Boost THE FIRST GALACTIC KAGGATH - RUMBLE ON RUUSAN

[Darth Adekos]

RUUSAN​

"Proper enunciation is hardly a perquisite for victory," Darth Adekos clucked his tongue. Although obviously some speech therapy wouldn't hurt the younger Karis either. "Nevertheless, I accept your wager."

If he won, it would bring him no small amount of delight. If he lost, it would only ever be the second-worse thing to happen to him on Ruusan. These were the sorts of calculations that underpinned everything Adekos did.

Ashin Cardé Varanin Mauve du Vain
​

 

[Arris Windrun]

"Wouldn't steer you far wrong to ask for Master [IMG alt="Vodet"]https://www.starwarsrp.net/data/avatars/s/25/25723.jpg?1738808130[/IMG] Vodet , he's probably the most down-to-earth, sensible Jedi Master I've met, and I've known some."

Arris was anything but sensible or down-to-earth, and her kneejerk thought was to say as much. However, she wondered if such a counterweight could be good for her to have in a teacher. It was a rare bit of wisdom she conjured up, and so she committed the name to memory as it were.

She settled in as Tilon elaborated on the history of the Jedi and Sith. It was a lot more complicated than she imagined, a bit confusing, but it had the singular effect of cracking through her idea that 'Jedi and Sith are all the same.' When he proceeded to explain the brief history of Mecu-Deru, she found herself increasingly annoyed.

"That's stupid!" She objected. "Why does it matter who came up with what anyway? I'm sorry, that's just fucked! Would a Jedi see someone kill a man with a shovel and decide shovels are too dangerous?"

Her frustration was short-lived. Though she didn't know it by nature, Arris felt a disturbance in the Force.

Well, well, young Windrun," he mused to himself, in a tone that suggested he might have steepled his fingers if he wasn't busy day drinking. "I'll be watching your career with great interest."

She instinctively looked over her shoulder at the lockers.

Was someone there?

 

[Tilon Quill]

"That's stupid!" She objected. "Why does it matter who came up with what anyway? I'm sorry, that's just fucked! Would a Jedi see someone kill a man with a shovel and decide shovels are too dangerous?"

"Yes, it's stupid, and yes, some would. There are whole planets ruled by Jedi. Jedi almost murdered me when I was a child. I don't agree with most Jedi on many things at all. But I do recommend them as the better way of the two.

"However. There's a hundred complete Force traditions out there that'll teach you just as well. The resistance fighters of the Temple of the Beatific Razor have skill in enhancing how their bodies work with cybernetic implants. I met an Iskalloni cyborg group with a unique relationship to the Force, and they were great. Many out there. I've even known a couple of Sith who were genuinely worth knowing."

 

[Arris Windrun]

"Resistance fighters? What resistance?"

For someone like Arris, there wasn't much of a galaxy outside of her homeworld and the Slice.

"Well... Thanks, Tilon. It looks like I have a lot of directions to consider. Pretty bummed out about losing, but what can I do?"

She stood up and considered how awkward it would be for her to hitch a ride to Narsh in this condition. Still, she managed to earn plenty from sponsors and endorsements. Plus a little on the side from her bets. It would--hopefully--be enough to get her all fixed up and then some.

Back to the gutter.

Tilon Quill

 

[Tilon Quill]

"Resistance fighters? What resistance?"

For someone like Arris, there wasn't much of a galaxy outside of her homeworld and the Slice.

"Well... Thanks, Tilon. It looks like I have a lot of directions to consider. Pretty bummed out about losing, but what can I do?"

"Oh, I think they've resisted just about everyone. Their homeworld's got a lot of resource wealth, so they got started resisting the Old Republic, the Separatists, the Galactic Empire, and these days they resist the empire of the Sith, which hasn't gone so well for them. There's always something for them to be resisting. They're brutal people, the Beatific Razor, tougher than anyone. I hear they're worth knowing.

