Numbers would be useful. For the pirates, it was easy; there were obviously three adversaries for them to face; but "pirates" was a vague number. For a ship to operate fluidly, without the constant threat of a mutiny, Kiskla assumed the crew to be of about twenty-five maximum on one vessel at a time. Meanwhile, her Padawan had dismembered and disembodied a handful. Those with grenades then, she estimated to be around 19. There could perhaps come more form air lock seals and whatnot.
As soon as she'd rendered their rifles useless, the tyrants were once again armed. Her danger alerts flared and Kiskla's frame darted forward, hoping to catch their attention away from the dark haired woman that had no weapons of her own. The first grenade exploded, followed by another. Kiskla wove between the pirates with enhanced speed, the icy explosions absorbing them rather than herself. Some just covered the ground in sprawls of chill. Her lightsabers had snapped to action now and were intercepting the weapons before they could detonate; followed by force pushes that moved them from her immediate harm. Except one, which had rolled quite near her body and had gone unnoticed until she turned sharply and caught a moment to look down amidst the flurry of the random attack.
"Shavit." The blonde murmured, and dove outward. Alas, the explosion nipped her and bit into the heel of her boot; the icy grasp quickly wrapping around her ankle. Her teeth clamped together at the sudden tinge of pain and she twisted while on the ground, immediately going to apply art of the small to dissect the molecules before they induced immobilizing pain. She had only just reached their minuscule level when the apparent leader selected Kiskla as her target and opened fire. Deadly fire.
Instinctively, her trained weapons rose to her defence and plasma met plasma; the smell of ozone thick near the young Jedi. Through slight movements of Soresu, she deflected the bolts with her two blades using twisting and crossing patterns that angled the bolts not only from her, but toward the line of opponents. Some of the WESTAR-model's fire deflected and nicked scum in their knees or shoulders; not death incurring wounds but enough to pain them and render them useless for a few moments of recovery.
With her teeth grit, she rose to stand, stomping down the pain that gripped her left heel and ankle. Blood from the crash still caked her forehead, mixed with ash from the fire and now dirt from her impact with Onderon's ground. And this was the reason she wore black.
"Where's your gain from all this?" Kiskla asked above the hum of her blades, boldly stepping forward, lifting her blade to deflect random oncoming shots from the lady's acolytes. From her count, most WESTAR models (her fathers favourite when she was younger) had 20 shots. The pirate mistress would run out of this toy soon, and her backup was dwindling. Some were smoking corpses, some were icy stand stills, some were on their knees in pain. Not a scene Kiskla favoured. It had escalated quickly.
"Stop before you lose more of your men." From twenty-five, about fourteen remained somewhat in tact. They could stand trials for their crimes.
@[member="Tamara"] | @[member="Antares Windu"] | @[member="Trista Nemorra"]
