The Beginning of a Warlord

[Sirak Kolar]

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Through the porthole of his star fighter, Ebon's eyes wandered across the surface of the horrid planet of Nar Shaddaa with a lazy gaze, already knowing too well what lay on the surface of that accursed planet. Crime, pollution, the Hutt Cartels, and every sort of scum imaginable. A literal witness to the sins of this far gone crime center, Ebon knew there was no true hope of saving the planet without full and absolute cleansing. Blood, afterall, was the only true way to destroy the accursed sins of an empire built on it's cancer.

In the days of squatting here, Ebon did just that, spending years exacting revenge for his carbon freezing, and in that is where he failed his Jedi Training. Patience, control, all seemed to trivial, and holding back only allowed the cancerous people of the galaxy to continue their disgusting attempts at life. Spreading their lifestyles only made Ebon nauseous, but in time he knew he could satisfy Balagoth with the blood he will spill in the name of the Primeval. In doing so, he would rectify his own sins, and create a more true and vivid galaxy ruled by the Host Lord and free of the sin he so desperately resented.

This being his goal, Ebon knew how to begin. What Ebon required more than anything, was support, and the support he needed first was combative, but this would not be his only target. Through the years of living in the Nar Shaddaa underworld, and occasionally the overworld, he knew of a few men he could look to for support in these days. Although wild, he had heard the stories of the failing Sith that wandered aimlessly around the polluted and smog filled streets, and the off hand rumors of smugglers running illegal operations with the black market. He needed these men.

'The White Devil of Nar Shaddaa'

What a curious name. In a short time, Ebon would meet him face to face as the first of his targets, and two options would occur. Either the Sith will see reason, and join the grandeur quest he intended to partake in, or he'll die. There was no in between, and any weakness or lack of absolution would only end with Ebon's failure and divine indictment to being unable to carry the great weight Balagoth has put on him.

Ebon grunted in the silence of his capsule, and just as quietly the soft purring of the twin ion engines began to push him forward to the under belly of the gluttonous beast before him. The Zabrak closed his eyes once more, ascending into a state of battle meditation to prepare himself for whatever he was to find. A gentle grumble in his stomach signified a looming hunger, but the thought of food was the last thing the warrior could think of at a time like this. His ship began to accelerate into the atmosphere, and it's violent shaking notified Ebon of what was to come. His focus on his meditation only increased, the air around him coming to a stasis of frozen air, the only movement in the exhale he offered in exchange.

Soon.

│ [member="Logan of Little Coruscant"] │ [member="Probos Gubb] [COLOR=#800000]│[/COLOR] [member="Qrgyl Ud"] │

 

[Evor]

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Logan slowly trudged through the dirty streets of Nar Shadaa’s bustling underwold. He usually kept his head held high, for all to see his scarred and usually bruised face. It was a sign of accomplishment in the twisted world he lived in. It proved his strength, both physically and mentally. Abused and beaten by his now Former Master, he wore his pain like a badge. A badge that shone brighter than any star in the galaxy. However today was not a usual day. His master had broken him. He had pushed him farther than anyone ever dared ask. His muscles had a new ache to them, an ache unknown to him prior to this. An ache that shook you to the core and made you unable to persevere anymore. It was the kind of ache and pain that would kill a normal man who had not been through so much already. To give up and fall victim to the endless black dream of death now would be pointless, so he had to do what he never thought he could do. Run.

It was with a defeated look in his eyes that he slowly pushed open the light wooden door to a run down tavern. It smelled of deceit and desperation, the two things that Logan usually revelled in exploiting in people. He shuffled over to the poor excuse of a bar and nonchalantly flagged down the man behind the counter. He mumbled a few words and a couple seconds later a tall glass of cheap whiskey was in his hands for free. His legs carried him over the a table in the corner, his mouth barking a few harsh words at the occupant who quickly got up and sat on the other side of the dark, musty room.It was that kind of power that he missed. Where a short string of words could make grown men piss themselves and run in fear. The respect that was required by people in order to keep their lives was greatly missed by Logan.

