Faction Know the Ground [TSC] | Training

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Desevro

Equipment:
Acolyte Robes| Lightsaber | Cybernetic Arm

Varin's blade caught the first strike cleanly, strength rolling down Ace's lightsaber like a shockwave. When Ace followed up, Varin moved - changing his grip. The crossguard flipped into a reverse hold with surprising finesse for a man his size. Ace's eyes narrowed, recalibrating. Most big fighters didn't have that kind of dexterity. Except for Ravoch maybe.

Ace's blade met Varin's again, briefly locking their lightsabers. He said something about birds and vultures, some sort of allegory probably. Then Varin broke the lock hard, force slinging Ace's blade downward. The overhead strike followed instantly.

Ace redirected up into it, meeting the descending crossguard blade at an angle that let the force slide past his centerline instead of crushing it. Sparks showered, fog lighting blue and red around their silhouettes.

His expression didn't change. He stepped into the clash instead of away from it, close enough to feel the heat roll off Varin's crimson blade.

"Don't let the blue fool you." He said, voice flat. "My whole life's been meat."

He wouldn't even know what berries were like. Ace broke from the bind sharply, stepping inside Varin's reach rather than away - pivoting tightly. Ace dropped his center of gravity and carved a fast, low horizontal cut at Varin's leading leg. Not dee and not to seriously injure, but it was calibrated to force Varin to shift his stance or risk getting swept off balance.

A test of foundation, not strength. Ace rose with the follow-through, resetting into his compact stance, blue blade angled tight to his body as he watched how Varin answered the pressure on his footing.

Varin Mortifer​

 

[Shade]

Naniti pressed in hard—good. Shade preferred opponents who understood that retreat without strategy was simply a slower defeat. The moment the Togruta stepped into the bind instead of away from it, Shade adjusted, shifting her weight with a subtle pivot of her heel. Their blades locked between them, pressure balanced, a test of leverage rather than force. Shade's expression did not change, but the faint narrowing of her eyes betrayed interest rather than annoyance.

The jab toward her elbow came quickly; the body-check followed with the kind of momentum that spoke of desperation and calculation in equal measure. Shade did not resist the shove head-on. Instead, she let the force bleed past her, turning just enough that the impact skimmed along her shoulder rather than driving her backward. A fluid redirect, efficient and economical. She gave ground only where she chose to, not where she was forced.

Naniti's question—Are you certain?—hung in the air between them.

Shade's gaze flicked up, cold and precise, the kind of look that evaluated an entire opponent in a single breath. One slow exhale left her, perfectly steady.

"If I were not certain, you would know."

No heat. No arrogance. Just a fact, delivered with the quiet certainty of someone who had survived far worse than training grounds and eager acolytes.

When Naniti struck again—left shoulder, right shoulder, hip—Shade moved with a dancer's minimalism, redirect rather than block, stepping only where necessary to avoid letting the momentum carry the Togruta into dominance. Naniti was fast, faster than most here, and Shade acknowledged it with the way she loosened her posture, shifting her center to match pace without wasting motion.

Then Naniti changed the pattern.

Releasing the hilt with one hand, reorienting the blade into a single-handed thrust—risky, bold, and precisely the kind of maneuver Shade expected from someone starved for practical experience but rich in theoretical knowledge.

Shade moved the moment she saw the intention form in the line of Naniti's shoulders.

Not back.

Forward.

She stepped in sharply, collapsing the space between them before the thrust could reach full extension. Her free hand snapped toward Naniti's wrist—not to strike, not to disarm, but to redirect the line of the blade off its intended path. Whether her grip found purchase depended on Naniti's own reflexes, but the attempt was clean, decisive, and built on timing rather than brute strength.

At the same time, Shade angled her body past the weapon's arc, her shoulder turning to slide along the Togruta's guard if allowed, using proximity itself as defense.

If the movement succeeded, she would end up inside Naniti's reach, too close for a thrust, positioned for leverage rather than force. If it did not, she would still have forced an adjustment—still have broken the Togruta's rhythm. Either outcome served her purpose.

Shade's voice came low, barely above the whisper of their blades. "You adapt quickly." Another step, another shift of weight, her crimson eyes sharp as a blade's edge. "But you think in strikes. Not in positions."

