Boost THE FIRST GALACTIC KAGGATH - RUMBLE ON RUUSAN

[Lysander von Ascania]

Mauve Jobbi Chantin Ashin Cardé Varanin Xoff Chantin Whottoomuzz Chantin Arris Windrun Drystan Creed Tilon Quill CT-312 Lucette Tai Corde Jacen Breska Darth Morta Gida Luroon Balun Dashiell Varin Mortifer Haro Aven Leshanna Dromar Naamino Zuukamano Darth Malum of House Marr Darth Empyrean

​

Lysander’s jaw clenched as the roar of the stadium echoed outside. The teen had spent countless hours over the past weeks pushing his body to its limits on Korriban. Each day was a relentless cycle of drills, sparring, and meditation, all meticulously programmed to prepare him for the Galactic Kaggath.

The locker wing reminded him of a marketplace in some ways; it reflected different cultures and its fighters from all over the galaxy. Standing before a cracked mirror, he cupped his hands beneath the running faucet, then lifted them to splash his face. That impassive gaze stared back at him; something feral was stitched behind his eyes.

There was no hunger for fame. That illusion died between scarred knuckles and messages left unread by someone who still haunted the edges of his focus.

It wasn’t about the prize, either; nothing could make up for what was already lost. He was here because it was the only path that remained.

Still, a flicker of gratitude warmed the blonde’s chest. Representing the Badawans, who had supported him at his lowest during preparation, and the rest of the academy, sparked something foreign: a sense of pride. Then there was his professor, Madrona A’Mia , who’d been in his corner on more than one occasion now, having recently aided him in assassinating the King of Ukatis. Now, the Neti sponsored him without hesitation, providing him with everything required for this competition. He refused to let her down, especially as she was now in attendance.

For the time being, all armor was nestled away in the locker, until it was time to assemble and face his first opponent.

Lysander slipped into loose fitting black athletic wear and made his way to the nearby training floor. The acolyte's muscles awakened through a series of dynamic stretches, as everything around him instantly became background noise. Then, his movements settled into the familiar rhythm of shadowboxing; whether the jabs, hooks, and kicks would serve him in combat today didn’t truly matter, for this was his ritual.

Without pause, a flick of his curved lightsaber hilt sparked a crimson blade. It was not only an extension of his own being, but of his master, Revna Marr , should such be demanded of him. He wasted no time, flowing into a series of Shii-Cho katas; each strike was precise and executed with lethal grace.

Once warmed up, a sheet of sweat clinging to his face, he stood firm and looked to the Ruusan sky.

“Bogan.. if I'm not meant to rise, let the blade take me instead."

 

[Arris Windrun]

"What kind of moron do you think I am?" He asked. Jacen didn't expect an answer, nor particularly desired one. He was idiotic enough to be here. Taking drugs from strangers wasn't that much more of a leap.
"I don't need your whatever is in those," he turned away as he finished speaking, waving off the woman's syringes. Jacen returned his attention towards squaring away his locker, keeping it neat and organized.

Arris held up her arms in mock appeasement. "Whoa! I get it, I get it." She backed away slowly as he continued to mutter to himself.

Clearly, this was his process, and she didn't want to interfere more than she already had; yet, she maintained her convictions. Chemical help really shouldn't be any trouble at all. After all, half the contestants--if not more--had things like the Force and Sith alchemy on their side.

She turned on her heel and strutted back to her locker, when out of nowhere a second competitor slapped herself down on the bench.

Her body dropped down onto the bench. “Chit.” CT-312 muttered to herself. Helmet on, visor down. The Camo Scout needed a moment. Maybe two. Then she’d figure out what the hell came next.

Outstretched--the hand with the syringes. "How about you?" She asked.

But before she had an opportunity to chat with the behelmeted newcomer, another voice echoed in the locker room.

"Oh hello," she greeted with a cute smile and a delicate wave, "I am Lucette Fortan-Raaf, I do hope I am in the right area."

Arris twisted her head to see who it was. An attractive, youthful woman, at least according to her own tastes. She carried herself with a certain class and grace that struck the cyborg as more boss than fighter. The latter half of her last name rang a bell, but perhaps those were intrusive thoughts from another mind and another time. Hard to tell sometimes.

The blonde scoundrel walked up to the woman with one cybernetic hand extended in greeting. Only to quickly realize it still held the syringes. She recoiled it and offered the other in quick succession.

"Bespin Gas locker room," she confirmed. "Arris Windrun, future shockbox champion of the Slice." An over-easy grin. "And you are?"

Jacen Breska | CT-312 | Lucette | Tai Corde

 

[Aether Verd]

If someone had told Aether that he'd be sitting between two Sith Lords, on a panel for a Galactic tournament? He'd have told them to pass the spice because clearly they're huffing. Alas, there was no booger sugar at play today, only violence, credits, and a whole mountain of loot.

The Mand'alor leaned forward, his helm turning towards the holocameras after Captain Ashin Varanin shared her opinion.

"Since I am wagering, my money is on Delsin Shaw . Put him in a cage with 100 gorillas and he'll win everytime." Aether chuckled before continuing. "But outside of him? And this might be a sleeper pick folks: Drystan Creed . Any man sponsored by Joza Perl is sure to have some fire we ain't ever seen before."

