Public Great Hunt: The First Sith Conclave [All Sith]

[Khamul Kryze]

The Unchained

Loadout: Mandalore's Lament, Regret, beskar'gam

Engaging: Arris Windrun

Darth Solipsis , Darth Vinaze , Da'Razel , Lord Creuat , Dodhorn Harert , St. Thomas Barran

Theme

The push came and went, all in a flash, but at the same time so slow, as if time itself had bent its will to the Mand'alor. He had not willed it so, but the perception of a true warrior was more than any common individual could understand. He reached out to the darkness, seeking guidance as to his next move. That move came, though possibly too late... as he spun his body, attempting to avoid the round that was aimed nearly point blank to his body.

The round landed, and though at first it seemed inconsequential, as the moments passed, the unignorable sensation of burning crept up his free arm. It wasn't enough to put him down. The Unchained had spent too many years enduring far greater pain than this. He chose to let it simmer, using it to fuel his own rage as he began to lash out at his opponent.

Mandalore's Lament slashed... and slashed... and slashed again, it's hellish presence presenting a crimson flurry of strikes against his opponent.

Worms... he would think to himself. None of them could possibly understand the true will of a warrior.

His blade continued to hack and slash, leaving little room for his opponent to adapt. If they could... then perhaps they may survive...

He almost hoped they would.

 

[Arris Windrun]

Khamul Kryze

Arris landed to a flurry of razor attacks from her opponent's deadly blade. She hadn't encountered a weapon like it - at least at a glance - but knew it for what it was when the hot edge melted across her chest. Synflesh sizzled, and her subdermal armor, too, had been lacerated by the powerful energy. This was a lightsaber, or at least something like it.

That made what she had to do next much simpler. The cyborg picked up the pace and found a groove. Turning potential death into a dance with violence. She moved and dodged as her steps backpedaled. She took a nick at her shoulder, another below the eye, and a cut along the armored casing of a leg. The movement bought her co-processor enough time to mark his weapon and himself.

She pushed herself back with the Force and drew both guns. One aimed at his blade - fired a shell of cortosis dust called a 'saber breaker' which'll short a lightsaber out on impact, if only temporarily.

The cyborg didn't wait to measure her success. With a kick of hydraulic power, she charged forward and entered a controlled slide along some icy mud and fired her other weapon. This time it was the old familiar, the scorching hot biogel, aimed for his sword-carrying side.

Spoiler: Saber Breaker

Link

SABER BREAKER SHELL: This shell is simply packed with a cortosis dust. Fire it, it bursts, your opponent's lightsaber shorts out. Ideally.

 

[Barragh Nenn]

The Halberd discorporated.

The Whip withdrew, fading back into the shadows.

If Hasuras Na-Gerra wished to parley with Darth Virelia then so be it.

Unseen eyes observed, paying carefully attention to the subtle tics and nonverbal cues of both parties. Eyes flickered to the battle between Drystan Creed and St. Thomas Barran too but he did not intervene. The Vahlan was his priority for the moment so long as no one struck against him he needn't be concerned with their actions.

Elsewhere Sith dueled. A Kaggath called. Lords of repute such as Darth Solipsis and Mercy engaged one another, Arris Windrun fought against Khamul Kryze

It was all very interesting.

 

[Veno]

He was a bit bored beneath the corpse, and it was starting to feel a little too heavy. Bloodshed brought a certain sense of fun, even if it often meant that the giants were stomping around on the ants. Even if Veno preferred not to be crushed underfoot, sometimes those more irrational urges rose up to the surface, bubbling.

Veno wormed his blaster out from beneath the Houk laying on top of him, taking aim at the pale freak known as Barragh Nenn and slammed a finger down on the trigger.

 

[Darth Carnifex]

The light was blinding, scouring shadow and abstracting the silhouettes of all caught in it's radiance. At the epicenter, the Eternal Father, clad in power both dark and majestic. He alone weathered the greatest brunt of the eruption, expression unwavering as all became naught as light and ash. Rather than pulling away from the intense reaction, the Eternal Father seemed to lean into it, to push forward until He truly stood at the center of the mass expulsion of energy and radiation.

And when all was said and done, and the light dimmed to nothingness amidst a waste of scorched earth and blackened bones, there He stood. The wind clutched and tore at Him, though the cloak at His shoulders, weighted by the scales of Beskar, nary moved an inch in the tumultuous gale. Skin, blackened and charred, creaked and crackles as He moved to look about Him. He was unrecognizable, a blemish of blackened ruin held together by armor that smoked from every joint and crease.

