Stare Into The Abyss

[Ellie Mors]

Monster

J U B I L A R
V I C T O R Y F O R U M

The year was eight-hundred and fifty-two, the galaxy was more divided than it had ever been - the One Sith-Galactic Republic a distant memory that barely nagged at the back of the collective memory - and it was the start of a new era of powerful juggernauts and heavy hitters. Each generation of Sith and Jedi, Mandalorians and Echani, had slowly dulled with the dilution of power by the lack of ambition and sense of unity each of the various factions had harbored, but it was the return to ambition and a desire for glory or justice and strength that led to a new generation to rival the generation that had spawned the older, now defunct, Sith Empire of nearly three decades past. And it was the culmination of this that saw the return of blood sports to the Victory Forum of Jubilar, the penal world in the outer rim that was home to the most murderous filth in the galaxy. Three fighters remained for the final seed - a free for all fight that would pit a forceless Mandalorian, an insane witch, and a veritably gigantic brute of a man against each other in a fight for the glory of victory. Anything was allowed, swords to sabers, rags to armors, the force to the force dead.

And the arena? The massive ring was a staggering hundred meters across in every direction, with walls that loomed far above the arena floor which sat more than twenty-thousand seats for spectators of the bloody matches held below. Its floor was comprised of finely ground sand that had been bleached bone white to contrast greatly against the competitors that would find themselves fighting to the death within its walls. After each match the grounds would be maintained and the coppery stains on the sand removed and replaced with a fresh layer of white grit. It was walking out from three separate gates that our final competitors would find themselves.

---

Braith strolled out from her respective gate with a confident grin etched on her face, her once long hair now a simple bob of two tones that only nearly reached chin length. Her body was, as it had been for nearly a year now, covered not in any article of clothing but rather a colony of creatures that fed on the darkness within her - orbalisks - and shifted slightly ever so often, but held tightly together as a living, golden, armor that covered her from neck to ankles and wrists. She carried in her right hand a spear that was roughly a head longer than she was tall, an object of her own creation that was intimately tied to her very presence in the force. Each step by the small woman was punctuated by the ground shifting in front of her to be pushed and compacted tightly together into a more stable footing for her - her control over the environment used to give her every advantage she could muster - as a subtle reminder of the previous match in which she had flayed the flesh off of a Trandoshan with the very sands of the arena floor she strode across.

After thirty paces she came to a stop, as each of the combatants must before the match officially began, and held her spear across her front as she waited for the signal to begin their fight. She observed her enemies, [member="Tathra Khaeus"] and [member="Kalmann Ordo"], with a modicum of curiosity - well aware that the other two had performed quite as well as she had in their own matches to reach this far. The only question she had was which of the two would provide the greatest challenge.

 

[Tathra Khaeus]

​Titan

J U B I L A R
V I C T O R YF O R U M

Ninety-Five years. Ninety-Five. Nearly ten decades of conflict, no more than a wilful pup within the first - acting upon the command of those with more fruitful lives. But even then, it was life that made a Warrior their own captor. A hunger began, and within the following decades soon it became a living. Warrior is a way of life. Strength is a way of life.

​To say Tathra Khaeus was anything more or wished to be more than those in his lifetime would be a lie. Yet one wonders, whilst standing at these metal gates. For how long can endless conflict sate the hunger of being, it troubled the furthest extents of his mind. A small light crawled out from under the now rising metal door.

​The life-blood of the Galaxy grovelling at his feet as artificial light reminded him of his own surroundings. All and quiet suddenly the titan was acutely aware of his surroundings, his body lurched - bending uncomfortable as he moved under the too slow rising gate; entering the Arena.

​- ​"Hmph."

​From the depths of the metal-cave came first piercing eyes as one combatant was already present in the arena. Tathra's brick red and black volcanic hide was greeted by the calm hues of light that brought his form into the studying eyes of the crowd. His massive form twitching as his mountainous form flexed instinctively in response to the light, in response to the heat of the many cretins that dotted the Arena's viewing areas. His grey and meagre orange Combat-Vest stretching across the length of his massive chest and lower body.

Dull and well-worn, a long sash falling from his right side along the length of his thigh. The heavy metal plated legs and thruster boots grinding uncomfortably against the sand under his feet. Two heavy grey gauntlets wrapped around his wrists, with simple bronze hand guards held by straps around the lengths of his massive palms. A small blunt metal attachment was visible on his right Gauntlet, sitting comfortable attached by thick metal connecting pieces.