She circled—not fleeing, not pressing, simply repositioning, the predatory stillness settling into her shoulders once more as she watched Naniti recover, ready for the next exchange. Shade did not smile. But there was the faintest spark in her gaze—interest, evaluation, the recognition of an opponent who might yet prove worth her time.

Naniti

 

[Varin Mortifer]

He met Varin’s strike with a clash. The flash of white bursting from the clashed blades, again sparks flew around them. The newcomer made it very clear he did not shy away from getting close to a larger foe. Good, Varin always hated it when smaller foes tried to stay just out of reach. The clash broke as Acier moved again, a low sweep towards Varin’s leading foot. It was a bit of a surprise when Acier seemed to step closer as he struck. Varin barely had enough time to move his leg back, again shifting his position so his dominant foot was now behind him.

“No stranger to conflict and strife? I see why Vestra would take you in. You just need to survive every day now.”

He used its leverage to shove his shoulder into Acier’s body. A test as well on if he would stumble, But Varin would also follow through. His blade angled low and behind him, he quickly drug it up in an upwards slash, carving through the air around him, the blade was hot enough that the mist around it dropped like small droplets of rain.

“Impressive, but do you only use your saber as your weapon?”

Varin changed his grip to one hand now. Most of the time people would use a two handed grip when they were done prodding, Varin was more effective using one. Freeing his other hand to use as a weapon as well as his other limbs.

“Don’t hold back on me, show me why you survived.”

Acier Moonbound​

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Desevro

Equipment:
Acolyte Robes| Lightsaber | Cybernetic Arm

Varin shifted just in time, withdrawing his leg and resetting into a staggered stance. The acknowledgment in his voice was real, not flattery. Ace barely had time to register it before the shoulder came in.

It hit like a durasteel battering ram. Ace's boots slid half a step across the wet stone, but he didn't stumble. He absorbed the impact with a low bend in his knees, breath tightening through his nose.

Right on cue, Varin's blade swept up in a scorching vertical arc. Ace twisted off the centerline, lightsaber snapping up to catch the rising cut and redirect the angle past his ribs.

Varin pressed another question following the strike. Ace's stance tightened and his free hand lifted slightly, not as a windup, just a signal that he heard the challenge.

"I use whatever works."

Varin changed his grip to one hand. A subtle shift, but one Ace recognized: a fighter freeing up limbs because they intend to use them.
Varin's final line hung between them. Telling him not to hold back.

For a moment, Ace's expression twitched, a flicker of something behind the eyes. Don't hold back. He'd spent months doing exactly that. Learning to keep the darkness caged. It felt like years. Like a lifetime.

And now he was here. Among Sith. Expected to let it out. If he was to convince them he was truly one of them - he'd need to play the part. He drew in a slow breath, grounding himself as Varin shifted his stance, then plastered an artificial grin.

"Just remember. You asked for it."

He stepped in again, but this time the intent behind the movement had changed. Less restrained, as asked. With his non-dominant hand, Ace's blade flashed up toward the inside line of the man's wrist: a quick, precise cut designed to exploit the opening of a one-handed grip. It carried a pressure Ace hadn't shown yet.

And as he moved, his left hand - the beskar cased prosthetic - shot out. A palm-heel strike aimed at Varin's plated chest. A kinetic burst meant to test Varin's footing and force a reaction while the lightsaber threatened a second angle.

Ace settled back into motion, readjusting his grip that favored his dominant hand once more. His shoulders relaxed, eyes steady and darkened around the edges.

Varin Mortifer ​

 

[Naniti]

Naniti's lips thinned as the Chiss sought to side-step her strike. It had involved a series of movements, but that was effectively what it had been, and the woman had done it with too much grace for the Togruta's liking. Well, it hadn't been the wisest of moves, but when your opponent seemed to have the advantage going off script seemed the only option. Problem was, Shade was still able to ready what Naniti was going to do next.

That made it doubly furstrating. She sought to train without relying on her own advantages in order to test her actual skill. Fighting as she usually did, she would have anticipated much more of the Chiss' movements and problem impressed her even more. That, however, came at a cost. As she'd described to Lysander once when they were dancing: it was cheating. It enabled her to perform strikes without necessarily needing to think them through tactically or strategically. It was a weakness she sought to eliminate.

