The Malachor Tournament: THE DARK LORDS!!!

[Darth Voracitos]

Refer to OOC Thread​

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Spoiler

Participants: @Christain Slade, [member="Mikhail Shorn"], [member="Darth Vulcanus"], [member="Darth Janus"], [member="Nemene Talith"], [member="Jared Ovmar"], [member="The Shadow"], @Anyone I missed​

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MALACHOR V- THE GALAXIES HELL​

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Malachor V is a planet resonating with the dark side, with unstable gravity, and wreckage all around. The planet was attempt to be restored by the New Galaxy Rebuilding Plan coalition, but was soon abandoned due to the connotation of its rise, due to the common belief it was one of many hells in the galaxy. It was left a shattered world, but held a ground still capable of holding the vicious storm beasts.


Voracitos came here, and decided it was the perfect arena for the Champion-to-be. How he fat git came upon this idea would be elaborated later, as he was not sure yet himself of what he had experienced. But the whispering's were real, and they were clear to him that this needed doing. A crater was blasted into the planets side, and a crude ring was made around it, to contain the soon to be brawl. The huge Girth of Gluttony, and many other flagships that had been garnered in the participants on the planet's surface, hailing from the League's forces, the New Order, and maybe even skeptical orders as the One Sith or even the Horde's Sith Order. All came to the call of Malachor for one Hell of a fight.


All of them would fight each other to the last two persons, in a massive free-for-all, for his personal amusement. There would be bets taking place, and watchers. All of this hype in part thanks to the Cauldron Sister who helped to sponsor it. The two victors of each rank would then duel each other, for the right to ascend... but only the Duel of the Dark Lords mattered, as one of those two Champions-to-be would be the one to toss Voracitos aside and take the spot light as the Ear of the Entity.


That's what he told them of course, whether or not they are strong enough, can only be told in the arena.


Now the fight was in order, it was time for bloodshed! The fat man appeared on a thousand crude holoscreens all around, and the sounds he made reverberated through the whole thing due to the lack of people directly watching (having front row seats on hell wasn't very appealing unfortunately for Voracitos). There were a number of individuals in there.... he so desperately wanted to watch them all die, since if one survived, it would be his undoing, and a real burst of his entertainment bubble.


"No lengthy announcements needed..." His rumbling voice echoed throughout the stormy silent hell, with thousands of ships watching from above, including his own, which appeared as a small moon in comparison to the others. The all watching eye above. To make the announcement, he decided he would appear in a large spiritual form in the center to give them an idea of what real power was. His huge form not really touching anything looked at each as the next announcement built up. His spirit flared into a bloody red entity with teeth and crazy eyes, his smile seeming to cut through his face, as the word was screeched everywhere at once like a banshee.


"KILL!"

 

[Christian Slade]

Zeltros
The Red Dragon Casino

Christian had been hailed by an unnamed source, by a messenger without a face. There was only a letter left on the front desk in the lobby of the Red Dragon resort addressed to "Mr. Slade". A letter he wasn't prepared to receive that day, knowing that his expansion plans for Corellia were to begin that very day. Many of the supplies he would need and a healthy portion of his construction team had been preparing for months to make the move to Corellia in order to set up a brand new Casino on the planet so he could draw some attention there. He would then begin edging out competition and buy up their Casinos when things grew stale for them, but someone seemed to think that the contents of that letter was much more important than his business plans.

Opening the letter and unfolding it across his desk, Christian read the Old Sith etchings with a serious look upon his face. His eyes narrowed further and further as he read it down to the very last word, his head finally rising up and glancing across the wide open, dark room. His golden eyes glowed with a certain glare that they hadn't carried in them in quite some time. It was an excited, but alert look on his face, lips only just barely parting open as he took on the realization that what he'd been waiting for all the years of his life was finally coming to pass. The Sith were coming together, and the most powerful of their kind had been nominated to take part in an event. They needed a Champion to lead them, and Christian's name had been called to partake in the event as a possible leader of men and god among the Sith. He was one of the strongest Sith Lords in the entire galaxy, and certainly if he was not the youngest he was at the very least among them as well. It was his moment to rise to the challenge that had been offered to him in order to see if he was what the Sith needed in order to take back control of the Galaxy again.

Rising from his seat and circling his desk, Christian reached out and pulled a long coat from the top of a chair, his other hand reaching out and and plucking his comm off the table sitting in the middle of the room. He then made his way across the room in the direction of the lift in the far side as he lifted the comm to his mouth. [member="Alicia Drey"] "Hello, beautiful... You should come to Malachor tomorrow. I might die, but if I don't, I'll lead the Sith to their most glorious of moments.", he whispered as he stepped into the lift and turned to look out across his dark office one last time. A smirk spread across his face only a second before the lift doors clapped shut and he was gone.

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24 hours later​

Malachor V
The Arena

The atmosphere of Malachor was harsh and the planet was practically imploding on itself, barely stable enough to support life of any sort. From the looks of it, and from what research he'd done about the planet, it looked about like it could begin caving in on itself at any moment, but for some reason the planet survived. This was on Christian's mind as he sat in a cool, damp chamber in the arena that had been created for the event. His golden eyes watched his half full glass of honey licked whiskey in his hand, a couple of cubes of ice spinning through the liquid and clinking against the outer edges of the glass as he gently flicked his hand to keep it swirling. He had to work a little harder to keep those cubes spinning on a planet like Malachor considering it's unstable atmosphere. The gravity was already playing at the form of the light brown liquid as Christian used small traces of the force to keep it in it's rightful place.

Those golden eyes watched for a long time, entranced by the flowing movement of the ice, his mind, body and force essence growing used to the atmosphere of Malachor. He grew close to it in a way so that his body could feel at home on the planet. He was opening up to the planet, letting it's dark influence meld into his very essence, and in those final few moments before blood would be spilled he began to devour every ounce of darkness he could hold in him like a glutton. Slowly veins began to stand on end on either side of his eyes and across his nose, soon larger veins began to swell on his neck and arms as pin pricks began to well up within his eyes. Like blood seeping from a vessel, hundreds of tiny, crimson dots began forming in the beautiful golden eyes he had until that once brilliant color to his eye had been choked out completely.

"It's time.", a young Sith said who stood in the doorway of his chamber. Turning to see the young man, Christian's eyes were now blood black and ripe with malicious intent, the wrinkles across the bridge of his nose forming one by one as he practically growled at the man. It must have been startling, because the young Sith who'd come to warn him of the competition's beginning took a couple of steps back in a fearful manner. The next moment, though, Christian slowly rose, the durasteel plates overlapping from his neck down to the tail of his duster clicking and clacking together as he moved. He looked like a steel scaled beast in that duster, but it was a necessary weight for training purposes and an almost impenetrable armor when used correctly. His best use for the metal stricken duster, however, would be the moment he dropped it off his shoulders and revealed his blinding speed when not hampered by hundreds of pounds of steel.

Stepping out of the chamber, Christian followed the young Sith down a couple of different halls before they reached a gate that lead out to a craterous arena that had been created for the chosen Sith Lords to go to war in. Stopping there, Christian raised his glass of whiskey and downed it to the last drop as his black eyes watched the gates roll up. Stepping out into the arena, the tower of a Sith walked with a confident and powerful stride, his right hand flicking every couple of steps to ping the ice cubes off the edges of the glass he held as if he were bored and trying to distract himself. Stopping and glancing around the arena as the gate slammed shut behind him, Christian smirked and waited for the first man to act. He was brave and powerful and an all encompassing amount of straight bad to the ass, awesome, but he wasn't about to be the first to act. That man would die in the blink of an eye, the fool for all eyes to see.