He'd tap the desk with his knuckles before nodding to his fellow panelists.

Mauve - Ashin Cardé Varanin - Darth Empyrean - Gat Tambor - Darth Kentarch​

 

[Lily Decoria]

Outfit: Fighting Attire
Equipment: Echani Ritual Brand

It was her first time in fighting in something that had death as an option for victory. It was strange to see the pure Echani warrior here but she was keen to test herself. She was getting ever closer to becoming a Jedi Knight and pushing her skills in fights with others in this competitive setting was a way to see how well she was doing as a warrior. It was also a way to learn about others, such as the Sith, learn how they fought and why they were here to fight. She had spotted that a lot of Sith were fighting in this competition, which had been interesting but also daunting there were big names on the list of competitors and all of them seemed to have sponsors.

Lily had sponsored herself for the competition and was doing this fighting outside of the High Republic authority. She wasn't even sure if Briana Sal-Soren fully knew about her participation and the fact she was left Naboo to come fight in this big competition. Lily decided against using her Lightsabers, seeing this as a chance to demonstrate her ability as an Echani more than as a Jedi. The ritual brand was not the traditional style weapon that Lily was used to but whenever she thought about weapon fighting as an Echani, it was this weapon that she thought of.

"Just got to make it through the first round." Lily whispered to herself, she wanted to make sure that she got some success but given how much support others got, Lily held no doubts that others would succeed further than she would. Lily knew she would either be judged out of a fight or yield. Death was not something Lily was seeking to gain due to a competitive fight. It seemed unnecessary and nothing was gained in her mind from killing an opponent. Though Lily was sure some would say killing Sith in this fight would be a benefit for the galaxy.

Twirling the brand in her hands, the staff was light and it would not kill anyone, but could do some serious harm if struck in the right places. Her eyes closed as Lily thought about the years of training she had on Eshan, the training under Briana and whether it would be enough to get Lily far or any recognition as a formidable opponent.

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Winner takes all."

Tag - OPEN



Ruusan. Beneath the roaring crowd and thundering announcements, in the sanctum of steel and silence that passed for her locker, Serina Calis sat before a vanity of blackened glass, an eerie glow from within the walls casting fractured reflections across its surface.

She was alone. That was by design.

Her armor—Tyrant's Embrace—stood mounted behind her like a statue of a fallen god, backlit by violet light, each razor edge and flowing line casting cruel shadows along the room's polished obsidian walls. Even dormant, it exuded menace. The helm rested atop the armor's neck brace, eyes dim for now, watching without watching. She would not wear it tonight. She didn't need to.

Serina, bare-shouldered and in a sleeveless underlayer, coiled her long blonde hair with practiced precision. Not for vanity. Never that. But appearance was a weapon, and tonight every blade would be sharpened.

She wove the locks up into a spiral crown, wrapping strands into coils, pinning them into place with faint gestures of the Force. Each pin clicked home with mechanical certainty, her reflection shifting slightly in the mirror as her expression hardened.

She should have found this whole affair beneath her. A "Kaggath"—a term bastardized beyond recognition by corporate pageantry and spectacle. Brawls for the deranged, desperate, and overconfident. But Serina did not come to amuse herself. She came with intent.

Her gaze shifted to the armor behind her.

"Begin."

The whisper wasn't spoken aloud, yet Tyrant's Embrace answered. The crystalline node embedded in its chest began to glow brighter, the runes carved across its surface stirring to life. From the armor to her, through currents of Force-conductive filaments in the room's walls, data surged—not into a screen, not into a datapad—into her mind.

A sharp breath escaped her lips. Her back arched slightly.

She received.

No blinking lights, no scrolling interfaces. Only raw knowledge unfurled into her mind's eye—complex schematics, coded sequences, trigger phrases, subtle signalings, obscure fighting forms distorted through centuries, interfaces of weaponry so alien even their makers had likely perished before the Hyperspace Wars. It was not enough to study these. They needed to be internalized. Integrated into reflex. Into muscle memory.

She could not afford to fight fair.

And she wouldn't be bringing her armor into the arena proper. Let the crowd believe she was playing by the rules. That she stepped in vulnerable. A lie, like all the best weapons.

"Pattern synchronization... 62%. Push deeper."

The pain was exquisite. She felt the data claw through her synapses, threading itself between thought and instinct. A lesser mind would have fractured. She allowed it. Welcomed it.

A soft smile—rare and terrible—graced her lips.

Let the others burn themselves bright for the audience, craving applause and empty glory. Let the Mandalorian bellow and bleed, let the Sith posture and rend. She did not need adoration. She needed leverage.

And when the time came, she would twist it into the neck of the galaxy.

She finished the final coil of her hair, securing it with a single obsidian pin, tip etched in Sith script. Then she rose, slow and deliberate. The glow from her armor faded. The knowledge was sealed.

A knock at the door. A trembling voice: "Lady Calis? Five minutes until bracket reveal."

"Let them sweat," she said, voice velvet and venom. "I'll walk in when I'm ready."