He pushed the chair against the back wall with his right foot, silently sitting as he placed the mug on the table. He looked down into the cup and was entranced by the murky brown liquid that swirled around the bottom.

| [member="Ebon"] |​

 

[Sirak Kolar]

Dust kicked and fought in a violent turbulence created by the heavy down force of the Talon Class Star-Interceptor, it's wings lifting to their landed position, upright and triangular with the rest of the ship. As the engines slowly turned off, Ebon's eyes opened in a quick rush, a sudden and rash inhale through the nostrils flared them wide and pronounced. It was time. The ship's porthole opened, slow and controlled, and just as the door to the world opened, as did Ebon rise, slow and controlled. His feet carried him outside the ship, step by step until he took in the sharp air of the outside world. This... cancerous, horrible world.

Growling, Ebon began to walk towards the maze of alleyways and crowded streets to find the location he meant. Deep down he withheld the energy of the force he held, hoping to mask his presence from the Sith until they were eye to eye. He would revel in the moment, enjoying the fear and sweat falling from those around the two, and Ebon would offer a crooked grin just as he held now. His yellow, bearing fangs offering a small insight to the crude lifestyle he held.

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As the Cantina came into sight, Ebon focused on the job at hand. He had a goal, and to collect this sith as his eventual ally was just that. The unbridled turmoil that was his force lost it's constraints, becoming evident to any sensitive user around. A mild maelstrom of energy released in grave pulses, pushing the crowd around him away if so gently. Small cries began to form outside, and just as they began, the Zabrak once known as Sirak ignited one side of his lightsaber. The distance between the door and him was minimal now, and a kick rang out against the relatively fragile door, knocking it off it's rails and ending on the floor.

Men inside stared at the Sith before them, half of his elongated lightsaber hilt enlightened by a radiant maroon ambiance. The light cascaded across his entire form, the darkness of the Cantina providing a stark contrast to the now intimidating and violent presence before them. The once yellow, serrated teeth now bore themselves crimson, and the crisp golden eyes of Ebon glared to the spot he knew [member="Evor"] to be. His voice rang out in a calm, collected, and careful tone, betrayed only by it's frightening nature.

"Logan of Little Coruscant. Are you ready to pay for your sins?"

The very words he spoke seemed to lick at his lips with a lust for battle not seen. A distant voice screeched something about the Arch Angel of Nar Shaddaa, and the crowd began to panic, some staying in their seats frozen in fear, and others rushing away from the hulking menace to whatever solace they could find. No doubt in soon time, Hutt mercenary's and assassin's seeking the bounty on his head would indubitably come to visit the two, or whichever was left to clean up the mess.

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[Evor]

Logan didn't even look up as the unknown man began to speak. Something about paying for his sains. Which ones...? he thought to himself. He was not a holy man by any means, nor was he truly evil. It seemed highly unlikely that Reverence would send an assassin to kill him. That would hardly be in character for the man. Nor would the Jedi waste resources on a nobody like himself. No, this man was here for a far more personal reason. He faintly heard someone in the crowd shout something about the Arch Angel of Nar Shadaa. He looked down into his cup and took a small sip from it, letting the brown liquid burn its way down his throat. He coughed into the crook of his arm, the rough cloth cloaking most of the noise.

"I wasn't aware they were calling me The Arch Angel of Nar Shadaa. Rather honorable title, wouldn't you say?"

Before giving the man a chance to respond, he kicked the chair on the opposite end of the table toward him. The chair skid along the floor with a loud screech before tipping over about a foot in front of @Ebon. He gestured toward the chair and leaned back in his own, placing his hands on his hips, his left hand absentmindedly falling to the hilt of his own lightsaber and his right hand hanging limply from the thumb hooked into a belt buckle.

"Please... Sit.... And Tell me which sins I am going to be paying for."

 

[Sirak Kolar]

"Stand, beast.", he spat out, microscopic droplets of saliva flying from his lips.

"You stand accused of crimes against Sargon and his gods. Balagoth demands your head... or your loyalty.", he said, his tone taking a deep rumble as his eyes fell to small slits, the crimson masked gold irises offering the same cold feeling as the words he spoke.