"Would you have done the same move if this were a lightsaber?" Naniti twirled the sword as they circled one another; not to show off, but to help remain limber. Did the assassin really allow herself to get so close to the length of the blade? A slight correction and the side could 'cut' just as easily as the tip unlike a sword. So, Naniti was curious. Would the same techniques apply?

Breathe easy, she told herself as she took a stance. Positions? What position would pose a risk to the Chiss, Naniti wondered?

A high guard would leave her too exposed before a fast opponent. Low guard could keep the Chiss at length, but would severely limit her ability to strike or respond if she closed the distance again. Long guard really wasn't necessary since keeping her at a distance while searching for an opening wasn't the issue. Position, she said. Naniti had been trying to figure out just which 'position' would work.

The tip of the blade fell until it rotated around behind and to the side in a back stance or tail. The Togruta had her right foot forward this time, with the blade along her left side and other foot pointing out to the left. As soon as it fell into place, Naniti stepped forward for a upward strike at the Chiss' shoulder.

This time, she'd try retreating a step, taking a guarding stance in case of counter, and then advancing for a vertical strike and thrust toward the head.

Shade

 

[Shade]

Naniti's new stance was better—tighter, more intentional, a deliberate shift meant to deny Shade the easy openings she had exploited before. Even so, the adjustment revealed its own flaw: structure without freedom—predictability born from discipline, not intuition.

Shade saw it in the angle of Naniti's hips, the tension in her shoulders, the way the blade's path telegraphed before it moved.

The upward strike came fast.

Shade met it in a single, economical beat—steel meeting steel not with force, but with a redirecting glide. She didn't try to overpower Naniti; she let the blade slide along her own and step into the inside line of the strike, where sword length became a disadvantage.

Naniti expected a counter-cut.

Shade did not give her one.

Her body closed the distance at a sharp diagonal, far tighter than traditional swordplay allowed. Within that breath of space—closer than any duelist preferred—Shade shifted her weapon into a binding angle not meant to strike but to trap.

And then she changed the rules entirely.

Her left hand snapped forward, not toward the blade, but toward Naniti's shoulder, aimed to drive a sharp, hammering strike into the vulnerable joint. A blow that, if it landed, would rattle the stance and break the rhythm equally well with sword or lightsaber.

Assassins did not duel.

They ended motion.

Shade followed the attempt with a fluid continuation—not retreating, not allowing distance to reset. Her right foot swept forward and across Naniti's center line in a low, decisive step meant to hook or check the leg just behind the Togruta's knee. Not a full throw—Shade wasn't committing to it—but enough to test Naniti's balance, enough to force her to defend a line most duelists ignored.

A punch to the shoulder. A leg trap. Techniques outside orthodox blade work.

Shade's movements remained quiet and controlled, with not a flicker of aggression in her expression—just a calculation. Precision. Adaptation.

As she moved, her voice dropped low—not taunting, not patronizing, simply assessing.

"Position is not where your blade rests."

Her attempted strike flowed into the next step, pressure and proximity replacing distance and formality.

"It is where you choose to fight."

She did not break contact unless forced. She wanted to feel Naniti's response, wanted to test whether the acolyte could maintain discipline when the fight stopped looking like a lesson and began looking like survival.

Whether Naniti evaded, countered, or stumbled was hers to decide.

Shade pressed the advantage—quiet, relentless, and entirely outside the script Naniti had prepared for.

Naniti

 

[Varin Mortifer]

Varin grinned under his helm. His opponent took to the challenge, and it looked like he was ready to step into the realm of exertion.

He saw the life in his eyes. He knew at that moment, Acier was a man who loved challenge. His stance had become more solid, the kind that would signify a fast strike full of force, Varin waited with anticipation. And without further wait or warning…

His movement was quick, precise, aiming for Varin’s wrist. Varin quickly pulled his wrist back, once again their blades connecting. The bright flash and sparks illuminated the fog, Varin did not see it coming, until he felt the impact into his chest plate. The force of the attack was enough to cause him to step back and slide a bit before he dug his metallic heel into the stone, sparks screaming off the stone.

Acier had already readjusted his grip and his stance, while Varin gave him a look of intrigue.

“That I did. But you also asked for mine, in kind.”