The knock vanished. She turned once more to the armor. To the identity that waited inside it. Her eyes locked with the blank gaze of the helmet—six violet eyes like tiny dying stars.

Showtime.

 

[Joza Perl]

"Will it be the Andoan white or the Alderaanian red, ma'am?"

In a private viewing box high above the arena, Joza Perl leaned forward in her seat. Contestants and their various statistics flashed across the holodisplay. She made a noise of mild displeasure.

Far too many Sith for her taste, but they were attracted to blood sport and notoriety. Exhausting, but it made for good entertainment. Her people enjoyed romance as much as they did violence - anything that got their blood pumping.

Once a Jedi, the Zeltron tycoon sought to cast her lot in with one of the Alliance's young upstarts. Drystan Creed was new blood. A promising combatant with an interesting record. Painted lips curled faintly at one edge as Aether Verd acknowledged her pick as a dark horse.

Let the raucous crowd below practically fling themselves over the shallow barricades if they wished to get a better view. She was far too old for that.

Joza clicked her tongue in thought.

"The white."

There'd be enough red today.

 

[Thalen Dhorain]

Tags: Open

How...quaint.

That was Thalen's main thought as he sat amongst the crowd, with his arms folded inside of his sleeves. They were about to watch a bloody battle, as if it was just some kind of typical entertainment. There were people who fought on the streets for survival. Part of him wondered how many of these competitors were going to be fighting for survival and how many were fighting for pure enjoyment.

He hadn't placed any bets himself. This wasn't what he'd want to waste credits on. It was as pointless as his own choices. He had came here to watch and take note of what was going to happen. It was interesting to take note of the amount of Sith he could sense. Whilst he wasn't intimate with the Dark Side, the oppressive nature wasn't much of a surprise. It also made sense that there wouldn't be much Jedi for a battle to the death.

Whoever did die today, it would be the Will of the Force either way. He just wanted to see it all and take it in. That was his job given to him by his family. To be an observer. To record what was going on in the Galaxy, even as his eye glinted in the Light. He removed his hands from amongst his sleeves and just linked his fingers together, turning his gaze towards the Arena. Time to observe.

 

["Templar"]

//: Spencer Varanin //:
//: VIP Section - Arena, Ruusan //:

The galaxy had changed.

‘Too much.’ Templar grumbled. Moving slowly. Heavily. It felt like she had yet to fully wake from a long too-quiet dream. Her boots made no sound as she walked, but each step echoed in Templar’s chest. The energy in the air was nearly feral. Too much excitement, too much movement, too much light. This time, she was dragged to a galactic tournament.

She hated it.

People screamed for it. Laughing, lining up in droves. Templar followed behind her “Master” in silence. Weaving through the dense halls and grand staircases lit in different colors. The deeper they moved into the stadium, the more the Relic felt it. Energy buzzing against her armor, crawling up the spine.

She didn’t like crowds.
She didn’t like noise.

They soon came to a sign: VIP SECTION

Templar’s brow raised faintly beneath her helm. Her head tilted slightly upward to read it— then downward again in thought. ‘VIP?’ How had her “Master” gotten these seats? Templar realized how little to nothing she knew about her. The woman who…‘Kidnapped?’ Templar paused. Held her against her own will? Blinking a couple times. What was her situation?

Her “Master” was strange… kind? Powerful. Templar’s head subtly nodded. But still strange.

As they entered the private box. She stood still for a moment. Waiting. Watching. The Relic then sat down carefully. Arms resting atop her thighs, the edges of her armor clicking faintly against the seat’s polished frame. The walls of the box muffled the crowd's cheers, but the noise still bled through.

Templar turned slightly, lips parting—trying. “Wh–” A cracked voice. A small cough. She’d tried again. “Wh… what… is… Ka… gath?” voice brittle, words falling apart. She didn’t want to raise it. Didn’t want to shout over the madness of the crowd’s cheers. Instead, she reached. Carefully.

A small mental pull, feather-light. Brushing against her “Master’s” mind. <What is… a Kaggath?> Templar turned forward again. Eyes behind her visor locked on the arena below. It was massive. Beneath the lights, banners, and holoscreens, there was a thread of violence that thrummed beneath. As the competitors were gathering now, the crowd roared even louder. Eager for the fighting to begin. Artificial, gleaming, this place was built for blood. She could feel it in her bones.

Her gaze swept over them in silence. And then— something clicked.

A memory.

Heat. Dust. Screams. A pit carved in stone and stained with years of blood. Templar’s younger bloodied arms moving. Her voice. Shouting, hoarse and unbroken. Survive. Again. And again.

The pits.

A small sharp inhale was heard as Templar's breath was caught in her chest. Fingers curled slightly on her thighs. The memory passed like a wave. Slamming into her at once, jagged, then passed. But its weight remained. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, drew breathe. Steading herself.

This wasn’t new. This wasn’t a sport. This was just the same story, polished, televised, and fed to the masses. The same cruelty. The same hunger.

Just with cheering this time.