​Ever from afar, his armour could be seen to heavily contrast the red and black volcanic-muscle frame that his body was composed of. Bare arms and head both tense and unmoving as he made his way to the thirty pace line. His weaponry at this distance would seem like a few thick lines along his back. Two adjacent Axes sat, both at a diagonal with their handles along the length of his shoulders. The third and larger of the three items was directly beside the Axe on his left side, only its curved base sticking out slightly further, those knowledgeable would recognise it as the hilt of his Mace.

​Tathra stopped, remaining still as his two hands came together - eyes moving to observe the third member of this tourney as the waning cries of the crowd came to a slow stop as per tradition.

​An assembly of those who would indeed enjoy the ferocity of combat from afar, yet meekly would only serve themselves in watching. A shame, so few often relished in the true joy of killing - Tathra pondered as his primal eyes observed the smaller female combatant, far to his left. Details left to the simpler prey-eyes of the lesser species. His predatory vision, picking up her heat, the slow throb of her living armour as well.

​It was then that the artificial lighting of the arena became diluted by the piercing light and heat of the worlds natural sky as the upper half of the coven like Arena retracted slowly. It was customary that throughout a tournament series such as this that, localised weather equipment would be used to increase the heat exponentially as the Tournament progressed.

​The heat was welcome, it soothed his skin. Tathra remained unarmed, slowly raising his hands to greet one and other as he popped his knuckles, causing them to crack quiet horribly. His wrist joints followed, it was an ugly habit. But a ritual of his own.

​| [member="Braith Achlys"] | [member="Kalmann Ordo"] |​

 

[Luca Donskoi]

J U B I L A R
V I C T O R YF O R U M

And here Kal thought he'd finally broken free from these slimy pits of the Sith Empire, but it seemed that the galaxy was not without a sense of irony. He was back and this time it seemed as though for one final grand finale. He'd climbed his way through the ranks of the Sith gladiatorial pits and now found himself at the pinnacle of these crude affairs. An event filled with such fanfare that his moronic captors had equipped him with a plethora of armaments along with his armor. They'd even given the beskar'gam a fresh, new coat of paint, simply re-imaging that which had been there before. The same colors, only more vivid and without the black smudges induced by carbon scoring. It was clean. It was like he always had it before a new engagement or war. It was a symbol of who he was and where he came from. The trials of a life fill with conflict and great triumph.

As the heavy metal gate slowly rose, Kal was knelt down, making the final inspections of his weapons systems and every such gadget that identified as the tank of a man that he was. On his right wrist, the Dur-24 Wrist Laser was still inoperable, broken in the engagement that led to his capture at the hands of the Sith, however, the ZX Miniature Flame projector checked out good to go. On his left wrist, the MM9-rocket system also remained in a non serviceable condition, yet the Velocity-7 dart shooter remained in near flawless condition. The three darts held within were coated in the potent Lecepanine toxin, a tool that if used properly here could play quite a crucial into a victory should he be able to such a thing off. He simply had one blaster buster slugthrower and only a single spare clip to use for a reload. In the belt that spanned his waist, his captors has removed all but a single cryoban and a single flash-bang grenade, but weapons such as these were not the only tools within his kit.

On his back, he'd been allowed his J-12 jetpack, though the fuel was clearly not topped off for it with its lesser than normal weight. On his hands, he wore his crushgaunts and along the right side of the J-12 on his back, Kal had been reunited with his four foot beskar blade, the Mandalorian beskad. Even his buy'ce, or helm, could be viewed as a tool with its advanced HUD and environmental filter.

But alas, this was all his loadout offered today. A handful of weapons and gadgets - some broken, some not.

As the metal gate continued its slow accent, Kal's eyes beamed through the T-visor of his helm and his sized up the other two within the confines of the arena. Once was a smaller woman which he assumed either relied on speed and agility or that diabolical power they called the Force to best her foes. The other was quite different, almost entirely so. He was large and brutish. Likely one that used that size, weight and strength to throw heavy, hard hitting blows one should probably avoid instead of attempting to block or parry. Both posed a great threat and the Mandalorian knew better than to underestimate either one. He had his assumptions as to the approach either may take through the course of this madness, but only time would tell and so he gathered himself back to his feet, firearm in his right hand and slowly strode his thirty feet out and into the pit. All the while he scanned both his opponents and the arena calculating a plan far into the future. This would play out in someway and he'd rather be prepared for whatever routine this dance wanted to take.

Once he reached the mark, he stopped, feet shoulder width apart. The firearm was held down to his right and he said no words. He was not about the fanfare or theatricality. He knew what he had to do in order to survive and he planned to do just that.

