Boost THE FIRST GALACTIC KAGGATH - RUMBLE ON RUUSAN

[Mr. Usher]

AFTERPARTY​

Spoiler: Mr. Usher – Biomass Construct Types

Mr. Usher – Biomass Construct Types

Husk (1 HP)

• Human-sized (~1.7m)
• emaciated build
• Role: Reconnaissance, infiltration, mimicry
• Traits: Fragile, quick, capable of speech and tool use
• Notes: Can impersonate civilians, workers, or low-level officials; often deployed in groups or as sleeper agents

Warrior

• Size: ~2.3m tall, muscular and predatory
• Role: Frontline assault
• Traits: Bladed limbs, enhanced strength, fast reflexes
• Notes: Highly aggressive; used for direct engagements and biomass harvesting in active zones

Prowler

• 1.5m at shoulder
• quadrupedal with elongated limbs
• Role: Stealth raids, sabotage, dismemberment
• Traits: Sinewy, silent, capable of wall-crawling and burrowing
• Notes: May cloak or camouflage in environments; often sent ahead to break defenses or ambush targets

Hulk

• ~5m tall,
• massive and heavily armored
• Role: Biomass hauling, brute force, siege and suppression
• Traits: Slow, near-unstoppable, at full biomass, capable of carrying or deploying smaller husks from its mass
• Notes: Typically deployed for structural demolition, biomass transportation, or heart anchoring.

The roar of battle above had given way to scattered grunts, crunches, and the occasional husk screaming “Corn dogs! Spiced spleen! Two for one!” before being silenced.

But the density of proxies was thinning.

In the aisles where slain biomass piled up, twitching limbs and torsos convulsed toward one another, amalgamating, folding together like warm taffy until new Warrior-class proxies stood tall from the carnage. They roared into the conflict.
The brawl shifted.
Less chaos.
More coordination, yet still a glorified bar fight.

A Warrior picked up a bench and tried to club a sith with it. Another kicked a hovering vendor droid into a plasma-scarred seat. Someone shouted, “Sit down, meatball!” and threw a drink. A husk caught it, stared at the cup, and sipped from it.

Above, Prowlers darted across rafters and overhangs, snatching corpses in clawed silence. A fallen merc here, lumps of slain husks there – dragged into shadow for repurposing.

Below, the scuffle was muted, heard in the thumping of ordnance faraway rattling of footsteps.

In the dark of the sublevel there was a another sound.
Bone against metal.

BOOM.

BOOM.

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM.

Outside the blast-hardened vault where Sal Katarn and Razmir Tezhyn stood, the Hulk-class biomass construct knocked on the door.

It struck the door with deliberate rhythm, as if testing the sound of made. Each slam shattered more of its own fists before they re-knit themselves and struck again.

The door seemed to hold, but the sound carried through. From the other side of the vault, a low, muffled growl of a voice croaked out:

“Knock knock.”

Location: Stands above | Sublevel vault below
Objective: Upper: Harvest & hassle | Lower: Psychological warfare
Tags: Sal Katarn | Razmir Tezhyn | Jerec Asyr | Xeykard | (feel free to kill these proxy Goobers in PvE or PvP them) Open brawlers still welcome
​

 

[Jerec Asyr]

"There will be a debt to be paid. But not now. Do as you will."

Jerec took stock of his surroundings. Dead hive mind bioforms, a few dead Black Sun, his cousin Flurrrik, and other spectators. The kaggath still ongoing in the center. And across the way, an orbital bombardment scouring portions of the stands, sterilizing even. Weighed against all that, the big saurian Sith's promise of eventual vengeance still managed to intimidate. A little.

"Look," he said over the thunder of everything, lowering the chunk of railing that was currently his prime weapon, "I don't remember what I did to you or how much I owe, but how about this? Forget it all. Black Sun hires you on at a real good rate for today and maybe longer. Alternative is one of us puts the other one in that lava down there, if all this fething walking meatloaf will give us some breathing room."

 

[Merion Oreno]

Meanwhile, up on the cliffs overlooking the Valley of the Jedi, the Cult of the Central Isopter wept with gratitude.They'd been watching the kaggath through macrobinoculars and seen a disappointing lack of death. But now, as portions of the stands devolved into carnage, punctuated by orbital strikes, it all seemed worth the ten-mile desert hike to get up here. Some days Merion didn't feel much like a Cultist of the Central Isopter, but he sure did today.

