towards the closest oncoming platform, instincts seemed to always transcend the weakness of mere flesh. Timing it, as a forged heat beat against a fake chest, moments passing in the flickering miasma of lava erupting. Knowing that as soon as the rest struck, the central platform would face its demise.

Leaping forth, lies for legs struck across what should have been dangerously hot metallic platforms, the only hint that something was amiss. Eyes connected to the next platform, and so, and so it went, lacking lungs, lacking muscle, lacking aliveness, it could continue, leaping ever higher, leaping ever further.

As the real Malum arrived behind where Locke had only stood a second prior.

His ring burning hot against his hand, as he willed the Force to contortion beyond the way the fools of the Light had it wielded. An invisible energy transforming itself into something far too visible to ignore, a great caustic explosion erupted atop the smaller platform, as an inferno of pale blue flames overtook his surroundings.

And hopefully sent the annoyance tumbling over the edge.

"And you have spoken just enough." The amused doppelganger replied, feigning breathlessness.

Allyson Locke
Mentioned: Taeli Raaf Darth Carnifex Darth Empyrean Darth Ophidia Darth Vulcanus (Would tag Darth Moridin too, but no idea on his handle lol).

Spoiler

Equipment:
The Amulet of Darth Marr's Ashes x 1
Band of Conjuring x 1
The Eliadian Ring of Flames x 1
Mk. 2 Ophidia Assassin Armour x 1
Lionskin Defence Gauntlet x 1
The Blade of Storm and Flame x 1
The Soulsabre x 1
Jin'Wodasir x 5
A Lover's Healing Potion x 1
A Seer Stone x 1
Grenades x 10 (2 Incendiary, 2 Chemical Gas, 2 Fragmentation, 2 Stun, 2 Smoke)
Shikkars dipped in Devaranonian Blood Poison x 6
Tsaisibola x 1
Tsariquira x 1
HG-88 'Big Iron' Hand Cannon x 1
Dishiarza x 1 (Carrying the Soulsabre)

 

[Allyson Locke]

//: Darth Malum of House Marr //:
//: Attire //:

//: Equipment //:
//: Bow & Arrows //: Cybernetic Eye //: Jacket //: Arrows of Absence x 23 //: Bag of Absencite x 5ea //: Sword //:
//: Non Transferable "Equipment" //:
//: Ava'kash Brand //: Emperor's Echo //:

The swell of the Force shifted as Allyson dropped beneath the platform.

He had vanished—his presence erased from the Force in a way she knew too well. She couldn't feel him, but she could feel the residue, the lingering echo of teleportation. She'd thought it before, and now, she could recognize the signature.

Reaching into her quiver, she drew two kyber-tipped arrows and exhaled. With the breath, her doppelgängers vanished, dispersed into raw energy that flowed into the crystal cores of the arrows. She slid one back into the quiver and aimed the other.

The first arrow shot into the underside of a nearby platform that had survived her mechu deru onslaught. The second, she stabbed into the platform she was currently clinging to.

The central platform had already fallen into the lava. She had seen a figure flee before it collapsed, but the way the Force had shifted told her he'd moved again.

There weren't many places left to hide.

Knowing her luck? He was above her.

Allyson groaned softly and took a moment to breathe. She wiped the golden blood from her face. It still flowed freely, but she wasn't as concerned as she probably should've been.

Her eyes scanned the platforms. There, away from her, she saw a figure. She blinked. Her cybernetic eye didn't pick up any real biological readings.

A doppelgänger.

Blinking again, she crept silently along the bottom of the platform. Blue flame licked her cheek. She felt the heat, but not the pain. Drawing closer to the edge, she let the fire brush her skin, absorbing its energy through the Force. It flooded her muscles, sharpening her limbs with speed and strength.

Allyson was behind him now, close enough to reach out and grab his cape.

But she had grown up on the better side of Coronet City. And only uncouth women fought like that.

Shooting someone in the back, though? That was fair play.

Her cloak dropped for the briefest moment. At nearly point-blank range, the absencite arrow flew, aimed not just at the Sith Lord, but at the smallest molecule of his shoulder armor. Through the art of the small, she'd pinpointed it with precision.

Thanks to John Locke , she knew armor. The joints were always the weak spots.

As soon as the arrow loosed, she released her hold, falling into the shadows.

Down she dropped, closer to the molten wreckage. Clutching her bow, she focused on its core enchantment. Her body began to dematerialize mid-fall, pulled through Force and matter.

The twist in her stomach was sharp.

In the next instant, she reappeared, anchored to the arrow she'd embedded earlier.

Landing hard on the underside of the distant platform, she immediately vomited.

Yeah.

She was never going to get used to that enchantment.

Clinging to the metal, Allyson pressed her cheek against the cold surface. She drew in shaky breaths, trying to still the pounding in her chest.

 

[Darth Malum of House Marr]

His flames licked the perimeter of the platform dispassionately, there was no tell-tale screaching as one's form was engulfed in the pale blue fire, nor was there the equally gratifying plop of a fiery corpse impacting the lava below them. She was fast, annoyingly fast, she had already escaped his vice.

He would need her to reveal herself again.

Thankfully, if the read he had of her thus far was accurate, it would be in mere moments that such an appearance would behoove itself. Two pairs of eyes were on the watch, the doppelganger finding itself with a far easier time of things, as whatever Malum had accomplished, had seemingly ended the assault on the central platform.

Even as said central platform began to collapse in on itself, the supports through the magma hardly acting as such, with the continual assault of smaller platforms striking with the force of a battering ram that had finally fractured the gate. The lava burned hotly, the metal even if designed to withstand the heat at the best of circumstances.

Long having to reckon with the reality that there were far from the best of circumstances.

It mattered little to the doppelganger, if it had a mind beyond that one of its creator, feeling relief that the platforms it leapt upon in a bid to escape the fire and the flames were no longer moving at terminal velocities, it allowed for its mirror red eyes behind the fake mask, to take in its own surroundings.

To notice an arrow whizzing through the air, far from it, far from its master, striking an isolated platform that had in the chaos of the last few seconds been spared the rapture that had taken place. The arrow did not flicker nor fade, indeed, the realisation occured in both of their minds, the doppelgangers were no longer aiming for him.

There was an odd calm in the arena that had not formerly existed.

As gears span in Malum's mind, the arrow was real, but it had not been targetted at either him or his doppelganger. The doppelganger's eyes followed the estimated trajectory of the arrow, in its feigned mind's eye imagining the arc, at some point it reached a terminal velocity, at some point the wind resistance would have it arcing downwards, that meant...

...The hairs on the back of Malum's neck stood at attention, as his heart missed a beat, instinct took command. He knew not through the Force, not through any sense scientifically proven, not through any measure he could explain, but he knew.

She was right behind him.

And he was too late to stop her.