 

[Darth Ferus]

Malachor V

Darkness. That was all this planet had to offer. This was long after the Era of the one known as Revan. Long after the Sith had used this planet as an academy. It was left for dead, meant to one day crash in on itself, destroy itself and return to the nothingness that it once was. Yet, this day the planet was brimming with life. Once again the planet was a buzz of activity, for the Sith had come once again. From all around the Galaxy they came, herding to one call, the call of power.



Ferus, once known as Krest, came like so many others. A message was sent, a call to herd the Sith to a new era. The Zabrak was far from passing it up. Even as he had opened the initial letter sent to him in his own room, he had began to leave. Without a word the Dark Enforcer had left the systems of the New Order, intent on finding out the truth to this claim. A new listener of the pure raw power of the Darkside. This was certainly something no Lord could pass up.

Through the halls of the Sith Temple of the New Order he had walked, moving right towards the hangar that held his ship. His droid, a limited PROXY unit, was his pilot, programmed to either fly the ship or pretend to be Krest. But with Krest now dead, the droids only usage was to fly. And fly he would. Without a word the droid turned the ship on, bringing the engines of the basic shuttle to life. "Malachor Five." The voice of the Zabrak sounded out once, quick and demanding. No other words were needed, and the droid would only plot a course, setting off to the desolate world.

Amazingly, the trip seemed to be short. Ferus, having gone into a deep meditation, had zoned out through the entirety of the flight. "Preparing to land, master." The droids voice had stirred him from his meditation and the Darth stood slowly, not even bothering to acknowledge the droid. He moved quickly into the cockpit, staring out at the site of the ruined world.

"Take me down, immediately." The droid nodded once before beginning the decent. It was during this landing that Ferus had seen it. The gathering. He approached cautiously, unsure on who would be friend or foe, yet it turned out that all were allies. Shocking, for Sith. As he closed in, his Force signature would shrink, slowly dissipating as he forced the aura smaller and smaller, utilizing his training within Art of the Small. For now, he had no reason for someone to recognize him. Not that he knew many.

Yet he would be greeted almost immediately by a younger Sith. Without a word, the young boy led the Darth to the area. The ring. The crater itself was vast, but more importantly, full of earth. Ground. Rubble. Rocks. A small grin formed on the face of the Zabrak as he already planned out for his own attack. Deus would cackle with life as it changed, it attuning quickly to that of the Earth itself. Here he would have an advantage.

A quick glance would be cast to that of the massive form of [member="Darth Voracitos"] . The large man was indeed imposing, but only through his weight alone. So he was the one to be replaced, by one of the Sith Lords who entered the ring. There was a flash of belief in the man, a mindset where he thought he could win. He, still new to the Mastery of the Force, wouldn't have as much experience as the rest, yet he was still old, versed in the ways of combat. Even if the Force failed him this day, his own skills would not.

At least, so he thought. Under his cloak of Songsteel plated armor he stepped into the ring, pulling the burning blade of his free. The purple flame was smaller, only an illusion now that the blade was attuned to rock, but dust seemed to circle around the blade, seeming to make it sharper. Now in the ring he released his presence, allowing it to fill the ring with his own power. Like a creeping shadow his signature spread over the ring, and his natural attunement to the Force would not be something to underestimate.

For now there was only one other. There was no reason to begin, not until the others came. After all, fighting without knowing what else there was would only lead to his own and his opponents death.

[member="Christian Slade"]

 

[Lord Ghoul]

"What do you mean Voracitos summons me?"

The eyes fixed on the hapless messenger were a pale, cutting blue. Frozen teardrops hanging from a roof. So enchanting to look at, but look too hard and too close and you'll have one less eye.

"Er, the Dark Lord Voracitos, Lord of Gluttony and Bane of the Grave bids you an invitation to the illustrious tournament of-"

"Yeah, yeah, I got it the first time," Mikhail said, rolling his eyes. "Dark Lord? Looks like he's fattening up on more than just food."

"M'lord Shorn," the messenger replied, somewhat frustrated though certainly not scared, his visage displayed in a hologram across from where a raven haired man sat in the lounge of his space yacht, "His eminence doth require a reply from thee."

"It's Mikhail Shorn. No Lords or M'lords. There's too many damn nobles in the galaxy."

"Thro-"

Blue eyes flashed dangerously. "Dead Stars," he swore. "Fine. I'll come to his little gladiatorial pow wow."

"I will convey your acceptance, L-... Shorn."

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Scales clinked as a figure shifted his weight from one foot to the other in the pit, a slightly bored expression on his features. He held a helmet beneath one arm, leaving bare long, dark hair that tangled in an unkempt fashion just past his ears. He wore it away from an angular face, with haunting blue eyes beneath dark, arching eyebrows. Below, a wicked smirk. The features were instantly recognizable as those of Mikhail Shorn, the Thronebreaker. A man who had had temples built to him. A man who had brought Coruscant's Senate Dome crashing down around the Republic's ears. And a man who had, not long ago, already won a galactic-wide tournament to the death. Maybe kids even had posters of him in their rooms. Who knew?

He bore himself with a confidence and ease, waving lazily at Voracitos as the fat, ghostly apparition appeared in the middle of everything and gave the deafening order to kill. Well, thought Shorn, he definitely got points for theatricality.

The Thronebreaker slid his helmet over his head, feeling a familiar rush of panic as it fit snugly into place. (Mikhail Shorn? Claustrophobic? Of course not, that's preposterous!) Despite the fear, Shorn knew the security which armor offered. Reasonable tradeoff, in his mind. He stretched his shoulders back, causing the overlapping Akk-wolf scales to clink grimly against one another. The animal scales were bonded with a stygian-triprismatic polymer that gave the armor its black hue. Gold edged each scale and the helmet's horns vaguely resembled a crown. Shorn thought it looked gaudy. He wasn't in on the design of the armor. He had simply asked the Cauldron sisters to lend the aid of their most skilled alchemist as an additional reward for winning the Cauldron tournament. The alchemist had taken certain liberties with the aesthetics. Not that Mikhail was complaining.

The HUD came online and Mikhail swung his head to and fro, noting where each of his competitors stood. There was Slade and another who he didn't recognize, as well as many others. Slade he knew from the Heralds of Chaos. They had had their run ins before. Though nothing violent, until now. Mikhail knew the guy liked to work with the planet's crust, making big walls of earth explode, or dropping stuff into giant sinkholes. All part of Alter Environment. Shorn expected he could see some of the same. The guy also looked to be wearing a long coat beneath some armor. Mikhail wondered if it was the Cater Coat. Finding out mid-fight that your opponent was wearing Force-resistant leather wouldn't be Shorn's idea of a good duel.

He reached out in the Force and attempted to telekinetically lightly poke a long bit of the material that draped past the knees to see if it would move.

Shorn himself wore Iron Skin beneath his scaled armor. The armorweave fabric was way too much like spandex for his taste, but it would be sure to help stop glancing blows from an energy based weapon. In addition, Mikhail wore AEL's Leviathan Bracers on each hand. He carried no lightsaber, hadn't done that for a long time. The only apparent weapon he bore was a large, downward curving knife in a sheath at his belt. He also wore several pouches, though what was in them was anyone's guess.