His whole body dashed right towards him, putting his weight into his first strike with a heavy crash. The strike came as a horizontal slash to knock the saber out of guard, almost out of muscle memory Varin raised his heavy armored boot to drive it towards Acier’s sternum.

As Acier would test Varin’s foundation and strength, Varin would test Acier’s metal against brutality. How would he handle an opponent of unrelenting force and momentum?

After the kick Varin then carried the last bit of momentum forward, aiming his fist towards Acier’s less dominant collar bone. He needed him to understand that Sith culture relished in pain, it thrived in domination.

He needed to show him that to be a survivor as a Sith, you needed to be ruthless.

Acier Moonbound​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Anet Raine Haro Aven Naamino Zuukamano Suzaku Acier Moonbound Naniti Varin Mortifer Shade​

DESEVRO

A familiar voice should’ve softened the young Sith’s visage. He too felt the Zabrak's presence before registering his presence physically, even if he moved with that predator’s calm. A wisp of humor was clear as he shook his head. “Not quite,. Though.. I’m led to believe the work is similar. Instructing, observing, measuring progress, gauging risk, timing responses. But one day.. maybe.”

In the Outer Rim, titles were so often ephemeral; the connection between brothers is what persisted above all else.

He mulled over a few thoughts as silence stretched, for it felt easy to simply exist next to someone who was akin to a younger sibling. Those who knew Lysander well could easily read the spaces in between.

“A month or two. You make it sound like a brief inconvenience, but it feels much longer than that. Long enough that I may have started wondering if you were buried under work or in trouble.. or just ignoring my existence out of principle.”

Gaze forward, he shifted from one acolyte to the next. “I don’t like stretches that long between us,” he admitted. “Desevro has a way of swallowing time, and the rest of the galaxy isn’t any more forgiving it seems. But even so.. it feels like too much distance for brothers who supposedly know how to keep each other alive, no?”

Lysander’s tone became gentler under the dryness. “I hope you’ve been steady. I’d rather hear it from you than try piecing together bits from reports and others within our circle.” Another breath, warmer. “And if things haven’t been alright.. well, you know I’d rather know that too.”

The smallest hint of surprise that bordered on mischief broke through the blonde’s mask when he turned to see Haro. “Well well, look who decided to show up. I won’t pretend I’m not pleased. At least this reminds me that some things can remain constant, no matter how much our path insists on change.”

A hand reached forward, poised for a private handshake, one that spoke more than words.

Memories surfaced unbidden, from the arcades on Korriban, the cockpit lessons, and the banter over comms as Imperials were turned into fertilizer, so that Brosi could be reborn.

“I hope you and Naamino decide to stick around for a bit. With Varin in the mix as well, we could all trade stories, compare scars, and see which one of us has managed to get into the most trouble since Korriban. A proper catch up without something trying to kill us mid-conversation.. sounds nice.”

The last time he’d seen them all together had been on Nar Shaddaa, rescuing Naamino, while he had been ranting about something.. something involving a Twi’lek with hips capable of shutting down hyperspace lanes, all while murdering a guard alongside Haro. That flashback summoned a quiet smile, fading as quickly as it formed.

“Maybe the old Lysander can afford to sneak out.. for a minute or two.”

Stepping onto the training ground, he moved enough to observe the scene, to assist or instruct.. wherever it might be needed.

 

[Naamino Zuukamano]

Desevro
Objective: Reconnaissance of Covenant Territory

Outfit:
Belt of Strength, Field Com-Scan Link,
Well Worn Boots, Zhaboka,
Athletic Clothes & Shadow Mask

Tags: Lysander von Ascania | Haro Aven

​

As Lysander waxed eloquent about the time elapsed, Naamino smirked behind his mask. He'd missed his brother in arms too, more than he'd been willing to admit to himself. It warmed his hearts to know their bond was solid despite the way that duty demanded their time elsewhere. They both had appearances to maintain though, so Naami held back his more energetic emotions and kept things level for the training grounds.

"Hard to send holomail on the campaign trail," Naami relented though and added in a softer tone, "It's been too long and the fault is mine."

Naami circled closer so his friend's warm words needn't carry, closing the gap brought Haro in too so they could exchange in the clasping of hands and sly grins. The zabrak continued to pace slowly, his measured orbit beginning to arc toward the students.