Then, He reached up towards His face with blackened claws, running them over the great scar that was His head. As the fingers ran along the length, long strands of midnight black hair sprouted from His scalp, pieces of blackened flesh cascading down in uneven clumps as the ruin fell away like a veil. Muscle and skin rapidly reknit over fire-kissed bones, the Eternal Father's visages replenishing itself as the world around Him grew dim and colorless; the Force leached away and flowing into Him in all it's vast multitudes; Light and Dark.

No soft fabric had survived the explosion, only the hard alchemically-wrought steel did. Beneath it the Eternal Father was clad only in bare skin, regrown from the energies of the Force He'd devoured moments before. To the careful eye, there was a difference in the black-inked tattoos that covered His body from before the explosion to now. Chiefly, there were more of them and in greater accumulations upon His skin, some of them even haphazardly woven into one another.

Such power always came at a cost, and flesh was not an exceptional conduit for such energies.

Breathing in deep, the Eternal Father let out a short bark of a laugh as He stood on His lonesome amidst death and ruin. "Saint of Flame indeed."

Darth Vinaze | Da'Razel ​

 

[Barragh Nenn]

The Blaster shot actually struck cleanly however it would deflect harmlessly in the process.

The Shadowcloak he wore incorporated an underlay of shell spider silk which was renowned for its ability to deflect fire from weapons such as they one fired at him.

In the aftermath the Umbaran turned his head in the direction the shot had come from, eyes narrowed and scanning for movement while he backed away.

He'd sink deeper into the background, the shadows and dim light causing him to blur until he disappeared completely and was rendered functionally invisible again. Others might sense him via the force or they might track him by a vague heat signature if they could see into the infrared spectrum but otherwise he would be difficult to see and nigh impossible to take a clean shot at.

Veno

 

[Veno]

Seeing his newly made opponent glance around, searching and then disappear, Veno decided the best strategy was to instead remain hidden beneath the corpse. He tucked his arm back underneath the Houk, feigning dead once again. His smaller frame buried quite neatly beneath the larger, oversized body. Even if a touch too heavy for comfort, it was better than letting that thing find him.

Barragh Nenn

 

[St. Thomas Barran]

TAGS
Friend: Darth Solipsis Darth Vinaze Dodhorn Harert Lord Creuat
Darth Bellum Khamul Kryze Talon Draven Darth Apophion Da'Razel
Donne Toulemonde Darth Virelia

Foe: Emissary of Strife Vestra Tane Tamsin Starfall Anet Raine
Mercy Arris Windrun Hasuras Na-Gerra Darth Strosius Darth Carnifex
Helix Darth Adekos Lirka Ka Barragh Nenn Elani Zambrano Darth Empyrean
Drystan Creed

THE GREAT HUNT
5

​

OUTSIDE THE SITH TEMPLE, DESEVRO,
OUTER RIM TERRITORIES (903 ABY)

'Not bad. That was a neat trick,'
'Heh!'
​

The one-eyed Woad would have answered in proper gratitude, just moments away from offering good grace in the makings of a covenant between adversaries, but something happened that caught St. Thomas' attention, and in a way he never once expected. At first, it was the obvious breaching of a scabbard's catch, followed by the metallic scrape of a sword unsheathing, auditory clicks and scratches of which the Bloodhound recognised better than most under the stars that night; a recogition so jarring it left him cussing underbreath, stemming mostly from regret for leaving his songsteel on the flagship, having believed it too important for this outing among Force Users.

Without a chance to see what sort of blade he was facing in the ashen cloud, the Khan could only listen on as the hidden blade whirled and sang in the distance.

It was not until the lattermost phase of the distant motion when the method could apply itself, and with and all sense of meaningful potency at that; fortunate the Khan was that the desired, priority target was the ground-hugging, ashen fog after all, sending the haze outward to thicken on other segment's of the inundated Desevran battlefront whilst the clear, skylit chunk of visibility set the stage for the young opponent's next attack. Revealing a pretty canopy of stars for all that the revealed segment could see in the fight, the Bloodhound chuckled in appreciation of the dim lit setting it illuminated around him, smiling blissfully before that nagging sense of hypervigilance assailed his sense of wonder, stifled as if by way of garotte-wire.

