Nothing Personal, Just Business (Raid on Vjun)

[TB-705]

Death punctured the Force. Hot and sharp.

Thengil felt their life threads snap without so much as a blink, the collateral damage of no more consequence to him than stomping on an anthill. The entity seemed to have an equal disregard, paying them no apparent heed as it flowed through the midst of the dancing strands of electricity, fleet and full of menace.

The presence seemed diluted and ephemeral, more a fog bank than a candle flame. Could there be two?

The jeers of the damned went silent with the death of their comrades. Most now cowered away from the bars, dreading that they might be next to fall to some errant castoff of destruction.

Results unsatisfactory, Thengil ceased his lightning. In the ensuing silence there arose a woeful keening. Death's seductive hum.

The mirage blurred toward him, too swift and indistinct to follow. The song heightened, a sibilant cry. Ri'shajirr stepped back, felt a breeze near his face, then - lower - the rasp of an edge along his exosuit'd belly. Biofibers and armorweave parted beneath blade's tip, a thin gash on the otherwise unmarred suit.

The Cathar raised a paw and snapped off a quick, blanketing telekinetic shove to create distance.

Power he had in staves, but misdirection toppled many a titan. No, if he had to fight blind, then so too would this unknown foe. He looked to the ceiling and made a swiping gesture, fingers curling. Stygian might flowed out, seizing the piping in the ceiling and with a thought ripping and wrenching. The pipe tore away with a horrendous metallic squeal. Another gesture sent the pipe swinging for the mirage.

Coolant fumes sprayed from the pipe, from the ceiling, steadily filling the room with a white fog.

[member="The Slave"]

 

[Darth Empyrean]

His feet hit the durasteel floor with a hard smack, dampened only by the technology that kept his suit out of the prying eye of those around him. He watched Thengil, the ever present sound of his sword still radiating through the prisoner’s would be home; and was a little joyous when he made the mistake of shrouding his vision further.

A grin ripped wide beneath the helmet, quickly turning his sensors towards the infrared spectrum he allowed himself a view past the coolant fumes that would normally hold his sight at bay. Behind the clouds was this would be titan; the soft anger that flooded his expression was obvious. In a sense, facing down such a large opponent satisfied him, to feel the danger of death only a moment apart from him.

The Slave let his tongue ride across his teeth before rushing forward once more. Each step was silent, forever lost to the void of silence that was overcome by the rushing of gas from above. Still, he wouldn’t leave it to chance, using a single water pack he had on his belt to draw the sound he made just slightly off to one side of Thengil through a short toss; while he himself took the chance to jump off the wall next to him.

Ishtar gave a wild song that permeated all those in the hold, a single man shaking in fear at the foot of his bed. She was a banshee let free, a demon come calling for the sins of every man that walked in this ship. Its massive weight cut the air in a potent and foreboding manner, directly aimed at his would be collar bone; creating a devastating train wreck aimed directly at his bones.

│ [member="Thengil Ri'Shajirr"] │

 

[TB-705]

Coolant whooshed, a blade sang, and across the room a water pack sloshed. One ear flicked, rotating toward the sound. Ri'Shajirr cocked his head, umber braids swayed with the motion, gold bands threaded through the mane clacking together. Eyes the pallor of Tatooine's twin suns swung toward this new sound like great yellow search lamps, drawn back by a shriek, a whistle.

Danger knifed through the Force, rose the hair on his neck in a rippling wave.

A Jedi would say they trusted in the Force to guide their hands. Thengil trusted nothing and no one. When his paw shot out it was guided not by the design of some unseen entity, but by his will, his mastery, his dominance over the Force to rip open time itself for a premonition of the coming strike.

The sudden siren's scream split the air, split the fog of coolant too. He saw the blade then, outlined as it carved through the fumes like a fighter emerging from the clouds. Shreds of white clung to the razor length, parting them as easily as it sought to part flesh.