Wary of people using illusions or Force Cloaks to skulk about the Pit, Mikhail erected a barrier of telekinesis in a small, bubble projection around his body.

He eyes the opponents, then appealed to Slade's sense of grandiosity. "Let's take care of the rest of these idiots first."

[member="Christian Slade"] [member="Darth Ferus"]

 

[Darth Vulcanus]

[member="Mikhail Shorn"] [member="Darth Ferus"] [member="Christian Slade"]


Crash!


A furious crack of metal on metal echoed off of the dark stone walls, prompting the Graug audience to spit and growl in adrenaline fueled excitement. Bitter smells of dirt and swamp seemed to ooze from their very skin and filled the stadium with a scent seemingly concocted of stale water and rotting meat. More than just this was present, however. Death also hung heavy in the air and the copper tang of blood wafted around the enclosed stadium as if it were apart of the oxygen itself. Walking into the stadium would be like walking into a graveyard where the bodies had been untended by the hands of the undertakers and left to rot above the ground.

This Graug-hosted event in the Mytus arena had gone on for hours and the dead from each match littered the spotlighted pit in the center of the countless stands. This was the first taste of blood sport the Imperial Clan warriors had seen in a long while, as the Kalee arena was destroyed during the Fel invasion of the planet. So, to say the least, the Graug were going mad watching slave gladiators going up against the best pit fighters the Graug had to offer. At the current moment, an enslaved Wookiee was going up against a particular Graug gladiator known as Haka. From his position high above the arena itself, Vulcanus watched as the Graug bashed a primitive mace weapon against the hardy shield the slave had been given.

The arena was shaped like a massive snow cone where the pit itself sat at the bottom of a shaft-like seating area that stretched several dozen meters into the air. The most lucky, and violent, of the Graug got seats just a few meters from the arena floor. Sometimes whole brawls were fought just to get a seat where the scent of blood was the freshest and where one could even reach out to touch the dead. Before the Sith, Vulcanus's throne would be in this section and closest to the battle. However, he had found himself long since spoiled by conflict of his own. Nowadays he enjoyed to watch the fight from above, where he could more clearly see the foolish Graug who fell to their deaths after having strayed too far from the edge of balcony seats.

"Darth Vulcanus, it is an honor" a cryptic voice offered from behind the Dark Lord, who was not phased as he had sensed the presence of another. The Horde Guard, however, jumped at the sudden appearance of the darkly cloaked man and moved to raise their force pikes in response. Without even showing the slightest hint of fear, the robbed man took a holocron from his robe and placed on the table next to Vulcanus, "Lord Voracitos requests your presence for a grand tournament. He promises it will be much more grand than the fights you hold here."

"Voracitos, the dead man who is so weak in form that he cannot move his own two feet...Of what interest would his invitations be to me?" Vulcanus growled, taking the holocron in his hand and carelessly throwing it off of the balcony and to the arena below.

"His lordship wishes to unite the Sith under one calling, of which your New Order could play a major roll if you are to appear." the messenger notified, giving a short bow. So, the fat one was trying to unite the Sith in some glorious cause? Pathetic that anyone would even bother listening to such nonsense from a failed Emperor who, in Vulcanus's opinion, should have never taken the throne to begin with. Then again, this new unification of the Sith could end up being a deadly presence in the galaxy if Vulcanus allowed it to go unchecked. He would go, not to help this new calling or its ambitions, but to ensure that it would become but an extension of the New Order.

Standing from his chair, Vulcanus turned to the messenger with a growl "and where would this tournament be held?"

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A long intro post later.....​

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Near silent chants that demanded death were the first things that Vulcanus heard as he exited the doors that led him into the arena. He could already sense the presence of his Enforcer and the familiar vomit-inducing force signature of the Throne Breaker. He also felt the presence of another who he did not recognize, but that mattered little now that he had his kill sights set on the man that he believed to be the very definition of blight. Throne Breaker was just another Sith who was slowing down the progress of the Order and was just lucky enough to survive the purging of the weak by the Jedi.

He was so caught up with Shorn that he barely realized the mass of goo that was Darth Vorcaitos. The Shadow Emperor was watching and his form appeared on the multiple holoscreen that sat around the nearly empty arena. Up high above the madness of the hell known as Malachor, New Order vessels danced in symphony with those of the league and other factions that Vulcanus cared not to take note of.

Looking back to the arena floor, the Graug Warlord/Fallen Emperor/Leader of the New Order gave a quick glance to his Enforcer. Using a telepathic message, Vulcanus sent the following "Today we bring purge the last bit of weakness from the Sith, Ferus" said he, looking back to the Throne Breaker as he did so.

 

[Matreya]

Standing to the side of the arena, was a spectator. What kind of fool would come to the Battle of the Dark Lords, simply to watch? Damien Daemon. With his arms crossed against his chest, the man hid in the shadows, leaning against the wall. Clad in his Beskar'gam, but armed with no weaponry, the Apprentice of the Dark Lord Voracitos made ready to calculate.

One day each being here would need to die. Best to be ready, knowing of how they fight.

 

[Lord Ghoul]

"Ok," Shorn sighed, "I'm bored."

Delving into the Force, Mikhail drew on the cimmerian power of the Dark Side. He tapped into the vast well of his hatred for the Sith. So many of his loved ones dead because of them. Alexis' face flashed in his mind's eye. He remembered the smoke rising from the hole in her chest where he'd driven his blade. They drove him to madness. Now he would drive them into the ground.

He called upon the hunger his father's bloodline had cursed him with. Such a new, young Garhoon, but filled by such a thirst. He'd learned to enjoy it, to make it fun. He didn't have to kill people when he fed, but as he stared at the faces around him... oh, how he wanted to rip their throats out and gorge until even Voracitos envied the gluttony. They didn't warrant him holding back. Each and every one of them deserved as much pain as he could tear from their bodies before he pulverized their bones into dust.

Shorn fished a hand inside of one of his pouches and came up with a palm full of gleaming ball bearings, each a little smaller than a knuckle bone.

"Way too many Darths in here for my taste, wouldn't you say, Slade?"

He raised his hand, cupping the ball bearings, and levitated two of them into the air before shooting them off. One for [member="Darth Ferus"] and one for [member="Darth Vulcanus"]. Mikhail made sure to keep Slade in the corner of his eye. The Sith Lord accelerated each ball bearing to speeds in excess of a bullet fired from a sniper rifle. An unarmed man would be torn apart by the size of the cavitation the balls would leave.

Undoubtedly they would try to stop them, but the reaction time for someone firing the equivalent of a point blank sniper round isn't exactly sizeable. Erect a barrier with the Force? Go ahead. Mikhail knew that the impact on the Force barrier, if it didn't shatter it, would suck up a whole lot of energy from whoever erected it, leaving that person a little more drained. Block it with telekinesis? Fat chance. There was only one master of telekinesis in the room and he was the one throwing the balls.

He aimed for the chests of Vulcanus and Ferus, but where they landed hardly mattered. Armored or not, the ball bearings would leave their mark. They were made from phrik, one of the hardest metals in the galaxy. Ferus wore songsteel armor, but a sledgehammer to the chest would still cause a lot of pain. Massive bruising, possible bone fractures, and almost definite internal organ damage due to blunt force trauma. And you could bet that each of these balls would feel like a sledgehammer. A really, really angry sledgehammer.

