Duel No Honor on Veridia

[Braze]

TAGS: Drystan Creed

​

Veridia was a lush, verdant world, a place where life thrived and color spilled from every corner of the landscape. Braze had come here with Okuma Milogen to search for something long lost. But now, unshackled from the man's constant shadow, he had wandered off to walk alone.

He had taken a weather-worn fisherman's ladder down the side of a chalk-white cliff, descending to the sun-warmed sands below. The shore stretched out in long winding curves, with pale soft sand linning the shoreline.

The ocean waves crashed rythmically against the shore spraying foam and fresh salt wair with ever passing wave. Above, the breeze carried a medly of floral scents melding with the fresh sea breeze as blossoms rained from overhead. The wind swayed through the canopie of pink and violet trees that clung to the edges of the cliffs shedding a cascade of petals. They drifted down in languid sheafs painting the shoreline in delicate, scattered hues.

Braze stooped now and then to pick up shells gathering the pretty bespeckled and striped items. The act was oddly calming giving his hands something to do, and kept his thoughts from straying too far inward.

Ahead, nestled against the curve of the bay, a village came into view with a scattering of wooden docks and curved-roof cottages that clung to the coastline. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and the faint calls of fishermen echoed over the water.

 

[Drystan Creed]

VERIDIA

"Beautiful, aren't they?"

The voice drifted in on the wind—soft, almost wistful—carried alongside a stream of drifting pink petals that curled through the air like falling memories.

"From full bloom to bare branches in a week," it continued, smooth and deliberate. "Some say they represent the fragility of life. The inevitability of death. The ephemeral nature of this galaxy."

A figure appeared behind Braze, a fair distance between them.

There stood a man draped in black. At his hip, a wickedly curved katana—its make both modern and disturbingly archaic, as though forged in an age long forgotten but sharpened by the hands of the present. His coat billowed gently in the breeze, worn over sleek, jet-black armor. His helmet resembled more a visor than a mask, leaving the mouth and crown exposed, revealing just enough to feel human—yet still unnervingly alien.

Hands buried in his pockets, the figure exuded an effortless calm. But it was a calm that sat atop something volatile. Lurking. Coiled like a blade mid-draw. His aura was unmistakable—an ambient menace, barely restrained... if restrained at all.

"Others see it differently," he mused. "As the herald of new beginnings. Renewal. A more fitting interpretation, perhaps—for someone like me."

A beat of silence.

Then the visor shifted just slightly toward Braze.

"And you?" A faint tilt of the head.

"What do you see?"

Braze

 

[Braze]

TAGS: Drystan Creed

Braze recognized that voice... He didn't answer right away. So this was it? They sent another Shadow after him? Whatever reasons he had, they wouldn't change what was coming. Battle worn and weather weary, he stood streaked with soot, and caked dirt, exhaustion etched into the lines beneath his eyes. The saltwind blew by carrying the scent sweet cherry blossoms, drifting like faint memories toward the distant sea.
​

He looked off toward the falling flowers as they were swept out to sea. The hairs on the back of his neck rose as he turned, settling that soft, somber jade-green gaze on Drystan. In contrast, the Force aura surrounding Braze was meek and turned inward.

He gave Drystan a slow, steady once-over, drawing a heavy breath as his eyes settled on the unfamiliar blade. Another petal spiraled past, brushing the edge of his cloak as the wind swept by them.

"You're right... they are beautiful," he murmured softly. Braze shifted, slowly sliding a boot back in the soft sand preparing for what he thought was to come. Regardless of their past, Braze would not be easy prey.

"I see... The futility of life."

​

 

[Drystan Creed]

VERIDIA

"Futility."

Drystan echoed the word as he stepped closer to the shore, maintaining a respectful distance but now standing alongside Braze. The tide rolled in and out, frothy water lapping gently at his boots.

"Isn't that what makes life meaningful?"

He smiled—but there was an edge to it. A fine, sharpened line buried in the softness of his voice. His eyes, however, remained fixed on the horizon—distant, thoughtful, unreadable.

"To know it's fleeting. Finite. That's what makes each moment matter. What gives it weight."

A beat of silence followed. Only the waves answered.

"And there goes another one."

He glanced skyward, then lowered his gaze.

"Gone. Lost to time."

Finally, he turned to look Braze over—head to toe. The younger knight's state was far from impressive.

"You look like chit," Drystan said bluntly, eyes narrowing. "Where are your sabers? Your gear? Do you even have a ship?"

