The Kaggath

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(Open to watch ICly. Please do not interfere.)


Cyril had been tracking [member="Darth Arcis"] for quite some time. He had a personal grudge against the Sith Lord, though that was not the reason he had managed to come to Coruscant. It was through countless favors and a number of well placed lies that he even managed to arrive in system.

His father had spoken to him on Dromund Kass. Of destiny and greater callings, along with a number of other little contrivances. He had denied what was rightfully his, and the galaxy had suffered for it. The former Jedi Master would not allow his own reservations to keep him from his duties any long.

The message had been sent the moment he arrived in-system. Arcis's 501st Legion patrolled the planet's cities; his fleet the skies. Cyril wagered everything on the aging Sith Lord's pride, and perhaps, a vague sense of honor.

"Darth Arcis," the message came in audible form only, "My name is Cyril Grayson. I led the rebel cell your legion crushed on Balmorra. Your attack slaughtered men I fought alongside for ten years. It took the life of the woman that I loved."

Cyril paused.

"Your former colleague, Darth Vulcanus, trained me in the ways of the Sith. When the time came, I took his life. Afterword, I forsook my titles. That was a mistake."

Another pause.

"I challenge you to a Kaggath: for your titles, your fleet, your holdings, and the men you have led in exchange for those you took from me. I've no power base to tackle your own, but I do have my own martial skill. My master always respected you as a warrior of tradition."

Cyril's heart felt like it was about to explode. Never before had he done something so reckless, so stupid. He had played to Arcis' sense of honor. The Force only knew if he would see any kind of success.

"The battle will be held aboard your Star Destroyer, and shall be to the death, as per tradition. I await your reply."

 

[Darth Arcis]

It had been years since old Dranok Lussk had seen the field of battle. Decades had been spent tirelessly searching for something, someone of importance that meant so much to the old man. Man. No, he was no longer one of those innocent and naive creatures. His former body had been slain and presented to the very things he now served as an offering. It was a tithe in blood, and in return he was granted access to every single tradition and power afforded by those of the Old Way. The True path.

His fleet, numbering a dozen Star Destroyers including his own flagship, had puttered about the galaxy. Ties to planetary governments had been made and their little business of ensuring order had provided enough funding and resources to prevent his men from deserting him. They had turned these old ships into homes, started families, lived their lives in relative comfort and peace.

But even they knew the peace had to end some day. So when Lord Arcis was summoned to the bridge for something unbearably important, they all knew what it meant. War.

Darth Arcis was no savage like the rest of his kind. He was a noble, someone with an excess of honor, courage, and virtue. This claim his opponent had made and his supporting evidence was double checked through partial archives, and confirmed.

"I accept."

[member="Darth Mephirium"]

 

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The words were enough.

Cyril wasted no time in directing his shuttle toward Arcis' capital ship. The flight control allowed him to land unmolested. Their lord had accepted a challenge of honor. They would not dare stand in the way of his orders. The errant Jedi Master had no shame as he strolled down the gangplank, shoulders back, head held high. He did not have the experience of [member="Darth Arcis"], but he could command the same kind of presence if he felt the need.

Two stormtroopers led him down the many unfamiliar corridors of the Star Destroyer to the bridge. There Arcis awaited; there waited the Kaggath. Cyril made no attempts to center himself in preparation. Instead, he let himself simmer, the resentment he held for the Sith Lord burning in his gut. He managed to quell his rage for a the time being, to contain it within himself, but this was something he had yearned for. Arcis had brought about the destruction of the Peacekeepers, men and women who Cyril had spent a decade fighting alongside.

Then there was his love.

The disdain spilled over.

By the time Cyril arrived on the bridge, he was ensconced in an aura of depravity. His lips were pressed into a thin line, his eyes shifting around with a baleful gaze toward any of the deck officers that dared meet them.

Then he saw him, the all-too-familiar figure.

"It is commendable for you to accept my challenge, Darth Arcis," the younger of the two bowed forward in legitimate respect, "I can't lie; I've dreamed of this moment since Balmorra."

He had come armed with a single lightsaber. He wore no armor, instead opting for the simple robes the seamstresses on Ession had prepared for him. If he was to succeed without any shadow of a doubt, he could have no advantages over the powerful Sith Lord.