The edge came down, seeking to hew into bone and sinew, but found only the surface of a hard, unyielding gauntlet, cousin in alloy and guided by prescience. Sparks erupted at their meeting, song pitching to the screech of agonized metal with the collision of two nigh unbreakable alloys. Fingers numbed, hand jarred, Thengil closed his crushgaunt around the blade. He could have broken any ordinary sword with such a grip, but instead he merely locked this one into place, holding it fast with his hideous strength.

He saw the wielder only as a blur, a phantasm.

Take what you can.

The old wisdom of hunters passed down in his pride. Most empty ceremony, but these words he kept. Many hunters reached for the biggest in the herd, seeking to take what they could not, and found reach exceeded grasp. Sometimes the lower prize was more rewarding in the end...

In the heartbeat it took him to arrest the movement of the sword with one gauntlet, the other reached forward, quick as a viper, and sought to wrap around the wrist of the foe that clutched the sword, taking the only thing he could. If his fingers found purchase the resulting grip would be capable of crumpling armor, or crushing bone, or cartilage, or whatever this being's exterior consisted of, short of those metals that not even a lightsaber could pierce.

[member="The Slave"]

 

[Darth Empyrean]

His reactions were fast, if nothing else.

The Slave watched as the mirage of his blade was caught between the violent fingers, each a devastating weapon in their own right. There was a reason he meant to fight him, and it was just this, the purity of his combat inhibition; the unadulterated nature that he gave himself to the fury of battle. This big cat had built a reputation for being hard to put down, and The Slave intended to be the first; for better or worse.

What he didn’t expect however, was the other crushgaunt to fly towards what he assumed to be a wrist. It met with equal pressure, once more forming a violent spark as the cloaking system he had began to hesitate and sputter at the pressure. It wasn’t meant to be hit to many times, and if he didn’t break the hold soon it’d have to be reset; leaving him somewhat open in the eyes of his enemy.

Lucky for him however, the wrist plating was made of phrik, and it held its shape for the moment. The nearly invulnerable armor was extremely useful in stopping weapons, but even to something like this lion and his crushgaunts wouldn’t likely last long, so he had to work fast. Both legs swung up and around his shoulder, using the entirety of his weight to leverage the hand that held his wrist. So long as the grip held, it’d serve as a leverage point for the arm bar; but it wouldn’t be his only movement.

With his other hand free, it quickly moved to the sidearm found on his hip, a devastating pistol often used by the Primeval in countless conflicts. A D7 Blaster Pistol, made for recruits and veterans alike, now found its way only feet from Thengil’s exposed skull. WIth a press of the trigger, the weapon rang out a horrendous cry; a final cry to let the lion let free the slowly crumpling wrist.

│ [member="Thengil Ri'Shajirr"] │

 

[TB-705]

What felt like human legs wrapped around Thengil's arm and he felt a pressure in his elbow as the mirage sought to apply some form of leverage. Fool, does he think to best me in strength?

The answer came in the form of a high-powered whine.

Bhwop.

Too late did Thengil feel the prickle of danger and seek to jerk aside. A cherry red lancet of plasma took him in the face. Crimson spattered from the Cathar's head and he reeled back, pain searing through his nerves like fire. Coils of superheated steam rose from boiled flesh. One side of his face, once a tawny gold, now resembled a burnt corpse. Where it was not charred black it was an angry, weeping carmine.

If not for the power of battlemind focused through his gauntlets he might have been undone with pain. Instead, rage bubbled up from his gut, hot as magma. Coal-black lips peeled apart, exposing yellowed fangs in a primal roar that would cause even the stoutest of hearts to flutter.

The urge to hurt this thing, this ant gave birth to an eruption of physicality. As he roared, his grip on the wrist tightened and he hoisted the his arm up, the foe's legs still locked around it, a pendulum swing. He wanted to feel the limp give of a shattered carcass, to hear the viscerally satisfying crack of shattered bones. The six foot five, two hundred and fifty pound feline - amplified by the exosuit and the dark side - brought his arm down with sickening force, seeking to slam the body of this foe into the unforgiving durasteel deck beneath them.