The air whistled, as his hand flicked with a Shikkar, aimed to embed it into her heart, even if he fell, she would join him. The barest hint of surprise wavered his brow, her face spotted for barest moment as time seemed to slow around them, his heart hammering in his chest, a rogue thought crossed his mind, those many thousands of thoughts that one barely noticed, could barely control, and hardly remembered.

She somehow was looking better, and still worse. She had wiped the golden blood, but it still continued to spill.

He twisted himself, a gasp releasing out from him, as the arrow struck the joint between shoulder plate and shoulder, red eyes dimming as his Force Sensitivity shuttered for briefest momenet between existence and non-existence, the Shikkar held between fingers, held at bay, as she flickered out from view, disappeared once more.

...She had somehow seen through his cloak and concealment... or had somehow gotten very lucky...

He hissed, as the pauldron came clean off, struck right at the joint that held it clasped between itself and the rest of the armour, the arrow holding a quality that could pierce even steel by the looks. Luck had saved him, gazing morosely as the arrow carried the pauldron away to the lava below.

It hardly felt like luck. He was exposed there now, she had successfully ambushed him, when he was meant to have ambushed her. His breath heaved caustically, almost as if he could feel the spark in his throat of oncoming flames. She could not have seen through him... the fact she had struck his shoulder as incidentally lucky as it was to hit the joint proved she had not seen him, if her arrows could pierce his armour, why not strike his back?

...Yes, she must have realised through the flames he had been near, and taken a shot.

...But what odds was there that she would have shot blindly and struck such a perfect shot?

The question did not provide easy answer, and now, she had taken the initiative, and even though she was the one bleeding, ironically it was her that had struck first blood... of sorts. He was in no better position now, then he had been at the moment he had arrived on this platform.

Indeed, he had only one lead.

The shikkar went back away into its hidden sleave, his hand wiping off the remnants of his pauldron, as newly rejuvenated red eyes gazed to where the arrow had earlier struck. That had been another mystery that he had neither the means nor knowledge to resolve.

But it was his only lead now.

He reached his hand upon the icey beskar hilt, drawing the Sith Steel, its blade made alight in his Mistresses' white lightning, as he checked to make certain that there was no gaps in his cloak nor concealment, it had been another mystery he was eager to solve, she did not attain invisibility like he did. Indeed, for all the similarities between them, she did not fight like one of his Tsis'Kaar.

A Shadow then?

Or a third possibility?

He did not like either possibility much. Indeed, he knew only of one another ability that would rival what he would bring to bear, an ability that while he knew how to use, that he avoided for all it would suggest of his loyalties.

...Had they allowed a mosquito into their midst?

He would find out soon, he imagined.

He took a running leap off the platform, his boots colliding with the steel ground with a temerity that might have otherwise shook the platforms, drawing within him the speed of one who had been trained for a lifetime of war, as through the last momenet, as the leap became manifest. He used momentum to his advantage, veritably pushing off the platform, he found himself achieving flight.

For a few seconds.

As his feet struck metal, the lightning burst all around him, as if the web of a spider's creation, the entire scene burst at the seams with the lightning coiled around his blade.

Allyson Locke

Spoiler

Equipment:
The Amulet of Darth Marr's Ashes x 1
Band of Conjuring x 1
The Eliadian Ring of Flames x 1
Mk. 2 Ophidia Assassin Armour x 1
Lionskin Defence Gauntlet x 1
The Blade of Storm and Flame x 1
The Soulsabre x 1
Jin'Wodasir x 5
A Lover's Healing Potion x 1
A Seer Stone x 1
Grenades x 10 (2 Incendiary, 2 Chemical Gas, 2 Fragmentation, 2 Stun, 2 Smoke)
Shikkars dipped in Devaranonian Blood Poison x 6
Tsaisibola x 1
Tsariquira x 1
HG-88 'Big Iron' Hand Cannon x 1
Dishiarza x 1 (Carrying the Soulsabre)

 

[Allyson Locke]

//: Darth Malum of House Marr //:
//: Attire //:
//: Equipment //:
//: Bow & Arrows //: Cybernetic Eye //: Jacket //: Arrows of Absence x 23 //: Bag of Absencite x 5ea //: Sword //:
//: Non Transferable "Equipment" //:
//: Ava'kash Brand //: Emperor's Echo //:

Aureate blood mixed with the sweat clinging to her brow. The wind at this high altitude felt pleasant, even if it reeked of brimstone and death.

Just a moment. A breath. How long had it been since she'd pushed herself this hard?

Her hearts pounded against her ribs as she clung to the platform's edge. The cool metal helped anchor her, kept her mind from drifting too far.

She could feel it—the hiss in the back of her mind. Two voices, not hers, clawing for dominance. The more she reached for the power that fueled her, the louder they became.

The Kaggath was meant to be a duel to the death. But Allyson felt no desire to kill Malum. She just wanted to survive. Move forward. Their skills were too evenly matched. It was only a matter of time before she ran out of tricks. He, like so many Sith Lords before him, seemed to be an endless font of power.

Her arms trembled as she held herself up. Her forehead rested against the warm plating, heated from the lava below. She just needed a second.

A center, a facade of control.

She had spotted him earlier on the other platform—her cybernetic eye catching the shape of his body, the way the flames twisted around him, the flare of his cape. A mix of dumb luck and instinct had allowed her to pick a target on his armor.

The arena had gone quiet.

Until—

She heard it before she felt it. That sick, crackling sound. The smell of ozone.

Force lightning.

Had fatigue dulled her senses? Had she let herself slow down?

Always keep moving.

That rule had kept her alive since Bastion. Since the torture. Since the pain.

So why had she stopped?

The electricity slammed through the metal and into her body. Sparks licked her nerves, but something deep inside screamed, snapping her mind back into her skin. The pain dulled. Her Force cloak fell.

Her mind and body felt separated, as though she were watching herself from a distance. Her body moved, guided by something stronger than her will alone. She was tired. But this wouldn't end until one of them was dead.

The lightning crawled across her skin, seeping into her. She pulled herself up. Her free hand opened, curling around the sparks at her fingertips. She clenched her fist and swung.

Three dark spears burst forth, thick and heavy with the power of the Dark Side. They hurled toward the invisible space where the lightning hadn't struck—where her cybernetic eye detected the outline, the evidence, of Darth Malum's presence.

The toll of the fight showed in every line of her frame. Golden ichor poured from her eyes and ears, trickling down from the brand on her chest. She stood, bleeding light from her bones. Her eyes locked onto him.

Bright red irises, abyss-black sclera. Cursed. Unrelenting.

"Come on then, Lord Malum," she sneered, voice thick with mockery. "Show me what makes you worth your name."

She drew a barbed arrow—one made to pierce through armor, nocking it in the bow with ease.

He wasn't fully visible, but the shape was precise. The missing pauldron. The break in his defense.

