5TH POST
OLD-TOWN DISTRICT, DRASTARRA,
BATTLEFRONT: EAST, NESHTAB (SPRING 878 ABY)
'BEGIN!!!!'
Like gunshots, both warriors sprang out of their poise.
With kyber lighting up on the Jedi's side, and spark-like flashes at the very fingertips of the Imperial's own, both technical opposites and experts in their own rights were finally hitting their strides - both ready to kill their counterpart with any and every opening that was revealed to them.
Click-Click!
No stinging sensation as yet, but the heat was enough to know that pain awaited.
Infuriating pain.
Both attack and aggressive-defence alike appeared to have occurred at the speed of blaster-trails, with like more than the sound of a cracking hiss and clicking fingers to discern the source of the forceful commotion, though neither the Woad nor the Atrisian could say for sure if the first click had left a mark or not. Though the split-second of speculation wasn't fated to last, it would never be the case that one or the other would give their respective counterpart any room to breathe that early into the fight, not whilst both were well-aware of the bad blood between their factions; and as most in the Galaxy knew of Force-Wielding matters, first attacks always gave rise to back-and-forth clashes of ground-shaking magnitude, made to herald in dances of which their sort dreamed to experience at every opportunity.
Click.... Click!
Oh, there it is.... Not bad, I usually feel that on the first.
Feeling the sting of the friction caused on the fourth round of clicks, followed by the heat of the trapped Force-Wave particles, (trapped into the flattening of the orb-like matter between both thumbs and index fingers) to say it stung would be considered an understatement to the Wanderer as he hurled the combined double-catalyst of translucent energy, aiming as well as he could for the head of his supremely-agile opponent despite the difficulties brought on by the headaches. And yet, after seeing Ishida's responding solution, making a clean, angular cut with ease through Michael's sharp, glassy Click-Wave as if it were nought but cake, the Druid knew the pains of his fingertips and his head were the least of his worries, especially in seeing how clean her striking form appeared in the struggle against the most obscure of Force-Wave techniques.
But the unexpected was far from done with the Woad yet.
Reaching out with her free hand outstretched, aimed towards the Imperial's head and the obscure orb that fluttered with every contact of the snowdrops that intensified with every minute the fight continued, the sheer depth of the vibrations called on gave Ashina the frequency she needed of her power to manipulate the wavelength of Barran's own; enough to break through the anomalously glassy, ice-like energy emission around the Goidel's head if she so willed it, but in a way that neither could have anticipated to occur in any part of the bout's duration, for neither element could explain the unexplainable. No matter how powerful, learned or wise a Force-Wielder became, no matter what one sensed or discovered along the way, both warriors would doubtlessly ponder on the anomalous for years after that night, tied to rule over exception like all of mortal birth in the Galaxy.
'The feth are ye playin'- GYAH!!!!'
Whatever was ailing the Druid at the time, whatever was pushing into his eyes and his skull without cease or relenting was being agitated into a harsh intensification, that which brought the nose-bleeding back with a vengeance, a pain that was enough to force an instinctive, recoiling backpedal away from the Jedi without knowing the reach of the tether she had established. It wasn't until then that Lord Michael realised the pressure would build regardless of his efforts to evade it, and just as his knees began to give way in his pained groans and growls of rage and discomfort, it dawned on Barran that this was very likely to kill or inflict irreparable damage if he didn't find a way to outwardly push against it. And yet, little did he know that both sides of the coin were trying to break the same spherical pressure from opposing sides of the barrier, though both were operating under clearly differing assumptions, with both having bases in factual, coherent perspectives.
'HaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUURGH!!!!'
Some of the pains were surging more aggressively than others, causing blood to spill from the nose more violently, even trickling out his ears by then, and whether or not he would be conscious much longer was highly debatable by then. But struggle the Wanderer most certainly would, and for as long as the Atrisian beauty remained in his sight, the Woad would never allow his face to meet with the snow again, and certainly not after all he had vowed to himself after the events of Concordia.
Pushing back against it would naturally bring more risks of permanent damage, but the Wanderer quickly understood that it was the only way to correct the mistake he made on Concordia, and if it wasn't addressed before long, the damage would be as disastrous then as it would if Lord Michael had been unable to withstand the pressure that night. Damned either way, but regardless bringing better chances of surviving in the choice of handling the worst of the worst, despite the increased risks of taking on the pain all at once, but the Druid was always quite willing to gamble everything whenever the moment called for such. However, despite the fact it was bringing the Woad to his knees, the Atrisian would see the struggle take form in the attempt to stand up, bracing to move as if the heaviest weight was pushing him down, ready to make the leap of faith he had been avoiding for too long already.
'If this - is what it takes! THEN SO BE IT!!!!'
The ceiling of which Lord Michael had never been challenged enough to punch through, the one thing holding the Druid back above all else, the need for duress-driven evolution within himself.