Immediately after firing the ball bearings off with ballistakinesis, Mikhail began to transition into his next attack, his other hand coming up, fingers curling as he attempted to wrap telekinetic will around Vulcanus. The choke would feel as though a docking clamp had suddenly been placed about the so-called Dark Lord's neck, a giant's grip. Mikhail didn't even know if Graug needed to breath. He didn't care.

"All the Dark Lord's horses and all of his men...." Mikhail sneered.

With a swift up and down motion of his hand, Mikhail attempted to pile drive the Graug into the ground with enough velocity to make bones snap like dried twigs.

[member="Christian Slade"]

 

[Lira Dajenn]

Big speeches, threatening words and posturing. That is what Nemene Talith saw and heard as she stood at the side of the arena. Unlike the rest of them, she didn't attempt to look threatening, evil, or even particularly bold. Nemene appeared what she was, a little girl in a fight with giants. Her eyes were orange, darting from person to person almost nervously, hair flicked into her face every now and again, falling to cover bright glowing suns.

Everytime it fell she removed a hand from her side and brushed it away, letting her eyes dart back over the ring.

In her right hand was her lightsaber pike, long and winding as if it was a branch grown from a tree. Her hand wrapped right around its long hilt, squeezing ever so slightly as she watched Shorn bound towards the Graug creature. She said nothing, she did not attack, she did not even blink. The little girl simply observed, eyes shifting and moving about, following every action and reaction with perfect sync.

It didn't pay to be unobservant in places like this.

Nemene simply watched as the Sith began to fight one another. It was slow of course, there was a good bit of taunting that had to be done before the first man could even throw a punch. Unsurprisingly to her, Shorn was the first to make a move. She smirked slightly, watching as the Champion of the Cauldron began.

 

[Darth Vulcanus]

[member="Mikhail Shorn"]


The ball bearing was fast and if you ever caught Vulcanus moving swiftly, then you would be the luckiest person in the universe. Vulcanus had no time to move, that was for certain. However, the split second it took for the ball bearings to levitate into the air was enough to warn Vulcanus that it was about to be showtime. With the very little time that he had, Vulcanus leached a quick burst of power from the nearby opponents and the wounded planet they all fought on. The Dark Lord then immediately diverted the power into his armor and strengthened the bonds that held it together through Sith Alchemy.

The power had just been thrown into the chest plate of the armor when the bearing hit the Graug with the force of a speeding bullet. It impacted the blast door worthy armor, pitting two near indestructible metals against one another. The kinetic energy shoot the beast to his core and he was forced to dig his boots deep into the ground with the force to avoid being thrown back like a rag doll. If it weren't for his armor, he'd probably have been dead right then and there. He did have his armor though and it had saved him the expense of losing anything vital at the expense of throwing him completely off balance.

Being off balance as he was, it wasn't hard for Shorn to grip him by the neck and thrust him into the ground. It wasn't the first time Vulcanus had been thrown into the ground at neck breaking speeds and it probably wouldn't be the last. Regardless of that, Vulcanus felt his teeth shatter from the impact and felt the pain of a rib breaking and digging itself deep into the soft flesh of his abdomen. Well, this was certainly no way to start off a fight. Vulcanus's counter offensive would make up for the lack of initial momentum, however.

Fueling his body with anger and pain, he clinched what teeth he had left and forced his body to fight through the pain with his knowledge of force Body. It wasn't much and the pain was still there, but that would work to the Dark Lord's advantage for now. Rolling over to his side, Vulcanus saw that the ball bearing was still partially engraved into his armor. Grasping the bearing and yanking it out with a mighty pull, the Graug Warlord then looked over the dense object in his hand. "Impwessive...mos' impwessive" the Graug Warlord spoke through his rows of shattered teeth as he heated the Phrik ball in his hand, turning it a searing red. "Bu' no' goo' e'ough!"

With another pulse of rage, Vulcanus engulfed the ball in a coating of force flames and then shot his arm forward. Using a second burst of force fire, the beast propelled the red-hot and flaming bearing towards Shorn like a rocket out of the silo on a capital ship. The pain from the harsh movement made Vulcanus stumble a bit, but he used that same pain to fuel himself even more. He used it to focus in on the force flames engulfing the bearing and as soon as it got near near Shorn, he commanded the flames to burst outward from the bearing. This would cause a circular arc of two meter flames to scorch everyone it touched while the bearing continued on at rocket speed towards the Throne Breaker.

 

[Christian Slade]

Christian stood there watching as one by one the other Sith finally joined him in the arena. He noted the familiar presence of [member="Mikhail Shorn"] not far from him standing in the very same ring, his golden eyes glancing down at the edge of his unmoved duster, despite Shorn's tug on it with the force. He had been around Shron enough to know his signature in the force and it had been him that tugged on the resistant leather that his duster had been made of, as if the durasteel plate scales weren't enough.

After noting the curious manipulation of the force, Christian's eyes rose from the edge of his duster across the shattered and cracked ground of the arena they were in. His eyes found Shorn's and narrowed on the man for a moment before he said, "Don't touch the coat." He then glanced from Shorn to across the arena and watched as a large Sith monstrosity arrived along with a Zabraki male. Still others were arriving, and it was looking more like the brawl was going to be a bit hectic. So many strong Sith Lords in an arena confined. It wasn't going to end well for many of them. In fact, Christian fully intended to kill every one of them if they didn't concede to him at some point during the match. He wasn't interested in killing aimlessly, and he knew many of them would be working with him when he claimed that title of Champion at the end of the competition.

Standing there, Christian glanced back and forth between a few of the Sith that had gathered there taking note of the few who seemed most powerful. There were only about five or six of them that even stood a chance of making it to the end, and he and Shorn were two of them. He'd worked with Shorn before and knew him to be rather skilled in telekinesis and his fighting style revolved around that power and the many forms of it which he employed. That was something he'd have to watch out for, but the others he wasn't so sure about. What he did know, though, was that in times like these you could do a lot to weed out the weak and worry about the big dogs later. The few who had big bites he'd have to avoid, and if he played this game right, he and Shorn could work together to get to the final pair and then have their face off once the dirty work had been done. "I'll steer clear of you if you steer clear of me.", Christian said, glancing over at Shorn again with those piercing golden eyes, a deep and potent unseen fog of the dark side ever present and growing around Christian as he stared at the man.

"Kill the lesser Sith and when we're the last two standing we'll worry about each other then.", Christian said, agreeing and suggesting the same thing that the armor clad Sith man had. As he watched him, though, a shock rushed up Christian's body and spanned through every inch of him out to the tips of every toe and finger. The force was warning him of something, but he'd already known exactly what was happening. He'd been able to smell the sweat from a man's moist skin minutes ago, though there wasn't a soul around him. At least, that's how it would appear to those who's senses were not as sharp as Christian's, who in the blink of an eye spun on his heel, his coat whipping up and tailing his body as he spun. The next second the cloak slammed, with all it's weight from the plates, into what would have appeared to be an invisible wall. It might have been an astonishing thing to see if every Master in that very arena hadn't known exactly what the Force cloak technique allowed one to do.