A smirk sliced across her face. She was ready.

The Shadow who had once hesitated, once lingered between Light and Dark, was gone.

She had given herself to His Will.

And His Will be done.

 

[Darth Malum of House Marr]

A pleasure that was ever distinct and ever unique overcame his mind, his heart, every inch of his body, as his lightning coiled and struck forth its venemous fangs upon the ground, upon the air, as confirmation sang heavy in his head.

He had caught her.

The lightning ran through the metal beneath them, the veritable conductor to the conduit that his blade acted as, the weblike patterns flooding across the air, as red eyes kept a piercing stare upon what laid upon the edge. What was once sick, filled the air with rancourous bile, as it seeped through the grates, as even though she still remained still invisible from sight both through eyes physical and immaterial.

As the lightning lapped up along her skin.

He saw her.

The smell of cooking flesh filled the air, that it was of human form and make might have in other moment made him hurl, but even as his stomach turned, he could not help but continue to bear witness, through nostrils and eyes alike, taking in, basking in, his most inveitable victory. That foe which had been seemingly designed to counter all that he was, to defeat him.

Would die.

And all her patrons would bear witness to her demise.

Her cloak faded as the lightning strummed through her soul, Malum truly saw her, and what a sight it was. Fallen upon the floor, poisoning herself in a midst of grasping more power, power beyond that which her form could possibly wield. All of her potential imperial masters, all of them had to twist themselves, break themselves upon the forge of power, reforged again, and again, hoping against hope that it made them stronger.

Rather than brittle.

How could she ever hope to compare to all those that had come before her?

When she was nothing.

The temptation to take the final steps forward, the final steps that would see his boot against her skull, the final steps that would end this farce, were resisted only by that curse that seemed to befall every step on his road to ascent.

Curiosity.

He watched intently, red eyes beneath the mask, fixated upon the woman broken, but still managing rebellion, a body that should have been still, maintained momentum. Pulling herself up, as the lightning danced across her skin, as much as it burned... she displayed the same ability that had been confirmed in the last duel only an hour ago prior.

She was attempting to absorb his power.

Sparks froliced at her hand. A light against unfolding darkness. A sign, that she would still fight, but he supposed... it was no longer her was it?

As many moments of Malum's life, that same curiosity that beheld him in such blessing, was his greatest of curses. He had barely a moment to even raise his eyebrows, as the spark ignited into a miasma of darkness, forging between her fingers at point blank range, the darkness was made manifest, imperceivable, immaterial.

But very much real.

The first struck the wall behind him, the second glanced across his gorget, peeling off armoured plate, leeking darkened ichor upon necked flesh, a hiss resounding through him, as if the lava below their feet was spilling across his body. A reminder, of the weight of the armour upon his form, of the stiffness felt across every muscle and bone, of red eyes growing weary, at a fight that he sought to end quickly.

But had not yet ended.

Yet, it was the third spear, that struck truest of them all.

He choked, as the cough erupted through his mouth, erupting a deep pain, a deep visceral agony through his chest, hesistant yet grave steps taken back in quick declaration. Blood, blood much the same as from the figure opposite, but blood formulated from his own lifesblood, a dark burgundian sallow, spilling forth from his lips, as he gazed down upon his chest.

Instinct had saved him.

The armour had saved him.

But only just.

A body by pure need for survival shifting itself to place its shield upon the forefront, shielding its most vulnerable pieces in favour of sacrificing what was the most armoured. An armour designed to protect from such an attack, saved him from what would otherwise have been a spear thrust between his chest.

And forcing his collapse.

Instead, he felt his ribs move, crushing inward, as the bones heaved and hoed, as his throat tasted of an acrid copper.

He swayed upon uncertain feet, his vision hazy, as blinks brought moistness, and the pain ratcheted across from neck, to chest, to all throughout his body.

Yet somehow, still, his opponent seemed somehow in worse state. Golden blood, somehow smokey, pooled from every facial orifice, leaking down her form, as light seemed to exude out from her, her skin merely the armour that contained what existed within, her body the conduit of a power that threatened to annihilate her.

Green eyes flecked with... something, stared at his mask.

No...

...Bright red eyes, darker than his own, stared at his mask, cursed, unrelenting eyes, held upon a field of black stared at his mask.

Her voice...

A weak chuckle escaped him.

Even that brought agony to his entire body, but he could hardly help himself now.

"Come then, Lady Locke," A dark sort of amusement echoed beyond the confines of the platform in which they stood, as he tightened his grip upon the beskar pommel, the plasma striking the metal ground and flicking sparks up at her in mock challenge, hiding the actions of his other hand, "Let that echo give you a chance to battle me for real."

Tilting his gaze, as she nocked the new arrow upon the bow that would be his trophy, he made a silent offer, one born of what was the strangest manner of respect.

No more hiding.

His fingers found themselves holding three of his poison infused Shikkars.

Time seemed to slow, as the next round of their bout would begin in earnest. The moment the bow was drawn, the shikkars would fly.

Allyson Locke

Spoiler

Equipment:
The Amulet of Darth Marr's Ashes x 1
Band of Conjuring x 1
The Eliadian Ring of Flames x 1
Mk. 2 Ophidia Assassin Armour x 1
Lionskin Defence Gauntlet x 1
The Blade of Storm and Flame x 1
The Soulsabre x 1
Jin'Wodasir x 5
A Lover's Healing Potion x 1
A Seer Stone x 1
Grenades x 10 (2 Incendiary, 2 Chemical Gas, 2 Fragmentation, 2 Stun, 2 Smoke)
Shikkars dipped in Devaranonian Blood Poison x 6
Tsaisibola x 1
Tsariquira x 1
HG-88 'Big Iron' Hand Cannon x 1
Dishiarza x 1 (Carrying the Soulsabre)

 

[Razmir Tezhyn]

In the audience, currently embroiled in all manner of violence and chaos, Jo'nafen the Snivvian assembled a sniper rifle out of a suit case and took aim. He'd been paid a very handsome sum for what he was about to do, and the chance to be a rifle-wielding artist was the cherry on top.

He fired several rounds, but not at any of the contestants. No, those bolts struck droid targets--rayshield targets. With the skill and precision of an artist, Jo'nafen quickly dismantled every rayshield droid between the battlegrounds of Darth Virelia / CT-312 and Darth Malum of House Marr / Allyson Locke .

Razmir, meanwhile, currently hid in a bunker, but that didn't prevent the suspiciously Marka Ragnos looking man from yelling into the announcer's microphone.

"DID THAT SNIPER EVEN AIM? HE COMPLETELY MISSED--oh...OH! HE REMOVED THE BARRIERS BETWEEN DARTH VIRELIA'S DUEL AND THAT OF DARTH MALUM! WE HAVE A SECOND FOUR-WAY BRAWL ON OUR HANDS!"