The rippling orb of pain was beginning to light up by then, increasing in pressure as the opposing powers inadvertently worked to break it, catalysing a reaction from merely enacting natural duelling functions between Force-Wielders; anomalous though the moment was, the Second Great Hyperspace War had gotten to a point that no such moments surprised it's combatants any more, granting a certain freedom from surprise and distractions alike as the Wanderer struggled to arise on shaky legs. And still, despite the gargantuan task that lay ahead, the urge to continue beyond the anomaly itself could be seen in the cold-blue of the Woad's irises, holding the gaze of the Atrisian as he inhaled a deep lungful of cold, clean air for the next, most-vicious waves of head-throbbing agony.
'HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!!!!'
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THUD-THUD
THUD THUD
'What, didn't think I could hear the mutters over the wind? Imperials ain't all that slick, Arkanian.'
Pistol-whips to the back of the head, rifle-shunts to the rib-cage, that it?
Could be worse.... Comply for now.
Like clockwork, as soon as McBain was done talking over the comm-link, the nearest captors jumped him as soon as his rifle hit the snow-covered ground in surrender, keeping it swift and on the safer side of violent so they wouldn't need to shoot or carry the Imperial officer back down to the Maurus Flatlands, but still just enough to let the Varim know that he was better off erring away from testing the marines' patience for the duration of the early internment-process.
None blamed him, for none could in the face of well-prepared defensive strategy, and none could in the willingness to tread behind enemy lines, stepping just a little bit too far in the hopes they could have passed without being noticed in the process. For none could expect miracles in the face of odds and terrain advantages that would have otherwise cut all of Ahan-Kaskim's ninety-nine down to the last man. And out of all who were there to take such shots to the heart, very few among them were in denial of the fact it would've been suicidal to even consider holding out against such numerical and topographical advantages, and perhaps equally as such to consider flailing out against the sheer mass of GADF elements still poised to shoot - legally obliged to endeavour the unthinkable if any of the captives happened to prove troublesome along the way.
'Break his face, the one we see and the one behind it - I want them to see the evils they brought on their friend before we leave.... That means now, Rinard.... DO IT, SERGEANT!!!! I GAVE YOU A DIRECT ORDER!!!!'
Hesitation, though the short reprieve itself was a blessing, was welcomed by neither the Marines nor the Brotherhood captives for that matter, but after another couple of moments of teetering on the edge of commitment itself, the former gave in to the demands of their officer in clear sight of the latter. Stepping up with gauntlets fixed and rifle-butts lined up at the ready, poised to crack and shatter Varim's only remaining possession from childhood, the reluctant non-com muttered,
'This is not the way for former allies - I know.... Be strong, Arkanian.', only to silence himself again with a slow, reverent nod of respect from one warrior to another.
'WHAT THE KARK ARE YOU DOING, RINARD?!?! THEY'RE IMPERIALS - EVIL IS THE ONLY LANGUAGE THEY UNDERSTAND!!!! DO IT ALREADY!!!!'
Then at the last brief pause before the act itself, just before the dull, rolling sequence of brief agonies erupted from from every side, Rinard visibly (even audibly, even through the muffling effect of the helmet itself) for a moment before he composed himself enough to conclude,
'I'm sorry, friend.... But the best soldiers always follow orders.', pulling back with sharp, coiling tensile motion before letting fly with his rifle-stock once and for all. An act of which none present would forget for as long as they lived, ringing especially true for everyone from both sides of the struggle, and with the crack of stock on porcelain heralding the commencement of the beating, the first face would cut and scrape at the second, real face behind it.
Bloodying the Novanian early as he watched his mask break into five separate pieces on the first impact.
'You walk so willingly - to your death.... Why? Surely you have - the power to answer this at least-'
Both Highlander and Novanian alike were unfortunate enough to bear witness to the vile beating that followed, and with each and every detainee left choking down the urge to act out in defence of their comrade, all they could do was watch as they waited and prayed for the savagery to stop, gritting their teeth in self-loathing and wrathfulness as they saw the punishment gradually work its way down from the head to the hips. And yet, the worst thing of all was the one thing none were considering, and it was the one thing that would likely eat away at the soul in the years after the war, the nagging realisation that none would every truly know if the marines' actions were justified that day or not. Even as the beating continued, the very nature of the war itself would call their perspectives on Varim's beating into question, let alone the prejudice and conditioning required to give such orders in the first place, as it was seen in all who were bitten by the venom of conflict by then.
'LIEUTENANT MOSTRUM, SIR!!!!'
But then something happened that none expected.
Intervention, and not by any of those bearing the Serennoan Phoenix sigil.
But by other marines who were on the scene at the time, bringing the blunt-force excesses to an abrupt end.
'Sir, this needs to stop! We're losing this planet, and we don't need any more bad luck plaguing our escape home! WAKE THE FETH UP, SIR!!!!'
Valery Noble
