Duel Testing Grounds

[Warchief Waddles]

H E A T
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Adumar, a planet that understood many things. Pride, one of the main traits that the Adumari people bore. A love of combat, yet another asset to their people as a whole. A sense of unity through warfare. In many ways they were as close to Mandalorians as any other group of people in New Imperial Order space. It made sense why the Sons of Mandalore had taken up refuge on the planet.

On Adumar there was no need to hide in the shadows, away from the sight of the Sith, and those who sought to exterminate the loyal few. As such on this day the Sons of Mandalore gathered in one of the Arenas. They didn’t sit in the stands like the Adumari though. No the Mandalorians gathered in a crowd creating a battle circle.

To truly be a Son of Mandalore you had to prove yourself. Show your mettle against others, demonstrate your ability to fight in the name of Mandalore. Isaiah remembered the battle circle well. As a youth him and the other younglings had been pitted against one another. Whether young or old the ritual was still the same. You entered with no armor, armed with only a Beskad to fight your adversary till either they yielded, died or a Mandalorian elder called for the fight to end.

The primary of Adumar beat down on Isaiah’s tanned skin as he walked forward. The sun glinted in his eye, as the grit of sand assaulted his bare feet. Drabbed in nothing more than his underwear, Isaiah entered the ring. Very little modesty was retained yet Isaiah showed no fear, his confidence evidence. The man a behemoth, a juggernaut. There was simply no other way to describe Isaiah then those words. In terms of mass outside of armor, very few could match him.

Coming to a stop in the center of the arena, Isaiah held out his hand to catch the beskar that was tossed through the air. Catching it by the hilt in a reverse grip, Isaiah examined the edge of the blade. Rusted, dull and coated with aged blood. The scent of copper assaulting the exile’s nostrils.

Casting a glance down to the sand he knew much like the sands of Mandalore these had been baptized. Baptized with the tears of those who’d fallen, the blood of those who fought to the bitter in, and the piss of those who knew true fear. Exhaling, the warrior’s eyes rose up to meet the warrior entering to face him. How long had it been since he’d competed in such a way? Since he honored the roots of his people? Too long. Within the mandalorian a pride swelled, an excitement he hadn’t felt in close to a decade. The thrill of a challenge.

Lucien Dooku

 

[Lucien Dooku]

I N V I N C I B L E
Trajan Fett Warchief Waddles Careena Fett Tace Kurze

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The Mandalorian way of doings things was admittedly not a familiar concept to the young Dooku. That is, the concept of of being an armored warrior who sparingly removed his helm in front of strangers, whilst following a code of clan ethics to the tee, was far removed from the spacer trash that he'd grown into by the cusp of his adulthood. Even so, there were feint parts of their culture that resonated with him on a personal level, along with the Mandalorians of Krieg that he'd come to meet over the tenure of his service with the Order. Trajan being the first Mandalorian who he connected with on a personal level, prior to meeting the man, his only experience in dealing with their kind was killing them, ironically enough.

Being the spacer trash that he was, running cargo in and around Sith space had always come with the danger of being intercepted by Sith-Mandalorian patrols, and unfortunately it wasn't possible to always avoid being boarded. Those Mandalorians were the kind he'd gotten use to, and his interactions with them had established a negative idea of just who those people were as a culture. Having long heard that they were supposedly proud warriors who fought valiantly against anyone and everyone, given the opportunity, Luc had been sorely dissapointed when he met the traitors to their own people first-hand. They carried the tactics of their people, he'd give them that, but to no surprise the lot of them found themselves shot and cut down after foolishly boarding the wrong freighter on those rare instances they caught up to Luc and his smuggler compatriots.

Tough luck for them, in his opinion.

It framed a narrative in his head regarding their kind moving forwards, but thankfully he met the Sons of Mandalore later on his life. These men and women were the true embodiment of what it was to be a Mandalorian, in his opinion. Tough as nails, yet still wise to the core, his opinion on the descendants of Mandalore had shifted to having nothing but respect for the specific lot that he found himself in the company of on more than one fateful occasion. So much so had his opinion changed that Luc, in the present, found himself on the world of Adumar, preparing to square off against another in the hopes of earning the respect of the Sons of Mandalore as a whole. Not as the same spacer trash that fought against their fallen kin in the years prior, but as something greater, perhaps, yet still the same.