"And yes, you definitely have a lot of directions to consider. You can take a lot of pride in how far you got." Tilon wrapped up the basic nonsense he was doing. "I hope you get patched up and upgraded well. I hear there's a new cybernetics shop on Nar Shaddaa that does good work; this Weequay I know was just telling me about it. Lot of possibilities out there."

 

[Mauve du Vain]

​

The grand finale began in earnest between Kyric and Mercy. Mauve clutched the edge of the table as the arena shook and rumbled, her eyes widening as the field below transformed into one of sand and blades and hatred.

Oh, sure, she had asked the Bando Gora to assist, politely, but she had had no idea that the results would be so...

Terrifying?

"Ohhh dear."

Mauve swallowed and glanced at the panelists of unflappable Sith Lords and, of course, the Mandalore.

Darth Adekos Ashin Cardé Varanin Aether Verd Darth Adekos

 

[Ashin Cardé Varanin]

At the commentator table, Ashin gazed out over the Field of Blades.

"I sense something. A presence I've not felt since..."

She didn't walk off midsentence. Who would do that? But she did investigate in her mind's eye and felt someone dead, oh, sixty years now?

Thinking farther back, many deaths had eroded her memory, but some times were still bright and hard. Seeking shelter at a waterfall enclave on Oasis, bringing doom down on the family there, people she'd known well. They'd lost children then to Sith butchery, the first and not the last. In the end, over the span of two decades, the man out there had lost every child and his wife as well. He'd always been a mongrel, a tracker and scout with heritage and skills from Vahla, Dathomir, and many more. But at that final loss he'd let himself become a new combination, a new syncretism, and when he died years later he'd carried implacable cold and his family's faded spirits to a stone house on the Field of Blades, there to slaughter Sith ghosts for pleasant eternities.

Ember Rekali. The Witchmaster. Warlock of Yavin.

 

[Quinn Varanin]

"You better not lose Knave…"

Quinn mumbled to herself; she hadn't sponsored Mercy, mostly because she enjoyed toeing the line of whether she was fond of the woman or not. But she had made it this far, a testament to her stubbornness.

Still, Quinn bit the end of her thumb as the arena unveiled. Sighing softly, she closed her eyes and prayed to whatever gods and force beings that were out there that Mercy won.

Mercy

 

[Anja]

They tested their will against the reality of this world, drawing upon the Font of Ruusan's nexus until they brimmed with energy, then with a sound as of the Universe itself sighing, they used that power to tear open the fabric of reality.

The dimension of the here and now tore asunder, its frayed edges rapidly receding, a great rending that blew apart the pre-fabricated buildings. Where buildings once stood, there was now only a field of sand the width of the arena, a hundred instruments of war buried point first and scattered throughout.

An oppressive heat baked the ground, though it held no source - a thing fashioned from the hatred of those who dwelled in this plane of the Netherworld brought into the waking world.

From the reaches of death - among the dead of Sith and Jedi, trapped in eternal battle - awoke something else.

Between Chaos and the rest, the thoughts, spirit, and undying will of a woman wandered the unending path. Somewhere along the way, she had resigned herself to The Walk, the final rite of the Faithful.

So when a great rift blistered in the 'skies' above, she had to relearn how to stop, remember her feet, and realize her gaze. It wasn't the rift that drew her, but what lay beyond.

All that to say, this cyber-tattoo was a bastardized Primeval strength enhancement that invoked the power of distant godlike things.

Mercy's right arm could now be described as eldritch.

Familiar power, albeit crude and blasphemous.

"So the old ways still live?"

The woman walked towards the rift, and the world reoriented so it was in front of her rather than above. Such things as up and down were irrelevant to one who has forgotten dimensionality.

Mercy

 

[Talin Treicolt]

Tuning in from…
The Suicide Slums, Denon
End Of The Road​

“Hey,” Talin tapped her empty glass obnoxiously on polished wood. “Can I get another?”