// The duelists involved (Darth Virelia, CT-312, Darth Malum, and Allyson Locke) are now allowed to cross-post between the Darth Malum vs Allyson Locke thread and the Darth Virelia vs CT-312 thread

 

[Allyson Locke]

//: Darth Malum of House Marr //:
//: Attire //:
//: Equipment //:
//: Bow & Arrows //: Cybernetic Eye //: Jacket //: Arrows of Absence x 22 //: Bag of Absencite x 5ea //: Sword //:
//: Non Transferable "Equipment" //:
//: Ava'kash Brand //: Emperor's Echo //:

The battle between shadows had reached its pinnacle.

If Allyson were still a Jedi, maybe things would've gone differently. She would've had tools meant to fight the darkness. But like every fight before, she still wouldn't have won.

She knew how Sith Lords fought. She knew their pride, their patterns. It was her specialty. Even after defecting, she found herself battling more Sith than Jedi. Maybe that was why He chose her.

The thought echoed in her mind, and she could feel the grin of the echo widen.

For all the damage she'd taken, for how battered she looked, Allyson stood tall. Shoulders squared, back straight. She'd paid a price digging into the very power she once swore to fight. But she still stood. Fueled by more than just stubbornness now, she was driven by the Dark Side itself.

"Just Allyson," she laughed, keeping her bow steady on Malum. "The chit I've done kind of disqualifies me from 'Lady'."

Two of her attacks had landed, but she didn't celebrate. A hunter never rejoiced too early. And she wasn't going to make that mistake.

There was a reason he was different. A reason he, too, bore the echo.

"If it's any consolation… you've earned some of my respect." And she meant it.

Most Sith she'd fought eventually lost their composure, lashing out, throwing power without thought. Easy kills. But he made her think. Made her work. Her opinion had changed.

The arrow loosed. It tore through the space between them. The platform was smaller than the first, but she pushed herself harder to close the distance.

Her cybernetic eye tracked his movement in real time. His arm twitched in sync with her shot, then came the trio of shikkars.

She rolled. The first two missed. The third nicked the sleeve of her leather jacket, tearing the edge. She risked a glance—blackened leather fraying, curling with cursed energy.

Best avoid those.

No time to analyze them now. She kept moving. Another arrow drawn—blue absencite catching the arena light. She pulled back and aimed at the exposed joint in his shoulder. Her mind honed in with the Art of the Small until the sharp crack of a sniper rifle echoed through the air.

Allyson froze. Her eyes snapped to the ray shields that had just dropped.

The announcer's voice rang out, and the name made her chest tighten.

Darth Virelia - or better known as Serina Calis.

Her grip tensed. She'd seen Calis fight earlier. For a moment, she'd hoped to draw her name instead of Malum's.

Now, if Serina died, it would be by her own hand. Her own choice to join these cursed games.

Here, the Kainites' protection meant nothing.

Here, Allyson could end the torment hanging over them both.

"Guess we're popular," she muttered, a smirk curling her lips. Her stance shifted—tense, irritated. But somewhere deep inside… a flicker of hope.

Someone in the crowd wanted this to happen. Another four way fight, with an unknown to Allyson, CT-312 . The Trooper was one of the Bespin Gas sponsored fighters and they had beaten their opponent decisively in the first round.

Neither were to be taken lightly.

She disappeared again, cloaking herself in the Force. Her presence non existent because of art of the small. The absencite arrow still drawn, waiting for Darth Virelia to rear her ugly head.

And when she did—

The arrow would sing through the air, aimed squarely at her chest.

And as she let it fly, a voice would echo across the arena, laced with Allyson's playful Corellian charm.

"Hello, Calis - long time no see."

 

[Mauve du Vain]

A droid swung in low, amid all the excitement it was probably completely unnoticed, wow!

It dropped a package that thudded in front of CT-312 .

A patron from above!

Something to even the odds.

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Round 2."

Tags - CT-312 Allyson Locke Darth Malum of House Marr



The platform beneath her feet trembled—not from motion, but from the sheer, crushing heat of the arena's heart. All around her, the world boiled.

Lava churned below in incandescent rivers, the sound of it a constant, pulsing roar that clawed at the edges of perception like a storm just beyond the veil. Above, the sky was lost behind a haze of smoke and light, fractured into blinding lines by the glow of forcefields and durasteel walkways. The air itself wavered with pressure and fire, every breath a razor drawn through the lungs.

Darth Virelia—Serina Calis no longer—stood at the edge of it all, robes torn from battle, skin laced with black ichor that oozed like venom from wounds too proud to close. She did not flinch. She did not step back. Even as the arena roared for violence, even as the tide of fate twisted beneath her feet, she watched.

Watched the girl who had once walked so close beside her.

Allyson Locke.

Of course it would be her.

There had always been a certain inevitability to their paths circling back. A loop carved from understanding and hate and things neither of them dared name aloud. The Force could be cruel. But never random.

Serina had never feared her.

But she had remembered her.

The gaze of the defiant woman on Saijo, the Light was weak then.

It was gone now.

Now they stood on opposite ends of the spiral, both corrupted, both monstrous—and only one of them had accepted the truth of what she'd become.

And so, Virelia had made her move. She had laid her plans, placed her bribes, whispered her influence into the circuitry that separated their arenas. And when the moment came—when the timing was perfect—she struck.
The platform hissed beneath her bare feet, and the chaos of three colliding battles unfolded before her—Allyson's lethal grace, Malum's cold finesse, the unseen presence of CT-312 circling like a ghost in steel.

And yet Virelia—Serina—moved with the certainty of inevitability.

One hand swept outward as her eyes scanned the arena's pulse points. She could feel the storm gathering—energy blooming, minds calculating, opportunities sharpening like blades on the edge of war. And she would not be caught flat-footed.

"No," she whispered. "I decide the tempo."

The Force surged outward from her body in a double helix of motion and command. Her left hand snapped toward CT-312, the threads of corrupted Valor and Force Speed intertwining like living veins of light and shadow. Empowering her. Honoring the truce that had not been broken.

But it stopped.

The moment the wave reached the scout, something resisted—no, rejected—her power. The pulse of energy shattered like glass on a wall of null-space, exploding backward in fragments of violet static. Virelia's eyes narrowed.

"Voidstone…"

She saw it now. The bracelet. The faint shimmer against CT-312's wrist—small, but absolute. Her influence died before it reached her. The scout was alone again. Cut off. By her own hand.

Virelia's focus shifted. Her chest rose once. Slowly.

Then came the signal.

A shift in the wind.

A whisper of a presence uncoiling.

A voice she knew.

"Hello, Calis—long time no see."

The arrow flew.

The Absencite arrow.

Not with fire, nor fury—but with absence. A perfect, surgical void.

There was a crack in the world.

And then—

Nothing.