He entered the arena after his opponent had made his entrance first; the man was massive in comparison to himself, and perhaps the sight of such a monster would have been enough for most men to fall back from the idea of a head-on scrap with such a unit of a Mandalorian. But for Luc, his opponent presented him with an opportunity, and one that could potentially change him for the better, win or lose.

Watching the man enter the arena and make a move towards the center, Luc stood on the outskirts, only to make his move forwards once his opponent had caught the Beskad thrown towards him from the stands. Another blade entered the arena shortly after he crossed the threshold of the arena, the beskad's tip piercing the sand several feet in front of him. Luc removed the blade without missing a beat, continuing his march forwards with that usual mixture of focus and calm that he maintained in the wake of a heated battle. The monster before him presented what was possibly his toughest challenge by far, if only due to the limitations that both men would have in terms of fighting their opponent.

Dressed in nothing more but his underwear, Luc would not have his armor, his weapons, or even the force to accentuate the skill and cunning that carried him through most situations. This was a straight-up fight, a ceremonial battle between two men who desired nothing more than to prove themselves with their own strength, nothing more, nothing less. For someone who used every trick at his disposal to win, it would prove his greatest test to face an opponent who appeared immensely dominant at face-value alone. Yet in spite of the apparent advantages, Luc did not hesitate in his gait towards the man, nor did his visage falter as his eyes met Isaiah's, their forms closing upon eachother with each step that brought him deeper into the arena.

Eventually his momentum would come to a stop, several feet of distance being left between them. Wielding the beskad with an apparent lax mentality, he let the weapon hang at his side, assuming no particular fighting stance as he faced off against his comrade-in-arms. Of course, that lax stance he assumed was in truth a stance in itself, one that meant to instill confidence in his opponent enough to coerce them into making the first move without hesitation. Even without his usual tools, Luc was still a cunning one, and luckily he still had his most useful tool to use. That being his intuition, and observant mind.

"Look's like the ball's in your court, chief."

 

[Warchief Waddles]

G I Z M O

Isaiah’s opponent was someone who matched him in height, yet lacked in size. It was brave of the man to enter the arena without armor or clothing, not many outsiders possessed such gall. In that the man had already earned Isaiah’s respect. He’d heard of Lucian Dooku, in fact when Isaiah had joined the Sons of Mandalore there was a buzz surrounding the man. He’d even been one of the few to join the fray on Weyland.

What would someone like him gain from gaining approval from the Mandalorians? To lay his life on the line for acceptance from a group of homeless warriors. Perhaps there was a bit of Mandalorian in the man and he just didn’t know it yet. Mandalorians weren’t a species, they were a creed. It didn’t matter your species, your origins, or your wealth, anyone could become a Mandalorian. So long as they proved themselves. This was the first step for both Isaiah and Luc.

Looking to the smaller warrior, Isaiah’s head cocked slightly at the relaxed stance that he approached with. In fact there seemed to be a lack of awareness from Lucian. Either the man was a fool, incredibly confident, or far more cunning than Isaiah had given him credit for. It didn’t matter which one of the answers it was at the end of the day. To make it this far the man was a cut above the average rabble that entered the Adumar arena, it took a special breed for Mandalorian’s to accept you.

"Look's like the ball's in your court, chief."

Raising a brow, the side of Isaiah’s mouth curved slightly. “With pleasure.” To fight as a Mandalorian meant more than pride and honor. In a galaxy filled with saber jockeys it was a Mandalorian’s job to be the smarter one. To use both their weapons, their armor and their environment to their advantage.

Right foot moving forward as though to take a step to close the distance, Isaiah’s arms crossed over one another in an x. Instead of only taking the step forward, the Mandalorian’s foot kicked up a cloud of sand in between Isaiah and Luc to blind the other.