“No.” The bartender yelled over the chatter.

“Why not?!”

“Because that was your fourth!”

“Fifth!” Kyla corrected promptly.

“Yeah, but it’s a party!”

“Kyr woulda cut you off, too.”

That shut Talin up quick. It was his big day, after all, and her cousin’s answer woulda remained a firm no. Chewin’ on a drink stirrer, the blonde leaned over stool to peer around some stranger at the holo stream. The End Of The Road was packed to the brim. Every person in the Suicide Slums had to’ve been there. Any other time, and the zeltron behind the bar mighta thrown the criminals and scumbags out. Not today. One of their own was on that feed, battlin’ to show ‘em Denon produced the best of the best. The Kaggath had been a ritual that sanctified the tiny cantina as neutral ground. If Kyric didn’t manage to snag the win, Talin wholly expected riots in the streets. He would, though. He always managed. When they were kids, she had triple dogged dared him to jump over Vyrin’s starfighter comin’ in for a landin’. He made it - barely - and ever since then, she had followed Kyric around in an attempt to mimic his essence. Her big cousin was a god in her eyes, a hero’s son, and the jogan fruit didn’t roll far from the vine. ‘Bout time the resta the galaxy learned, too.

An uproar went up ‘round the crowd as Kyric began to saw through his own limb. A bottle fell right outta Ripley’s hand to shatter across the floor behind the counter. Talin could make no move to help. Her gaze was firmly locked, eyes widened in horror. A flicker of pain passed through where her own arm oughta have been. He was a maniac, plain and simple, for doin’ that to himself… then she saw the play, and he stood up again. It woulda been - no, was an impossible feat for her. Talin’s jaw couldn’t have dropped any further, then he confirmed the girlfriend. There sure was an interrogation waitin’ for him when he came out the other side ‘o this.

The crowds reaction formed around every second. First, soft outrage, as Resolute disappeared into the arm from hell. The forgotten inhabitants of the slum knew that storied blade - it had defended them when no one else cared to. Then, cheers and howls erupted as the Sword Saint rose again, summoning a weapon from the abyss and and a storm of fury with it. The bar grew hushed as they watched the Sith Lord push through it. Clutchin’ her dog tags, Talin nearly about fell off her stool.

“Come on Kyr,” she muttered. “You got this.”

————————————————————————
HYPE SQUAD: Kyric | HEY LADY: Mercy | ‘MEMBER THAT TIME?: Vyrin Treicolt ​

 

[Ryv]

Fragments of the ongoing struggle echoed across the veil with heightened intensity. The Field of Blades distorted reality, drawing the spirits of long dead warriors from the great beyond to manifest before the eyes of the spectator filled arena. Dark sorceries bent the very essence of the Force to the desires of broken sycophants.

It was an affront to the very nature of the Force—a life giving power which connected all things.

The ripples of this bastardization awakened Ryv from his eternal slumber not long after the battle began. He felt his conscious stir for the first time in eight years, separated from the Greater Will by the very bond which drove him to sacrifice his life on Tython. How he knew the years passage was beyond the former Jedi Master. The Force worked in ways that transcended his limited understanding when disconnected from the whole, but it mattered little. His son was out there, a stalwart reflection of the Sword.

A combination of pride and fear swelled within the spirit's ethereal chest as he appeared within the stands. He felt the parallels within this moment to that of his death. Reality shattered in some twisted display of power. An unconquerable enemy granted ancient, primeval powers. And worst of all, his son, missing an arm, staring down an impossible task.

Did Ryv lay this path for the boy? Was it truly impossible for Kyric to find greater meaning in life than dancing at the edge of death with blade in hand?

The Sword of the Jedi released a slow, sullen breath. Never before had he interposed his will onto his son directly. He saw Kyric for what he was—a prodigy bathed in the love and adoration of the family the late Jedi Master left behind.