Even if the enemy's whole body lay aegised in phrik, it would not protect him against the sheer kinetic power of such an impact. At the least, it might concuss him and cause him to lose his grip on his weapons. At worst, it might break bone, or dislocate a shoulder.

[member="The Slave"]

 

[Darth Empyrean]

Blood shredded the otherwise smoky area; a violent warcry forcing equally loud screams of fear from the prisoners that surrounded the two. They knew fear in this creature, his once golden fur turned a crimson; an otherwise experienced warrior turned into a blind berserker. The Dark Side surged through the coolant haze, bringing to them both a heavy pressure, but one they weren’t strangers to despite everything.

He could feel the anger grow, vibrate through his legs and into his heart; but at the same time as fury rose from his feet, jubilance fought back from the grin he held. Thengil couldn’t avoid the shot, and with his head injured; he was already at an advantage. Or so he thought -

There was suprised that broke his premature celebration. An ambush of movement that threatened to slam his entire form into the durasteel floor with little remorse. His armor was tough, but it wouldn’t save him from the strike completely; not with how strong the titan before him was. In the cruel microseconds it took to slam The Slave, he had only a few instances to react; and he took them.

With Thengil’s force focused on forcing him limp, if not outright paralyzed, there was almost nothing he could do to escape his grip. The crushgaunts held him tight, their iron grasp threatening to crush the phrik that held his bones from being entirely crushed beneath his strength. Still, while he was pushing for the slam; The Slave offered resistance in the form of a kinetic powerstrike to both their opposite hands.

The blade they both held jerked itself at an angle, held tight by the force and their equally powerful grasp; the hilt forming a foundational strut for the tip that made contact with the durasteel beneath it just moments before The Slave did. In the same fashion as a cheval de frise, the blade would force him to stab himself on its edge if he didn’t retract his energy.

It was the Slave’s only chance for a saving grace, to save them both the chance at a strike; or leave them both injured. A dead man’s switch made physical in a sword.

│ [member="Thengil Ri'Shajirr"] │

 

[TB-705]

Nothing measured even between their grips.

If the grasp of the crush gaunt alone did not stand an imbalance, then the leonine figure's prowess in the Force, sheer size, and muscle reinforcing exosuit took the scales and weighted them in his favor with a block of neuranium.

The mirage sought to undo him, but it pitted strength against strength and in this, if nothing else, it was far outclassed.

Thengil felt the sword twist as his foe tried to move it into place before body met deck. He allowed no such opportunity.

Cruelty flashed amidst those yellow, slitted eyes like solar flares. Sinews strained and with ghastly might the Cathar sought to tear away the sword from the foe's grasp, gauntleted paw still clutching the blade itself, whilst his other continued the downward motion in an effort to rock his enemy's body into the durasteel floor.

The realms of the Sith merely toyed with the idea of cooperation, banding together to face common foe. Yet each knew in the depths of their hearts that the collaboration was all but hollow, a construct within which they played the great game. Power begat violence. Those below oft served out of fear, or love. But fear turned to hate and love soured. In the end they were all merely biding time in which to strike, for a true Sith brooked no equal in their domain. Those you did not rule, ruled you. If not in title, then in practice.

This was Thengil's domain and in it he stood peerless.

[member="The Slave"]

 

[Darth Empyrean]

The Slave restrained a cry of pain as he was slammed into the ground. He wouldn’t give this creature the pleasure of hearing him in pain, but as blood filled his mouth he couldn’t help but get more excited. It was the first real hit he had taken, and it wasn’t good; he could feel at least two ribs popped entirely out of place, and numerous muscles heavily strained. They cried out for surrender, but their master wouldn’t let them cease.