[member='Tathra Khaeus']
[member='Braith Achlys']

 

[Ellie Mors]

Dancing in the Fire

The firrerreo tuned out the roar of the crowd above, her concentration held tightly on her two adversaries positioned at sixty degrees from her on either side. She wasn't nearly as tall or imposing as the man wearing his beskar to her left, and she was dwarfed by the behemoth of a man to her right, but it wasn't the physical strength of either of her opponents that she concerned her focus with - it was with whom that would necessitate her to physically exert herself, and with whom she would be able to take from a distance. The witch's violet eyes swept over the armored Mandalorian, taking note that he was at the very least armed, before her gaze shifted to the bestial man that lacked any true weapon beside his physical strength. She ignored the sound of a voice echoing over the excited observers, one which was explaining to the crowd who each of them were and the brief summaries of their previous bouts, and instead calculated the likelihood of which opponent might try to put her out of the match first, and beyond that the likelihood of the two conspiring together out of opportunity.

While she found some probability for the former that went against her own preferences, the chances of the latter slimmed as she profiled the two internally based on how they stood. She had no doubt that the Mandalorian, a man belonging to a culture-for-hire, had no reservations with removing an obstacle as quickly as possible - it was the latter, the man that carried himself more as a beast, that seemed more likely to fight over his kill. Personally she was prepared to deal with the two simultaneously anyways, so it was simply an exercise in deciding which outcome to prepare for - preparation for which was cut off as the announcer's voice filtered into the pit itself.

"And now, for the moment we have all been waiting for, our trio of warriors will fight for their freedom in this final match."

Roars of approval from the crowd temporarily drowned out everything else before the announcer's voice silenced them again.

"Begin!"

Braith's hand had already tensed around the haft of her spear as the crowd shouted, and with practiced timing - from the several matches that led to this moment - she was moving, spear held diagonally across her front, point up, as she put at least some distance between herself and the hulking beast of a man - her estimation that he would go after her first, given her size, was nearly six to one in her mind. It wasn't that she was afraid - she'd faced a wall of stormtroopers in a far less favorable scenario than this - but rather desired to not give away too much of what she could do, at least this soon. The last thing she needed was for the two to decide removing her, first, was a priority. That wasn't to say she ignored the Mandalorian, of course, but she was less concerned with putting distance between the two of them as opposed to the space she'd find comfortable dealing with the other.

She'd put herself on the offensive once the other two showed a little bit of their own abilities.

[member="Kalmann Ordo"] [member="Tathra Khaeus"]

 

[Tathra Khaeus]

"And now, for the moment we have all been waiting for, our trio of warriors will fight for their freedom in this final match."

​Tathra's left foot slid back a few inches, his heel raised from ground as his upper torso descended a few inches in cohesion. A subtle movement that prepared him for what was to come. His eyes flickered between his two opponents, earnestly arrogance had come quickly to him - his rather effortless victories beforehand made the bout of will's to come seem trivial.

​Yet still, Tathra entertained the notion that he may yet face a substantial opponent. They had at the very least made it this far, that counted for something. Yet, he dared not presume too much from their stance alone. The man who wore Beskar could not assuredly be a Mandalorian, he may have simply been a smuggler or mercenary who felt some comfort hiding behind sufficient armour.

​Tathra couldn't know, but it at the very least meant he could take a punch. Or perhaps half of one, Tathra was a strong contender. His strength many times greater than the apex of any other humanoid creature in almost all of the Galaxy. He had a pride in this, but he knew it was a gift from his genetics and his age - a body he was well tuned to the use of.

​The titan's eyes shifted between the two of his opponents. The Mandalorian was the clearly the lesser of the three - half of his equipment was either de-activated or broken, for Tathra could not see any energy or heat coming from them. It put the Mandalorian at a disadvantage. The women wore a symbiotic armour, writhing and alive. He could not recall what exactly was required of such a being to wear something as armour, to dominate a create in such a fashion. But the titan was certain of one thing - he would not turn his back on her.

"Begin!"

​Tathra pressed forward - his speed quickly surpassing his two opponents as both his muscle mass and size dwarfed them, his movement crossing a few metres in the blink of an eye as he made for the space between the tiny woman and the Mandalorian, however leaning slightly in the direction of the gunslinger rather than the spear wielder.

​| [member="Braith Achlys"] | [member="Kalmann Ordo"] |​

​

 

[Luca Donskoi]

"And now, for the moment we have all been waiting for, our trio of warriors will fight for their freedom in this final match."