'Bloody Nether! I can't even take a second to enjoy it, an' the worst bit? I don't even think I'll be seeing these stars again for a while, if at all.... An' here I am, back t'business.'

The one-eyed gaze of the Khan had returned to the sword his young opponent was wielding, and within a moment of catching it's form, he saw the way it glinted; and in that moment, that one tiny instant, Barran knew it to be Songsteel. It was a different, heavier density than the swords the Khan had faced in years bygone, thus drawing St. Thomas even further into his appraisal as he drawled,'Atrisian katana, evolved, but the new design additions are sleek enough t'pass.... It's features speak for themselves, though. I can see a pressurized trigger-mechanism there, an' judgin' by the charge-level there, its not just for show. I quite like it, to be fair.', nodding then with clear approval as he trailed off, already deep in consideration of the Songsteel-on-Songsteel clashes that awaited future engagements.

A return to imbued swordfighting glory, lying poised in wait for a,"Next-encounter".

'Have you been wise enough to give 'er a name, at least? I would like to know who my Chantress is meeting next time.... An' by the way, I'm Nokhoi Khan - known to the Galaxy as Thomas Barran.'

 

[Quinn Varanin]

//: Delsin Shaw //:

Quinn smiled faintly at his jab.

"She's not an Echani," she said evenly. "She knows enough to understand what matters."

The words carried calm authority, but her thin smile never touched her eyes — a warning in itself. Dropping Kirie's name in this nest of vipers wasn't a clever move, and he knew it.

Then he moved. The rhythm of his approach was unmistakable: the snap of lightning, the shift of weight, the displaced air before the strike. She read it all.

The first jab — sidestepped. Quinn's body rolled with Echani economy of motion: a subtle pivot, the strike grazing air as she let momentum pull her into position beside him. No wasted flourish. No grand theatrics. Just precision.

The second strike came, lightning laced through it. Quinn drew in a thin breath, hands rising as the Force tightened around her palms. Tutaminis. The bolt struck her open hand and hissed white-hot — hairs lifted, bones thrummed — before she folded it like a seam and redirected it. Sparks crawled up her forearm, arcing back toward his wrist and chest.

His stomp cracked the ground, a shockwave of electrified energy racing outward. Quinn bent with it, letting it wash through her stance instead of bracing. The wave became torque. She spun inside his guard and brushed a hand against his ribs — enough to shift balance, not wound. A reminder: she could be anywhere she wanted.

He had never seen her fight like this. People thought her a distant wielder of the Force, but she was still Echani — molded by Srina Talon herself. This was her inheritance, and she would show it.

Quinn's chest rose slowly, measured. One hand feathered along the inside of his forearm, her other sliding toward his collar to shift the balance further. Her hazel eyes stayed locked on his, her lips curved with playful arrogance.

"You wanted to play," she murmured, her voice low, steady. He could hear the rasp of amusement in it, the thread of desire for combat woven through every word. "Now show me if you're worth my attention."

Her foot snapped out, kicking toward his planted knee. Lightning surged through her muscles, strength honed by what she'd absorbed. She wasn't pushing him away; she was pulling him into intimacy — the closeness where Echani read more than movement, where every twitch of muscle betrayed thought.

 

[Drystan Creed]

DESEVRO

Drystan let out a quiet sigh, enjoying the fresh air, then inclined his head toward St. Thomas Barran in acknowledgement. Despite the explosion's damage, he seemed in high spirits—smiling, content.

"Chantress. That's a pretty name. Looking forward to meeting her. Mine's called Jetstream. Found the old thing in a temple on Dorin. A little old fashioned but I've kept it up with the current times."

Behind the visor his eyes glimmered as he smirked. He hefted the weapon over his shoulder, posture loose, almost at ease—as if the battlefield were nothing more than a stage for a casual conversation. A gloved finger tapped the scabbard at his hip.

"My name is Drystan Creed. A fellow warrior." He huffed and stepped forward, content to keep moving.

"Glad I didn't miss this party. I was looking for some action." He sheathed the blade again. Unlike most warriors, this was a dangerous stance to face—his style favored a quick draw amplified by a ballistic payload: a giant piece of steel launched at slug-thrower speed.

"I'm no Sith like the others here. I just like to stretch my legs every now and then—like now."

There was no swaggering arrogance in his voice, just casual cool. He didn't sound like a man chasing glory or validation; he spoke with the ease of someone who'd already found what he was made for. A warrior by nature, content in the clash of steel and will.