A distraction, as Isaiah’s arms uncrossed. Through the veil of sand, the blade of his beskad cleaved through it in a horizontal slash from left to right across where Lucian’s stomach would be.

Lucien Dooku

 

[Lucien Dooku]

I N V I N C I B L E
Trajan Fett Warchief Waddles Careena Fett Tace Kurze

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"With Pleasure." The Mandalorian responded, then proceeding to waste no time in beginning their fight in a manner that could've definitely been pulled out of Luc's playbook, had the ball not been tossed in Isaiah's court first. Sand splashed into the space separating himself from the hulking man to his opposite, and from the cloud would emerge his opponent's beskad without fail. The slash had the force behind it to gut him like a fish, and it would've done just that had the smaller of the two combatants was not considering throwing up a distraction of his own at some point during the inception of their battle.

With that tidbit of knowledge in mind, his reaction to Isaiah's opening move was quick and impulsive, even without the active use of battle precognition to guide his actions forwards. Luc slid backwards on his heels as the first grains of sand splashed into his face, his arms raising slightly from their loosened positon in order to maintain his balance in the wake of the quick movements that were needed. With the blade cleaving its way past the previous location of his abdomen, Luc dug into the sand in order to bring himself to as quick of a stop as possible.

He transitioned from the defensive as soon as Isaiah's blade reached the apex of its momentum, bounding towards his right with his body centered as low as possible and the edge of his blade skirting against the ground as he moved. Luc reacted upon sheer instinct, his eyes remaining trained upon his opponent despite the reverberating sting that echoed into his nerves from his abdomen. Isaiah would be privy to the sight of his handiwork upon Luc's abdomen; a glancing cut from his slash had not missed entirely, but instead had missed its mark only slightly going off the trickles of red that seeped from the cut in moderation.

To Luc it was out of sight and out mind; his training over the years had come with their fair share of wounds, and it was instinct by then to ignore the pain that came with engaging in combat with somebody talented enough to barely miss their mark. Regardless, he knew the only way to victory was to press forwards as much as possible. Reacting to his opponent's actions would put him at a disadvantage in the end, after all.

Curving the blade's edge onto the dirt, his opposite hand reaching for the beskad's grip in order to focus his power into his upcoming attack. Exploding out of his low stance, Luc cleaved upwards with his beskad, aiming the blade diagonally across Isaiah's side whilst a handful of sand was lifted off the ground with the blade and aimed directly at the massive warrior's face. "Right back 'atcha!"

 

[Warchief Waddles]

G I Z M O

First blood had been drawn falling to the sand to baptize it. The thrill of combat was unlike any other. You could feel your heart slamming into your chest, time felt as though it slowed around you, and you felt an excitement that filled your very being. All of these sensations and more swelled within Isaiah for the first time in close to a decade. The familiar weight of a beskad in his hand. The detachment from using the force. This was a battle of sheer skill, man vs man.

Battling with a beskad was different from a lightsaber or regular vibrosword. Naturally, the beskad bore a shorter blade which ended up negating the benefits of Isaiah’s saber training as a youth. Many of the options that would’ve been open to Isaiah in this situation were robbed. Yet despite the initial disadvantages, there were some that came with the utilization of the smaller weapon.

So as Lucian went out and to Isaiah’s left the warrior was already moving. Right foot coming forward and stepping out to the right, left pulling back, Isaiah’s body turned to face the oncoming attack. The beskad coming down from above to meet Lucian’s halting the attack's progress. The blades reverberated on impact, the sound of metal on metal filled the areana, and an almost numbing sensation went from Isaiah’s palm up through the rest of his hand.

Sadly the sand could not be avoided as it came up flying into Isaiah’s face. Digging into his eyes the sand stung. The very same tactic he’d sought to use at the beginning of the fight turned against him. The grit brought with it an excruciating pain, Isaiah’s eyes watering near-instantly and his vision blurring. This did not halt the juggernaut, as his blade shifted, shunting Lucian’s sword off and to the left while the tip of Isaiah’s blade turned towards the knight's chest and drove forward in a stab.

Lucien Dooku