Perplexed how the whole galaxy became involved. Her attention flashed to the holoscreens. Each fighter was being shown one after another, displaying their names, stats, and boasts. A small flicker of wonder stirred. It would’ve been… interesting… to fight among them. Wondering how many would walk away once this tournament began. Conflicted. Curious. Maybe there was more to this event than blood.

Templar stayed still. Silent. Watching. Waiting for her “Master’s” answer.

 

[CT-312]

//: Jacen Breska Arris Windrun Lucette | OPEN //:
//: Bespin Gas Company Locker Room - Arena, Ruusan//:​

TK-710’s voice—low, rapid-fire—echoed in the locker room, turning down whatever had been offered to him. CT-312’s helmet tilted slightly, visor angling towards his direction. ‘Same old TK-710.’ There he was, muttering to himself. Hands fussing with his gear, waving off the woman who approached him.

Subtly shaking her head, CT-312 let her gaze drop back to the floor at her boots. Her mind turned to the next priority. ‘The holoscreens.’ She recalled them displaying the competitor's faces, but more importantly their stats. Specifically: abilities. The Scout needed intel if they were going to survive this circus.

Suddenly, a voice drew her attention. The other fighter. CT-312’s visor angled toward the syringes in the gloved hand. ‘Drugs?’ Raising a brow beneath her helmet, confused. Curious. As she opened her mouth halfway to ask what the hell that was about—

Another voice filled the room.

"Oh hello," she greeted with a cute smile and a delicate wave, "I am Lucette Fortan-Raaf, I do hope I am in the right area."

CT-312’s attention snapped to the new arrival. She watched as the person who just offered her syringes headed to the new arrival. Catching the fighter’s name as she greeted Lucette— Arris Windrun. With a heavy sigh, CT-312 stood up. The sound of armor shifting filling the silent space around her. The name Lucette stuck in her head like a snagged wire.

She walked over to TK-710, giving him a tap on the arm with the back of her gloved hand. “Our other sponsor here.” CT-312 said quietly. Head gesturing towards the entrance. “We should go greet them.” She started making her way to the front, adding over her shoulder: “And we need to study those holoscreens. Stats, abilities. Whatever they’re willing to show. We need every edge we can get.”

As she neared the entrance of the locker room, CT-312 finally got a clear look at one of their sponsors. Her stomach sank.

‘A kid?’ A teenager, maybe a little older, but still. What in the void compelled a child to sponsor them? Let alone one who somehow had the credits to do so? A thought crossed her mind, bitter and disbelieving. ‘God damn it.’ A quiet sigh escaped her lips, barely audible through the helmet’s filters.

“You’re in the right area, Ma’am.” CT-312 came to attention, straight-backed, focused, hiding every ounce of dismay. “Thank you for your support and sponsorship” Giving a nod of formal acknowledgement. “CT-312.” Her visor turned to the glowing haloscreen that was off on the side of the locker room. She locked onto the data as each fighter was being displayed, burning every detail into memory.

 

[Lucette]

Arris Windrun | CT-312 | Jacen Breska​

Lucy wasn't entirely sure what to expect, after all, the Galactic Kaggath had a reputation for unpredictability. Still, when she first came across someone who introduced themselves as Arris Windrun, a blonde who presented as a woman, she gave a small incline of her head in polite acknowledgment.

"A pleasure. I'm a," she paused mid-sentence as one of the troopers clearly recognized her name. That made her smirk. "sponsor," she finished, allowing the word to settle between them like a quiet challenge.

With poise, Lucy shifted her gaze toward the troopers and moved gracefully around Windrun to approach them directly.

"CT-312," she greeted, her voice warm, accompanied by a smile that softened her otherwise formal bearing. "And this must be TK-710." Her eyes flicked between the two of them as she added, "I imagine you're wondering what would possess someone like me to sponsor the two of you."

She let the silence hang for a beat, then continued, "As it happens, one of my grandmothers is a non-Force user—remarkably accomplished in her own right. The other is rather infamous." Her tone remained calm, measured, with a faint edge of dry amusement.

"But more to the point," Lucy went on, folding her hands neatly in front of her, "after hearing of your bravery in service to the Sith Order, I wanted to ensure you both had a fair chance."

There was another pause, this one laced with quiet intent.

"If that bravery proves true, perhaps as a reward, you might help me." Her smile widened slightly, thoughtful now. "You see, I am a biomancer. I create creatures, some small, some quite large, with various abilities and temperaments."

Her gaze swept the locker room with clinical precision. "Unfortunately, I cannot always predict how they will behave in unfamiliar scenarios. So, I must seek individuals worthy enough to raise and test the ones I've designed."

And then, with a final note of brightness that only just veiled the underlying sharpness of her expectations, she added, "Although, I daresay we'll have to see if you make it through first, won't we?"

 

[Jacen Breska]

K A G G A T H ​

WEARING:: Jacen’s Second Legion Armor
EQUIPMENT: DC-902d | Other Stuff that's a SURPRISE.
LOCATION: :: Ruusan - Arena ::
TAG: Arris Windrun | Tai Corde | CT-312

Jacen jumped again, turning his head quickly to see who it was that touched him.