"Better than steady, living the dream honestly. You look well, Lys— hope it's been much the same for you. If not, just point me in the direction of who I need to talk to."

Though he was the younger of the two, Naami's protective streak flared a bit at the thought of the blonde going through a bad time. He had Varin around to watch his back surely, though with Varin he knew results could vary. In fact, the veritable giant of a man seemed to be engaged in a rather heated spar with a man unfamiliar to Naami. The action made him restless, wanting to join, and it seemed that Lysander needed to maintain a semblance of decorum overseeing instruction.

"Aven and I should be able to carve out a few days, looking forward to it."

WIth that he turned to scan and soon found a target. She was half his size and held her saber like a youngling. These days, the big zabrak didn't relish flexing his superiority quite so bullishly as he once did. Some would say he'd mellowed a bit, and student teaching beneath Darth Thaliax (the Kor'ethyr battle master) had taught him the value of patience with those who were just starting their journey in the realm of martial competency.

"You."

Naamino strode closer, pointing the zhaboka, masked head tipped in a look of challenge.

"Ready yourself." Anet Raine

 

[Anet Raine]

Direct Tag: Naamino Zuukamano
Equipment: Lightsaber (blue) | Desevro acolyte uniform (unmasked)

Anet had been watching the others spar, her blue blade ignited to emulate their movements. Her efforts were sluggish at best, if not foolish and liable to harm herself more than any enemy. Should she be sent to the front lines, the Sith historian would undoubtedly be of little use... forbid fighting a Jedi; she'd be dead or captured.

"You."

The word cut through the cold, bitter air. Anet seized as soon as she felt the Zabrak's eyes upon her, and turned to face him.

"Is that mask supposed to intimidate?" She wondered. It looked quite elegant to be worn here, of all places.

Her eyes drifted down to the warrior's zhaboka, pointed at her, then up again.

"Ready yourself."

She was being challenged by him, with that blade, and her heart pounded... pounded and pounded and pounded until her fingertips tingled, and she felt rather faint. The half-pantoran gripped her lightsaber, a dead Jedi's weapon, one she had bloodied but not earned. The blue blade hummed calmly in the space between them, tip slightly pointed up, but held out as if her only hope was some idiot impaling themself on the other end.

"And who are you?" A bit of annoyance in the tone. Her knees had locked, and her hands shook around the weapon.

She interrogated further, "You know him?" Her head nodded at Lysander.

The acolyte's small talk was nothing but an attempt to distract herself from the fear that wanted nothing more than to eat her alive.

 

[Naamino Zuukamano]

“Your opponent,” he responded in a deep, clipped voice.

He darted toward her, juking to her right and spinning left with incredible speed for a man so large. Swinging hard but with the flat of a blade, he smacked her thigh and ducked to avoid any clumsy arc of her blade. In some ways, green warriors were more dangerous to spar than seasoned soldiers, with unpredictable movements and unsteady footwork.

“Loosen your stance a bit, unlock your knees.”

Just as quickly as he’d darted in, Naami put distance back between them and reset to a neutral ready stance.

“Where’d you get the Jedi trinket?” He sneered back, refusing to answer her question.

Anet Raine

 

[Anet Raine]

Naamino Zuukamano

Her challenger had closed the gap with startling speed before she could react. The flat of his blade stung against the side of her leg, but there was no time to notice the dull pain. She swung her blade across, from one side to the other, but he had already ducked to avoid it.

She stumbled back, nearly tripping against her stiff movements, and felt a twinge as she pulled against a muscle behind her knee.

“Loosen your stance a bit, unlock your knees.”

His calm but firm advice startled her most, however. She hadn't expected this to be a productive lesson, given the nature of that cyborg woman who instructed them last. He seemed more competent and helpful - like a real instructor.

She was still looking down at where he was by the time he reset to a neutral stance. Anet looked back up at him with that dumbfoundedness in her pale eyes.

“Where’d you get the Jedi trinket?” He sneered back, refusing to answer her question.

"The what?" She mouthed at him before it clicked. She stole a glance at her lightsaber. "They gave them to us."

Anet heeded the stranger's advice and widened her gait. However, she kept glancing down at her legs instead of keeping eyes on her opponent.