No Force. No Darkness. No hatred to cradle her in its arms. No cold flame where her heart should be.

No power.

The heat of the battlefield, the roar of the crowd, the hiss of molten stone—all of it faded into the same sudden, agonizing silence that rang through her bones.

Serina Calis collapsed.

She didn't stumble. She didn't scream. She dropped. The arrow buried deep in her chest, splitting flesh that never bled red, only black and violet ichor now spilling in obscene trails across the durasteel.

One platform. Another. Her body slammed down as if the Force itself had refused to catch her—because it had.

She hit the floor, gasping once. Twice.

Then still.

The Dark Side—her lifeline, her parasite, her armor—had been cut off.

Her heart, what remained of it, seized violently in her chest. The sickness that had replaced it, that pulsating hollow of rage and want and ambition, had always fed on the Force. Had always burned with power stolen from death itself.

And now it starved.

She clawed once at the edge of the platform. Fingers twitching. One hand found the shaft of the arrow. Tried to wrench it free. But the moment she touched it—

Nothing.

The Force wasn't there. She wasn't there.

Her head hit the platform with a sickening thud, strands of her blonde hair scattering in sweat and ash.

And that's when she heard them.

The whispers.

They rose like smoke from the cracks in her mind. Cold. Familiar. Ancient.

"You have fallen before, haven't you? In the Library. On Coruscant. At her hand."

The voice wasn't one. It was many. A chorus. Each note more fractured and cruel than the last.

She had heard the voices before. Rakata Prime.

"Slain in the light. Resurrected in shadow. Is this how it ends, Virelia?"

Not Serina. Virelia.

"Or have you not suffered enough?"

A groan tore from her throat. Her fingers spasmed. Ichor leaked from her mouth. She wasn't breathing properly anymore—lungs refusing to move.

"You chose to live beyond death. To shape reality through will alone."

"Then prove to us."

She was shaking now.

Not from the pain.

From the emptiness.

She had never felt so cold. Not of the depths of Coruscant. Not of the Jedi Archives with Valery Noble 's lightsaber struck her heart. Not even in the cryogenic crucible of Askaji's forgotten tomb.

This was final. This was absence. The world without her in it.

She could feel her organs slowing.

Her blood refusing to move.

Even her hatred—her sacred, towering, infinite hatred—was muffled.

But not gone.

No.

Not gone.

Somewhere, deep within the silence, a heartbeat.

Once.

Twice.

Then steady.

The ichor around her began to hiss.

Not boil. Hiss. As if steam were rising from her very veins.

And then—barely perceptible—her fingers moved.

A memory surged. Not a face. Not a word. Just a shape.

A young blonde girl. With a Sith Holocron. Lying. Stealing. Plotting.

Virelia was always her name.

"This galaxy was never going to let you live. So what will you take from it before it learns your name?"

Her lip cracked open in a slow, bloody grin.

Then—

A single word.

 

[CT-312]

//: Darth Virelia Allyson Locke Darth Malum of House Marr //:
//: Arena, Ruusan //:
//: Attire //:
//: WEARING:Halcyon Armour |Contact Lenses |Wrist Mounted APG |Ancile Shield |Aredian Armlet //:
//: EQUIPMENT: VW 864 Maser Rifle | LO-18D | LO-22S | Sunshot Pistol //:
//: 35|40 Active Mag : 3 Backup Mags x LO-KI/22 Standard Slug Round | Shiva Knife | S.A.N.D. Powder //:
//: ADDITIONAL EQUIPMENT: 3x Ravenous Grenades | 2x Kushute Grenades //:
//: 1x Ion Grenade | 1x Flash Grenade | 1x Incendiary Grenade | 1 x Smoke Grenade //:
//: 1 x Arrow head of Absence //:​

THUD. A thin layer of ash curled into the air as CT-312 boots slammed into the next platform. Metal briefly groaned beneath her weight before stabilizing. Her repulsor pack roared again, launching her forward. Platform to platform. Each landing clean, measured, and precise. Ash kicking up. CT-312’s rifle stayed raised. Entering the adjacent arena. Allyson and Darth Malum’s. Eyes scanning the battlefield, CT-312 blinked hard– zooming in with the contact lens.

Allyson and Malum locked in their own duel on a platform far ahead. The Scout’s eyes shifted, Darth Virelia moving with grim purpose. Closing the gap between them. Her HUD lit up with three signatures as she came into range. CT-312 halted at about average distance of the three. Combat stance locked in. Blinking hard– zoom out. She exhaled slowly through the vocoder. Lining up the shot.

BOOM. First slug – centered low. Aimed at Malum’s lower body.
BOOM. Second slug recoiled higher – angled for his chest.

Firing two slug rounds. CT-312 immediately could tell the LO-KI/22 Standard Slug Rounds hit different. A sharper kick, faster burn. ‘Definitely not standard’. These were way faster. Deadlier. Even with the added strength and weight of the Halcyon Armor, each round slammed back into her shoulder. Metal boots grinding against the scorched durasteel platform. CT-312’s stance slid half a foot.

Snapping the LO-18D, ‘Next target.’ Allyson. The crosshair tracked her for a second. CT-312 fired. Her finger froze before she pulled the trigger once more. Not wanting to waste ammo. Gone. Allyson’s HUD signature blinked out. ‘Cloaked?’ Disappearing from sight.

BOOM. The slug tore into the metal platform just where she saw Allyson. Metal screaming under the impact. Shrapnel scattered around from its Iadrium kinetic and thermal aftershock it caused.

CT-312 blinked. ‘Oh.’ A wicked grin ghosted beneath the helmet. That was new. ‘So this is what Lilaste Arms meant by full potential.’

Her HUD alerted the Scout, a familiar ping. A droid flew towards her, just like before. CT-312 hoped it wasn’t another piece of jewelry. A package detached, landing in front CT-312. Thud. Ash once more kicking up. Quickly crouching, she popped open the case…‘Sand?’ The Scout let out a long, unimpressive sigh through the modulator. Whatever. CT-312 mumbled loud enough for the droid to record. “...Thank you for the… pocket sand.” Shooing away the drone. Restraining herself from flipping it off like before. CT-312 pocketed the sand anyways. Old trick. Still worked.

Her gaze snapped back to the battlefield. Darth Virelia was closing on Malum. Fast. The Lady’s hand snapped out towards CT-312. Signaling? Confused. She tilted her head slightly. Either way, CT-312 didn’t need someone to tell her how to do her job. Activating the LK Phantom Optical Camouflage, cloaking her form. She became a blur, then gone. Cautiously continuing to advance.

CT-312’s HUD blinked. A faint glimmer—blue— off in the distance. Something small. Around the area where she last visibly saw the Sith’s champion. Her brain had seconds to process and decide whether to take this opportunity to shoot or not. ‘Chit.’ Repulsors pack ignited.

