Great Hunt

[Causstik Rahn]

A coliseum of immense proportions stands high on the planet of Mugg Fallow. It is the centerpiece of the City of Bones. A hive of slavers where the buildings are made of bones, skin, and derelict ships. Today in the great Trandoshan city is a day of celebration. It is the day of the Scorekeeper’s Great Hunt. All over the galaxy Trandoshan’s celebrate with a pursuit of their own and those whose bounty is worthy of the Scorekeeper’s praise do the lizard dance in commemoration. At the Coliseum hundreds of Trandoshans gather to watch the great games and hundreds more seek to compete.

The battlefield is already soaked with the blood of dozens of slaves, sacrificed to appease the god of decay. Their corpses thrown into the catacombs to be reanimated as soulless beings with no concious and an insatiable hunger. Here it is where the gladiators reside, in great cages amongst the beast pens and worse. The undead claw at the edges of the pens, Rancors and Drouks sit idly in their own enclosures. The beast watch the contestants in the dim light of the caverns with bored glances and curious stares.

The light is near nill and only creatures of the night might be able to see their surroundings, but visible to all, at the end of each tunnel is a piercing light and beyond it the thunderous roars of thousands of spectators. Inside Trandoshan guards stand at attention along the corridors and each contestant that enters the arena they honor with a unified cry.

“HUAH!”

“HUAH!”

“HUAH!”

Atop a great balcony, I, prophet and chieftain of this great tribe reside. I stare out over the gathering of spectators and watch with beady eyes as the first contestants enter. Blue team. Slaves of little worth. They hold hands to eyes as their vision adjust to the blinding sun of Mugg Fallow. It is time for the games to begin. I hold up a hand to silence the crowd and other then a few muttered murmurs all grow quiet.

“Welcome sentients to the Great Hunt!” I roar, my booming voice like raking leaves. “We honor the Scorekeeper with games of sport and BLOOD! May these measly offerings appease her so that she may smile upon our tribe and grace us with another year of plunder!” I pause as my speech is met with thunderous roars of approval which brings about a smile from my own self. I continue once the cheers have died down and the crowd calms. “ENOUGH TALK, LET THE GAMES BEGIN!”

I watch as the arena winds begin to pick up and the desert dunes shift in the powerful gust. The first game is that of low visibility. The weapons for this hunt is an ancient one, spears fashioned from wood and bone. The great gate on the opposite side of the arena opens and allows admittance to the participants who willingly participate. Red team. I chuckle lowly as they enter and listen intently as the voice of the Scorekeeper whispers sweet praises in my ear.
[member="Wenwynig"] [member="Mirvak"] [member="Mythos"]

 

[Cedric Grayson]

He had not come for the games.

The shrouded figure watched from the crowds as blood was spilled along the arena floor. It was barbaric, but then the Trandoshans had never been a particularly refined race. Darius had developed a distinct dislike for the reptilians after working alongside them in the Galactic Alliance. At the time, he had viewed their religion as ineffectual and outdated, their violence over exaggerated and indulgent. His views had changed very little since those days, though he held a newfound appreciation for their abilities in combat. It was for that reason in particular that he had come here.

That, and to dismantle the tournament

He watched with quiet interest as [member="Causstik Rahn"] announced the beginning of the bouts; the Trandoshan's alien voice made Darius cringe. Cursing the being under his breath, Darius wasted little time in slipping through the crowds toward the warlord's balcony. Those Trandoshans nearest to him paid him little mind; clad in his robes as he was, Darius looked as Trandoshan as any other here.

The hunter would become the hunted.

 

[Mythos]

He Had come for the game and the thrill of the kill. That and wining this tournament and participating would earn Mythos the respect and credentials needed to earn himself a troop of Trandoshans to add to his growing, elite, yet small company of soldiers that bathed the galaxy in blood. Mythos was not in any way out of his comfort zone. He wore the ancient armor he himself carved out of the bones of the Tuk'ata he himself slew in Korriban. Mythos was an experienced hunter in Midvinter, for many years forced to survive without the power of the force having been severed from it. A bone bow and bone arrows and quiver adonerned him but also a massive battleaxe made of bone and melted lava rock from Mustafar. The axe may have a primitive look, but upon testing it easily decapitated a Guarlara mount in a single swing of his mighty arms.