"What?! Oh. It's you," Jacen exhaled, recovering from the mild startle, and followed 312's gesture, "Yeah alright," he acquiesced, closing the door to the locker and turning to follow his squad mate. Jacen followed her faceplate, eyeing the holoscreen as it flashed with the different combatants. Awful lot of Force Users, but a surprising amount of non-Force Users too.

He felt a bit more confident, and with the items he'd acquired from John Locke , he was sure he'd be even more of a force to be reckoned with. "Yeah we'll talk about it. Get a gameplan goin'. Of course, I'm not gonna discuss my plan to take you down," he smirked.

He spied their sponsor at the same time 312 did, and suddenly the blood thirsty rabbit on his shoulderplate made sense. He closed his eyes and collected his thoughts before opening them again and smiling. He nodded politely as she positively ID'd him, then did his best to hide the smile disappearing off his face as she mentioned her grandmother being a non-force user...as if she wasn't.

"You've made the right choice, ma'am," he said with a renewed smile, "neither of us are in the habit of disappointing our employers. Seeing as in some way, that includes you, we'll make you proud enough, you'll see."

His chest tightened when she mentioned bravery. What a loaded word. Bravery convinced the foolish to die for nothing. Smarts, instincts, being prepared, that's where Jacen would win the day. Not by being brave. All the dead on Woostri were brave.

What game is this, he thought to himself, why would one of them sponsor us?

To Jacen, it made him anxious. Nothing came without a price tag. Everything they'd gotten they'd bartered or paid for. Her support would be the same.

And then she said it. As a reward, they would be given work. Professional chew toys for her creatures. "One would think you'd stop by Onderon for a proper beastmaster," he said, "I don't know what good I'd be in raising a creature. Only test I can help with is if I could kill it. And the only way that helps is if you eventually make a beast that can kill me so," he shrugged, "I'm happy for your help, and I'm not going to disregard it, I'm just curious I guess how I could be of help to you?"


​

 

[Fenn Stag]

BEHOLD WHAT THEY HAVE MADE AND WHAT THEY HAVE DONE

​

Vicious. Violent.

​

Volatile. Unyielding.

Merciless.

Tenacious.

Skilled.

Trained.
Efficient.
Lethal.
Experienced. Capable.

Deadly.




He stared at his face in the mirror of the room he was in. His father's helmet, the helmet of Preliat Mantis , the Wolf of Mandalore, stared back at him. He grit his teeth, fixing his hair. His father was a fan of contests, some more than others. By all accounts, he might've enjoyed the martial aspect of it far more than anything else. Just a chance to fight.

Fenn shared the sentiment. There was nothing else to this. Everyone had their own reasons to be here. He thought it humorous that there were Jedi in attendance. His mechanical arm gripped tightly the sink, while he leaned over, and washed his face. It was ritualistic, it was habitual. He needed to be clean to apply the warpaint effectively. It always went on better with clear skin.

He wrapped it around his eyes, drawing his fingers down to pull lines towards his jaw. He heard once the warriors of old, the Taung and perhaps older, used black paint around their eyes to conceal their skin in the dark. He wondered the truth to it. But, Fenn was a scary man to be around as it was- an unnerving, inhuman warpaint amplified it.

He stepped out to the gathering on the arena, waiting for the bracket. He held his father's helmet at his side. He wore Preliat's armor perfectly, he wore it comfortably. And, as a perfect clone of Preliat himself- he looked exactly like Preliat shortly before his 30th birthday. Some who didn't know of Preliat's passing thought Fenn him, and Fenn was never one to correct him. By all accounts and purposes, he was infact, a perfect copy of Preliat. So in a way, he was Preliat. And, unfortunately and fortunately at times, it was vice versa towards him.

Eyes went around the arena, towards boxes, towards spectators, towards traitors, leaders, criminals, wretches, Kings and Queens. Pariahs and cheats, Jedi and Sith alike.

Quite the crowd. He held Preliat's helmet at his hip, hugging it close to him. He clenched his crushgaunt-adorned right fist. The man who had killed Hakon Fett had come to claim another victory. He was the one who broke the Crusader's rallying cry, felled one of the greatest threats to the galaxy. In his right hand, he held Preliat Mantis' helmet, tucked under his arm.

In his left, he held the spear of Hakon Fett, a trophy, a warning, a symbol and display of his prowess.

He tapped it on the floor, waiting for the bracket to appear. His cold, unflinching eyes didn't move after they settled to see the brackets appear.

He wanted to see who he would be fighting. And what would become of them or him after their battle.

 

[Darth Malum of House Marr]

The sweat trailed his nostrils as he took renewed breath, a new claim to life, as the cheers rung in his ears, as if the drums of war were beating in his chest, he was back there... he stilled, as another breath passed his lips, blinking away the stillness, the hysteria... the madness, that overtook his form.

He was back there...

Jutrand.

His shaking hands gripped tightly into fists, the black leather growing taut and heavy, as his lungs begged for air that no breath provided. He clenched his eyes shut, red eyes hidden away from the world, their bloodshot quality a further wound to a canvas of skin that had already been flayed raw.

Why was he here...

...Why was he here risking it all once more?