Could he stand idle now? And even if he could, was that the correct choice?

In some parody of life, Ryv lowered himself down into a seat overlooking the battlefield. He recognized some of the spirits at his son's back, allies who faced the Sith threat alongside Ryv in life. Asmundr Varobalder, Lannik Dawnstar, Rurik Fel, but there were others, too. Jedi who lost their lives on Ruusan so long ago under the banner of the Army of Light.

Connected through the eons, the Jedi Order did not abandon their own.

Ryv turned his attention to the young woman beside him. His hardened stare pierced the flimsy mask she wore, seeing the scared little girl trapped beneath the patterns of old scars and corrupted markings.

"He will not win this fight without your faith," Ryv intoned, his voice gentle, a sharp juxtaposition to the harshness in his eyes. "You must cast away your fears before it is too late, Capris, or you will lose him, too."

---

Tags: Capris Halcyon
Honorable Mentions: Asmundr Varobalder | Rurik Fel

 

[Tilon Quill]

Tilon left the arena during the final round before he'd fully processed why. Discomfort with the Bando Gora ritual, certainly, but more a sense that if he stayed to watch the end he was consenting — more than he had already — to the death toll of all this entertainment. And beyond that, Lurkvap was done his shift and Tilon was still spattered with hive mind and the noise and uncleanness and sheer number of people were growing prohibitive together.

Mercy could hold her own without this one supporter in the stands, and anyways she was up against a Jedi of some kind and all the deferred cognitive dissonance was coming home to roost. So Tilon bid farewell to the grand galactic Kaggath, this monstrous unforgettable day, and headed off to fly home. Or Calimancha. Calimancha was great this time of year.

 

[Quinn Varanin]

//: Mercy //: Ashin Cardé Varanin //:

The battle was heating up. Quinn watched closely, almost feeling every strike against the Knave. She wanted to stand, to pace around, and to keep herself collected, but she feared that if she left, the fight would finish.

Quinn couldn't peel her eyes from the red-headed titan. Whatever her mother had done with the girl she remembered from childhood, it was worth it. Jealousy bled from the Princess as she wondered how different she would have been if she had stayed.

Pushing those thoughts aside, Quinn focused on Mercy. Whatever she was trying to do with her cursed arm and the boy's sword proved to summon something unnatural to the battlefield.

She stood, already the flicker of the Force drawing towards her. If there was an interference, she wasn't going to allow the Knave to deal with it alone. Despite knowing that Mercy could probably handle the entire GADF on her own if necessary. Quinn paused, drawing the Force back, seeing the phantom fade and the fight continue.

What was that? Was that because of her arm? Quinn thought quietly. Her eyes, for one brief moment, looked in the direction of her mother's commentating booth.

The sound of the crowd drew her back as she joined them, cheering as the next attack from Mercy escalated the fight further. Quinn screamed the woman's name, knowing that Mercy wouldn't be able to pick her voice out in the crowd anyway.

It was safe from the Knave's wanton comments.

Through the Force, through their history and connection, maybe Mercy could feel the Echani in the crowd, thrilled by the spectacle and powerhouse she had become.

 

[Merion Oreno]

Up on the cliffs, the death cultists held out one last forlorn hope that someone would actually die. Disappointment weighed heavily on the party. Merion, disgruntled and unaware of all familial connections, sat on the edge and kicked his feet over, bouncing his heels on the cliffs in a flutter of Central Isopter robes.

All this kaggath and not a single death. The Sith ways really were as overrated as he'd always believed.

Back behind him: "Did that Jedi just saw his own arm off?"

Collective attention laser-focused on the nearest monitor as the Cult of the Central Isopter tried to assess the veracity of this promising hearsay. There was indeed a rapidly varying number of limbs. Merion got up off the cliff edge and watched in hope.