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Desevro

Equipment:
Acolyte Robes| Lightsaber | Cybernetic Arm

The horizontal slash came in first, broad, heavy, meant to blow Ace's guard open. Ace dropped low, blade snapping up at an angle to redirect it off his shoulder line. It still hit hard enough to numb his organic forearm through the hilt.

He didn't have time to reset before the boot came. Varin's armored heel slammed into Ace's sternum like a battering ram. Ace slid across the slick stone, boots skidding, breath punched out of him in a sharp choke. Pain flared down his ribs but he rode the impact rather than fight it, letting momentum carry him into a tight backward roll that bled off the force.

Varin wasn't done. The fist came next, a hammer aimed at his collarbone, one that would break lesser fighters in half. Ace surged forward instead of back, pivoting inside Varin's punch, shoulder brushing the man's chestplate, and let the blow graze past him rather than land full-force. Even glancing, it rattled him.

"Wouldn't have it any other way" Ace breathed out, voice tight, strained, but steady.

Something in his eyes darkened, a quiet decision to stop holding quite so much back. Ace's lightsaber flashed up, it wasn't a wild counter or reckless fury. It was a precise, viciously economical strike meant to meet power with technique. He carved a sharp rising cut toward the underside of Varin's dominant arm.

From his experience, it was an angle tanks like Varin hated, a strike that said: I understand your culture.

His prosthetic hand followed with a short, brutal hook aimed at Varin's ribs. Testing metal against metal, strength against strength. The armor was sure to take most of the blow, but Ace was confident that the force of his hook would make Varin feel... something.

He stayed in his natural southpaw lead, blade tucked narrow on the left side of his body as he pivoted off the line of Varin's momentum. A tight Makashi crescent step carried him across slick stone, refining his angle rather than retreating from the force pressing forward.

His breathing was tight, ribs protesting with every movement, but it didn't shake his discipline. Both hands slid fully onto the hilt again, driving forward with a sharp, rising strike meant to reclaim initiative.

Varin Mortifer​

 

[Varin Mortifer]

The more they fought, the more Acier tended to surprise him. He had demonstrated that he was not just getting by. He is a survivor. If pushed further he would thrive in the Sith. Varin felt it in himself. Felt it was his calling to push his peers into that threshold.

Acier’s next action came in a fluid motion. One who trains with the current instead of against. Proof that he knew that his size and strength was not up to par with Varin. He fought in the most sensible way. Riding the momentum instead of avoiding it or fighting it. A rare third option that Varin would see in his opponents.

He moved into the punch and with it, giving his counter offensive. Instinct gripped Varin for the first time in this matchup, a sudden movement to prevent himself from injury. His hand shot towards the blade. Sparks flew in several directions as Varin’s fingers gripped the blue blade tightly. While he was distracted by that, his opponent displayed a measure of taking opportunity. Another feat Varin would certainly respect.

A heavy clang rang from the two sparring individuals as the impact was mostly absorbed by the armor. But the residual impact was enough to push Varin back once again. Air was forced from his lungs, causing him to take a sharp deep inhale.

The exhale left out a trail of smoke from his helm’s mouthpiece.

It would seem Varin underestimated him. He was not holding back much anymore, that was noticeable. Varin would have to respond in kind, only holding back just enough to not physically break him, not that it would be an easy feat.

Varin’s back exploded with a fiery force, sending him towards Acier with near reckless abandon as his saber burned with more violent flames. He would bring his knee up to drive it towards Acier’s skull, confident he would likely dodge, he then set up his blade for a counter offensive, bringing an over arching swing from his side that caused his body to turn with it’s momentum.

A type of fighting style he normally reserved for when he also had his mace, now used for a singular weapon and his body.

Acier Moonbound​

 

[Suzaku]

As the thing stared down into the dense foggy a abyss, its mind shifted its awareness to a buzzing in the air. A reverberating hum. The jaw of the undead creature hung slack as it walked rather stiffly away from the edge and scanned its surroundings. The humming and buzzing increased. Soon enough the sound registered as danger, but it was already too late.

There was a flash of orange energy! A arcing blade dancing through the air and curving straight for him! Dashing to the left, Suzaku leaped out of danger. The Orange blade threatening to bisect him into two at the hip. The living corpse fell into the fog in a free fall and then there was a sudden flash of white light! The decaying acolyte felt lighter!