The double edge blade he held remained lit, the soft humming of the energized weapon drowning out the soft cries of all those who remained in the Cantina. Their minor, frightened whimpering simply becoming apart of the background to the conflict that laid out before them. Quiet points of movement stirred in the other rooms, yet the once lively and happy bar they stood in became a room of absolute uncomfortable atmosphere, and tension so thick, a lightsaber could cut the air.

Ebon offered a final serrated smile, once more the basking maroon hue staining his otherwise yellow teeth with a blood red accent. He spoke once more, just as calm as he had before;

"What say you, Devil of Nar Shaddaa? Do you submit to this inquisition?"


[member="Evor"]

 

[Evor]

Evor leaned forward once again, staring intently at a chip in the cheap wooden table his mug resided on. His eyes narrowed slightly and he felt a darkness enter his mind. He let out a softy sigh and spoke in a quiet tone. "Your gods.... They sound like a bundle of fun and joy."

Slowly he rose from his chair, taking his cloak off and folding it into a meticulously neat bundle, placing it on the seat of his chair. He rolled his shoulders ever so slightly in small circles, loosening the muscles in his upper extremities. He unclipped the hilts of his dual-sabers from his belt, letting his arms fall loosely to his sides. His fingers and hands made no movement to ignite the blades, nor did he align himself in defensive manner.

He stared at [member="Ebon"] from behind the shadows of his mask, his ice blue eyes standing out from the darkness on his face.

"Come... Prove to me the loyalty of your gods... And perhaps I shall see them true." He spoke with a hint of an edge in his voice, a challenge to the unknown man.

 

[Sirak Kolar]

"Come... Prove to me the loyalty of your gods... And perhaps I shall see them true." He spoke with a hint of an edge in his voice, a challenge to the unknown man.

The thought teased at the edges of Ebon's mind. This was exactly what he was prepared for, and he reveled in the moment before combat. The stark contrast between the two, the variable tensions in the air, the very emotional foundation of combat and hatred that filled each of their minds. He christened this glorious occasional with a mental note and a sharp inhale, the single edge of his ignited blade wurring into action. This man's cocky behavior would be his downfall, and by the end of this fight he would have him accepting the god of Balagoth.

The erupting blade flung outwards towards [member="Evor"], marks of his mastery of Makashi coming forth as the balanced and brutal footwork painted a picture of the years of training so valiantly held. The dueling form was specifically meant for lightsaber on lightsaber combat, and with only one edge of his double bladed lightsaber ignited, he knew full and well he could handle to mock blades of the mercenary sith before him. Hit teeth found their way to his lip, opening a minor cut that filled parts of his mouth with the coppery and sour taste of blood.

 

[Evor]

The world around him grew dark as his mind shut it out all that did not matter. Everything in the room could be used to his advantage. They were no longer everyday items, but instruments of destruction in their own way. Fighting, or defending, while talking had become second nature to him. During his training under Reverence, often he had his flesh beaten while being taught a verbal lesson as well, forced to endure the pain and give his master an answer.

Mimicking the movements of the man who tormented him, he pivoted on his left foot, putting his body perpendicular to [member="Ebon"] and letting the blade swing by him. The whirring blade whistled by, cutting through the air where he had been but milliseconds ago. He could feel the heat from the blade as it passed by his face. Now he activated both sabers, their red and purple blades humming to life respectively. He placed them in front of his body, creating an "X" with its ends pointing toward the ground. He locked his feet in place, aligned in a manner familiar to the form of Djem So which was a familiar form to him. He bent his knees slightly, allowing his muscles to relax and prepare to defend against the flurry of blows he expected to come from the Sabrak.

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[Sirak Kolar]

Ebon grinned as the Sith side stepped his simple diagonal strike, jerking his blade in reverse as the other end of the blade unsuspecting energized to form yet another blade. The saber staff glowed with a wretched energy, either crystal bound with the energies of the dark side, the ferocity of his strike was only amplified by his power. While the other sith may have predicted a flurry of blows, Ebon responded with a dramatic and ferocious downward strike, the reverse end of blade quickly following into the train of strikes Logan no doubt expected.

Still Ebon held back, each strike testing him. A brisk step back allowed for some room to breathe for them both, and still Ebon increased his speed in his glancing blows, going for his feet and arms, conservative strikes, careful not to open himself up to anything to great and to keep his endurance up. In the midst of a final strike, one of his rippling legs shot out in a display of violent aggression, moving to buckle [member="Evor"]'s knee under both the force of the strike, and the weight of the Sith.