"UGH!", a man's voice cried out as in that instant the hundreds of durasteel plates slammed into and crushed the chest of a Sith Lord who had used guile to try and dispatch Christian Slade. His cloak immediately washed away like a mirror shattering into countless tiny pieces, and his limp form shot across the arena in a blur of motion. He struck the far wall of the arena and vanished in a plume of smoke as the thick, newly built walls couldn't even hold up against the man's body that had been struck so hard he'd turned into a meat sack bullet. As the dust cleared, though, the spectators began to cheer as the first life had been taken in the tournament, a now lifeless man's corpse laying helplessly in a pile of rubble with blood draining from every orifice.

Turning and facing back across the arena, Christian's golden eyes watched as the large creature was snatched up from the ground and slammed into it like a limp doll. It made him smile, seeing that Shorn had already gotten to work. Watching carefully, though, Christian noted the beast's resolve, which seemed rather profound. He managed to pick himself up and pluck the ball bearing from his armor and return Shorn's gesture ten fold. That was enough of a distraction to allow Christian to move on the beast as he spread his feet wide and threw his hand down into the cracked soil of Malachor V. When his tattooed palm struck the ground, an intense violet light rushed out from beneath his hand in all directions as he called out, "Natura elementum invocábo. Et suspende in bestia!", his voice demanding the obedience of the dark side which answered his call without a moment's hesitation. The ground beneath his hand split and the light from his palm filled it in an instant. Just as it did, the ground beneath [member="Darth Vulcanus"] split open and from beneath the crust of Malachor V a sharp pillar of stone shot up towards the meaty Sith Lord who had just been having himself the worst day.

[member="Darth Vulcanus"] - [member="Mikhail Shorn"] - [member="Darth Ferus"] - [member="Nemene Talith"] - [member="D-Man"]

 

[Darth Ferus]

There is too much talk. The Zabrak Lord was gone the moment Shorn had mentioned he was bored. All these people, his master, the two pretty boys across from him. They spoke too much, talked too many words. Talking took time, too much time in a duel with other Lords. Other people who would capitalize on it. Inwards he drew on his hate, calling forth from the endless pool of anger he held within him. Hatred for his master and the torture he was subjected to, hatred for those who continually thought themselves better.

Hatred for fools who knew nothing of true conflict.

The ground around him began to spasm as he moved, right for the man who chose to speak when he should of acted. Deus seemed to come to life as more and more dust collected around it's edge. But it was now the ball bearings came into play, lifted from the lords hands. Yet, Ferus was not worried. There were few things he had mastered, few skills he could claim as his own. Telekinesis was one of them. With the slightest of waves right as the bearing was shot it's trajectory would be moved just enough that it burst right over his shoulder, eventually ending harmlessly into the wall behind him.

With the ground shaken, chunks of rock would erupt around the Enforcers form. Now, in the time it took for the man to speak and shoot of his balls, Ferus would be before him, already bringing down the edge of his burning blade. With his own anger and hatred fueling the strike, causing it only to be a blur of movement. Several more strikes followed in, blind to most eyes with the sheer speed behind it, but even the Zabrak knew not to underestimate his foes.

Underestimation was for fools.

Utilizing one of the few other skills he had mastered, he struck, seeming to slice once to the normal audience, but in truth striking five. That was Vapaad, a blur of movement and attacks too fast to be seen normally. Yet, he was slower then one who would use a lightsaber, any skilled practitioner of the Form would see it. But the strikes were so much stronger. With the weight of a true blade versus that of a weightless, his would be that much harder to deflect, let alone counter.

All this time, however, the slabs of dense rock around the Zabrak's head launched downwards, each in a similar fashion to the small balls ripping through the air like a bullet. A much slower bullet, but a bullet none the less. While a master of telekinesis would be able to block one, possibly two, there were six slabs, six that would break apart at the slightest touch outside Ferus's own and rupture like a shotgun. Should Shorn even evade, they would follow him, and so would Ferus.

[member="Mikhail Shorn"] - [member="Christian Slade"] - [member="Darth Vulcanus"] -[member="Nemene Talith"] - [member="D-Man"]

 

[Lord Ghoul]

One of the beginning lessons of telekinesis involved having an initiate attempt to lift a candle off of the ground. Not the wax. The flame. The idea of creating flows of air to wrap around a flame, keeping it living yet encapsulated in a bubble, stood as a millenia old technique. Naturally, being rather familiar with telekinesis, Mikhail once practiced such lessons. As he watched Vulcanus lumber up and pluck the ball bearing from his shoulder, he witnessed the miniature inferno with which the Vizier of Flame engulfed the ball, turning Mikhail's deadly weapon into one that would burn the flesh right off his bones. In the brief millisecond of repose, Mikhail contemplated replicating the initiate's feat on a much grander scale, but then his eyes fell upon [member="Darth Ferus"] and a sense of danger rippled through him in the Force.

The first of the Zabrak's impossibly strikes landed upon Mikhail's defensively upraised forearm. The akk-wolf scales and leviathan bracers did not yield beneath the blow of the horned one's ponderous sword, but the bone beneath did. Shorn's left arm snapped audibly and a gasp of pure pain escaped his lips. His vision clouded with stars. Melee combat had always been Mikhail's weakness. That and telepathy. Unfortunately for Ferus, the first strike was the only one to land. Shorn reached out and wrapped his will around the incoming sword, holding it in place with a Force Grip. The wicked blade hung suspended mere inches from Mikhail's helm. A blow that would have shattered the visor and possibly killed him.

Behind the helm, despite the agony of his shattered arm, Mikhail Shorn smiled. "Moron," he hissed.

The Zabrak's opening gambit had positioned himself exactly between Mikhail and Vulcanus' incoming projectile. Darth Ferus was about to receive one very large, very painful blast of impact preceded by a raging inferno that would sear flesh from bone. Shorn, naturally, did not enjoy the image of being cooked alive in his armor.

The Throne Breaker inhaled sharply, drawing further cimmerian waves of the Dark Side into him to wash away the agony of his shattered arm and to lend power to his counterstroke. Tear stained tracks down his cheeks went unacknowledged by Mikhail. He moved past the pain and into rage. This Zabrak sought to rip him apart with Juyo. Shorn was no blade master, but he could recognize the speed and ferocity of Juyo, or something similar. That was all well and good, but Ferus had brought a sword to a godfight. The thing about certain blade forms, like Juyo, is that they required far more attention than a form that sought to combine attacks with the Force and with the blade, such as Niman. Even as Darth Ferus launched his rock slabs at Mikhail, the Throne Breaker raised his shattered arm, palm facing the Zabrak.

Mikhail Shorn had spent years practicing and utilizing one power above all. He had no idea how to alter the environment through the Force. He had foregone training with a lightsaber to the point that he didn't even carry one. He also had stopped practicing at the shooting range with blasters.He couldn't heal wounds with the Force, couldn't create illusions, conjure up demons from the Netherworld, or telepathically assault minds. He didn't have the first clue about the furthered abilities of heightened precognition, or how to enhance one's body through the Force.

Why do any of that," he thought, "When I can rip buildings apart with my mind?"

There was only one master of telekinesis in this room. And it wasn't Darth Ferus.

Pure, unadulterated power radiated from Mikhail's palm in the form of a blast wave of telekinesis, calling it a Force Push didn't really do it justice. Carried upon the forefront of this wave were the rest of Mikhail's handful of phrik ball bearings, shotgunned at the Zabrak at point-blank range. The rippling, invisible overpressure shockwave collided with Darth Ferus' rock slabs and pulverized them into dust. The Zabrak's projectiles disintegrated, but the blast wave went on as Shorn attempted to hurl the Zabrak backward with enough strength to send him through the far wall. Unfortunately for the Zabrak, he wouldn't get that far.