No, he’d bury the whip deep in each tendon; sooner letting his muscles flay from his bones than give to the beast. Still, he could tell that combat outright wasn’t the right choice; not here, not ever. The lion outclassed him in power by a great margin, and while he was fast; it wouldn’t mean anything if he kept trying to do it head on.

As the slam finalized, he let go of the sword he cherished; pressing heel to face for the momentum required to slide him from view. The Force aura that surrounded him, the abhorrent mess of energy that was The Slave’s presence in the force seemed to congregate at contact, the air falling still and movement ceasing for a hesitant second. Whatever energy lay in the room grew wild, forcing itself in those infinite moments towards his straining push that slid him far from Thengil and towards the back of the hallway.

He took a moment to breath, not long; but enough to let him collect his thoughts and offer his reproach. A careful form brought him to full stance, sound dampeners continuing to silence his movements. Although the first stealth system was disabled from the massive strike, the redundant system allowed him to blend perfectly into the smoke.

He watched Thengil, waiting for him to make a move, weapon in tow. The only thing he kept with him now was a boot knife he pulled, and the pistol he still carried. Now things would be interesting.

│ [member="Thengil Ri'Shajirr"] │

 

[TB-705]

The kick took Thengil in the nose and he stumbled backward. The foe slithered from his grasp. Blinking away tears from his one good eye, blood dripping from his wound obscured the other, Thengil shook his mane. Gold beads clacked. The Cathar straightened his back and stared ahead, pain throbbing through one half of his face, steady and sharp.

Ri'Shajirr moved his paw on the sword to grip it properly by the hilt and gave the air a testing swipe. Good balance. Fine craftsmanship. And ah, that song.

The assassin lurked somewhere in front of him, presence as dispersed and undulating as the fumes drifting through the room in thick, rolling clouds. The hissing sound of escaping coolant still came from the ceiling. By now, the coolant had filled almost the whole corridor. Non spin sealed tibanna gas, commonly used as a coolant for hyperdrives.

Hmm.

The feline cocked his head, then started to walk backward slowly.

"You fight well," he growled. "Unfortunate..."

One paw he held extended before him. If the foe tried to rush him, he would simply send it flying back with a telekinetic blast.

He passed the threshold of the door he had entered through, standing just behind the lip. This assassin proved skilled and resourceful in their brief clash. Thengil had many questions for this foe. A shame.

"That your blade is not all I shall take."

He gestured. The door slid shut in front of him, but before it closed completely he hurled a single spark of lightning from the tip of his claw into the clouds of highly combustible tibanna gas coolant.

The door hissed closed with finality, then shuddered.

Boom.

A tremor rolled through the deck. Thengil swayed, but kept his balance.

The prisoners inside the transparisteel enclosed cells would survive the ensuing flames. The rest would be consumed.

Acceptable losses.

[member="The Slave"]

 

[Darth Empyrean]

The Slave had no idea what Thengil was to do for once, and expected more of a charge than a retreat. As the door slid close, his eyes went wide; realizing what was to come. As his eyes adjusted, blue arcs seemed to find their way against the gas in waves, forcing a massive orange expanse wherever it was to touch. Elegance in combat, soft hues of azure broke the white clean, only to end its dance in a final finale.

An explosion.

He was flown in the opposite direction, the only thing that saved him being the phrik of his armor; while the supplementary body sleeve he wore protected him not only from the heat, but the fumes left behind as well. The Slave lay on the ground, an invisible mass of recovering warrior that groaned ever so slightly into a clenched jaw.

His muscles fought him as he stood, but they knew who to abide by at the end of the day. A soft sigh left his lips as he found himself on his knees, idly waiting. No matter the aptitude of his sonic dampeners, Thengil would easily hear the resounding smack of phrik plating on durasteel flooring; and so he had no choice but to wait it out.

A hand moved to pick up the half melted pistol, the other re grabbing the knife that seemed mostly unharmed. The Slave reckoned he had only a few shots left with his sidearm before it bust now, but all he truly needed was one at the end of the day. His legs picked him up once more, slowly walking towards the door in wait.