Sprinting full force with the repulsor pack roaring, jaw clenched. ‘Damn it all.’ Then CT-312 saw it. The tiny spec of blue flew rapidly towards Darth Virelia. Revealing itself to be an arrow as it soared further from its initial point. The arrow hit its target. Right in Darth Virelia’s chest. No scream. No stumble. Just a drop. Hard and final. CT-312 watched as the Lady gasped and clawed at the platform. Trying to free herself from the arrow, but couldn’t.

CT-312, still cloaked, landed on the same platform just as the Sith fell. An alert went off in her HUD. [OVERHEATED - Repulsor Pack | 60 seconds ]. Unbothered by the alert, her movements clicked into place. Cold, mechanical precision. There was no hesitation, no misstep. Only pure rhythmic repetition and muscle memory. Two Shots rang out.

BOOM. BOOM. Both rounds purposely aimed for the top layer of the metal platform. Shredding near where CT-312 first spotted the faint blue object. Shrapnel exploded out in every direction. Metal shavings and kinetic aftershock scattering violently. Creating a bigger area of effect, carving noise into the silence.

Ash drifted.

The Scout could see Darth Virelia below in her peripherals. Covered in a thin layer of ash and soot. Her HUD pinged. Faint vitals. Good. Darth Virelia was still alive. Crouching, her rifle trained toward Malum and Allyson’s last known vector. CT-312’s free hand gripped the arrow shaft. With a brutal yank, she tore it free. Curious. Clenching her hand, snapping the shaft in two. Pocketing the blue arrow head.

Stepping forward, CT-312 placed herself between Darth Virela’s fallen body and the rest of the chaos. Rifle raised. Eyes sharp. CT-312 held her ground. Bracing for what’s to come.

 

[Darth Malum of House Marr]

Malum smiled a real smile, of course with the hemouraghing agony to his chest, it was more a grimace than a real smile, and behind the mask, none would ever witness it, but its genuineness was felt ever keenly against his chest, his heart beating rapidly against bruised ribs. War was horrifying, war was wonderful, this was not war. The adrenaline coursed through his veins in the same way that one's tongue experienced a wonderful cooked meal.

He was alive.

He was alive, and his heart was thumping heavy in his chest to prove he was alive.

This was battle. The most thrilling of dances, that promised pain while making one feel so truly alive, facing against a foe, who brought him to this level of exhaustion, this level of anguish, but too... this level of utter... need. It was not cold, it was not calculated, there was no fear, this was not a battle that would determine the course of history.

It was hot, it had the sweat run from every pore, it was pure, animalistic, primeveal, just... two figures, throing all of what they held at each other, pressing their opponent to the point of mutual annihilation, bringing them to the brink, and begging them to take both off the cliff. It was raw, it was undignified.

It was real.

"Call me Malum, you deserve that much..." He replied, with a heaving breath, his smile, if possible, and beyond his reckoning seeming to grow, "...Who knows, maybe I will not kill you by the end of this..." The amusement brimmed through the words, as still, with his focus kept on her bow, his red eyes shifted to her own.

With one projectile having struck him at near point blank range, he was hardly about to allow himself to be struck again, like a lever flicked on in the back of his mind, the Battle Sense made the world slow, as he twisted himself, in most instances there was no advantage in being so close to an oncoming projectile.

Arrows were a special case.

Achieving terminal velocity while still mid-air, fired as they were from the bowstring? He may have had less time to react, but the arrow had not yet, achieved its potential.

Even hissing as he echoed his opponents roll in the opposite direction, he still felt the air whistle as the arrow passed by his ear, he could only say a silent thanks that it was not a voidstone that would disorientate him further, even if still designed to utterly gut him. Landing upon leg and hand, the dust kicked up, and the lava lapped up.

He flicked his hand out, the two shikkars that had not made purchased reaching back to his hand, preparing to be thrown once more, as even rolling out of the way, his eyes had never left her.

Never left the new arrow drawn.

Voidstone.

The shikkar pierced her armour, but had not made struck the flesh, indicative enough by the fact she was not in excruciating pain. He breathed heavy breaths, every one a piercing effort, as the shikkars held onto his fingers, another round of projectiles then. He kept his gaze fixed upon her, readying himself to throw himself out of the way once more, and most importantly...

...Make sure the shikkars struck true.

Until the crack of a sniper round resounded across the arena. The shield that guarded the crowd from them, and blocked the compeitors from each other fractured and fray, as one of the sides fell.

Allyson's gaze flicked to the sound.

Every instinct in his body resisted the urge to finish the job right then and there, it would only take a flick of his wrist, the shikkars embedded themselves into her neck.

Yet he stilled.

He stilled, and he hated that he stilled. The voice of the announcer shouted in his drums, and still, he refused to take the action necessary to end this.

It would not be clean. It would not be right. It would not be...

...Honourable.

You fool of a Marr, he could hear a hundred generations of ancestors whisper in the back of his mind, he could hear his own body struggle against the decision, that part of him that housed another, his Mistress that had so rebelled against his form, yet, when conjoined with her tortured half, had found herself becalmed, reached out.

Snapping through ethereal means, taking command of his wrists.

Pushing him to do what was necessary.

His vision flickered in heady gazes of ruby and citrine, as his breath hitched, his brow drenched in sweat, as breath drew heavy, as ever, the priority of questions stung him like a venomous viper. Indecision would have implied a difficulty in deciding, rather, it was as if his very soul fractured in the midst of two competing powers that were vigorous in the pursuit of victory.

Rage.

It was rage then alone that found the chalice cup. His breath came forth with the steaming hiss of draconic quality, as if by the rite of once forefather, he would belch fire and smoke in equal measure if tested. He snapped his gaze shut, as the rubies, citrine, and sunstones whirled within him. This was his fight, his battle, and any dared to interrupt?

Who. Dared. Interrupt?

"I suppose so..." He allowed in grated whisper, as he allowed her to fade from sight, on confrontation course with whomever was invading their battleground.

A figure he had never heard of before.

And a fellow Darth...

Serina Calis...

...Oh.

Of course. Of course it had to be fething her.

He rose from his knees, even without the black pauldrons, the black knight embalmed in plate and steel, cut an intimidating figure, the dark cloak bellowing forth behind him, caught the wind in a manner that seemed to make him stand even taller. Their duel had been paused... merely paused.

Two distractions, two insignificant insects, that was all they were, appetisers to the main course.

It seemed one of them disagreed, the two clicks of a rifle exploded across the air. Allyson had already placed forth the shield that she most easily hid behind, it seemed for the moment, they would return to the old game, the masked Sith Lord disappeared from sight both seen and unseen, fading away from view, as the wind itself became his propulsion.

A whipping, cold wind, that provided him for the moment... flight.