He gestured to his own sleek attire—midnight black, immaculate—and the sword at his hip, sheathed in a scabbard humming faintly with advanced tech.

Braze

 

[Braze]

TAGS: Drystan Creed

Braze was still as he watched Drystan come closer.

"Yeah, well… you try crashing through two levels of Coruscant with half a plan and no backup, in a warzone where both sides want you dead. See how your coat looks afterward," he murmured in reply, drawing up one hand and letting the shells fall to the sand.

"What makes life meaningful is the fleeting happy moments with loved ones… sharing dreams and hopes for the future…"

Braze stated as the sea breeze swept by, catching his cloak and sending it billowing behind him. A touch of melancholy laced his words.

"I... I've lost everything a man's supposed to cling to. My friends. My family. My honor… and my self-respect. And yet… here I am. With nothing left to lose…"

He trailed off, drawing in a slow, heavy breath before sighing softly. His gaze drifted across the ocean before he slowly returned it to Drystan. After a moment, he tilted his head, lifting one wrist, then the other, twisting them gently until a soft popping click passed from each.

"What does that make me, Drystan? Desperate… or dangerous?"
A faint pause. "I may be unarmed… but that does not make me harmless."

​

 

[Drystan Creed]

VERIDIA

"That's a question only you can answer. I don't have any advice for you—except to keep going. If you've lost everything, then you've got nothing left to lose," Drystan said as he tossed a black cylindrical device at Braze's feet. A lightsaber. A challenge.

Despite the gravity of what he was offering, Drystan wore a calm smile, clearly aware of the weight behind his gesture.

"Though I'm hoping for the latter right now," he added. "Let's get that head of yours nice and clear. And I've been meaning to stretch my legs—it's been a while since I've had a proper fight."

He didn't draw his sword, but his body relaxed, readying itself to move—to strike or respond in kind.

Should Braze pick up the saber, he'd find it was one of two in Drystan's possession—hefty, finely crafted, and heavily augmented to suit the former Shadow's exacting standards. If ignited, a steady stream of red would pour from its emitter, accompanied by a deep, violent hum.

Braze

 

[Braze]

TAGS: Drystan Creed

Braze's jade-green gaze settled on the dark hilt half-buried in the sand. One brow arched, and he gave a low, appreciative whistle.

"A saber and no advice? You're spoiling me, truly."

He considered Drystan's words for only a breath before raising a hand. The saber leapt from the ground, summoned into his palm with a crisp clap of metal meeting flesh. He twirled it once across his fingers in a palm spin, then gave it a light toss to test the balance, catching it again with smooth dexterity.

With a flick of his wrist, the weapon came to life as a crimson blade flared out as he spun it downward in a sharp, elegant flourish. Braze let his presence in the Force wrap around the crystal housed within, brushing against it with practiced awareness.

…Ah. Not a true kyber. A synthetic one.

Slowly, his green gaze returned to Drystan. With a smooth motion, his right hand rose to his collar and unlatched the clasp of his cloak. The fabric caught the breeze and whipped away, flung out toward the waves like a challenge answered.

"Very well," he said softly, voice cutting through the wind. "Then by all means, show me what passes for a duel these days. Let's see if you're as sharp as your reputation, Drystan."

 

[Drystan Creed]

VERIDIA

"Don't get ahead of yourself now. Let's warm up a bit—no sense in going all out right off the bat." His hand moved to the hilt of his blade, drawing it as crimson glinted in the daylight.

A wicked thing—the amalgamation of ancient artifice and modern technology. The past and present combined to carve into the future. A blade stained crimson, crackling with red lightning. He held it in front of him in a casual combat stance, the tip lowered.

He took tentative steps forward, closing the distance slowly before stepping in for a strike—his final step landing with precision, placing Braze exactly at the edge of his reach, not an inch further.

It was a probing strike, a quick diagonal slash upward meant to provoke rather than wound—designed to stir a reaction, something he fully anticipated.

Braze

 

[Braze]

TAGS: Drystan Creed

The Red saber rose with grace deflecting the incoming strike with a sharp twist of his wrist. He stepped slightly off the center line, in a fluid motion stepping closer to Drystan. The crimson saber arching in a blur as the blade flourished into a swift counter with the riposte in an upward feint toward the shoulder that turned into a low horizontal slash, testing balance and footwork.

It was cold and efficient maneuvering of a master duelist in play.

"Your reach is good. " Braze praised. before adding, "But your intent is showing."