 

[Mauve du Vain]

"It's certainly nice to know," she told Mauve du Vain Mauve du Vain over her shoulder, "that after a century of life, one can still have new and interesting experience."

"Too new and too interesting by half. It's all just disjointed violence and meaningless chaos. No respect, no decency, no decorum... " Adekos sighed heavily, "Oh, yes... It's a true kaggath now."

The info-maven looked up from wiring Sars Sarad his funds and tugged at an earring nervously as the flames from outside rose in a torrent. If she listened close enough, she could just hear the screaming through the glass.

Mauve smiled weakly.

"Apologies for the interruption, I am sure you saw recent Toydarian developments. I would be a poor host if I placed you all in danger. Although I must admit my associate's methods are... rather comprehensive."

Darth Kentarch | Darth Adekos | Ashin Cardé Varanin | Darth Empyrean | Aether Verd

 

[Xeykard]

A misunderstanding, to Xeykard's benefit. "Ha!" he bisected a bench, then the meat-sack swinging it at him. "A creature of business. So be it, Jerec Asyr. But you will do more than hire this one, as this one has more to offer."

Another brutal stroke, sending three husks reeling and two into the lava below. They were monsters, certainly, but in the moment Xeykard looked monstrous, Force blazing around him. None could withstand him; now he advanced, even as the animal-like forms tried to escape he cut those he could reach down. A moment of reprieve came in time, at least for this small pocket of the kaggath's stands.

"No payment today. Only an introduction -- when the time comes that you and your ilk require a different kind of strength. This one brings the might of a Sith Legion, and more. Credits are good. This one requires glory as well. To be seen winning." He approached Asyr again. "This, you will provide. In time."

Jerec Asyr Mr. Usher ​

 

[Jerec Asyr]

This one requires glory as well. To be seen winning." He approached Asyr again. "This, you will provide. In time."

"Sure, bub, that's all fine." Jerec finished pulping a bioform and let the length of railing fall with a comprehensive thunk. It rattled down the stands and arced out over the lava. "Consider it done. Look around. Know how many cameras are here?"

The stands were huge. The chaos of the attack and the bombardment were relatively small in comparison, and what was death against the draw of watching Round Two? This whole area, one of the worst, was a lot more manageable now Some were sitting down.

He sat on down in his ringside seat. It squished.

"You're on the news or will be. Slaughtered your way to history. Saved the whole galaxy from the meatloaf."

 

[Xeykard]

"Glory for the weak," he gestured at the dead. How typical for a criminal to think so small. Fortuitous for his own plans. Yet still, a grain of truth. "One must start somewhere."

He returned his saber to his belt, and started away. "This one will be in touch. Until the next."

Jerec Asyr ​

 

[Alcariel]

"Sael. Say-elle... Hmm. I like it. Reminds me of some kind of flower."

Amber eyes blinked and she felt a flash of a foreign emotion sting her cheeks. Never had she been likened to anything that could be found wanted — a flower was a beautiful thing, natural, fragrant, and used to brighten up spaces, to draw delight to the eye and senses. She'd always hated her name. But this might have been the first time she found herself disliking it not quite so strongly.

Smoothly, he interjected himself into her work. It felt foreign in the way she hadn't shared mental space before, and found great discomfort in someone's machinations plucking along the threads of the net she'd stitched together — but he was as unobtrusive as he was swift. In less than half the time it had taken her, a chorus broke out, fists banging on whatever surface they could; action and voice harmonized in praise.

She felt another emotion roil in her belly — but this one, she knew. Envy. He was stronger than she was. Almost eloquent about the way he worked. And..inebriated too! She still felt stiff, and focused.

Mercy . Of course, it would be her."

"You know of Mercy?"

She might have asked more, had a nearby section not exploded with violence, fear and death. Anger poured from the sky, incinerating a moat around a protected area. Sael faltered, felt her hold on things become tenuous and wobble. And then, just as they'd roared out, the screams had quieted to coughing, to groans, to the wet, ugly sound of someone trying to keep their own blood inside.

Her eyes glassed over—feeling.