This time however, something else took place with the energy of his force. It seemed to shrink, become small and dissipating; such a fleeting entity he could blend in with the dead. To the force sensitive of the galaxy, that's all he was without a line of sight, nothing more than a vagrant body amongst the masses of bodies that lay in the rear of the corridor.

To the ship, he was the walking dead.

│ [member="Thengil Ri'Shajirr"] │

 

[TB-705]

After several minutes, the doors slid back open.

Thengil stepped inside and curled his nose at the scent of burning plastic and flesh. Fires smoldered everywhere and the thick clouds of white gas had been replaced with coils of black smoke. Corpses lay around like scattered debris after a storm. Some still burned.

As he had suspected, a number of prisoners had survived the blast behind their transparisteel cells. They sat, some stunned at the loss, others with eyes full of fury.

"Hm," he growled, golden eye sweeping the remains for some sign of the assassin. He thought he felt a whisper in the Force but with so much death the Force felt disquieted by the Dark Side.

The blood on his face had started to congeal, crusting one eye shut. Pain still shot through his head, but had receded to a persistent throbbing.

[member="The Slave"]

 

[Darth Empyrean]

With his entity still shrouded between the cloaking, and the force repression; The Slave moved with the quiet nimbleness of a jaguar. Dark and stealthy, withheld and careful, his movements carried him closer and closer to Thengil as he moved forward into the expanse of the charred hallway. Between the sounds of bodies burning with its soft popping and crackling of flame and skin, and the cries of prisoners and soon to be dead men alike; he was almost entirely shrouded with his sonic dampener.

Every step was careful to avoid the dead beneath him, never stepping in a puddle nor disturbing the smoke that lay latent in various corpses. The only subtle hint that he was there was the near molecular size of his force aura, something he had trained extensively to control; and for good reason. To stay stealthy, his outrageous force aura was something he had to constantly have a vigil on, lest it ruin any venture outright.

When he was close enough, The Slave put his plan into action. The blast pistol on his hip was heavily damaged, its plasteel unable to stand the high temperatures it just went through; but it was in well enough condition for a few remaining shots. In the same idea, the standard blade he kept in his boot was sharpened heavily, and with proper strength would cut through lighter armors with ease. A predatory flash of white came over his eyes as his attack came, a synchronized movement of premeditated action.

In one moment, he moved to position himself with back facing the massive titan known as Thengil; with one foot between his heels, both his hands moved in a lightning fast blur. Almost entirely invisible, they moved with little resistance as two strikes came to meet Thengil in the same moment. First, the knife he held moved to slam itself into the forearm of the arm that held his blade, quickly twist near the tendons to force his grip to loosen enough for him to drop the blade; all the while the one that still held the pistol moved to shoot backwards at his exposed head’s healthy half.

He sought to not only blind the giant, but disarm him in one fluid motion, both heavy and decisive strikes in their own. It’d take great skill, if not outright luck to outmaneuver him, and with how the fight had gone so far; there was a distinct advantage The Slave would have if the blade came back into his possession.

Still, as proud as he was of his fight thus far, the only ones to witness his grand adventure where nothing more than the drivel of slaves and ex military. They meant nothing, they were nothing to impress. He’d sooner see the weakness that they were sent out the trash chute the ship had, then enjoy their audience.

Disappointing.

│ [member="Thengil Ri'Shajirr"] │

 

[TB-705]

A flash, a flicker of movement, and a sharp twisting pain in Thengil's arm. The sword slipped from his grip and he reared back his head in an agonized snarl. The blade clattered to the deck. The movement saved his life. The blaster bolt that would have took him through the underside of the jaw and up through the brainpan instead grazed along his throat before ricocheting off the ceiling.

Blood flowed. Blood out his body. Blood through his veins. Blood pounding between his ears.