He placed his main hand above the pommel and pressed his offhand's index against the scabbard trigger, positioning himself in striking range—more than happy to accept that he was squarely within his opponent's reach.

St. Thomas Barran

 

[St. Thomas Barran]

TAGS
Friend: Darth Solipsis Darth Vinaze Dodhorn Harert Sahar Lord Creuat
Darth Bellum Khamul Kryze Talon Draven Darth Apophion Maestus Da'Razel
Donne Toulemonde Darth Virelia

Foe: Emissary of Strife Vestra Tane Tamsin Starfall Anet Raine
Mercy Arris Windrun Hasuras Na-Gerra Darth Strosius Darth Carnifex
Helix Darth Adekos Lirka Ka Barragh Nenn Elani Zambrano Darth Empyrean
Drystan Creed

THE GREAT HUNT
6

​

OUTSIDE THE SITH TEMPLE, DESEVRO,
OUTER RIM TERRITORIES (903 ABY)

'Hmmmm....'

Jetstream?
Fitting.​

Finally receiving the name of his rival-to-be, the Khan smiled with a nod of affirmation, transforming it into a gracious bow as soon as his head had dipped low enough; listening on as this Drystan fellow continued, though the admission of his difference to all the Sith certainly came as a shock to Barran, as there was much in the way of power behind every attack. Even going on to admit this, (and inadvertently so-) by inquiring,'Lad... Drystan, sorry.... Do you, by chance, have any idea as to how significant that statement is - to ears like mine?', holding back all incredulity as he snatched his telekinetically-suspended Makashi sabre from the air.

'Look at the colour of this lightsabre o' mine, for instance.... It hasn't even been bled all the way, has it? Y'see, there was your first indicator that I, also, walk an entirely different path.'

​

Dipping deep into his poise, and with knees bent in bracing, set form, Barran held off on the final phase to continue,'After all, power needn't obey such rules an' frameworks, for power, itself, will choose it's champions.... For whom, living, dead, an' undying alike, would even dare question us when we ascend, through every last ceiling of power's limitations?!', and to hold his autumnal-orange sabre in clear, vivid view. This display would be enacted for the purpose of letting Drystan see what he intended to do next, and when the Incantation coating began to spread, mutating onto the Makashi's hilt as it fused hands and grip together, Creed would soon find himself being treated to another of the Khan's ill-advised leaps of faith.

'My answer is simple - NONE BUT POWER ITSELF!!!!'

​

The display started with an emanating flutter in the orange of the blade's Kyber, but then it began to glitch between colour and the lack thereof, flashing back and forth between states of life and death in the palm of Barran's blackened right hand, but the autumnal vibrance would wander into it's own death eventually. An eerily white glow then followed the last flash, casting a much stranger grey hue as the Khan brought the dead Makashi behind his head, showing just enough of the Incantation effects to comfortably draw it back - and with enough intent that his opponent could see it was a signature strike in the making.

'Set!'
​

It was likely that both combatants knew what would result of their powers meeting in the middle, clashing in a vicious, acute contrast between hot and cold's absolute extremes, and with previous examples so recently considered already, there would be no turning back from that which others would view as folly. Catalysation always comprised of suchlike contrasts after all, and with the ashen cloud still affecting most of the battlefront at the time, both combatants knew exactly what their colliding elemental opposites could inflict on the field of battle that night; most would have backed off in search of others means to punch through their counterpart's offence, but it seemed that both combatants were in a destructively-curious mood by then, with neither willing to back down with the tools they were using.

'Brace!'
​

St. Thomas could hear Drystan's weapon priming for attack by then, and just in time for a frozen, icy-black shimmer to consume the lightsabre's dead, grey hue, priming for an attack of it's own, almost as if this was it's own response to make. Acting of it's own accord, and in light of the wielder's lack of knowledge of the Incantation's finer nuances, the Avatar's influence would certainly become apparent enough that it lent merit to the notion, givng solid credence to the likelihood of technical autonomy. Not that such things mattered to the Bloodhound by then, not with heart having long-since fully committed to the laws of final-strike deciders already, fully aware that he would lean in with whatever he had at his disposal.

In any and all given clashes of the sort, at any and all given times.

'COMMENCE!!!!'




[OOC Note - lets send each other flying! LOL! make a crater, something for the planet to remember us by.]