The panic warped, and spun itself into something brittle and vibrating just beneath the surface. She moved quickly, threading it into something useful. Gently, carefully, she wove fear into awe. Pain into loyalty. People were always looking for a reason not to collapse. And then, perfectly timed, Mercy's personality gave them that reason:

"I just wanted a real fight. Flesh and bone. Meat against meat. But I am stuck fighting a toaster and a coward. Where is the justice in that?"

A ripple.

Sael felt it break the tension in the crowd. Not completely. Not cleanly. But the laughter in Mercy's voice struck something raw in the people around her—something envious, admiring, hungry — ravenous, even. They wanted to laugh like that! They wanted to stand like that! Especially now as the world fell apart and so many fellow attendees turned to corpses. In this moment, Sael was particularly grateful that Mercy had managed to get her an elevated box seat, safe from below.

Their emotions flooded her.
A man clutching a crushed arm, whispering: "She's still going?"
A woman, half-burned, mouthing: "She's laughing?"
Another, on their knees: "What is she made of?"

____________________________________________________________
Isar du Vain
____________________________________________________________
​

 

[Isar du Vain]

The corner of his lips turned up as he felt those flickers of emotion from her. Most Zeltrons might seem them as spots of color, or scents. Isar, hopped up on all this glitterstim, felt every little noradrenal rush, every pulse of serotonin, every flush of dopamine - clear as crystal. So visible in the throes of his half-hallucination that he felt he could reach out and feel their texture. Buried beneath layers of anxious trepidation, confusion, and outright fear, he could sense the outlines of an unspoken need coiled within her. A want to be wanted.

Doesn't everyone, love.

A small frown pinched his brows together and he pursed his lips as he felt that other need in her mix with something else, a jealousy welling up within, a thick, green acidity.

And sometimes we just want.

A streak of light crashed into the stadium, so bright it dazzled Isar's eyes and he had to blink rapidly to try to clear his vision. It was followed by a slew of more blindingly bright bolts of red, enormous and sizzling. He heard the crackle as they burnt down through atmosphere and then the world shook around him BOOM, BA BOOM BOOM BOOM. The stands opposite them near the skybox blew to pieces, flames roaring high and bodies everywhere.

"What the hells?" He muttered.

More screaming in the middle of the crowd, figures fighting - he caught the glimpse of lightsabers as his vision cleared.

"Huh."

He braced himself for another chorus of cannon fire from orbit, but nothing followed. And after the initial screaming, matters started to quiet down fairly quickly.

But throughout the panic and the chaos, Sael had managed to maintain her focus on the web - despite the agony of the crowd. No. Because of the agony. He saw now how she drew on it to feed those emotions.

He caught sight of a figure tottering, half their body charred away. They wouldn't last long. Isar watched them stumble. Fall. He could feel their pain. The tattooed Zeltron grimaced.

"Damn."

Reaching out, he gave the poor sod some last measure of peace, wading deep through their agony until he could find the threads of memories and pull them out, pushing away their pain and immersing them in a happy moment. Something about their childhood and an old rope swing, he didn't really pay much attention to it. They died a few seconds later.

Meaningless.

Isar took a long drink from the bottle - he'd just survived potential obliteration by orbital strike after all. When he finished, he nodded, wiping the back of a hand across his mouth.

Isar sighed, turning back to Alcariel .

"You hung onto all of that through this? And you fed it too. You've got real talent," he nodded, more to himself, "Aye I know Mercy, me and her go back some. Worked a few jobs. What are you doing running with her, she's a sledgehammer, and you, love, you're an artist."

 

[Lucette]

Lucette sat quietly in her private suite, the soft glow of holoscreens illuminating the room. Each display tracked a different bout across the Kaggath arenas, but her gaze remained firmly fixed on the troopers—her troopers. The ones her grandmother's apprentice had spoken of so highly. The ones she hoped would one day become caretakers for the creatures she had so painstakingly crafted—beings that, in truth, still required far more field data.

But her thoughts drifted from the battles to the figure beside her. Viers.

Viers had expressed a desire to enter the Kaggath herself, a thought that filled Lucette with unease. She doubted Viers fully grasped what a Kaggath entailed. It was no mere tournament. It was life and death. Titles. Possessions. Entire legacies wagered and burned for the sake of supremacy. And Viers—sweet, ridiculous, beloved Viers—did not belong in the maw of such savagery.