A faint grin formed on Ebon once more as he hoped to crack the Sith's defenses.

 

[Evor]

[member="Ebon"] was lucky, as dual-saber was one of his weaker points of combat. Reverence had only ever given him the once-over on basic defense and countering, as it was similar enough to Evor's own fighting style of dual blades but slightly more predictable as it was one entity instead of two. However, he kept to his current form, not letting his thoughts get the best of him yet. As badly as he wanted to launch an all out attack on the Zabrak, he kept his guard up, letting his arms move of their own free will to block the saber blades.

The kick at his knee he was not expecting. The monstrous foot crashed into his knee, causing the leg to buckle slightly. Instead of fighting the pain and struggling, he willingly gave in. He allowed to blow to send him to his knee. However he did not just sit there. Quickly throwing a lazy slash upwards toward the Zabraks torso, he used the downward momentum to roll off to the side slightly, just out of standard range of the saber. The blow itself did not hurt Evor, yet it appeared that he put weight on it more gingerly than before as he continued to slowly put space between him and Ebon.

When there was about 5 feet between the two, Evor began to spin his blades in small circles, letting them swing forward in his hands and letting the momentum bring them back around. Ebon and anyone else stupid enough to have hung around to this point, would feel a strong presence fill the room. A darkness would claw at their minds. Those of weak mental fortitude would easily succumb to dark, violent thoughts leaving them crippled on the floor. As the presence seemingly entered the room, Evor dashed forward, swinging his twin sabers in what seemed like a maniacal manner. Although to those well trained in the art of Vapaad, they would be able to see the precise, calculated movements that he excellently portrayed. However he did not swing at full force or speed, allowing the looping swings and blurs created by his movements draw the eye and distract Ebon. A mental game.

 

[Sirak Kolar]

What petty twirls the Sith offered, a light show for the unsure, and mind games for the uninitiated. His battle meditation before the battle proved fruitful, and the extreme mental fortitude he held allowed for a simple response, that being blocking it out. As the Sith jerked forward in his movements, lazily striking out against Ebon, he watched blades circulate, but kept an eye on his form in total.

Each side of the Ebon's crimson blades quickly moved to meet the corresponding blade that came at him, easily stopping each strike with the experience and fortitude he had. As he watched another of the strikes come for him, the violent Zabrak quickly used his skill of high level Makashi to redirect the blade swiftly, jerking the blade and arm towards the other across his body, and following the swift movement came once more a violent strike to his other knee instead of what could easily be mistaken for a strike to the now open flank of his upper extremities by the saber. Instead, the crimson blade lay extended, prepared for any comeback.

Once more the Zabrak smiled. His experience in lightsaber combat still held true to this day, and he refused to let [member="Evor"] make a mockery of him.

 

[Evor]

The large Zabrak seemed to have miscalculated how this engagement would end. Evor would only be leaving here dead, as victor or with a mutual respect that could grow from traumatizing another man and them traumatizing you back. He let the kick land, not moving out of the way. The pain fueled him and pushed him to strive for even greater things. The flesh and muscle in his leg jiggled with extreme force, but his leg did not buckle or sway as if braced with a steal beam. He spun on his heel and made no movement to press his attack more.

He stared deep into the red eyes of [member="Ebon"], trying to find a weakness in what seemed like a castle of a man. He opened his mouth to speak in a raspy, almost wisp like tone that seemed to be entirely supernatural. "Submit to your gods. Bow before me!.", was what the voice said as it echoed across the room. As the sentence finished, Evor threw a quick upward slash from his right sight toward Ebon's right. The stroke seemed to almost cut the words off, as if they had been a physical, palpable sense.The strike was quickly followed up by a downward slash from the other side. As the strike was midair, the voice rang once again although it did not come from Evor this time. They seemed to come from the heavens themselves. "I AM SARGAN!"