 

[Drystan Creed]

DESEVRO

"It seems we both pursue power, but go about it in our own way," Drystan replied swiftly to Thomas's words.

"I climb the heights of my own potential, unsullied by interference. I won't bore you with the details—perhaps a demonstration is in order."

Perhaps they were more different than alike. Drystan sought power, but not as the Sith did, wielding it as a means to impose their will upon the galaxy. No—his pursuit was more primal, more personal. Power was a challenge to him, a test of his very limits. He craved the precipice where the body and will might break, or rise beyond their shackles. That was who he was: a warrior who saw strength only as something to be tested, never possessed.

Drystan had fought enough battles to read the rhythm of combat, to feel when a duel reached its close. And there was no denying it now—this was the conclusion.

He would honor his opponent with his strongest strike, something he assumed St. Thomas Barran was preparing as well. The strength of the blow did not come from the blade itself. The weapon was merely a tool, forged to endure the strain of his body, not to amplify it. This was the moment to test its limit.

The first act was mental. With a single thought, Drystan released the shackles his brain placed upon his body, those natural inhibitors meant to keep flesh from tearing itself apart. The restraints fell away, and he called upon the full strength of his musculature.

The second was the Force. He poured every thread of his connection into his body, heightening it to the absolute limit—locking out every other possible technique. His entire being became nothing but motion and power.

The third was precision. The kinetic chain aligned flawlessly, energy building from the soles of his feet and traveling upward, each fiber of muscle firing in perfect sequence. Hips, spine, shoulder, hand—each joined the surge, funneling everything into the arc of his strike.

With the trifecta of will, Force, and body aligned, Drystan embodied his creed. A mastery of the physical realm, approaching the realm of transcedance. And he would unleash this mastery to it's fullest effect.

He had no need to utilize the charge system of his scabbard, for this strike born from his spirit transcended the speed and strength that mere gunpowder would bring.

WOOSH!

The air screamed as his blade tore through it. A heartbeat later the world shattered with an ear-splitting CRACK as the strike broke the sound barrier. The shockwave rippled outward, rattling stone and air alike.

Friction set the edge ablaze, flames trailing like the tail of a falling star. It was a cut that carried the speed of a ship reentering atmosphere, the weapon itself a meteor descending with impossible velocity.

If it landed, the result would be nothing short of cataclysmic. Light burst outward, blinding all in the vicinity with a searing flash. The ground convulsed as the impact detonated, the earth splitting as though struck by a godlike blow. An explosion shook the battlefield, so violent it would carve a crater wide enough to mar the planet's surface. From orbit, the scar would be visible—etched into the crust, a reminder of his strike.

For Drystan, it was no act of domination, no display of conquest. It was simply the culmination of his path—a demonstration of the heights reached when mind, body, and will were mastered and brought into perfect harmony.

St. Thomas Barran

 

[Eira Dyn]

Equipment: Lethal Pursuers, vibro-sword, blaster pistol, mask
Outfit: Assassin Attire
Tag: Quinn Varanin | Kirie

Fighting was breaking out all over the place, Eira could only further sigh since she knew this meeting was far past constructive and was now in the meaningless pile of fighting, exchanging of words and just completely derailed from what was the meaning for this meeting. It was disappointing but also increasingly dangerous since it was clear that anyone in attendance was considered a threat and that included some people who were not combat focused. Eira's eyes flickered to her Master as she remained close with the Echani until her Master headed off and chased down another Echani. A male. Eira fought the urge to huff in disapproval but there was no fighting Quinn when something was set to mind.

However, Eira kept a close eye on Kirie, the handmaiden was too important to Quinn so there couldn't be any harm that befell Kirie. Eira also didn't know how skilled in fighting Kirie was, so she had to assume it was not much. The assassin kept a little distance but she did not allow herself to lose sight of Kirie until she knew that she was safe. Her hands hovered over her daggers as Eira scanned around them, assessing the dangers and who might dare to come and attack her. It would be foolish but it seemed just like the Jedi there were too many foolish Sith.

Looking over to Quinn, there was no real way to communicate that Kirie was safe without distracting the Sith Lord in the middle of her fight. Which was not a move that Eira wished to explore. Instead, she just observed the fight, making sure her Master was not going to get hurt and see how two Echani fought. It was not something Eira got to experience often but the assassin had taken an interest in learning the Echani fighting styles, in part because of who her Master was as well as it was a fighting style more fitting for her way. She was not a brawler or someone looking to throw heavy hits.