 

[Ashin Cardé Varanin]

The sense of Ember Rekali's presence faded. Ashin allowed herself to relax. She'd eclipsed Rekali most of a century ago, of course, but at some level he'd always be the host whose hospitality she'd carelessly betrayed, leading to the death of his son.

And at another level he'd always be the Master who'd first assigned a young, despairing, Sith-poisoned Jedi to infiltrate and undermine the Sith. Long, long, long ago. Had that come before or after she got his youngest son killed? This many rebirths later, she couldn't remember at all.

She tore her attention from the Field of Blades in the abstract and focused on specifics.

"Was your champion....always missing an arm?" she asked Darth Adekos

 

[Kito]

Quietly from the shadows, a new face to the galaxy watched. The Sith was a monster and she wanted to cut off the head of the demon. Still she couldn't help but watch the swordsman. Kito watched the fluidity of his grace, the weapon acting as a mere extension of his body.

A beautiful song of warrior and blade.

Wow, he's so cool.

Kyric

 

[Darth Adekos]

RUUSAN​

Darth Adekos was watching the match with an intent expression, brow furrowed, and did not have an outward reaction to Ashin's question.

"Mmm... Of course," he murmured softly, absently, to himself. "The Crustacean Defense. This bodes well."

Nothing could have boded less well.

Ashin Cardé Varanin Mauve du Vain​

 

[Capris Halcyon]

Capris didn't scare easy.

That used to be a point of pride--that she'd scorched her nervous system clean of its wiring. That she didn't flinch, didn't cower, didn't care all that much when a blaster bit into her chest, or when a punch knocked some teeth loose.

It was the not-caring that made that scared little girl from Savareen something invulnerable.

But now she was remembering, and so the seams ripped stitch by stitch. Every step, every folly, every limb sawed through, took huge, gulfing swipes at her chest and gutted the interior. Kyric. Stupid, brave, noble, self- sacrificial Kyric. She didn't want him here, losing limbs and years off his life, scrapping himself from death’s door, going full-manic when the matter of her 'faith" came into question. It pulled at every string in her, simmering pain and fear and desperation. When the arm came off, it took every atom of self control to not make a pain-blind dash forward.

"Come on'." she muttered under her breath, painfully severe in comparison to the flush of excited bodies around her.

It was then something stirred her from that complete tunnel vision.

She could only stare a moment as Ryv (the dead guy) simply appeared in the stands, a flicker of disbelief turning steely before insecurity finally killed it. Funny. She'd harbored a trickle of resentment for the man for so long. Irrational and misplaced and now–? shallowly eroding in his presence. He was much easier to hate as some intangible "idea" that she figured Kyric would get himself killed over in his attempt to meet it.

But no, he was real and daunting and already seeing her for what she was. She felt it in the way his tone danced, the way his gaze left no room for argument. There was no fooling the dead.

"He shouldn't be in this fight to begin with." It was the only thing she could think to say.

Would things have been different if she'd been there to talk him out of it? If she'd been there at all? What had her stupid, trifling attempt to game things in his favor managed other than giving Mercy plenty of material to work with?

"I don't- " She attempted to still the small tremor in her hand,"I don't know how to stop it. Being afraid." The thought of his death, with her at the root, was like choking down miasma. "I don't know if I can be strong enough for him."

Ryv

 

[Ryv]

Ryv shifted his gaze back to the arena to watch the gnarled metal rise upward like the many-handed grip of some ravenous beast. He inched closer to the battle with each new wound carved into his son's body. It took everything the spirit had not to throw himself into the arena and fight alongside his progeny, but such times had long passed. Ryv's battle was up here in the stands. His opponent; the fear which dominated Capris' heart and paralyzed her mind.

In life, the Sword of the Jedi had been gifted with an innate understanding of empathy. Though he struggled to properly apply that strength at many points throughout his lifetime, Ryv's ability to connect to others and bring them together was his greatest strength. Not his sword arm or raw grit.