Pride? Arrogance? Ego?

Honour? Dignitas? Aggrandisement?

All of them fit the bill, yet, no matter the length of the word, no matter how many he thought, none seemed to fill the madness of what course he was committing himself to. He had fought in a Kaggath once, he had survived a Kaggath once, a fallacy drawn out of decisions that had long since escaped his control, a course that had set him to fight against one of the few Sith Lords within the empire that he called friend... that he called brother.

...He had killed Ali that day.

Another act to darken upon a soul that was already smouldering in black smoke and flame. It had been the nearest run thing one had to witness, a battle that could have been decided at a hundred, a thousand different tiny instances, if anything had changed...

...He might not have been left breathing now. Not, that he supposed, breath came easily nor readily in this moment. The roar of the crowd, the sense of impending doom, the drums strumming along his chest... for one who had seen battle, seen war, he swallowed down the protrusion that bobbed at his neck like an apple at a summer's fair... for one who had witnessed all that.

...Why did this bring him to such gravity?

Cowardice... weakness... those cardinal sins that which he was so victim of...

...Combined with all the rest that even as trepidation fueled him, he had accepted the favour of his Empress, taken the sponsorship of the Wolf, and felt ever so slighted that it would be the one-eyed once Jedi that had been named the champion of their Order.

Had it been that had so rankled him?

Or had it been a matter closer to home...

...Red eyes snapped awake, as through the replica of mask of his famous ancestor, he gazed forth to the statue that he had brought here for this purpose exactly. Staring back at him, the masked face, the echo of once was, once was the greatest Sith to have ever lived, the face that he bore, both unmasked, but especially masked...

"...Darth Marr..." Malum spoke, a zealous, reverent whisper, "...Lord of Duty..." The roar of the crowd gave way to... resolve, as a black leathered glove squeezed around the sizzling amulet taut around his neck, its warmth, an all too familiar blessing, "...Witness me..." The statement uncertain, more a question than a command, "...Grant me your strength, so that I will be victorious..." His voice grew in tempo, in confidence and strength, as one ungloved hand revealed itself, pink and coarse, a hand that had faced war...

...And would face it once more.

"...Grant me your strength, so that I will show them all..." The Shikkar materialised before him, the obsidian blade slicing along his palm, as a shallow hiss broke his lips, and his blood, his lifesblood, the noble blood of the House of Marr spilled across the pavilion, atop the statue before him.

"...Show them all that I am your heir."​

Mentioned: Darth Strosius Allyson Locke Srina Talon Gerwald Lechner Darth Empyrean

 

[Mauve]

"Well I can't wait to see what happens," Mauve said, elbows resting on the ancient desk. "Oh, here comes the announcer."

The holocameras pivoted back as the announcer appeared again in a burst of red and gold fireworks, twirling his scepter before slamming it into the raised pedestal he stood upon. He tilted back his horned helmet and appeared to enjoy the adoration of the crowd for a moment, before leaning into the head of the staff, which caused his voice to reverberate.




"THE PAIRINGS ARE OUT....

ARE

YOU​

READY?"​

On the screen, the matchups scrolled, showing the faces of various fighters bracketed off against each other.

• Wymar vs. Serina Calis
• Drystan Creed vs. Antar
• Mercy vs. Vyn Daldoure
• Arris Windrun vs. Vagabond
• Fenn Stag vs. Balun Dashiell
• Lirka Ka vs. Whottoomuzz Chantin
• Maestus vs. Jacen Breska
• Darth Malum of House Marr vs. Gida Luroon
• Kesh Hevro vs. Kyric
• Lily Decoria vs. Phaelissia
• Thalia Senn vs. Allyson Locke
• Lysander von Ascania vs. 5-WCH (Switchblade)
• Taregh Garon vs. Delsin Shaw
• CT-312 vs. Kudau

"THE FIRST ROUND OF THE GALACTIC KAGGATH STARTS IN FIVE MINUTES."

OOC: Individual Duel Threads will be posted on June 23rd as "chapters" to this thread.

 

[Lynch]

"Lynch" | "5-WCH" - 5-WCH (Switchblade)
​

The duo both turned towards the holoprojector as the pairings were announced.

Lynch did not know the droid for very long. But if its reputation precedes what he had heard, then the Bounty Hunters' Guild made the right decision in sponsoring the fighter. Countless high-level bounties were underneath the droid's belt. To be fair, that was all that the contractor needed to know. Any good hunter could survive in the ring, and win.

"Looks like you got a kid first round. Try to leave enough of him so the family can have a proper burial."

A sinister chuckle escaped the man's lips as the droid stared blankly ahead at the screen. It was the boy's ( Lysander von Ascania ) fault for signing up for this competition. No one said this was going to be a friendly fight. In order to be rich and powerful in this line of work, a child had to die now and again. That was just business. Unbeknownst to Lynch, 5-WCH, known in the underworld as Switchblade, had already began accessing a holoconnection within his circuits to learn as much about his opponent as he could. Any piece of information could be used as an advantage in the ring.

"No promises."