"Viers," Lucette said softly, her tone measured but sincere, "Kaggaths are not to be taken lightly."

She paused, choosing her words with care.

"If you lose, you lose everything. You shan't wake to eat another steak, nor to argue over what snack we'll share next. You will lose your possessions… and if you lose your life, then I shall wake to a world where there is no you."

She rose and crossed the room, her movements quiet as moonlight, until she stood before the Corellian. Gently, she cupped Viers' cheek in her palm, thumb brushing across familiar skin.

"And that, my darling, is a thought I don't believe either of us cares to dwell on."

Turning her attention back to the monitors, Lucette tilted her head slightly, observing the tactical readouts with a measured eye. "And as it stands," she murmured, "I must consider what interventions are necessary to ensure that CT-312 and her compatriot advance to the next round."

Her gaze lingered for a moment longer, fingers resting lightly against her chin. Arris Windrun flickered across another screen. There was something curious there—perhaps potential, perhaps something else. Lucette wasn't quite sure, but it stirred a faint intrigue all the same.

She lowered herself gracefully into her seat, the datapad sliding effortlessly into her lap as she composed her next message with deliberate care. The light of the screen danced against her features as she tapped out a missive to her grandmother.

Grandmother, I must call upon your aid once more. We must see to CT-312 and her comrade, Jacen Breska's, advancement through the tournament. Do consider what levers we might pull to ensure our investments are not wasted. A discreet bribe to the appropriate officials should suffice—just enough to tip the scales without drawing undue attention. Taeli Raaf ​

She read the message once over before pressing send, then set the device aside with a soft sigh.

"Really, if we are to play this game," she said to no one in particular, "we may as well win it with grace."

[sorry for the late response! Viers Connory and mentions CT-312 Jacen Breska and Arris Windrun ]

 

[Alcariel]

​

The sod Isar cradled into the afterlife was a tertiary glimmer in Sael's net. Amidst all the dark threads, thick with unsavoury emotions and all rooted in fear, he made one appear lighter. Dreamier.

A wave of disorientation washed through her. If someone other than Mercy had found her in those slave pits, all afraid and cowardice, trembling beneath the burden of newfound power, would she have found a way to absolve people of their fears rather than manipulating them the way she had been so encouraged to now? The thought was brief, barely half a millisecond, before she stamped it out. That way did not give her power.

And, nor did it seem to give Isar any satisfaction either. She could tell by the slight shift in his own impression in her net; like he was just disappointed more than anything. He was hard to read though, harder than any of the slaves of plebs she'd encountered and controlled thus far. He glittered. Moved too quickly for fear to settle outright, but she could feel the shimmer of it somewhere deeper. Something small and quiet, coiled like a hibernating animal in his chest. She knew that animal — it was the one that feasted on her weaving, the one that had awoken one night and learned to breathe through her now. But there was a structure to him. A patterned one, messy, and colourful.

Isar carried threads wound back on themselves, frayed and doubled over, some tied in sharp little knots that pulsed with sensation when she brushed too near. He wasn't just emotions flaring bright in the moment; he was a web of context. A lattice.

Every flicker of charm, every offhand grin, every strange act of mercy—it all lived somewhere on that framework. A net woven through space and time, anchored not just in his own memories but in the ones he might share with others: jokes traded, jobs botched, glories earned and forgotten. The kind of threads that reached back, not just through his past, but into hers, too. Into the universal ache of anyone who'd ever tried to out-charm the pit they'd grown up in. She recognized several faces in it, but still did not understand.

She could feel him threading the past forward into imagined futures, rolling possibilities between his fingers like dice he knew were always loaded. Each connection, each emotion, passed through that lattice: a net of conundrums, of pauses between the punchlines, of shadows and soft places where things were never said but always felt.

And this lattice—it gave his presence a kind of dark awareness. Aware that things break. That people leave. That love is often not enough.

Heavily, she exhaled, and let a judder roll through her after her brief assessment. He was undoubtedly more complex than any subject so far. Layered, complicated and interesting.

"She saved me from a life of slavery." Sael spoke plainly, but felt herself warm at the compliment. "I owe her my gratitude. It is her that is encouraging me to embrace...this art.." The word sat oddly on her tongue. This did not feel like art. It felt damning. It felt like every horrible, torrid thing that crept into her dreams at night and stole peaceful slumber from her.