Above his skull was well... His own skull. Fashioned into a helmet of sorts it increased his power of Telekinesis and granted him a well of power to draw from but for this hunt he planned on not utilizing the force at all. Leather and bone armor ready, he raised his axe in the direction of [member="Causstik Rahn"] and let out a powerful roar amplified with the skill of Force Shout. Since he was an Acolyte in the force Mythos was never capable of unleashing force shout on command, he had never even heard of anyone who could... except himself.

The ground around him shook as he let loose his battle cry speaking in clear Trandoshan, to this day the most difficult language he had ever had to learn aside from Kaminoian.

"Carnage for the scorekeeper!"
[member="Darius Sedaire"] [member="Causstik Rahn"] [member="Mirvak"]
​

 

[Wenwynig]

[member="Mythos"] | [member="Darius Sedaire"] | [member="Causstik Rahn"]

Wenwynig was surprised by the invite to a competition, a day of killing and fighting. It was a notion that sounded perfect, almost too perfect. However, once he arrived there was no signs of a trap for him and he saw Trandoshans celebrate to some scorekeeper. Wenwynig rolled his eyes, this was no real god, he and his people were gods, he was sure his people were once worshipped by the simpletons that Trandoshans appeared to be. Offering him weapons was pointless, he was his weapon, his hands turned into their dangerous long claws as he stepped into the arena. There was another already there, shouting in some foreign tongue and causing bloodshed with weapons of bone.

Transforming his hand into a spear, it launched from his body and impaled one of the slaves. This was not meant to be a fair fight, Wenwynig could tell but this mindless bloodshed annoyed him. Only simpletons would find this exciting, real enjoyment came from a worthy kill, killing an opponent that could kill well. Jedi were his worthy kills. He slaughter them all, enjoy every second of it but he knew it would not be like this. This was mindless slaughter. His claws ripped another slave while they screamed for mercy that was not received. Tasting the blood, Wenwynig thought to himself that he might enjoy this a little bit.

 

[profile101]

(Ignore this)

 

[Drogh]

A beating headache, as if his head was a heart, the pounding of his skull aching. Drogh had no intention of being here, he did want to come here, but it was not his decision to be made. Taken by the slavers, carted off with many others to be forgotten and slain in the great fields of blood. Of course Drogh did not know where he would die, if in some hellish marsh or barren planet, if taken by Trandoshans one can only expect oblivion. However in some sick enjoyment, Drogh would die in sport. To be slaughtered in the name of some dark god. Arriving unto a planet he didn't know the name off, shoved into small cramped cells, where the tears and cries of the weak whimpered in the darkness. Drogh was among them, he him self begging that he did not die today. It was almost pitch black in that harsh cell, the air was heavy with despair and heat, the room filed with either insane hope malformed into misplaced blood lust, while the more sane slaves began to think of how awfully they will die.

Drogh was sitting down in a corner, a dim small speck of light in front of them. While others may have seen this light as hope for freedom, the slaves knew it meant only their doom. Drogh was defenseless, he was given nothing to defend him self. He could perhaps uses his untrained hands at the force, but he soon die by the many guards the loomed around. Then, Drogh's heart sank, the feeling of dread drowning him in black water, as the lock of the gate was opened with a bell ringing clang. A Trandoshan guard hissed some cruel command and we followed suit, better to die out there then in here, at least they could pretend they had a fighting chance.

Marched across that narrow tunnel, the small speck of light becoming greater and greater. The horrific yells of madness and blood lust soon filling our ears, drumming in the notion that we were all going to die. The stench of blood and bone becoming stronger with each step, as that great maw of light ebbed ever closer, oblivion at hand. Finally the tormenting death march had ended and before them a great host watched and gawked, as the slaves awaited their slaughter. Yet Drogh was not one to give into despair just yet, not when there were people that could be killed before him. In some frantic rush he began to push the other slaves in front of him, in fact attempting run for the entrance they came, only to find it shut.

The some horrific roar sunders across the battlefield, some dreaded speak that Drogh could not make out. Then Drogh began to truly panic, a rush, no a storm of darkness swelling the battlefield, almost overwhelming Drogh completely. He had to leave this place, looking around desperately for a chance to escape, a chance to flee. Drogh forces him self against the wall of the great stadium, watching as the blood letting begins.

[member="Wenwynig"]

[member="Mythos"]

[member="Darius Sedaire"]

[member="Causstik Rahn"]