His lower body removed with a simple telekinetic gesture of the lightsaber. One that put it back into his path! There was no explosion of pain. However, reattaching his legs would be rather annoying. Not to mention, Suzaku first had to find his lower body to do so. A bisected torso hurddled toward the ground and impacted with a crash. Bones and joints contorted in strange and wrong directions only to reconfigure themselves with audible snaps and twists. Raspy groans and moans escaped a toothy smiling maw and claws began dragging the torso in a vague direction.

It was the direction of the nearest clamor of action. Anet Raine and Naamino Zuukamano facing off!

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Desevro

Equipment:
Acolyte Robes| Lightsaber | Cybernetic Arm

Varin moved different this time. Not just aggressive, he was committed. Suddenly the air between them collapsed into a single violent intention. Ace felt the heat before he saw the knee rocketing toward his skull.

He knew better than to meet that kind of force head-on. He was brave, not stupid. Ace dropped under it with a tight, sliding pivot out of the slick stone. Varin's knee missed his temple by an inch, wind from the strike raking his locs back.

The follow-through came immediately. A savage, arcing swing from Varin's flank, body turning with it, flame and weight and momentum all welded into one strike designed to end exchanges, not start them.

Ace planted, both hands locking down on the hilt. His blade caught the swing at a rising angle, meeting power with structure instead of strength. The impact rippled through his shoulders and down his spine. His boots skidded, but he didn't give ground.

Ace drove into the bind, not away from it, using Varin's own turning momentum. He pivoted inside the bigger man's reach again, this time tighter, more aggressive. Less survival, more domination.

From the inside angle, he snapped his prosthetic forearm upward, aiming to slam it into Varin's helm with raw kinetic violence. Not pretty. Some would call it Sith-like, he'd call it Bonadan street life.

And in that same moment, his lightsaber carved a brutal downward cut toward Varin's hip plating - where armor met joint. A strike designed to test the seams of a tank's defense.

Ace's breathing was rough now, controlled only by sheer discipline. His eyes held that same dark flare that had slipped earlier.

Varin Mortifer​

 

[Naamino Zuukamano]

Making note of the adjustments she made, Naamino soon angled his double bladed weapon to maximize its reach.

"Mm good, so you didn't start as some pampered padawan then," he grunted with a nod, noting that at least she wouldn't have bad habits to unlearn from Jedi filth.

Again he moved with uncanny speed to jab one end of his zhaboka toward her core, careful not to use enough force to maim should it land. Then he whirled to again aim a flat slap of the blade against her upper arm, watching how she moved as he did.

Out of the corner of his eye, and thanks to the added sensory support of his mask, Naamino spotted the very uncanny movement of… an upper body crawling their way?

"What in the hells-" he grumbled under his breath, turning now to face the oncoming creature maybe a dozen yards away.

Anet Raine Suzaku

 

[Anet Raine]

"Mm good, so you didn't start as some pampered padawan then,"

She may not have been a padawan, but the word "pampered" stung nonetheless.

Her eyes quickly latched onto the weapon, readied again for another strike as far as she could tell. She saw the jab, knew it was coming and where it would land, but it was speed... Anet moved too little too late and felt the end tug against the fabric of her robe as it poked her.

The acolyte emitted a startled gasp, as she expected to see blood where his strike had landed. It distracted her. She wasn't paying attention when the flat of his zhaboka smacked against her arm, causing the lightsaber to fly loose from her grip. The plasmic blade retreated within the hilt that now rolled harmlessly in the dirt.

"Ow..." She muttered softly.

That was when she noticed movement at the corner of her eye. Another Sith come to bully her? She turned her head to see, but what she saw wasn't a person... Err, at least not exactly, and certainly not whole. Panic fell in her stomach and shivered along her spine.

"Is that a corpse?!" She withheld a shriek as she stumbled sideways, bumping Naamino's blindside.

Anet stole a glance at the masked man, but her attention did not drift for long. No, it was utterly captured by this upper half shambling across the ground in a soldier's crawl. She brought a hand to her mouth - the sight and the sound made her rather sick to her stomach.

It was a moment for the scholar to reveal a truth about herself, however, as morbid curiosity wrestled with fear and disgust. She took a shaky step forward and knelt.