One massive boot stomped on the sword where it lay upon the ground, pinning it to the deck. His elbow bent and his fingers sought to wrap around the enemy's arm, to grasp whatever they could: shoulder, elbow, or forearm.

It did not matter what.


Crushgaunts lent strength where his fingers lacked.


Lightning erupted then from those fingers, a torrent of it, if not enough to kill then enough to hurl him across the room and leave a smoking and twitching being, nerves misfiring. No more a capable warrior than a rodent beneath a cattle prod.

[member="The Slave"]

 

[Darth Empyrean]

The Slave gleamed with pride as the knife met its mark, only to twist and cut as Thengil’s other hand came close. Using the leverage and pain he could muster, The Slave pulled the cat’s arm down by the knife blade, torqueing gore beneath the skin before freezing just moments away from the sword he stood on. He froze as he felt the lightning begin disrupting the systems in his armor, the cloaking fading as the lightning moved arc by arc up the phrik.

In an instant reaction, he moved quickly to ground himself to the sword they both stood on. With it, he wouldn’t take the damage of the lightning, even if the armor’s more technical aspects would be fried. It would put him back at a disadvantage, but so long as he didn’t take another massive hit he felt he’d be alright.

Still, he had to do something before the titan that towered above him could bring down another crushgaunt to decimate him. The pistol he carried made a quick movement to the kneecap of the foot that cover his prized blade, firing a quick succession of three rounds from the start to the ankle, hoping to cripple the beast and force his release of the weapon.

It would however, be the last shots the weapon was to fire, bursting in his hand after the last round left the melted barrel. He grit his teeth, realizing how close the fight was coming, and just where they would end up if he couldn’t end it soon. There was a point to be proven today, and if he wasn’t able to convince Thengil of his ability before then; all hope would be lost.

He couldn’t afford that.

│ [member="Thengil Ri'Shajirr"] │

 

[TB-705]

Strings of bright blue electricity rippled down the phantasm, which moved almost as soon as the lightning touched it, grounding itself on the same sword Thengil stood upon. The move saved the mirage's body, but not its suit's systems, which - devastated by the lightning and the punishment they had taken throughout the fight - shorted out.

A being flickered into existence, outlined by the lightning coursing along the surface of the armor. Humanoid it looked in shape, features hidden beneath charred-black armor. It held a pistol in one hand and a knife in the other. The knife was embedded in Thengil's arm.

The assassin swung its pistol down, toward the Cathar's knee. Thengil's reaction came in an instant - as swift as the step of the foe onto the fallen sword. The lightning ceased, replaced by a quick snap of telekinesis, just strong enough to nudge away the barrel of the gun. The first shot seared alongside the edge of his kneecap instead of going straight through it, the other two missed by a mere millimeter, hot against his shin.

The Sith's reprisal was devoid of mercy. The paw not gripping the humanoid's arm shot out, seeking to close around tender neck and squeeze.

[member="The Slave"]

 

[Darth Empyrean]

As the shots missed, there was a temporary moment of panic as he realized what was coming. The pistol had broken, malfunction and was useless, but that was the least of his worries as the crush gaunt came for his throat. It’s slow squeeze wouldn’t be stopped easily, and while the thought of passing this off as a draw with no serious injury to either (other than a shot to the face) came to mind, as oxygen began to fall from his brain and the suit began to show serious outside pressure; there was nothing more than rage that built in his eye.

His vision flashed red as both his legs moved to wrap their way around the arm that held him. With knife still in tow, there was only one option left; and he’d use every chance he had to make it work. While one hand brought the knife into vicious strikes at the artery and tendons of the arm he wrapped himself around, the other moved for one of the ion flares on his waist.

It took a moment to ignite it, but as it surged to life with a bright light and a burning tip; The Slave forced it towards Thengil’s singular good eye. While the other was covered with blood, and his free hand had to decide between stopping the violent slashes that threatened to disable his hand, if not cause horrific bleeding, and the threat of an ion flare going through soft tissue; it brought them to an apex in tension that wouldn’t be settled without sacrifice.

