The Bloodied Hand
Miasmær paused at the entrance to the inner sanctum, door cut from its frame and in pieces behind her. Among its remains were four red-clad body guards, their vibroblades laying about them in the clutter of destruction and blood. Before her was a man, standing silhouetted by sith artifacts of unknown age; Darth Lextalionis. No Kaggath had been issued, no war declared, no challenge delivered, Miasmær had abandoned all pretext, all ceremony, all good faith in order to end the fued she had started since her first days in the Sith Order. Before her she saw a slaver, a tyrant, a beast, a manifestation of her traumas. No words would be exchanged, they both knew that.
On the far end of the room her opponant would, without sound or ceremony, activate his lightsaber pike.
Miasmær breathed deeply, sweat caking her body from over an hour of fighting. She had slain troopers, slavers, and the best guards this man had to get to him. With ragged breath, her body shaking, she would raise her own saber in response. Then, with a ragged throat-tearing scream she would charge him.
He would fall back a step, falling into a defensive position as he would maneuver the greater length of his weapon to keep her at bay. She, in return, would bring her saber up to deflect his incoming blow; halting her approach. Two more lunges from the man would be deflected before she would fall to the floor, a hunk of metal ripped from the wall by her opponant's kinetic will soaring overhead. Rolling to the side she would barely avoid a searing gouge through the floor, launching herself to her feet with the force she'd swing wildly at him. Her blow would be deflected, but she would reach forward desperately grasping for the metallic staff of his pike.
At first as her fingers wrapped around its cold exterior she thought to rip it away from him, or maneuver it away to stab at him undefended. Yet the slick metal would slide beneath her fingers and she would scream in rage and agony as the blade would pass between her fingers; not severing any of them but burning them severely as she just managed to let her grip go in time. The man, silent, would reach forward and slam his armored cybernetic fist into her jaw. Crack, her bone would give way under the assault and send her sprawling on her back. Yet even as the black-cloaked figure would lunge the pike down, Miasmær would continue her momentum by propelling herself through the force. After sliding back a meter, her body, propelled by the force and her mind, would launch to its feet and fall into a sprint as she'd charge him once again.
This time as he stabbed forward at her she would lean backwards, the red blade soaring mere centimeters above her head before being ripped down. She'd bring up her elbow, knocking the shaft of the pike away as she'd dodge its blow, bring her saber up to score a molten tear through Lextalionis' side. The older man, breath ragged and ringing with a metallic cybernetic hum, would hiss inwards in pain before Miasmær would be crushed into the floor with sheer kinetic force power. Stunned and pinned she would take a second too long to free herself, the pike piercing her shoulder. She would scream as rage and pain would course through her thicker than blood, and kick with all of her force-enhanced might into the man's leg. Her foot would make contact with the side of his knee, causing it to buckle and for him to fall down to kneel above her; not having a chance to pull the pike free or to the side to tear her arm off.
Miasmær's blade would be up in an instant, cutting the arm clutching the pike clean from Lextalionis' body. He would feel nothing, the cybernetic arm falling to the side. Instead he would stand, kicking her. The impact would push her forward, the saber cutting farther down her should and through her collar. She, tears filling her eyes as each ragged breath came in quick animalistic succession, would grab the pike and throw it across the room. Lextalionis would attempt to reach out to call it back to him, but hesitate as he attempted to use the removed arm. Finally spotting her chance Miasmær would lung, plunging her own saber deep into the Darth's torso, before ripping it upward and cutting his skull in half.
She would watch, stunned, barely conscious from pain, as the body would fall to its knees. A smoldering scorch mark from chest to scalp would glow at her, barely illuminating the alien skin beneath the armor, before the corpse would collapse.
Miasmær, would stand panting above the body of her victim. Her breaths short and raspy, betraying the rage and pain.
Miasmær, would stand victorious at last. Months of being ridiculed for her previous assault on Loovria, months of being told she was too insignificant to accomplish her goal.
Miasmær, would stand alive.
Miasmær , would stand free.