An eruption of boisterous voices drowned the three combatants in the arena. Their screams and chants were deafening and had it not been for the audio filtering integrated into his Buy'ce (helm), his ears would have writhed in pain and been subject to the endless torment of profuse ringing. His right hand flexed around the grip of his blaster buster in anticipation of what would soon unfold and an excitement of his own brewed within. This is what he lived for. Moments of challenge and battle though the conditions here didn't promote the sense of honor that was his foundation. Fighting for the thrill and enjoyment of others never did, and when he made he way to his freedom with this one final match, he planned to enlighten these foul vessels of the Sith Empire and just what honor was and how important it was.

Kal has his own confidence in his abilities, and weighed his odds against the two. Even with as menacing the titan was, Kal felt the smaller woman was the larger threat here. A woman of here size seemed an odd site in the pits and to have made it this far, her skill must be beyond those she'd face to this point. One didn't get this far on luck alone. Luckily for him, he never underestimated an opponent and for either of them to underestimate him in return could prove to be a quite fatal mistake.

His gaze passed between the two as he studied them body. He watched the muscles as they flexed. Saw the sway, or lack there of, of their individual stances. Even the expressions of their faces and the way in which they reacted to the crowd. So much could be told from every movement a fighter made. Whether or not the combatant was aware they were conducting such things. To this extent, the shift of Tathra's stance and the distribution of his weight across his center of mass did not go unnoticed. His advance was coming and was likely to occur as soon as if not before the pit announcer finished his ovation.

Kal stood fast and ready. Poised to counter or avoid whatever was sent his way.

"Begin!"

As those words left the announcer's mouth, motions immediately started for both of the other two combatants. The small woman moved, seemingly to put some distance between herself and her opponents. A passive and cautious approach - and one that was likely the best for her end game. This approach was quite the opposite to that of the hulking beast who, just as Kal had suspected, rash and aggressive like. The monster was going straight to the offensive and Kal was all to happy to let him immediately push into an opening mistake. That mistake would be driven by a reckless overconfidence paired with the underestimation of the foes he faced. A cardinal sin in the dueling environment and one Kal would be all too happy to exploit when it arose.

Kal bent slightly at his knees and shifted his weight to where slightly more resided over his right leg as his left slid around toward the back. His firearm was still in hand but was not trained on either foe. Instead he remained cautious and non aggressive. Studying each of them and remaining ready for whatever they would throw his way.

He took another step back, flipping his previous weight distribution as the overly large specimen continued his advance.

[member='Tathra Khaeus']
[member='Braith Achlys']

 

[Ellie Mors]

Take Out The Gunman

The concern she had for her own ability to face up against such a behemoth in physical combat evaporated the moment the hulking figure made his charge for the Mandalorian, decidedly putting to rest her notions of a deliberate killer in favor of the now-obvious primitive hunter-warrior role that Tathra fell neatly into. It was a suitable match-up in her eyes, one brute against a man in a tin can with weapons that was certainly going to fair better against the beast than she. Of course this match made in heaven was clearly a circumstance for her to take immediate advantage of - her movements coming to a halt as soon as she had realized she was in the clear, and her mind immediately moving to the building heat above them.

In her experience, and likely in the experience of the other two sharing the arena floor with her now, most wielders of the force preferred to fight brute strength with a lightsaber and hope for the best or hurl lightning or telekinetic blows when skill failed them - Braith was just the opposite. She didn't doubt that she could face either of the two in melee combat in terms of skill, but raw strength was a stupid thing to purposefully pit herself against, which was why she backed off of the threat that she didn't know completely, for certain, that she could put down with her spear alone. To further distance herself from the standard Jedi or Sith, Braith did not divulge herself in the silly and modernist approach to wielding electricity, boastfully called lightning, and telekinesis as a crutch - she had not been raised, worshiped, and revered in her time as the living incarnation of her people's deity of the storms, harvest, and the night for reasons as infantile as mere parlor tricks. No, she dabbled instead in the manipulation of the world around her, particularly the altering of the environment.

Where heat was introduced to make things uncomfortable, although she guessed the primitive beast was more than happy to sweat to his heart's content, it only served to add ammunition to her own repertoire. She spread her feet apart, widening her stance, and pulled her shoulders back as she lifted her hands, eyes losing their focus as her mind probed the heated air above and around them, searching and narrowing her focus until she found what she needed - the very friction of the molecules in the air that was agitated by the rising heat. Through the force she willed - forced - the friction to increase, for each and every particle in the air, every grain of sand kicked up into the air, to agitate the air further and push for greater heights in search of a static charge - something that would, perhaps, go unnoticed aside from the steadily climbing heat index, but its effects would, eventually and in the right situation, prove dangerous to the other two that were just starting their tango.

[member="Tathra Khaeus"] [member="Kalmann Ordo"]