The response was cold, yet truthful. Switchblade had worked a long time to reach the status he held. Bounty hunting was not an easy line of work. The droid had lost count of the number parts he needed replaced. Most of his original tech was long since upgraded. Anything to gain that extra edge.

Lynch wrapped an arm around the droid's shoulder, beckoning him to walk. The first rounds would be starting soon, so they had no time to waste. A small room had been rented out by the contractor where he held some special weapons that the droid would be able to use for the fight.

"C'mon, let's go get you geared up..."

 

[Kesh Hevro]

KAGGATH
Wayward Son - Chapter 1
———
OUTFIT: x
TAG: Open to CIS and Hex Inc. characters and Kyric

VICTORY LAP​

RUUSAN

Kaggath. An ancient Sith tradition. Kesh Hevro had scoffed and laughed at the idea with his squad mates over beer and grilled orbak. Who in the right mind would restore a wretched Sith antiquity back to the land of the living and monetise it? It did sound like a silly idea when he first heard about it.

Then, it was revealed to him that it had a Black Sun backing. That caught his attention. The Black Sun is not going to finance an event if it’s not beneficial for the Black Sun.

Then, fighters around the galaxy started to register, sponsors started to pour in, from powerful individuals, to corporations galactic superpowers. That really caught his attention.

Finally, he was called by the shadow council. The Confederacy of Independent System is going to send a champion, and that champion is going to be taken from the rank of Hellion. It’s going to be Kesh Hevro, the Captain of Hellion Command, the second-in-line of the Hevro crime family.

The question, for him, was why and why him. It was answered by a multi-layered response that answer all on the first question but almost none on the second. The material rewards and the power projection CIS would garner in the case of him winning is the primary goal, of course. But what comes with it are the loots; the pieces of technology they can reverse-engineer, primarily, something that would let them pass the Blackwall. That’s the angle that the shadow council predicted the Black Sun is also going for.

And why him? They just said that the Hellion is well-trained, and experienced on taking down Force Users. A suspiciously diplomatic answer; General Xor would be the first person Kesh consider for this type of tournament. Alas, more glory for him.

Kesh had arrived in the arena with an entourage of CIS, Hex Inc., and Hellion officials. His locker room was already prepared, guarded by a pair of MagnaGuards, all the equipment he needs brought and set up there. Firearms, grenades, melee weapons of his choosing, but most importantly, the personalised, optimised armour Hex Inc. gifted to him. All for him to win, all for him to lose.

"THE PAIRINGS ARE OUT....

ARE

YOU​

READY?"​

On the screen, the matchups scrolled, showing the faces of various fighters bracketed off against each other.

Kyric . “Renegade Jedi, was a part of Bernard terrorist sect that vandalised and fought on Coruscant, last seen in High Republic space. Sponsored by Niki Priddy , so that checks out. Murky lineage. I’ve sent you the deets,” Hagar, his CSS attache for the tournament pointed at his holopad.

Interesting. The young Jedi doesn’t strike him as someone very dangerous from his looks, but his profile tells a different story. An underdog that always achieves what he never expected to. A savant that won’t stop at nothing to climb over his corpse to victory.

He murmured, silently, before he climbed out of his chair, walking across the room to examine and savour the beautiful machine that is the Viper Coil. His purple eyes light up and his small mouth form a slight smirk.

Oh how he will revel in the blood of the High Republic Jedi, how he will sing the song of triumph the next time he has to share a space with their High Republic allies.​

​

 

[War Marshal Helix]

Objective: Take in some entertainment.
Equipment: E-4H Phosphor-Blaster, Horror Matrix
Tags: Darth Virelia / Lirka Ka /OPEN​

Helix stared at the brackets with mild interest as they came flickering across his screen. Some names he knew personally, some he knew only by reputation, and some he'd never heard of.

All subject to change after today, of course. A few names he knew might well fade into obscurity after their owners got their molecules rearranged. A few others might rise from their station by decapitating their betters.

Nothing pleased him more. Helix was ever one to appreciate upsets in the established order, and to engineer them himself when possible. Entrenched hierarchies led to stagnation, stagnation to decay, and decay to death. It was well to trim the fat from time to time, if growth was to occur.

Paupers to kings, and kings to paupers. Never let the top circle get too comfortable being at the top. As such, he'd been quick to lend his support to two in particular, when he learned they would be present.

Lirka Ka had long been known to him. A strange creature, and one he still didn't quite entirely understand. They'd spoken and formed alliances even before her rise to command of the Third, alliances that had already paid off. Nonetheless, he knew an underdog when he smelled one, and nothing aroused a sense of kinship in his several billion minds quite like an uphill battle. He would be very pleased indeed to see the Imperator paint the arena floor in viscera.

Serina Calis was another new friend, and one that ran in some of the same circles as Ka. Harder to kill than a Droch infestation, and with a talent for wriggling out from under the consequences of her own rash actions. A survivor.

Helix was surrounded by a smattering of droids, ranging from H4X models skulking in the corners of the box, to a few of the Knightslayer circle. He hardly needed much in the way of security anymore, not after his evolution had come so far along. Old habits died hard, however, and Helix had many of them. Besides, they might be getting their hands dirty. Rules or not, Helix had no intention of letting his investments die today. They'd be leaving the arena either victorious, or surrounded by an exfiltration team.