"Do you have any terms?"

 

[Darth Arcis]

Preparations had began immediately. Stormtrooper legions rose and dusted off weapons, crewmen charged the primary batteries, and officers beholding decades of service barked orders louder than ever. It had been so long since full scale war had been part of their lives. Much of their time had been spent training, peacekeeping, and otherwise training for that one day when they would be summoned to take up arms once again.

As for that old Sith King, he bore nothing other than simple durasteel armor coated in bronzium. It was a simple little garment of kingly regale that bore no real protection save for glancing blows. Then came his saber, dual-bladed and clasped upon the belt around his waist. And finally came his greatest weapon and tool of them all; the Force. His ally, his friend, and his tool.

A small escort was dispatched to greet his new guest, and the Sith Lord proceeded to meet him himself.

"Terms?" The Lord scratched his chin, and pondered the thought. "None. Just keep collateral damage to a minimum, and I'll do my best to kill you as painlessly as possible."

No hate, no malice. Sheer focus.

[member="Darth Mephirium"]

 

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"And I you.

Cyril rose up to his full height and regarded the Sith Lord. Arcis was a being of power, a warrior that commanded the respect of his men. The man who would call himself Mephirium could not allow himself to be undercut by the older Sith Lord. He needed to become every bit the commander that Arcis was if he truly wished to lead these men into battle.

He would not have come here if he felt he could not.

His hand fell to his lightsaber. The weapon hissed as it came to life, its bright cyan blade bathing its wielder in a sea of blue. Cyril held it down to his side, slowly approaching Arcis as he took in their surroundings. The bridge had a relatively open area. It would serve well as an arena.

His gaze locked upon Arcis. So far as he was concerned, the Kaggath had begun. With little hesitation, he brought his blade up high, and let it fall toward the Sith Lord's shoulder. His disdain for the Lord drove him: the outrage, the pain, the loss, all of it was channeled into his opening strike. The Dark Side swirled around him like a vortex. It guided his hands; thundered through his veins. His brow furrowed with deadly focus. A savage roar tore itself from the back of his throat at the blade's greatest height.

Arcis had started this on Balmorra. Darth Mephirium would finish it.

[member="Darth Arcis"]

 

[Darth Arcis]

While rage and malice seeped from the core of the man before him, there was nothing but peace and calmness within Dranok's heart. He was too old for this, too worn and weary from years upon years of searching. It was an endless cycle that hadn't bore fruit in over thirty standard years, when the trail went cold and so did his heart.

The bronze armor felt cool against his crimson skin, and gleaming yellow eyes peered from beneath his steep crown. Facial tendrils retracted into a half-snarl as he reached for his own saber. Both sides ignited with a passionless silver beauty, illuminating his own features with a hue of both royal glory and the dullness of a man well beyond his years. Wrinkles folded his flesh, scars marred his muscles, and tired bags made his whole frame droop.

But there was that unmistakeable stance of nobility and honor that hoisted up such a worn body. His shoulders remained parallel with the ground, chest proudly presented, and chin held high.

Soresu, the defensive art, would serve him well, especially with a cyan blade zeroing in to flay him in two. His own silver blade rose to meet it, sparks flying.

[member="Darth Mephirium"]

 

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The blades clashed, and Mephirium grit his teeth. He had been hoping to simply cleave through Arcis and end the battle before it truly began. It seemed that would not be the case. His blade remained locked with the Lord's for a moment, his muscles straining to push back the Pureblood. The man would not budge. Mephirium bit back a curse.

He pulled back then, just long enough to regain his bearings.

"I am going to usher the Sith into a new age Arcis!" His blade rose once again, "I promise you, we will live up to what we once were. I know of your legend. We agree on many things."

He let the force guide his hand. In the past, he had relied upon the power of Vaapad to overcome his enemies. Now, he called upon it in a different way, letting it feed off his own outrage. His blade was a blur as it span toward Arcis, striking out at whatever he perceived to be a weak spot. Arcis was a master of Soresu. Mephirium was keen to simply test his defenses for now.

"Fall, and I will restore all that has been lost."

[member="Darth Arcis"]