 

[Drystan Creed]

VERIDIA

Braze's flourish came quick. Drystan's reaction was quicker. He caught the sway in the strike, the subtle probe hidden in its arc, and by his measure… he'd passed whatever quiet test Braze had set.

He shifted back half a step—make some space. Space to breathe. Space to turn the younger knight's words over in his head.

Right—Braze was every bit as skilled at reading the language of the body as he was. Every twitch, every subtle pivot of a joint, the faint tightening of a muscle… to those who had mastered that art, it was as close to mind-reading as one could get without touching the Force.

Fine. If his own body was a window into his mind, then he would simply make it someone else's body.

His stance shifted—posture loosening, then tightening—mannerisms morphing in fluid succession. Photographic reflexes took over, weaving together the tics and micro-movements of countless fighters he'd studied. In seconds, he read like a different man entirely… then another… then another. A chameleon in motion.

And then—movement.

A flurry of slashes, each one a razor-line of intent. Precision and power in perfect accord; speed without waste, accuracy without hesitation, strength without restraint. Sand hissed and scattered underfoot, each swing cutting the air with purpose, each step displacing grains in small, explosive bursts.

Drystan's offense was total, intent now shrouded beneath layers of physical subterfuge.

Braze

 

[Braze]

TAGS: Drystan Creed

It mattered little whose style Drystan wore. Braze didn't wait for those sorts of telegraphs. The Force was his ally, and he was the calm within the storm. He read intent in the smallest signs, the tightening of a muscle, the shift of weight across a stance, even the holding or drawing of a breath. Whatever mask Drystan chose, Braze's own form was already set, ready and waiting with intent and calculation. Saber sparring was like a game of chess, and Braze had studied the board from every angle. Each feint was a gambit, each shift in footing a calculated move. He saw not just the piece before him, but the chain of moves it could unleash, reading the duel as much in possibilities as in strikes.

"Better." Braze's praise carried the ease of a master correcting a padawan's form. In truth, he had no need to watch Drystan's movements with his eyes. The young prodigy had honed his craft to such obsessive, ridiculous degrees that a true one-on-one duel was… refreshing.

​

 

[Drystan Creed]

VERIDIA

Drystan's attack pattern was straightforward in every sense—a doctrine of simplicity. Maximize power, spend only what was necessary on defense, and nothing more. To the untrained eye, his techniques seemed basic, but that assumption was far from the truth. His strikes carried no wasted movement; each swing was pared down to its essence, leaving space to adapt and redirect without losing speed or strength. Efficiency was the art he practiced, turning every opening into an opportunity.

To him, the ornate complexities of swordplay—built up across centuries—ultimately distilled into a handful of simple, fundamental motions. That was his interpretation, his truth.

With that thought, Drystan sheathed his blade, only to draw it again in the same heartbeat. He chose a clean quickdraw rather than engaging the ballistic mechanism in his scabbard. This was only a spar, after all. Sand burst into the air as his blade snapped forward, his strike aimed to disarm with sheer momentum or carve a clean line across Braze's torso.

Braze

 

[Braze]

TAGS: Drystan Creed

The precision of Makashi, the patience of Soresu, the flow of Ataru, and the strength of Shien. It was all there, woven into the furious rhythm as their blades clashed.

Braze dashed backward suddenly as Drystan's saber swept toward his midsection. His own blade caught the strike, meeting it in a winding bind and riding the momentum of the blow. It was Seikūken in motion, his zone of control tightening, flowing like water around Drystan's strength. He yielded just enough to guide the strike off-line, then turned the defense into offense with that subtle rotation of his wrist. Like a seasoned fencer, Braze rolled the contact into an envelopment, his blade circling Drystan's weapon before snapping up in a sharp counter aimed directly at his guard. It showed restraint, testing Drystan without immediately seeking injure his wrist instead.

"Every Master I've trained under showed me one truth..."

 

[Drystan Creed]

VERIDIA

Drystan smiled as Braze's blade clashed against his own, his muscles and joints locking tight, the servos of his prosthetic following suit. Striking his guard now would feel like slamming a weapon into a monolith of durasteel. It was a simple principle, but executed with mastery—hardening the body by steeling the muscles, flexing them to absorb and fortify.

He advanced, relaxing just enough to reset his stance, then swept his defense back into an uncompromised position. Stepping in close despite his advantage in reach, Drystan struck again—these blows revealing far more of his hand.

Each swing began loose, his body fluid and unrestrained, increasing the speed until his strikes cracked through the air like a whip. But in the moment of impact, he transformed. Every muscle, every fiber flexed in perfect unison, solidifying his frame and transferring maximum force into the blow.