 

[St. Thomas Barran]

TAGS
Friend: Darth Vinaze Da'Razel Darth Virelia

Foe: Drystan Creed

THE GREAT HUNT
FINALE

​

OUTSIDE THE SITH TEMPLE, DESEVRO,
OUTER RIM TERRITORIES (903 ABY)

'Heeere weeee g-'
[BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM]​

Finally clashing with their strongest elemental attacks, matching seemingly-impossible, sun-like heat with the iciest of frozen waves, both opponents knew exactly what they would be creating together; and despite all inner-voice warnings both warriors had silenced, that creation would end up being a blast-wave of violent, frightening wonder. A magnitude of the sort neither St. Thomas nor Drystan had displayed in the preceding minutes of combat, but for all the tactics on display, escalation could only be a prevailing theme for warriors of the sort, representing far more to their fighting philosophies than the mere culmination implied.

The early stages of a fight were always forays into stylistic differences, but anything beyond that would always become a test of Will, regardless of whether such was inherited or found within; these power-creep leanings were almost impossible to avoid for the likes of the one-eyed Woad, and in turn, probably just as much for Creed's sort, resting firmly on the other end of this most-obscure, seemingly-pervading paradigm. Not that the two swordsmen would ever mind about such things, as there was much in the way of thrilling excitement to be drawn from the greatest of life's most-dangerous passions, just as there would always be more underlying that choice to live such lives to the fullest.

Thus, with coveted ascendant power considered, the following shockwave-catalysation was just an eventuality, waiting to befall the unwitting - like lightning in a stormcloud.

'YUUUUUUUUUUUUUSSSSSSSS!!!!'

​

Even under all that charred debris, even whilst covered in their respective, dusty shells at either side of the crater, Barran knew that Creed could hear his roaring acclaim, his bellowing celebration of feats achieved together, as there was nothing left to hold back his unbridled joy by then. After all, they had just left a pockmark on Desevro's planetary surface, a crater wide enough to be seen from outer orbit, and with that, wide enough to become a lasting feature on Desevro's holo-projections henceforth. All planetary projections would carry that one specific detail for the foreseeable future, and as far as opinions went on the matter of feats of great prowess, both opposing warriors would have cause to feel a sense of pride in their work after that, as there were no greater messages to send to the Galaxy as duellists.

Celebratory though his initial reaction was, nothing could have prepared prying ears for that which followed the process of casting dusty rock and debris aside, climbing out from the messs of their own making together, only to find the true scale and depth of the crater they had just made together. Caring not for the image it would impart of himself, the Khan then rejoiced by unleashing his war-cry, howling through a shrill, scratchy-voiced scream, testing his larynx for all it's worth amid an outburst of jumping, chest-beating enthusiasm. Practically frothing at the mouth by the time he remembered himself, the veins on the Khan's head were still pulsating when he eventually bellowed,'KARK YES!!!! THATS WHAT FIGHTING'S ALL ABOUT!!!! THAT!!!! RIGHT THERE, DRYSTAN!!!!', but the Bloodhound still didn't care, not after a thrill of that extreme.

St. Thomas and Drystan had achieved another to add to their growing lists of great feats, those for which would be remembered for centuries after their souls' eventual passages through the Rift, and for that night, this would mark justification enough to conclude their duel. Assuring an undeniable draw, and the first of it's sort to end with a lasting sense of satisfaction, as there was much that the Khan could have confessed to learning in the outcome, and much to appreciate in it's wake. The one-eyed Woad could not help but feel that rush of shivers down his spine, and all along his arms, the goosebumps of walking through the makings of history; brought on by looking to the sky once more, to the stars above, opened up to a canopy much wider, more expansive than the last.

Calling on his curved-hilt lightsabre from the ashen dust, the mist into which the blast had sent it just moments before, the Makashi hilt finally met his grasp again, still glowing an autumnal orange, still active at the time. But against the ill-advised urge to resume the fight, that stupid avarice for more, Barran chose instead to make a parting sword salute in Creed's direction, rewarding his opponent's prowess in a duellist's respect for the challenge he presented throughout. Only then did the Khan deign to bow his head, momentarily setting aside all ego and aspiration to break that last, surreal silence between them, concluding,'You were meant for more than THIS, my young rival.... Much more!', before he finally switched off the saber and turned with the intent of walking away.

'Until next time, Drystan!'

[EXIT THREAD]