"What are you?" She asked with the sort of bemusement a xenobiologist afforded a creature. "Is this a product of your sorcery, or someone else's?"

So many questions flooded her mind. She had read about this, known the implications from her digsites, but never had she actually witnessed an undead in the uh... Well, flesh felt a bit inappropriate.

She needed to understand this.

Naamino Zuukamano | Suzaku

 

[Varin Mortifer]

Varin’s attack had risk, but every battle had risk. Sacrifice was no stranger to him. Acier's saber carved into the joint of the armor with precision, loosening the chest plate. It did its function. It protected. But the weakening joint now had a breach in that protection. A design flaw that Varin will soon rectify.

Acier's fist came barreling towards Varin's face as his opponent drew close to Varin's body. In a blur of motion and instinct Varin's large hand grasped the prosthetic fist holding it firm. The gears and mechanical workings grinding and struggling to push forward.

“Thats much better.”

His voice was low.

A small pause, before Varin used his strength to whip Acier's body towards him with enough force to take him off his feet, slinging the new acolyte a good distance away from Varin.

He could see the change in Acier's eyes. The hunger, the drive. The lust for power. That was what he was looking for.

Varin placed his hand over the latch of his damaged chest plate and ripped it free with his strength. The metal tearing free the mechanical hook, causing the heavy plate to land in front of him with a heavy clang. Next were the greaves. One by one they too were removed leaving him in his combat clothes. His hands slowly rose to his helm, gently pulling off a tube that fed clean oxygen to him, releasing with a small cloud of gas and a loud hiss. He pulled off the helm. His eyes glowed with a molten fury that would mimic a planet being torn apart by an eruption. His facial expression was emotionless. The helm clung loosely in his grip before he dropped it.

Finally his eyes flicked over to Acier's prosthetic arm. Varin gripped his right arms armor and ripped it off his body. Tossing it to the side. He then holstered his saber.

“Now. Fight me, acolyte.”

His deeply voice carried across the fog, like two heavy boulders grinding down a mountain side.

Acier Moonbound​

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Desevro

Equipment:
Acolyte Robes| Lightsaber | Cybernetic Arm

Varin's hand clamped around his prosthetic mid-strike. Hard. Ace felt the pressure reverberate through the beskar plating, internal servos whining under the crushing force. For a split second, he watched Varin's fingers dig into the blue blade like it was nothing.

"--Shit."

Then Varin threw him. Ace's body tore sideways, world tilting as stone and fog blurred together in a violent arc. But instead of fighting it, he twisted with the momentum. He coiled his core, rotated his hips, and let the throw dictate the spin while he dictated the landing.

His boots hit the stone first, then he dropped immediately into a low, crouched stance, one hand grazing the ground to keep balance, breath driving sharp through his teeth. His ribs screamed, shoulders rattled but he stayed upright. Stayed ready.

Ace rose out of the crouch in a smooth, controlled motion, rolling his shoulders back as the fog peeled around him. His prosthetic flexed once, recalibrating from the force Varin had just fed into it.

And then Varin began stripping off his armor. Molten eyes fixed on him like a furnace deciding what to consume. Ace's eyes tracked Varin holstering his lightsaber.

"Now fight me, acolyte."

Ace exhaled slowly through his nose, extinguishing his own lightsaber and clipping it to the back of his belt.

"Alright then."

He stepped forward without hesitation, settling back into his natural southpaw stance, weight on the balls of his feet, Makashi footwork tightening his angles as he closed the distance.

Varin was massive up close. A wall of muscle and heat. Fine. Walls had gaps. It was like fighting the older kids back at the orphanage. He wouldn't meet him head-on.

Ace slid to the side, stepping just outside Varin's direct reach, then snapped a sharp right jab toward the man's face, not to hurt him, but to make him react, to shift his balance for even half a heartbeat.

He dipped under the imaginary return swing, slipping into Varin's blind angle. The fog helped, blurring his silhouette as he worked tight and close, too close for Varin to fully leverage his size.

Ace buried a quick, compact left to the ribs, prosthetic hitting with a dense, mechanical thud. He didn't linger long enough for Varin to counter. As soon as the shot landed, Ace pivoted out, shoulder brushing Varin's side, keeping himself on the move before the giant could clamp down.

Varin Mortifer​