Looking down at the young woman beside him, it wasn't difficult to understand how deeply rooted Capris' fears truly ran. Decades of pain marred her flesh and psyche with scars seen and unseen. Such wounds didn't belong there. It wasn't fair. Ryv knew it. She knew it. Anyone with even an ounce of humanity understood the breadth of pain hidden behind her brown eyes. She reminded him of another.

A strong, beautiful woman who brought Ryv peace in his darkest years.

What would Ripley say when faced with the struggles which plagued their son's forlorn lover?

"Be strong for you," Ryv offered after a moment of silence. "Kyric endures your pain because he knows there will come a time when you can cast it aside and rise above these fears with which you've chained yourself."

A wry smile etched itself onto his face as he spoke. "I know what its like to look upon someone so vibrant and question whether or not you are worthy of their love. Don't make the same mistake I made, Capris. You've lost enough time to what ifs."

Others bobbed to the surface of his thoughts, then. The family he forged across decades of sacrifice.

Auteme, Maynard, Loske—the examples Ryv followed when faced with the insurmountable. Their strength was his strength. Their battles were his battles. And now, he called back on the wisdom imparted onto him time and time again by his three oldest friends.

"My son loves you with every fiber of his being. Even trapped on the battlefield, fighting for his life against that abomination, I can sense his desire to grow into the man he believes you deserve. Can't you feel it? He's scraping at the door waiting to be let in, but he's running out of time."

Ryv watched Kyric vanish and reappear, his blade flashing forward with the intensity of a falling star.

"Whether or not you're ready to choose, the time is upon you both. His life is in your hands. It always has been."

---

Tags: Capris Halcyon
Honorary Mentions: Auteme | Loske Treicolt | Maynard Treicolt | Ripley Kühn

 

[Capris Halcyon]

Capris went silent. Mad, churning, wine-dark thoughts clinging like ghosts to her skull. All this talk of chains and her mind couldn't help but go the obvious. Wasn't he just shackled to her? Confusing cosmic obligation for love. What other universe existed where he wouldn't rebuke her where she stood, where he wouldn't be in his complete right to?

Even now, limply crawling away from past sins, it felt like she'd always be a poison in his system. Claws ripping into his skin, gnashing teeth. Scared of hurting him, scared of letting go, dancing around each other like leaves in an eddy of wind.

Wouldn't the brave thing be to let him go?

"This isn't fair to him." It was a near-whisper.

And then she saw it.

Disbelief traced the ribbons of blood down to the markings fanned over his body. Ivy over bruised marble. Imitations of her handiwork but purified and resolved and beautiful. Capris's fingers ghosted along her own markings, ink-bled into her skin and as much a part of her as any other limb. Her mouth hung open ever so slightly unable to absorb what had just unfolded.

Then a grin, small and with a little bit of venom reserved for Mercy.

He'd known. Studied this dark, esoteric power of hers and painted himself in its colors. After she abandoned him, alone in that cell, left for dead-he still fought.

Capris had thinned the stem of emotions pouring in from her other half. Partially because old habits die hard but more so necessity. She'd be howling from pain or drunk on adrenaline in the stands otherwise. Because unlike Kyric, she hadn't quite mastered his capacity for.. whatever this kind of conditioning could even be called. But almost subconsciously, she found the thread placed between and pulled. The bleed of emotion– near mania at this point– colored her mind a lurid violet.

Pain. And Panic. And a firm, unshakeable resolve.

Her runes took on a glow, deepening and harsh and overwhelmed with more emotion than she knew what to do with. She wanted to hold him, sob into his shoulder, pepper his forehead with kisses. Every soft, fragile impulse she'd never allowed herself to feel.

Capris took a shaky breath instead, considering what she could possibly say, or feel, or do that would mend things.

She settled on something she'd never said before.

Kyric. I love you.

It was felt more than said, packaged with every ounce of trust remaining in Capris's body. Bundled tight, explosive and desperate to be heard.

"Give 'er hell."


Ryv