Two meter long flames erupted from the red-hot ball bearing Vulcanus had hurled - and came directly for the Zabrak's back. The flames washed past him and sought to assail Mikhail, but Shorn's Force Push was the gale force of a hurricane. The very air loosed a howling shriek at being tamed and cajoled by a mere mortal. In their inhuman rage, they swept aside the flames, bending them back upon Darth Ferus even as the hammer blow of the Force Push came down.

To discuss in short the numerous attacks coming for the Zabrak: flames before and behind. One red-hot searing phrikite ball bearing hurled by an ally and aimed at the back. One Force Push coming directly in front capable of shattering limbs with the overpressure wave equivalent to a bomb blast, besides obviously sending him flying like a ragdoll. And seven phrik ball bearings, propelled from Mikhail's hand by the Force Push and headed directly for the Zabrak's chest.

[member="Darth Vulcanus"] [member="Nemene Talith"] [member="Christian Slade"]

 

[Lira Dajenn]

Nemene watched the more than impressive displays of the force with cold listless eyes. Her game shifted from Vulcanus, to Ferus, to Mikhail, and then finally to Christian. Her eyebrows rose slightly as the latter yelled some words in order to effect the flows of the force. Her head tilted to the side momentarily and she watched the earth shift.

Leaning on her Lightsaber pike she began to ponder what she had just seen.

Was the man using some form of magic? No. Not Sith Magic anyway, that usually did not require any words, or if it did not that kind. She had no talent for Sith Magic but she had studied it well enough of know it when she saw it, and that most definitely was not Sith magic. She pondered for a moment more, her eyes narrowing slightly as she watched the dance of battle before her. Frowning slightly a thought came to her head, though she shook her head in dismissal.

Her eyes fluttered close for a moment before snapping open, she stifled a yawn with the back of her hand and placed a second hand on her pike, leaning against it.

Twin orange suns darted around the ring, and then to her own hands. She looked down at her palms, letting her gaze glide to the tips of her fingers running down the haft of the pike. A slight frown formed on her face as she noticed the chipped lacquer on her nails.

A pity, that would have to be repainted.

 

[Darth Ferus]

Behind the helm, despite the agony of his shattered arm, Mikhail Shorn smiled. "Moron," he hissed.

Power. Ferus had never met someone who had specialized. Never fought someone who chose to forsake everything for just one power. Even as his blade hung in midair, it dawned on him. He would of lost.

​But, the man had spoken. Given up his advantage as soon as he chose to utter a single syllable from behind his helm. So he had gripped his sword, prevented his assault, would that really keep him still? No. Had the man chosen to attack instead of talk, Ferus would have found himself filled with the ball bearings. Quickly however he had acted. Letting go of his own blade he shifted. There were more then one form under his knowledge, but Juyo was of course the one he had chosen to master first. Now in a new stance of Makashi, a second blade, an actual lightsaber came forth. From the hidden chamber within his mechanical leg the hilt of the blade launched, activating in a brilliant glow of red and spinning right for Shorns now outstretched arm.

In the same movement the Zabrak turned, under the bearings that would of been his death. His robotic hand came around, ready to deliver a killing blow, until the Zabrak himself was knocked away. Despite his avoidance of the bearings, nothing could protect him from the overpowering blast of Force from a man dedicated to one power. He could be considered a master of Telekinesis to many, in fact he was to many within the New Order, but to Shorn, he was still a novice. The thought came through his mind, even as he was sent through the air.

The fire from Vulcanus meant little to the Darth. His armor was made to resist fire, heat of any kind. The flame would wash over his form only to dissipate harmlessly into the air. That was the purpose of his cloak, his Songsteel plates. But while he was protected from energy and heat, he had nothing to protect himself against physical ailments. His form cracked against the rugged walls of the arena. Even with the cushioning he had created, he couldn't keep himself from harm.

Pain. That was the only thought that went through his mind as he fell from the indent he had created. He could feel it. His ribs were cracked, at least four. Something was punctured, but he could still function, still move. He stood slowly, utilizing the time to change something. His blade, cast aside from the blast, found itself a distance from both he and his opponent Shorn. As he stood the dust around his blade would settle, fading away entirely. But, the purple flame that was once fake soon started to brim to life. It took time, the time it took for him to push his way to his feet, but he had changed it.

Fire was now his element. With a wave of a hand he called his blade forward, not for himself, but right for the Throne Breaker, sending it in a maddening spiral through the air. The air itself would burn around his blade, and as he himself burst forward the heat could be felt. Speed, Strength. Two lesser augmentations made only to assist in his fighting with forms. Now they would come into effect, he dashing across the crater.

From one direction he would come, his mechanical fist clenched tight, aiming to smash into the mans cheek. Deus would come across much at the same time, ripping to cut the man in two. If he was going to fight a man who specialized in only one thing, he himself would have to utilize all of his own talents. His pain would fuel him on, enraging him and only increasing the speed and ferocity of his attacks.

Mikhail Shorn - Christian Slade - Darth Vulcanus -Nemene Talith - D-Man

 

[Lord Ghoul]

Snap-hiss

A bar of vibrant crimson erupted to life with a gleeful, hungry hum, rotating end over end toward Mikhail's outstretched arm. The length of plasma hissed against the overlapping armor covering the upper portion of his forearm, but found its hunger for flesh rebuffed by the suit the Throne Breaker wore. A suit made from the nigh impervious scales of the Akk Wolf, a beast who terrorized the jungles of Haruun Kal; and made doubly strong by a coat of stygian polymer - the same material worn by the long dead members of the Black Hole stormtroopers. The lightsaber marred the opulent scales, a thin furrow in its wake, but as it spun through the air Mikhail stretched out his right hand and caught the lightsaber with a preternatural adroitness.

Anaya Fen blew away his right hand long ago, necessitating a cybernetic replacement and leaving him unable to perform feats such as hurling lightning from those fingers. Yet, it gave him an inhuman dexterity that his new Garhoon nature only amplified. The vampiric blood running through his veins granted strength and swiftness beyond humans, though he wouldn't be arm wrestling a Wookiee anytime soon. Thus, he easily found the hilt of the lightsaber and held it before him. Though he had no intention of using it, plucking the weapon from Ferus gave him some degree of amusement. "Oh Sith, always angrily throwing their toys," he thought.

A second flash of dark satisfaction followed soon upon the heels of the first as he witness Ferus' body impact the wall with a gratifying crunch. Mikhail practically shuddered with pleasure. Nothing came so sweet to his ears as the wet snapping of a Sith's bones. He only regretted he had not felt the breaking of those calcified twigs with his own hands. He could imagine it though. In his mind's eye he could feel the visceral impact of his knuckles against the Zabrak's side, something giving beneath his raw strength. It made him feel... powerful.

He fully gave in to the fight, relishing in his inner sadist. They deserved to die. All of them. He would not hesitate to be the hand of judgement. More, he craved to be on the side of what was right. And for once in his life, he knew fully and completely that he could do some good in this galaxy by destroying these monsters. How did he feel about killing them? "I feel... righteous."

Those icy blue eyes of Mikhail Shorn, so cold and filled with fathomless emotion now turned a liquid gold, tinged by a deepening red. Sith eyes. The eyes of a murderer. "No," he thought, unleashing the fury inside, "A murderer of monsters."