 

[Sirak Kolar]

Despite the kick landing, and the Sith taking it like it was nothing, Ebon was able to recover quickly enough to deflect the first upward strike. The words he spoke meant little to him, yet the mockery of 'gods' forced a horrid grimace on the Zabrakians face. Suddenly, his defense lay momentarily frozen as heard the name Sargon mentioned, and with it the lightsaber grazed his shoulder, only barely deflected by the double edge crimson sword protecting him.

The Zabrak grimaced once more, not in disgust, but temporary pain. His mind focused back to the blade and the downward strike, the downward shift of [member="Evor"]'s lightsaber by his own leaving him open to a direct assault. As swiftly as the Zabrak could, he sent two lightning fast strikes to both the back of the other sith's knee, and another to graze the tendons in his elbow, each strike following the previous back to back. They both were well placed, precise enough, to not kill nor maim, but to disable and ruin the limbs they touched without medical intervention, and soon he took a large step backwards, a faint growl forming on his lips.

"Speak not of my gods until you convert, swine."

 

[Evor]

Quickly he brought up one of his lightsabers, blocking the strike to the knee with ease, however he was not quick enough to bring it back around. He cackled as the opposite end of [member="Ebon"]'s blade deflected slightly off of the tip of his own, doing a little more than grazing his forearm. His vision went red for a moment, as pain echoed throughout his body and up his arm. He looked down at his arm, a grin crossing his face as the Zabrak stepped back.

"Does it bother you when I speak of your gods so?" He cackled once more to himself, before slipping back into the wispy voice that echoed across the room. "You have disappointed Balagoth."

He lashed out with one blade, offering little in means of effort or difficulty. He did not open himself up this time, not providing an opening for a kick of a serious counter attack this time. "Prove your worth to Sargon."

 

[Sirak Kolar]

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Ebon quieted himself now, knowing the techniques Evor intended to employ. If he could not best him in direct combat, he chose instead the path of Dun Moch. Graciously, Ebon offered a faint smile back, his serrated and yellowing teeth returning little more than a dank musk of his breathe around him. He bellowed a low and wild howl as he leaped over blade in a wide arcing hook, clearing the Evor easily. As he spun overhead, a swift and violent heel went to meet the back of [member="Evor"]'s head, and once he landed to twisting rear strikes to either side accompanied the initial strike, both going for either knee in powerful waves of complete ligament destruction.

If this man intended to use Dun Moch, then Ebon would prove the power of an righteous attack. The Way of the Hawk-Bat, the True Combat form he reveled in, the unending strike, and the wild and unpredictable moves were perfect for the situation. Faint areas of his swift strikes sparked against the metal of tables and chairs nearby, and as swiftly as any of this three original strikes came to be, once more Ebon jumped in a rapid spin, either edge of his crimson lightsaber striking in both his shoulder and waist, while once he found foundation and balance on the ground a swift kick to the gut came forth.

His strikes were violent, ferocious, and absolutely powerful. His form perfect, his very being intune with his blade like a machine in perfect harmony. Balagoth empowered him with the anger, the desire to kill and put this Sith down. He would cave and accept his place beneath Ebon long before Ebon would give.

 

[Evor]

If it was a battle of guts that the Zabrak wanted, then it was not the battle he would get. His eyes slowly follow as the Sith opposite him leaped into the air and went for another kick. It was easy for Evor to simply duck away from the attempted blow, spinning his own body to match the movements of [member="Ebon"] in the air. To continue to take a pounding from the mans feet seemed fruitless. It was clear that the man was strong, however strength without purpose; strength fueled purely by hated, would get you now where. It lacked a key ingredient; pain. It was with a fluid motion from each arm that Evor deflected the strikes while moving back slightly.

The red blades of Ebon flashed once more as he jumped, sparks flying as the wild, powerful strikes met the calm and collected defense from the pink and red blades of Evor midair. The kick however caught him off guard, catching him in the stomach, expelling the air from his lungs. He grimaced slightly, letting a cheeky grin spread across his face. It was hardly enough to stop him. He had endured fair worse from his own master to prove a much simpler points. To have ones gods forced onto him, the Zabrak would need to prove a far greater point.