Transcending the metallic ground that so often teetered on the edge of fiery oblivion, it allowed him for the first moment in a long period of moments the right... to breathe. The crisp fresh air, taking upon them a carbonic element, as red gaze fell upon the ground below.

Blinking in rapid succession, at the sight that greeted him.

...Serina Calis was dead.

Perhaps that was an overexaggeration, Serina Calis was soon to be dead. The arrow was a grevious thing, shardlike, heavy, sharp, and it stood, having punctured a hole right through her chest. She desperately attempted to claw at it, but, collapsed upon the metal as she was, it was the clawing anguish of a lamb knowing it was slaughtered.

That left one, the soldier wearing some heavy armour, one which sparked some sort of recognition on the back of his mind, having attempted to strike him out, greeted a droid, before fading from view.

...No, it was more as if she was camoflauged from view, her technology as impressive as it was, held nothing to the power of the Force, keen eyes, knowing where she once was, could see the vague tremours, the platforms from whence she leapt, and the quake of by her landing.

Or simply the exhaust of a repulsor pack.

She was going to Calis...

...Both his enemies at the moment, united in one central location.

He could not have asked for a more thoughtful gift.

He found himself upon one of the exterior platforms, as he pulled the Force to his will, knowing that the voidstone in the immediate vicinity would prove an obstacle, but, he only needed to get close. He hissed, as his muscles protested the strain, yet, the will of the Force bowed to his own, as he commanded its obedience, demanded its strength. Around the platform holding both the soldier and Calis, the magma began to splutter and bubble, an incredibly scorching substance, growing ever moreso. As around the platform from whence they stood, as the soldier prepared herself into defensive positioning, more than likely to be the next one to find an arrow through their chest...

...The lava began to shift.

As if suddenly they had taken the characteristics of the ocean, a current began to form, the viscous liquid growing unsettled, as the metal was the beachhead.

The lava, the waves.

He altered the very nature of the molten substance, the voidstone stopped him from brinking it down upon them like some godly curse, but he did not require that. It only required the moment of action.

Gravity would do the rest.

The waves began small, barely even waves, just the current flexing along the perimeter, but they grew higher, challenging the perimeter, biting down upon the metal, and begging for its fall.

Until the very end, the soldier would see it.

The great collossal wave, the lava transmuted all around them.

Threatening to drown them both in a molten fiery wake.

Allyson Locke Darth Virelia CT-312
Mentioned: Darth Ophidia Darth Vulcanus

Spoiler

Equipment:
The Amulet of Darth Marr's Ashes x 1
Band of Conjuring x 1
The Eliadian Ring of Flames x 1
Mk. 2 Ophidia Assassin Armour x 1
Lionskin Defence Gauntlet x 1
The Blade of Storm and Flame x 1
The Soulsabre x 1
Jin'Wodasir x 5
A Lover's Healing Potion x 1
A Seer Stone x 1
Grenades x 10 (2 Incendiary, 2 Chemical Gas, 2 Fragmentation, 2 Stun, 2 Smoke)
Shikkars dipped in Devaranonian Blood Poison x 6
Tsaisibola x 1
Tsariquira x 1
HG-88 'Big Iron' Hand Cannon x 1
Dishiarza x 1 (Carrying the Soulsabre)

 

[Allyson Locke]

//: Darth Malum of House Marr //:
//: CT-312 //: Darth Virelia //:
//: Attire //:
//: Equipment //:
//: Bow & Arrows //: Cybernetic Eye //: Jacket //: Arrows of Absence x 21 //: Bag of Absencite x 5ea //: Sword //:
//: Non Transferable "Equipment" //:
//: Ava'kash Brand //: Emperor's Echo //:

The arrogant swell of victory consumed the Corellian. Seeing the arrow burrow into the depraved cavity of Serina Calis brought a Cheshire grin to her lips. The projectile hadn't slowed, not against armor. No, Serina had come to a fight to the death wearing only her hubris.

It had failed her.

But victory didn't last.

The crack of the gun rang through Allyson's mind. Unlike standard ammunition, it took her danger sense longer to react. Shrapnel burst from the platform, and she threw up an arm to shield her face and eyes.

That was only the first shot.

The second and third came fast, more bullets hurtling toward her. Allyson's eye tracked both, but it wasn't enough. The second bullet caught her. She lunged away, but not fast enough. The slug ripped through her leather jacket, scorching the skin beneath. Pain bloomed hot and sharp, and somewhere behind her, the round struck steel.

More of that reddish-gold ichor stained her shirt. Thankfully, the heat of the shot cauterized most of the wound, so there was less chance she'd leave a trail.

The platform wasn't safe. Whatever the trooper was firing could punch clean through it.

Allyson slipped the absencite arrow back into her quiver and drew a kyber-tipped one instead. As it settled into place, the crystal shimmered, charged with the Force channeled through her. She took aim at one of the farther platforms behind Serina and 312. They were allied, clearly.

The Force shifted beside her. Another presence, Malum, showing off again. Typical Sithling.

"I'll humble you like the others," she muttered as she loosed the arrow.

It soared over Serina and 312, embedding itself at the base of the platform behind them. With an exhale, Allyson lowered her bow and drew another absencite arrow. Then came the pull—a wrench in her gut as her body was ripped through the Force to reappear on the underside of a narrow platform. Her boots touched down, inverted, but steady.

She paused, letting her stomach settle. Thankfully, there was nothing left in it after the last time she'd thrown up.

Allyson spotted the tidal wave of lava. She raised a brow. Where the hell was all that power bleeding from? The raw display could easily kill a lesser Sith. But like her, he didn't seem to care.

Nothing mattered but killing Calis.

As the molten surge threatened to crash down, Allyson's cybernetic eye locked onto her enemies. Two lifeforms visible now—Serina and CT-312. The third, Malum, had already pinged earlier. She focused, marking them. The moment the molten wave moved onto the platform, Allyson took a breath and fired at Calis.

She drew the silenced absencite arrow, the Force flooding every fiber of her being, enhancing the power behind the draw.

Then she loosed it—this time aimed for the back of Serina's head. The moment it launched, the absencite activated, protecting the arrow and nullifying the Force around it. If the trooper wanted to remove that one, she was welcome to try.

Fury blazed behind the Corellian's eyes. Her bow, her brand, both cut her from the threads of fate, dulling the danger sense of her prey.

Allyson had been conditioned to be a weapon. Nothing more. She fought with no hope of gain, no dreams of glory. Only missions. Only obedience.

But killing Serina Calis, who had foolishly stepped outside the Kainite's protection?

That was personal.

That was her victory.

Her prized kill.

And she wanted it almost too badly.