The Zabrak rose from the indent in the wall and came at Shorn with all the ferocity and unthinking violence of a wild fire, full of rage and speed, fueled by the death of that which gave it life. Darth Ferus' sword also sprang up from the ground, rotating toward Shorn like an egregiously offended wind turbine.

Still holding the Zabrak's lightsaber in his right hand, Mikhail remained undaunted. Fast as Ferus might be, the Force was quicker still. While the Zabrak was yet six or seven paces off, Shorn unleashed an immediate one-two counter with telekinesis.

Mikhail moved his fists, shadow boxing. But those punches would be all too real for Ferus. The first concentrated punch of telekinesis slammed into the spinning sword and blasted it aside, while the second went right for Ferus' gut. He wore armor, but just as the Zabrak's sword had broken Shorn's arm despite his overlapping scales, so too had Mikhail broken Ferus' ribs. The punch into Ferus' gut would likely drive the wind out of him and even if it did not break anything it would be sure to aggravate the injuries previously sustained. Yet, the Throne Breaker did not sit back and wait to see if the punch took full effect. He had a reputation to maintain after all.

The fingers of his shattered arm curled painfully inward in a claw-like gesture as Shorn wrapped his will around the Zabrak's throat. Just moments prior he had managed to lift Vulcanus, an enormous Graug far heavier and stronger than the Zabrak, and pile drive him into the ground. If Vulcanus, claimant to the title of Dark Lord, could not resist such an act from Mikhail, then the Zabrak's hopes looked grim indeed. But Shorn didn't try to slam him into the ground. Instead, he attempted to telekinetically throw him, as a Herglic would hurl a human across the room, straight for the same wall which the Zabrak had already familiarized himself with.

[member="Darth Ferus"] [member="Darth Vulcanus"] [member="Nemene Talith"] [member="Christian Slade"]

 

[Darth Ferus]

There was a moment in which the Zabrak thought he had him. With his own two strikes, what could this man do against him? What could the one known as Throne Breaker possibly have up his sleeve? Telekinesis. Ferus didn't understand it. Even as Shorn lifted his hands and punched outwards, his mind couldn't grasp it. He himself had used such an attack before, he knew it's checks and counters, but he couldn't.

Deus flew away, out of sight. Even as it was knocked away though, the Zabrak pulled it to himself, forced his blade to return to it's owner. With one hand outstretched, he reached for his sword.

​But it came to late. The Force Boxing technique caught him right in the stomach, doubling him over. His armor wasn't meant to block blunt trauma, and part of the Zabrak wished he had invested more into it. The armorweave below helped to cushion the blow, but it didn't stop him from doubling over in pain. There was no breath left. He gasped, trying to regain control of his lungs, only to feel the grip. So many times he himself had used it. So many times he had crushed the throats of others, crushed their forms, their hopes. And now, it was his turn.

He flew, helpless through the air as he once more hit the wall, letting out a sickening crack. Another two ribs had broken, and it was certainly his lung that was punctured now. But he was not down. Zabrak have always had a higher pain tolerance. Always pushed harder then any other race through pain. But the pain fueled him. His fear of the Throne Breakers power fueled him. Deus, having been called back to his master before he was thrown, had landed close by, close enough for him to simply reach over and lift the blade upwards.

It was then his form came to life. The purple flame once locked to his blade burst outwards, consuming his form. He stood, unaffected by the flame. It was his, a part of him through the Force. Through his manipulation it would feast on the Force itself, growing and growing, until all that was once black was purple, burning into the arena. It was through telekinesis and sense that he controlled the flame. Now, he would raise his own blade up, and in a similar fashion to Shorn he would attack from a distance.

In his rage he was in complete control. His eyes never faltered, never became blind to his actions and his goals. This was a skill he had learned early on. In this state, he had almost the same power as a Sith in a full blown rage, but he was still in control, able to decide how and when to attack. Through the air his blade would slice, the air itself seeming to dissipate. Vapaad once again, only this time waves of the purple flame would come out. Similar to the Force Boxing they would slash, offering the same blunt damage that his own blade would of inflicted anyway.

But with fire. It was not for show, many would simply melt from the heat itself, but armor was tricky. Anything that could resist a lightsaber could resist the energy, but for how long? For each of his own visible slashes he sent five of the waves of fire, ripping through both the ground and air for his opponent. They would speed outwards like he was standing right in front of the Lord, tearing through again and again.

I will win this. The thought went over and over again in his head. Shorn had devoted his life to Telekenisis, but Ferus had devoted his early life to swordplay. He knew how to carry a sword, where to cut. Through his basic understanding of Art of the Small he would send the slashes to the weak points in his foes armor, to break through the Akk scales. Break the shell, and the man would be like any other. Burnable.

Mikhail Shorn - Christian Slade - Darth Vulcanus -Nemene Talith - D-Man

 

[Lord Ghoul]

Shorn could hear them. Wheezing, hacking breaths from where Ferus sat crumpled against the wall. His blow must have punctured a lung. Mikhail imagined the sweet crimson ichor filling up the Zabrak's lung, making it so hard to drag out the shallowest gasp of air. The thought sent a shudder of pleasure through his body. His deepened breathing had nothing to do with fatigue. Mikhail wanted to sink his fangs into to the Zabrak's throat and drain him of blood. He ran a tongue across an inhumanly sharp canine as Darth Ferus struggled to rise again.

The Thronebreaker watched, ignoring the throbbing of his shattered forearm and the stinging sweat which beaded across his brow. The Zabrak summoned his sword to his palms. The blade erupted into purple flame. Liquid yellow eyes widened at the sight of fire. At once, Shorn drank in the Dark Side's intoxicating fumes and prepared the second of his three powers. The Sith Lord picked up a few party tricks here and there, but he only truly wielded three abilities. The first and greatest of these was Telekinesis, which the Zabrak had already experienced. The second was Force Lightning. However, Shorn's cybernetic right hand prevented him from using that to the fullest extent. But the last of these proved Mikhail's greatest defense. With just these three powers he had managed to topple a Senate and decapitate an Empire. Against a single humanoid they could do so much more.

Iridescent violet flames curled 'round the Zabrak's sword as the Sith Lord stumbled back to his feet before suddenly and violently lashing out. Mikhail's eyes widened as a tendril of fire erupted from the blade and whipped toward him. Panic surged through Shorn as he tried to counter the first lightning strike. The strike took him across the upper part of his armor, directly on the right shoulder pauldron. Fire blasted across the armor, cooking flesh beneath, but the blow also carried a telekinetic impact with it. Beneath the Akk Wolf scales, Mikhail felt his collarbone snap. He stumbled backward, gasping at the wave of cold shock and pain. The next blow was already coming in, Mikhail tried to twist to avoid it, but it took him across his side where the armor was weak. The blow sent him careening sideways. Mikhail could already feel the bruises beneath seared flesh.

The third strike came for his neck, but Mikhail raised his shattered left arm up. The tendril of flame and telekinesis wrapped around his upraised arm and fore a moment it seemed as though the dark armored figure had made a mistake. Suddenly, golden light burst from his hand. The violet flames regressed into his hand, absorbed by Shorn's third and final ability. Tutaminis. Behind his helmet, Mikhail loosed a violent sneer, then he simply consumed all of the Zabrak's pyrokinetic energy until his entire form emanated a soft gold light. Mikhail felt pure might ripple through his system.