Speed first. Then strength. Refined into a seamless union.

This was Drystan's mastery made manifest—the cultivation of his body, honed to absolute precision. The art of turning one's very self into the ultimate weapon.

Braze

 

[Braze]

TAGS: Drystan Creed

Braze felt the weight crash against his blade, jarring through his arms like striking a durasteel wall. For a heartbeat, he gave ground, his boots skidding back across the sand as the power surged into him.

Then he exhaled softly as he flowed forwards.

Instead of contesting Drystan's strength, he let it wash past him, his saber sliding in a winding disengage that slipped the blow aside without ever locking against it. His stance shifted, patient as Soresu, sharp as Makashi, his body a river bending around stone.

"You've honed your flesh into a weapon; Impressive." Braze said, remaining calm even as sparks flared between the clash of their blades.

His crimson blade twisted, rolling around Drystan's guard in a smooth envelopment. A subtle half-step carried him inside the older warrior's reach, sabers clashing again with a flash of light, as this time Braze's strike pressed close to the hilt, a test of leverage rather than raw power.

​

 

[Drystan Creed]

VERIDIA

"Not my flesh." Drystan shot back, eyes narrowing as he caught Braze's attempt to strike at his hilt. A smile tugged at his lips—it seemed the younger former knight was unaware of the weapon's make.

He drove the pommel of his blade down against Braze's strike, sliding his grip higher into the guard and putting unbearable force down into it. The kinetic chain—his mastery—flowed seamlessly through him, each movement delivered with the weight and precision of a full-force strike. His hilt was plated thick with phrik, purposefully so, ensuring that every part of his blade could withstand the searing bite of a lightsaber, no matter where it struck.

"My spirit."

Without pause, Drystan flowed from parry into riposte. His still-raised blade came crashing down with immense force, a clean diagonal aimed at Braze's neck—telegraphing the unmistakable intention to decapitate. And yet, should he find the strike would land true, he would halt at the last possible moment, ensuring their spar did not spiral beyond its intended boundaries.

Braze

 

[Braze]

TAGS: Drystan Creed

The crimson edge came down like an executioner's blade. For the briefest instant, the sea breeze hissed between them, cherry blossoms scattering in the wake of that momentum.

Braze did not meet strength with strength. He shifted, a half-pivot, a sidestep that let the cut scream past so close it brushed his hair in the wind. His own saber coiled in a winding disengage, sliding along Drystan's blade before rolling free. Where the older knight's strike overextended, Braze was already inside the line, his own weapon flashing upward in a smooth thrust aimed at the gap near Drystan's flank, testing, not killing.

Jade-green eyes shot up, meeting Drystan's visor.

"Your spirit bends when it suits you… I wonder, do you~?"

​

 

[Drystan Creed]

VERIDIA

Things had been going well—at least by Drystan's estimation. The spar's tempo was measured, deliberate, just the way he preferred it.

He was poised to retaliate when Braze's remark blindsided him, jolting him with surprise. The reaction was so rare for the former Shadow that he hadn't anticipated it at all. His footing faltered, the raised edge of a sandbank catching his boot. He tried to recover, twisting to brace the fall, but the effort only made matters worse—turning his stumble into an undignified collapse.

His visor struck the grit with a muted thud, burying his face in the sand. He stayed there, motionless, as though Braze had defeated him.

Braze

 

[Braze]

TAGS: Drystan Creed

Braze leveled the blade, the crimson edge hovering for a breath above Drystan's prone form. For a moment, it looked as though he might press the advantage, finish what the stumble had started.

Instead, he exhaled softly and drew the saber back. The blade dipped in a fluid arc, offered in the fencer's salute.

"So… there is a flaw in the legend."
His jade-green eyes glinted with just a touch of sly amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. "Even the sharpest blade… slips, it seems."

Braze offered Drystan his gloved hand as he extinguished the blade.​

 

[Drystan Creed]

VERIDIA

"Slip?" Drystan's muffled voice sounded irritated through the sand. He turned over, spitting grit from his mouth as he pushed himself back onto his feet.

"You little runt—you cheated." His tone was oddly confrontational, the kind of frustration that came less from pain and more from the indignity of being caught off guard. That alone annoyed him to no end.

"Why I oughta—" he growled, before lunging at Braze, trying to trap him under his arm in a headlock and grind his knuckles into the top of his head.

A noogie. By all accounts.

Braze