Spoiler

ACTIONS

1. Blocked Shrapnel from Bullets 1&3, 2 grazed Allyson's side
2. Stowed Void arrow (Absencite) & Drew kyber tipped arrow
3. Infused Arrow with Force and fired it BEHIND/ABOVE Serina and 312
4. Teleported and is under the upper far platform behind Serina and 312
5. Cybernetic Eye (Esper Eye) Locked & Tracking Targets while Allyson drew her arrow
6. Fired and Activated Void Arrow (Absencite)
7. Still Cloaked & Art of the Small

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Round 2."

Tags - CT-312 Allyson Locke Darth Malum of House Marr



The world was ash.

The air, molten breath. The sky, devoured by smoke.

Darth Virelia lay broken upon the durasteel, pinned by absence, surrounded by the echoes of her name and the crackling wails of something ancient rising from below. Her fingers twitched against the edge of the platform. The arrow was gone—but the scar it left burned like a dying star, cratered and hollow. Ichor poured from her mouth in a slow, wet stream. Her lungs hissed. Her mind was drowning in static.

And above her, it came.

She saw it—barely—through a single, half-lidded eye.

The lava.

It moved like a beast.

It wasn't just rising. It was forming. A current. A crescendo. The air trembled with heat, not of nature, but of will. Intent. Wrath.

Malum.

Of course it was him. The arrogance. The timing. The weight of control woven into molten stone. He didn't just want her dead—he wanted her erased. Burned clean from memory, left as nothing but slag in the bottom of a colosseum.

And CT-312—faithful, ever still—stood above her. A bulwark against the incoming storm, rifle steady, silhouette cutting through the haze like a statue of war.

But the bracelet.

The void.

Even with the arrow removed, her strength could not return—not with that cursed obsidian locked around the scout's wrist. The zone of suppression lingered like a phantom blade, sheathed in centimeters, and growing tighter every second.

The lava began to roar. A thousand tons of liquid death surged in a perfect arc, drawn by the force of will alone. There was no escape. No cover. No time.

Unless—

She moved.

One step. One gamble. One choice that rewrote fate.

She threw herself off the platform.

Not with grace. Not with power. It wasn't flight. It was a fall.

A body broken and lost to the wind. Spinning, bleeding, cracking open as it dropped—

And then—

The Force struck her like lightning.

Not conjured. Not summoned. It hit her.

Like gravity snapping into place. Like the universe slamming its fist into her sternum and roaring, "You are not done yet."

Every nerve in her body ignited.

Her bones screamed. Her veins burst. Blood—black, silver, violet—sprayed from the pores in her fingers like ink from a shattered pen. Her spine twisted with the surge. Her jaw snapped open with no sound.

Then came the sound.

A scream.

A scream of raw, hateful resurrection.

Electric. Endless.

And then she became it.

She didn't cast the lightning. She was the lightning.

A corona of blinding, white-violet electricity erupted from her airborne form—an omnidirectional storm of wrath and rebirth. The world itself seemed to recoil.

Every conductive surface lit up like a beacon. Metal glowed white-hot. Ferrocrete fractured. The ash in the air became sparks. The storm howled.

A single, impossible pulse of Force Lightning ripped across the arena—raw, unshaped, uncontained. It didn't aim. It consumed.

The edge of the rising lava wave collapsed instantly.

Superheated air pressure from the blast caused the molten tide to deform—its apex shattered by a sudden vacuum, then slammed down by shockwave concussion. It hit the platform's edge not as a wave, but as a splash, boiling and chaotic, redirected by sheer atmospheric violence. It hissed, writhed, and fell short.

The metal of the platform exploded outward in flakes—a high-pitched scream of overstressed alloys detonating from thermal shock. Chunks of durasteel screamed into the air, cascading in molten arcs that shielded her from view.

Above the chaos, it came.

Another arrow.

Another promise of annihilation.

The second shot had loosed the instant her scream broke the sky. Its blue Absencite tip caught the firelight like a shard of forgotten winter. It wasn't rage behind it this time. No trembling hand. No hesitation. This was design. Allyson's aim was perfect.

But perfection had not accounted for what Serina had become.

The arrow screamed through the upper currents, cutting down in a vicious arc toward the platform below where Virelia hovered mid-air, her silhouette still crackling with the afterglow of raw Force Lightning. The air itself around her was destroyed—pressurized, ruptured, and scorched into volatile, twisting thermals.

But not the arrow.

Within its one-meter null field, the Force was silent. Not even echoes passed through. The lightning parted before it, deflected by sheer metaphysical absence. Even the corrupted will of Virelia could not touch it—not directly, not by proxy. It cut through the aftermath like a coffin through stormwinds.

And yet—it missed.

Not because of her.

But because of the world she had shattered around her.

The atmosphere within her blast radius was no longer stable. The Force-null field of the arrow could resist energy, pressure, magnetism, even the Force—but it could not resist chaos. Not raw, environmental instability. Not physics unbalanced.

And what Serina had wrought was not control—it was detonation.

A thunderclap of heat from the earlier lightning strike expanded in a bloom of superheated gas just below the arrow's path. It wasn't aimed. It wasn't deliberate. But it was there—a rolling front of thermal distortion spiraling upward from the melting ferrocrete, carving a rift in the air like a lung exhaling fire.

The arrow hit the rising wall of unsteady wind and pressure—

—and shuddered.

Just a centimeter. Just enough.

It tumbled, not violently, but slightly—cleanly. It passed by the edge of the platform at a shallow angle, carving a line through the haze. Not by inches. By meters.

And then it was gone.

The shaft screamed past the durasteel lip and vanished into the cauldron below—into the churning hell of lava and smoke and ash, swallowed by a world that could not recognize the void it carried.

No explosion. No severance. No death.

Just the sound of absence falling into fire.

The air was screaming now.

The Force was back. In her blood. In her lungs. In the meat of her shattered ribs.

And her eyes—

Her eyes glowed.

Not yellow. Not red.

Neon.

Violet.

Twin sigils of something unnatural, something willed into being through hatred alone. They pulsed like reactor cores—open wounds leaking radiation.

Ash exploded around her. Her hair whipped behind her in silver-gold streamers. Her fingers were cracked and smoking from the lightning still bleeding through her skin. Her mouth split open in a grin that wasn't born of joy or pain—

But necessity.

She rose. Slowly. Silhouetted by the storm.

And then, she fed.

A hand rose toward the crowd.

Her fingers curled.

And the drain began.

The arena's crowd began to convulse. Life signatures, twisted and enthralled, cried out in a rising chorus of fear as the energy began to siphon—skin paling, eyes dimming, souls dragged down into the gravitational whirlpool that now surrounded her like a halo of despair.

She didn't move.

She didn't need to.

They gave her what she demanded. Their hope. Their breath. Their warmth.

It flowed into her with a vengeance.

The ichor on her chest slowed. Then stopped.

Her wounds ceased to steam.

Darth Virelia stood reborn.

Clad in ash. Crowned in lightning. Bled from silence into storm.

And her word—her truth—rippled like thunder across the ruin:

"Everything."