The body of a mortal is like a cup. It can only hold so much energy, especially for the Dark Side. Try to hold too much and the body will be ripped apart. Right now, Mikhail's cup was close to overflowing. The absorbed power of the Zabrak amplified Mikhail's own strength twofold, but holding so much power would come at a cost if he simply clung to it. He had to release it.

New life pulsed through Mikhail. In a moment, all his pains seemed stripped away. He could feel them there, beneath the surface, but he was lost in the revelry of the sheer power he wielded. Shorn raised the fingers of his shattered hand toward the Zabrak, fingers curling. Whatever energy Mikhail had exhausted during this fight, the Zabrak had just returned it to him. The Thronebreaker focused all his will on the Zabrak's bones. His arms, his legs. He wanted to shatter this Sith Lord and watch him crawl.

Ordinarily, your Force Aura would protect you from someone just reaching out with telekinesis and stopping your heart. However, that only applied when your Force Aura was equal to or greater than your opponent's. With almost all of his ribs shattered, a punctured lung, and the expenditure of vast amounts of pyrokinetic energy, the Zabrak did not appear to be in very good shape. By contrast, Mikhail's broken collarbone, first degree burns, and fractured forearm seemed minor injuries, especially when coupled with the fact that he now wielded not just his own power, but the absorbed energy from Ferus' pyrokinesis. And when one factored in the comparatively new ascendancy of the Zabrak to the status of Sith Lord... well...

Mikhail's fingers curled further still and he sought to bind Ferus' arms and legs into place, as though a giant had suddenly scooped him up in one hand. In a telekinetic grasp such as this, the Zabrak would find only his head mobile. Shorn began to squeeze, unleashing his own power and complimenting it with the stolen energy from Ferus. The monumental Force Crush put an incredible amount of pressure on the Zabrak's body as Mikhail sought to squash him like a bug, bypassing the armor to shatter the bones beneath.

Suddenly, Mikhail gestured with a jerking up-down motion and attempted to lift the Zabrak up then slam him down into the ground with all the velocity of a meteorite crash. Shorn had done this once before, during the Tournament of the Cauldron's semifinals. Jared Ovmar had been clad in beskar'gam, the strongest material in the galaxy, but that had not stopped Mikhail from sending him crashing into the ground, feet first, and shattering both of the mentalist's legs, paralyzing him. Then Shorn had killed him. This was exactly the same maneuver which Mikhail attempted to use on the newly minted Sith Lord.

[member="Darth Ferus"] [member="Nemene Talith"] [member="Darth Vulcanus"] [member="Christian Slade"] [member="Darth Janus"] [member="Jared Ovmar"]

 

[Arage Bao]

Presented to you by the illustrious duo: ​

[member="Darth Janus"] & Jared Ovmar​

If there was one thing Darth Janus was good at, it was being a vulture. In this instance, being a vulture entailed keeping himself completely cloaked on the opposite side of the arena from all the fighting.

A Force Cloak was a powerful tool, if a little difficult to maintain for long periods of time. However, it had been Tyrin’s signature move since his earliest days as an apprentice. Maintaining one while being stationary, and concealing his presence in the Force at the same time, was an easy enough feat.

That was, until someone physically bumped into him, prompting the whole ruse to drop as Tyrin spun around, saber ignited, ready to ward off his surprise challenger.

You gotta understand something, Jared ain’t a Stealtist. You need a Pink Unicorn for that… or was it purple? Irrelevant, the only thing he could do well was mind trick people into -thinking- they weren’t able to see him. So.. droids and epicanthix min-maxing specimens would see right through that stuff. But for the moment… nobody was seeing him, which was a good thing indeed.

Until he got knocked off his feet by some other invisible chump. What the feth. The physical touch allowed him to disconcern the identity of the bastard though, they shared some kind of mental connection after he had tried to rip away knowledge from his brain.

Tyrin fething Ardik.

Tyrin recognized Jared Ovmar immediately, lightsaber flying into his hand and igniting regardless. “Ovmar.” He hissed. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Jared looked back at Tyrin, and couldn’t help but sigh just a little bit. “What does it look like, Ardik?” He hissed back. “Eating a fething orange.”

Tyrin scowled, physically feeling his chances of winning diminishing by his discovery. The expressionless golden mask stared back at Jared, seething discontent.

“You’re going to ruin my plan. Get out of here before someone else sees me.”

The Lord of the Fringe and a dozen of other titles took a bite from his orange, and then answered the Masked Vigilante of Umbara.

“You talk too much, I see Shorn curb-stomping that Zabarak. Let’s triple team him.”

“Oh, but that would be bullying. You know I have moral qualms with-”

Tyrin broke into snickering before he could even finish that statement. As if he or anyone else could possibly care. “Yeah, I’m just yanking your chain. Let’s mind crush him.”

 

[Lira Dajenn]

Nemene's eyes grew bigger as she spotted Jared move into this particular bout. She had not expected to see him there, but perhaps that had been a mistake on her part. After all Jared had...participated in the fight for the title of Champion of the Cauldron and had made it quite far. It should have been no surprise that he was present. The other man that moved with him she did not know, though she suspected he was no push over either, after all if he ran with Jared he had to be at least somewhat competent.

Her eyes followed the two for a moment, before her lids lazily began to cover the orange orbs.

This was boring. Really boring.

She grasped the lightsaber pike in her right hand and slowly walked over to one of the massive pillars in the outskirts of the arena. The Phrik staff dragged on the ground and gave off a spark or two for a moment until she reached one of the large stone spires. She sighed and leaned the length of the weapon against it, following suit seconds later.

Nemene slid down the side of the stone pillar, crossing her legs and planting herself on the floor. She frowned slightly, adjusting herself on the hard stone.

 

[Darth Ferus]

Win. The thought had crossed the Zabrak's mind. He could, no matter how strong an opponent was, he could win. The thrill of it all filled him as the first two slashes connected. So much so that he burst forward, ran right for Shorn.

But it was a lie. His third strike did not connect. His third strike was absorbed. Condensed down into raw power. His power. Rage filled him even more as he realized it, as he saw the man absorb his flame. It was as if someone had taken a part of his very being into their person. He felt violated. Even as he was lifted, unable to resist for the time being he was angry. Even as his arms and legs were immobilized he was fuming with rage.

Seething.

The man had made a mistake however. Ferus was truly a master of Telekinesis. Not on the Throne Breakers level, but close to it. Close enough that he didn't need his hands to focus. Through both Art of the Small and Sense he reached out, feeling for something precious. And he found it. Underneath the armor, underneath the flesh he could feel it. The rhythmic beats. With Shorn so intent on crushing his form to make him simply crawl, he did something basic. Simple.

He went to crush the mans heart.

If this worked, clearly Ferus's own form wouldn't of been crushed or thrown. It was a heart after all. Should the Throne Breaker turn his attention to stop the crush, Ferus would be able to over power the current grip he was in and escape. His own raw strength would break any hold if the user was distracted, even for a moment. Truly, it only mattered whether or not the mans heart was destroyed or not.

Ferus was not as skilled at manipulating the Force as an older lord, but he was made a Lord because of his raw strength. Unrefined, but just as strong as any other.

Nemene Talith Darth Vulcanus Christian Slade Darth Janus Jared Ovmar [member='Mikhail Shorn']