He did not give himself time to let his lungs refill with air, slashing forward in circles towards the Zabrak. He abandoned any formal fighting style, choosing to adopt his own playbook, a relentless onslaught of calculated, heavy attacks that mixed together all the forms. He aimed a kick at the Zabraks ankles, using the force to propel his foot toward him. He attacked from multiple directions at once, using the versatility of his dual sabers to make quick, sharp attacks that came from every possible direction. As he did so, he reached out through the ethereal void toward Ebon, pressing his own mind onto his. He mentally clawed at him, not seeking to destroy, but to cripple and distract. He pressed his attack forward, using his feet to hook onto chairs and tables mid step, flinging them at Ebon's legs and torso.

 

[Sirak Kolar]

Once more the mental fortitude of Ebon turned too much for [member="Evor"], but his defenses ran thin as time went on. No matter the versatility of his dual sabers, no matter how quick he thought him to be, Ebon's rampant defense was upheld with relative ease. Almost as easily, the Zabrakian spun from a parry to a waist line strike, following quickly by a number of quick succession flurry strikes. No, his attacks were not 'wild' and 'unkempt', they were precise, each with horrid intention, but to the untrained they seemed unorthodox and unusable.

As the fight dragged on, the Cantina grew empty, various people leaving through any exit available to them. By the time Ebon and Evor came to a momentary stalemate, only they seemed left to remain. As they waited, Ebon breathing in heavily, calming his blade to an opening form once more. Across from their fighting appeared a small squad of rodians, each armed to the teeth with various mandalorian blasters. Their alien language called out, and one sprinted out of sight before returning almost as quick with nearly triple their numbers.

Ebon glared at Evor, then to the Rodians. Their battle had been cut short by random mercenaries of the Hutt Cartels, and the ex-Jedi uttered faint growl in resistance. As they opened fire, his blade worked into action, calling out to Evor in a half yell;

"Follow me if you want to live."

Suddenly he charged towards the window near his side, shattering it as he came to land in the alley on the outside, grunting once more as his half roll came to a full stand. He began to sprint down the long corridor, regardless if Evor intended to follow or not. Behind them, the wall of blaster fire began to close in, bouncing off the durasteel exterior of buildings and various trash reciprocals before zipping through the air.

Ebon quickly turned another corner, knowing his way to the docking stations on the southern end of the sector. When he was there, he intended to steal a ship, and kidnap their crew if he needed.

Balagoth bless him. If these Mercenaries caught up, it would be the end of them both, and Ebon refused to die in the hell pit of Nar Shaddaa.

 

[Evor]

His chest heaved as he and [member="Ebon"] stood there and stared at each other, both deciding what was more important; Glory or Their lives. His twin sabers spun in small circles, deflecting some blaster bolts into the walls and others being sent right back into the crowd of amassing mercenaries. One fell over, clutching his chest as the life faded from his body. However as soon as he fell, one more stepped up to take his place. All Evor could do was offer a grunt to Ebon's words, silently jumping through the remnants of the window after the large Zabrak. Despite the Zabraks size and speed, these kinds of situations were all too familiar to Logan. This was not the first time that he had been on the run through these empty, bile-ridden streets.


Quickly he recognized the direction he was being lead toward. He called out loudly to the Zabrak, "I have a ship at the docks. Freighter." It wasn't a very fast ship, nor was it designed for fast get-aways but it was still a ship. And a ship was more than either of them had at the given moment. He pushed forward, keeping pace with Ebon as his feet slammed heavily against the ground in a constant pace. He kept his lightsabers held behind him, so that if by some foul accident he tripped they would not impale him or his new fugitive friend.

 

[Sirak Kolar]

"Too slow.", he called behind him. As he ran, his eyes closed and he searched outwards using the Force. The nearest ship held two men, one of them sensitive to the force themselves, but weak in it...

Ebon's eyes shot open once more and he cried out to [member="Evor"] behind him.

"Follow, I have a ship. She's closer.", he called back once more, his footfalls splashing in the murky puddles of unknown liquid. His robes lay soaked and wet, the various blaster shots and cries of a lynch mob screaming behind them both. His breathe was heavy, but still he was no where near the end of his abilities, and he could last for hours more.

As they reached another corner, they came into the urban clearing that held the landing pad that held The Vapor Wave. He slid to a halt and cried out to the two who sat next to it;

"Start your ship! Now.", the ending more of a growl and command than a statement.