She admitted as much: "It does not feel like art." Folding her hands on her lap but keeping her fingers stiff — like a spider waiting to strike out. "It feels like a curse. Do you not feel that? You're an artist too by display."

____________________________________________________________
Isar du Vain
____________________________________________________________
​

 

[Amara Zambrano]

She'd been preoccupied with some minor squabbles over the holonet when the announcement had came and passed regarding winners and losers of the first round. It wasn't clear what might've preoccupied her time to the extent that she wasn't clearly paying attention enough to have realized that the second round had already started - though she did seem to be eyeing any meager information she could find on Taregh Garon on the 'net via the datapad she was holding. Eventually, however, whatever it was that had preoccupied her time drew her attention away fully from the Kaggath, or at least the second round, because she abruptly stood up and seemed to pull a double take at down at the arena and then back at her screen.

"Well this is going to be awkward."

She sank back into her seat, wondering how to broach the subject she'd told her mother she'd be offering to all of the first round eliminations with the man that'd literally held her by the throat to a tree only a week back. It wasn't that she was bothered by the idea of giving something as a sort-of condolence in losing, otherwise she wouldn't have been planning on doing it for anyone at all, rather because it made things a bit difficult in keeping her would-be bounty hunter from knocking at her door for some more answers than she felt safe giving to anyone that wasn't willing to look the other way at her being the daughter of her parents.

'Feth it.'

She thumbed something on-screen, a button of some kind, which brought her to the messaging application that'd allow her to send messages via text rather than needing to offer a call. They could talk, eventually, but this felt like a more comfortable approach than the alternatives. She'd nearly sent the message to someone who could arrange pulling contact information from the organizers when orbital bombardment happened. That's what that was, right? A flash of light, a lot of heat, and she was pretty sure some of the stands opposite her own were vaporized at the same time. "Kark." Amara said, already back on her feet. Whether or not things would escalate further didn't really matter at this point, she knew what Darth Prazutis would say if he knew what had just happened - what both of her parents, really, were probably already in the process of getting ready to tell her - get to safety.

Unfortunately there wasn't anything safe about this Kaggath, not that she had really taken that possibility seriously before, at least not with someone willing to kill someone in the middle of something so publicly covered as if it didn't even make a difference. That, and she saw a message come in from someone who'd seen her social media coverage of the event point out a bounty posted on the heads of the organizers from some banking group. There were some people, as she made her way up the stands, that seemed to have a similar idea to her, or at least weren't interested in staying to see what might happen next, though she doubted any of them were as concerned of being scolded and punished as they were afraid of possibly being next to die.

"Hey, mom, dad, I'm sure you've probably seen what all has been going on with this whole Kaggath tournament thing and I just wanted to let you both know early that I was getting out of here now so I don't worry you later if something else happened. Also I wasn't, like, blown up or anything in case that wasn't obvious by me calling and whatever." Amara said, the datapad held at about chest-level in front of her while she swiftly walked towards an exit, to both Ellie Mors and Darth Prazutis who'd be receiving her message as a nifty little holo-recording with video of her attached from the chest-up. She still planned to get ahold of the people who'd been knocked out of the first round, and maybe she'd catch some live footage of the tournament on the holonet when she was out of there, but unfortunately her parents were more than capable of crossing literal heaven and earth to make sure she both wasn't dead and was berated for getting herself hurt if she stayed around to watch the rest of the fights. A brief message, in text as she'd planned, would eventually be sent to one Mauve du Vain 's inbox requesting any available contact details the first-round losers had with some context behind why she wanted them along with her own contact details as well as her mother's - Braith would probably want to know who all her daughter was offering up services to.

Unfortunately that was the last contact Amara had with anyone that day - she never made it home that night, though she certainly hadn't stayed behind to watch the rest of the tournament unfold either - it was as if she vanished shortly after without a trace.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Darth Malum of House Marr
Mention: Sibylla Abrantes

​

​

The crimson depths of Malum's gaze held him steady. Even if he had not caught the shifts in the Sith's posture, he would have sensed it in the way the Force around them resonated with a deep, pulsing hum that cut through the rising tension of the stadium. The Dark Councilor’s voice held patience, suggesting guidance, rather than domination.