"Best of luck to both of you." He chattered politely to Serina Calis and Lirka Ka over his com network. "Do call if you feel that things are going south, so to speak. I will see what I can do on this end." He'd prepared a few surprises, beyond those present already. With luck, he'd not need to use them, but he far preferred to waste time preparing than to waste time cleaning up.

 

[Ashin Cardé Varanin]

At the commentators' table, as the last five minutes counted down, Ashin scrutinized the pairings.

"I see less than half of these duels feature someone known to be a Sith. Hardly auspicious, but then again, there may be those who've kept their training secret, or who wish to claim the title of Sith for themselves, or who will stand up for their Jedi pride and learn a better way — all perfectly legitimate courses.

"And while a victory here alone would make no-one a Sith, such victories can be footholds on to greater things. I know some of my peers are watching for their next servants or their next apprentices."

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Darth Malum of House Marr | 5-WCH (Switchblade)

​

Wrapped in stillness, the world of Ruusan fell away during the moment of reflection. The acolyte’s breath was slow, even; it matched the discipline ingrained in his being. Tension no longer stirred him; now, it was something sharper. What did remain, was clarity.

Then, like a ripple, an announcement shattered his thoughts like glass. Lysander’s head turned, unhurried, emerald orbs flicking up to the lineup of matches, taking in the information with a sense of detachment.

Gone was the warmth that once softened his gaze; the boy from Ukatis, now dissolved with each second that passed. It was replaced by something colder and calculating. The glint still carried experience; and now, he began radiating the patience of one who had learned to master both mind and body when the time called for it; indeed, the polar opposite from how he so often traversed the hallways of Kor’ethyr Academy.

Not a hint of adrenaline bothered him, refusing to let an ounce of his energy be wasted before the bout.

It was ironic, he mused. Himself, a poetic Sith whom at times felt too much, now to confront a foe whose name suggested it had never once experienced an ounce of humanity.

With a pivot on the heel, he strode back toward the locker room. Near the bench where his armor was stored, the acolyte shed the athletic wear from his lithe frame before encasing himself in ebony plating.

The curved hilt was clipped to his belt; the helmet was tucked beneath his arm.

Finally, he emerged back outside. This time, a familiar current sliced through the air, like a touch of lightning through a veil of silk. So intimate, it threatened to carry him back to recent memories when the very order he served attacked his home planet.

It was the presence of kin, Darth Malum, now resonating with a bond that he couldn’t entirely fathom, even after crossing paths with the older Sith on more than one occasion.

But it wasn’t duty or obligation beckoning him forth, but something deeper.. something that had grown foreign during his stay in the Outer Rim. Though only moments remained before his match began, the acolyte found himself suddenly lured to the private room of the Tsis’Kaar leader.

Crimson stained the ground near the man; perhaps, it was remnants of poetry, etched deeply in devotion.

"Cousin," Lysander greeted after a stretch of silence. Acknowledging him as family tasted better on the tongue than any formal title, and personally, it carried more weight too.

"May your sword strike true today." His tone was soft, betraying the fact that the ground beneath their boots would soon be a battleground, and even further, betraying the nature of their kind, those who dabbled in the darker side of the Force.

The teen offered no bow, nor any salute. Instead, there was a tilt of the head paired with a corner of his mouth curling upward, true to himself, with a familiar note of mischief. "They won't remember my name the way they do yours. But, I will make our bloodline impossible to ignore."

A confession, a vow, perhaps even a farewell. He wasn’t sure. But in that moment, there was no place he’d rather be.

 

[Razmir Tezhyn]

"Dear viewers, as we prepare for the bloodbath that is about to take place in the arena, let's take a look at who you thought would win the first-ever Galactic Kaggath Tournament! Here are the results."

The holo-broadcast switched to a large display, next to which Razmir began to guide the audience through various poll numbers.

"Leading the polls as the expected FIRST GALACTIC KAGGATH CHAMPION is Allyson Locke ! Runner up is...a tie between CT-312 and Kyric ! The galaxy has spoken, better not disappoint them!"

"As for the galaxy's DARK HORSE of the tournament, it's the Black Sun's very own Antar ! Runner up is Jacen Breska !"

"Voted as most likely to die first is...oh my. Whottoomuzz Chantin ! That'll make a Zeltron husband and a kid somewhere quite sad, I imagine."

"Next up, voted as the one to cause the most casualties in the audi-ahem. For most collateral damage, we have a three-way tie between Delsin Shaw , Wymar , and Lirka Ka !" Raz turned to whisper to someone off-screen. "The audience members signed their waivers right? It comes with buying the tickets? Perfect."

"And now, for the part that's most interesting to those gamblers among you. Don't listen to this one, dear viewers, but voted as most likely to fix their match is: also Whottoomuzz Chantin !"

"And last but certainly not least, the one you thought would emerge as the bloodiest fighter of the tournament. The one who you believe will score the most kills: Mercy !"

"Thank you, dear viewers, for making your voice heard! And to the contestants, best of luck! Don't lose your spleens!"