And so the end had begun.


│ [member="Thengil Ri'Shajirr"] │

 

[TB-705]

One crushgaunt gripped the humanoid's forearm, immobilizing it, denying the assassin any leverage save his wrist with which to stab or slash, rendering those wounds less gruesome than they might have been if the enemy had been allowed full use of that arm. Thengil's arm felt numb, but the strength he relied on was not that of his own muscles, but the reactive fabric of the gauntlet.

Two legs came up and wrapped around that arm. Thengil growled low.

Same tric-

A burst of blue-white starfire erupted in front of his vision, searing his cornea with the sheer brilliance of it. The afterimages floated against a black backdrop before all turned to a crescendo of agony as the assassin thrust the ion flare into his eye. Thengil's roar was not a conscious thing, but a raw and ragged explosion of primal fury and pain.

The other crushgaunt wrapped around [member="The Slave"]'s throat squeezed shut.

Human skulls could be crushed with five hundred and twenty pounds of pressure. Crushgaunts could easily do so. It only required thirty-three pounds to crush the trachea and the arteries vital for bloodflow to the brain. And a mere eleven pounds to collapse it. The simple squeeze - enough to break a skull - would likely crush the windpipe and seal the arteries shut, leaving the man unable to breathe and likely to go unconscious from lack of blood flow in about eight seconds.

 

[Darth Empyrean]

His armor might have been nearly impervious to damage across the majority of it, but as the pressure on his neck nearly double it didn’t take him long to realize just how lacking in armor it was. He could feel his trachea break, his air collapse, and with it panic began to set in. Not the sort that made you contemplate just what you were doing, but the sort that riddled on blind behavior of unbridled defensive nature.

And so that’s what he did. Or rather, his body and mind.

In a desperate attempt at survival, two things began to occur in the same instance. First, a pressure through the force moved to maintain his airway just long enough to keep him awake for a few moments long; all biding time while the other took place. With Thengil blind, and the force ambiguous nature that he held, a magic began to take place as a hand moved in the direction of the titan’s face. It wasn’t touching, but close enough to nearly stroke at the bloodied fur.

Then, it went black. As The Slave truly began to slip into unconsciousness, the unbridled fury of an acolyte with no self control took place in one aggrandized effort of self retention. A crisp maelstrom of red lighting surged from his fingertips in a torrent of unwithheld energy. There was no signs it was to come, completely covered in the rampant seizure that was his force pressure as it suffered in the same form as its master. Between this static, and the desperate movements of a damaged man, it was a surprise to even The Slave himself, if he were even awake to witness it.

Yet, as the broken man went limp, and the massive amperage that was his lightning slowly began to quiver and cease, there was a slight weight that still held over the room. A looming pressure that threatened to bury the starship deep in whatever void it came from; and it did this without a single hint at its essence. Nothing came of it, only the soft cries of epicanthix in the local area, forever scarred by the battle they just witnessed take place before them.

│ [member="Thengil Ri'Shajirr"] │

 

[TB-705]

Red lightning arced toward the Cathar and struck him in his blinded, bloodied, and blackened face. The strands conducted down through his body, from face to toes, and would have certainly left him a twitching mess on the floor but for two things.

The first was that his opponent's ability in the Force, or that of whatever being he served as vessel to, had not yet reached its full potential, whether be it the fault of the vessel or of the being behind it all. Thus the lightning did not have the same effect as that from a full-fledged Sith Lord. The second factor was a pitfall of the assassin's own making. Thengil stood upon the sword, just as [member="The Slave"] had done earlier, and therefore the sword acted as a grounding instrument to take the brunt of the attack, sucking up the lightning like a sponge.

In the wake of the attack, tendrils of smoke curled from Thengil's ruined face. Injured, enraged, and unable to see, but still very much alive and awake, the Cathar reached out with his mind and touched the presences of his corsairs.

COME.