Around them, the hiss of release whispered through the air, and to Lysander, the boy from Ukatis who had recently lost more of his family, this was not a threat. It was trust.. the kind that was unbreakable, running as deep as the scars etched into his very soul.

When their foreheads met, it was a bridge of blood and legacy sparked between them. More than just proximity, it was quiet acknowledgment that flowed deeper than words ever could. The Force thrummed louder, a living pulse vibrating through their bloodline. Combined with the undercurrents of adrenaline before the match, he felt charged with power never savored until now.

The weight of the Kaggath pressed upon the teen's chest; yet he knew he could wield it with the control of a master, as long as the storm within did not cloud his judgement when he stepped into the arena.

Though determined, he didn't raise his voice. “You weren’t there at the start. But you didn't need to be. No one carved this fire into me. I lit it myself.”

Two fingers hovered for a breath over the amulet, before brushing its surface. Surrendering to instinct, his entire hand closed over it, bracing for what was to come.

Through another set of eyes, he began witnessing a vision that was not his. It was strange.. a strange clarity born of when only death was promised. Flashes cut through his mind: fallen apprentices, broken alliances, a domino effect by one single choice. Before him, a hand rose. The currents around them screamed, but where he stood, he did not bow. And then, there was nothingness.

When Lysander returned to himself, his cousin's presence anchored him, grounding him in the present. In the mind's eye, a final revelation was delivered. It was a painful truth that he could no longer deny.

I was not built to survive. I was built to endure..

Rise, Marr.

Within, something softened; though, not a weakness, but silk wrapped around sharp steel. The boy’s gaze held reverence now, the kind so often reserved for an older sibling, a living compass to guide him through the darkness that lay ahead now.

Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and inhaled not just air, but the essence of the one who had become a part of him. Sibylla. But it was not just breath; it was the memories, the promises, the truth that she was part of his being. The girl who had transcended more than a mere chapter in his story, for she was the ink that stained every page. Each heartbeat was a vow never spoken aloud. Since their holocall earlier that week, her name had become a whispered prayer on his lips, asking the stars to finally return what he once believed lost.

Wherever you are, I’ll keep you safe.

..Even from what I become.

Finally, the acolyte's focus returned to Malum, steady. "I choose you," he breathed, quietly. Rather than a plea, it was a promise. "As I choose our name. You're my family. And if I have to burn for you, I will."

 

[Isar du Vain]

She admitted as much: "It does not feel like art." Folding her hands on her lap but keeping her fingers stiff — like a spider waiting to strike out. "It feels like a curse. Do you not feel that? You're an artist too by display."

"Eh?" his lips quirked. An artist, yeah. Yeah, that's what he was. "All the great ones are, y'know. Cursed. How many painters you know that weren't touched in the head? Busted up somewhat. Cracked mirrors."

He looked down, saw the body of the burned man again. The smile flickered and died.

"Art's pain. Expression. People with rightwise minds, with small emotions. No vision. Can't see the beauty in cracked mirrors. Don't feel the depths of what you and I can feel. They swim in shallow water their whole life, too afraid of the deeps," he sucked in another lungful of glitterstim and held it for a moment, then exhaled - blowing out existential dread along with the smoke, "Only in the deeps you ever truly feel alive, though, isn't it."

He left out the important bit.

The bit about not being able to feel unless he tread those darker oceans.

Shitty thing about drugs, that. Peaks always had their valleys. And the Dark Side was the best drug of them all.

Isar sniffed dismissively and stared up into the sky, half-expecting another orbital barrage, "Anyway, slavery, huh. Bad spot. Your whole life, was it?... Nah, don't let me pry. Guess I'd do Mercy's every bidding too if she did that for me."

One eye slide sideways toward her. "Not sure she can teach you much about this though. She exclusively paints with her fists."

Alcariel

 

[Tilon Quill]

Once the dust settled and the death ended in the stands, Tilon had no taste for entertainment. Seeking a way away from the stench of blood, he went into a place that was no better: the blackened and half-melted stands around the base of the skybox. Orbital fire had scorched away both attackers and viewers, and the Force wept here.

Tilon sat on black stairs in ankle-deep ash, deactivated lightsaber in his hand, and watched his friends fight for pride and for their lives. His comm pulsed - Lurkvap saying he was safe, and Tilon pulsed back, so that was something, more than something, one safe person. Two, if Jedi counted.

So, to watch. Arris seemed to be holding her own, but Mercy — granted, he wasn't sure if Mercy would consider him a friend per se. Former work-friend? — Mercy was struggling in that four-way battle. Defiant at least, as ever.

 

[Xeykard]

Shortly before the attacks on the stands, but in a timey-wimey way​

There was one last matter to attend to: he had backing, he had his angle into the Black Sun. What he needed was a particular strength. He had his -- the backing of a Legion, his own skills and instincts. But he could not everywhere at once. He needed tools, those he could wield in extension of himself, ones he could control, for the most part.

A curious target he'd chosen, then, searching for control.

She was already there, a brutal wall of flesh and Sith, standing by the door behind which the fresh bounty-target Mauve sat, alongside the esteemed Kaggath commentators. As a courtesy, two guards had been posted in the room before the skybox, now stacked neatly in the corner. Her purpose was clear. There would be no interruptions.

Xeykard opened his mouth to speak, but decided against it. There was only one language she would understand.

He prepared himself to answer appropriately; stretching his arms and back, cracking his neck. He took his saber in his hand -- then tossed it aside. A pungent darkness filled the space between them. They bathed in it for a moment, then Xeykard granted her wish.

Two long steps closed the distance, one more into a jab like a blaster bolt, then a hook like a turbolaser.

Mercy ​

 

[Velok Brokentusk]

VELOK BROKENTUSK
BOUNTY HUNTING LICENSE #006
SEEKING: 5M UC/ Mauve du Vain
TOGGLE: Verified

Velok came up scorched stairs into the stands, which were gigantic. To his left, they curved around, packed with viewers and splotched with recently passed carnage. To his right, the stands were black and warped around the base of the skybox. Ahead, the kaggath's second round was well underway.

He gripped the lapels of his titanic trenchcoat and breathed deep. He could almost taste this thick noise. He could taste recent massacre and sulphurous lava and a huge burned tree and the seething power of the Valley of the Jedi bedrock. That was very much a new experience, that last one. All the rest was too familiar. Bad old days and old exhilaration.

On the tiny human stairs, a blood-soaked stretch, he squatted and brought out a handful of carved black-painted knucklebones. They rattled on the bloody duracrete. They took an opaque configuration. He breathed deep again, touched that bedrock power, and shoved the bones with one huge finger. They skittered wildly, rebounding off the step above, and ricocheted into his cupped palms. The shape that they took then was unmistakable.

He put the bones away, adjusted the strap that slung his Dukaggath Trophy Mauler over his shoulder, and headed for the base of the skybox.

 

[Razmir Tezhyn]

x

The bloodshed—and there had been much of it even outside the arena—had seen its apex come and go. The fights had ended, the combat concluded. The broadcast cut to the suspiciously Marka Ragnos looking announcer, covering for Razmir on the announcer's podium.

"This is RARKA MAGNOS For the FIRST GALACTIC KAGGATH TOURNAMENT. The Powers That Be have sent word, their dealings behind closed doors have concluded, and we are ready to announce

"In the duel of Antar VS Whottoomuzz Chantin

Spoiler

"In the duel of Delsin Shaw VS Fenn Stag

Spoiler

"In the four-way duel of Mercy VS Jacen Breska VS Koda Fett vs 5-WCH (Switchblade)

Spoiler

"In the duel of Kyric VS Phaelissia

Spoiler

"In the duel of—oh it became a SECOND four-way? Well, in the fight between VIRELIA VS CT VS MALUM VS ALLYSON..."

A stage-hand interrupted the announcement by quickly moving into view of the camera. He came with a sealed envelope in hand which he handed off to the announcer, only to disappear a moment later. The announcer calmly opened the envelope, glanced at it once to read its contents, then proceeded with the winners.

"In the duel of Darth Virelia VS CT-312 VS Darth Malum of House Marr VS Allyson Locke , the match was ruled in favour of...

Spoiler

Only one name...

Spoiler

"And in the duel of Drystan Creed VS Arris Windrun ," the announcer gave a glance towards the executive's box.

Spoiler

A joint advancement has been authorized. Both proceed.

The not-Marka Ragnos announcer took a beat, then flipped back to the expected program. He grinned deviously into the camera, raising his hands up high as though in some ritual.

"THUS THE KAGGATH GOES INTO ITS THIRD ROUND. EIGHT WARRIORS REMAIN, BUT ONLY ONE WILL TAKE IT ALL. BEWARE BEFORE YOU SWITCH THE CHANNEL, FOR THE BRACKET ANNOUNCEMENTS SHALL SOON FOLLOW!"

 

[Fenn Stag]

: " "

(you will not wake up from this)
➥VICTORY
(is a slow bleeding)

Fenn stumbled into the medical treatment area, breathing raggedly. His armor was peeled off. He was the first of the contestants to be treated.

─┼┼┼┼─┼┼┼┼─┼┼┼┼─┼┼┼┼─

W I N N I N G

feels like a bruise
like a fracture
like Preliat
—pee-ring his voice
THROUGH MY
SKULL ​

Every win is fermented with violence,
every loss soaked in self-hate.
He blinks.
Preliat blinks back.

Preliat wasn't there. Preliat wasn't real. He was going insane. Leftover frontal lobe damage from the fevers and virus. He wasn't insane. Just his mind wasn't right. Right?

He screamed as the droids and personnel started to treat him. He didn't know how much time he had until the next match. He knew that the jetpack was fried- it would take a considerable amount of time to fix, time that he did not have. He breathed raggedly. The stab through his stomach was the first to be treated, his minor burns and wounds next.

His gear was the next item to consider. A broken helmet. Scratched armor. Broken jetpack. He was losing gear, he was losing the edge he started with. He hadn't considered what to strip his opponent of. The Beskar'gam came to mind, and he would take it not as a trophy, but to return to the Mandalorians. Everything else was incidental- Delsin Shaw could keep his energy sword and blaster. He had no use for them, and to deprive his opponent of his weaponry seemed... unsporting, if not dishonorable.

Fenn rolled onto his side, grunting as they removed his armor, patching him up.

The Black Suns treated their people well when they performed well, at least. He grit his teeth, as they wiped blood, soot, sweat and treated the wounds he received. He hoped there'd be some time to recover, some time to recuperate. He had a lot to recover from. He wondered for a moment- who thought to poison his opponent. He wondered to thank them or curse them. They, after all, in a way, helped him win- but he didn't like the victory outside of his own.

But, lying on a table, a team of medical droids and medics treating him, he considered changing his position. Maybe he would accept help- if offered.

 

[Drystan Creed]

INTERMISSION

Drystan was carted off on a stretcher into his locker room. The damage was substantial, and he had to be placed on life support as his Force reserves waned. Despite this, he was smiling—a grin on his face even as they fitted an oxygen mask over it.

Arris had pushed him to his absolute limit, and by doing so, he found a new strength—a newfound power. But that was what one did when pushed to the brink, no? When approaching the limit of one's capabilities, there were only two choices: break through or die. And he was still here.

Thank you, Arris Windrun ...

He regarded her highly—not just for the thrill of the fight, but for helping him grow yet again.

NEW KATA UNLOCKED: FLOW

But there was something else he left with in that arena.

He'd told himself he didn't care about the outcome. But in those last few seconds, as his body moved on instinct and his vision tunneled around that final strike, he did. He wanted it. Not to learn. Not to grow. To win.

And now, in the silence after, he couldn't pretend otherwise.

It wasn't selfish. It wasn't pride. It was something deeper—a hunger buried beneath discipline. Something primal, yet refined. He did not wish to kill his enemies, but now he wanted to beat them. This was not something he cared for in the earlier rounds, but now... now it was.

Dark eyes widened as he stood, tapping into the Force nexus beneath the arena floor.

He would use it now—something he had restrained himself from doing. And it would not be the last time.

Slowly, as he began to synchronize with the wellspring of power, his wounds began to heal. The metal slug lodged in his chest clattered to the floor as muscle, skin, and bone began to regenerate and reform.

Drystan's healing capabilities were middling at best, even by knight standards. But now, amplified by this nexus, returning to pristine condition was trivial.

Yet his desire to win did not end there. He smiled to himself, shaking his head in quiet embarrassment.

"I am still a novice."

His mastery of both Force and body had a long way to go. He needed to make some calls—and retrieve his gear.

He had entered the tournament with the mind of a warrior.

Now it was time to return as a Shadow.

EQUIPPING STANDARD LOADOUT