The Strongest Under The Heavens

[Aran Finn]

-Begin Transmission

My name is Alen Na'Varro. I have conquered worlds, killed Masters, destroyed a Star Destroyer with a mere starfighter, and led vast armies and fleets against enemies. I have rallied great men and women to my banner, spent the night with acidic seductresses with murderous intent and lived to tell the tale. I am an Arbiter of the Fringe. You may have heard of me.

I grow bored in my retirement. I tend to my garden, I love my woman without reservation, I manage my assets and I enjoy all the sights and sounds the galaxy has to offer. It's not the same, however, as killing a skilled and committed enemy. Blood has been on my hands all my life, and so it shall remain, for that is who I am. My body shakes with anticipation as I think of coming to grips with a worthy foe once again. I have tried my best to live a quiet life, but I am not a quiet man. This is so.

To the first man or woman who meets me at these coordinates and can strike me down in fair contest, I offer this:

1. One Imperial-II class Star Destroyer, Eclipse Prime
2. One modified Blackbird stealth fighter
3. Majority share in the shipbuilding firm, Invictus Aeronautics

That is all

End Transmission -

That message had been sent to a short list of the most dangerous fighters in the galaxy (they knew who they were). At the appointed coordinates (a forty metre by forty metre circular arena on the Fringe world of Rattatak), Na'Varro waited. Unarmoured as was his custom, and carrying just two lightsabres and a custom knife, there was nothing different about the Sith Lord. Except maybe for the attitude. There was a silence about him, a silence that seems to fold into itself and then expand to eclipse all that surrounds it. It was the silence of man who had forgotten what it meant to be alive ...

[member="Ember Rekali"]

 

[Ashin Varanin]

[member="Alen Na'Varro"]

I am not a quiet man.

That line was the hook; when it came to Ember Rekali, Na'Varro had no need for the bait -- the Star Destroyer, the company. That line resonated with him, in context.

His granddaughter played hologames. She'd summed up his life, his malaise, his boredom in effective retirement, with a shrug and three words. "You're level fifty."

He'd needed an explanation, so Alex had given him one of those tolerant looks. "You've got the secret lair, the cloaked beskar ship, the fortune, the perfect armour, the Master rank, you're a Field Marshal, people owe you. You've played the game, you've won the game, and there's no more game apart from fighting other people who've maxed out."

He'd thought of saying that sounded like a pretty bad game, but he'd held that back, both for its implications and for the risk of denigrating what she liked to do for fun. Their relationship could get fractious enough. Alex Rekali was a Mandalorian and a teenager, daughter of the notorious hothead Ori'Alor Tal'Verda and of the notorious dick Rach Kol-Rekali. Instead- "So why don't people start over with a new game self?"

"Game self?" She'd snorted. "Characters, Grandpa. Toons. They're called toons."

"Why don't-"

"Some people do. But an old toon is like comfortable clothes you've had forever. Some people like switching back and forth between old ones and new ones-"

Against his inclinations and his better judgment, that was about when he'd tuned out. A man had one life; living multiple lives was for con men and Sith Lords. That, and he didn't understand this game dren anyway. But the level fifty thing stuck with him.

***​

​

The Coronet decloaked over Rattatak; a Niathal-class shuttle left the blade-like frigate's minimal hangar, and deposited Ember at the arena in due course. On the way here, he'd watched fight footage of Na'Varro's tankoff with Varanin. A lightsabre wouldn't do a ton. That said, he'd brought his anyway, both for its utility as a beskar ring-mace and for its role as a reminder. He'd been seriously tempted towards the Dark Side more than a few times; as a far younger man he'd been a Vahla, a Nightbrother and then a Dark Jedi. This sabre wouldn't function if he fell.

So why was the sabre a mace? Mando practicality or some innate cowardice. A fallback option that recognized his fallibility. The long, scarred weapon flared to life in his hand as he strode out across the arena. His armor, as much a part of him as his skin, rustled against the windblown sand, and he was glad for his mask. He thought of sharing his granddaughter's insights, pondering his similarity to the man across from him, but he had no eloquence, and he wasn't about to play the expectations game by blathering about his granddaughter's hologames. Some kinds of profundity just didn't have the social recognizance to get shared in polite company. So he said nothing.

 

[Aran Finn]

Na'Varro didn't do hologames. He'd tried one out a span or two ago and had found fifteen minutes of mildly frustrating entertainment, before quickly growing bored and abandoning the whole venture entirely. One Galactoplax Odyssey Mark XVIII console, two controllers and a copy of the Younger Holos V: Landbowl had cost him almost 500 credits, damn it. He'd given the fething thing to Varanin and Jacobs' kid and forgotten all about it. Any analogy about hologames that Rekali might have raised would have met with a distinctly confused look.

Na'Varro strode across the arena to meet his opponent, crimson lightsabre erupting in his right hand. As he walked, his mind converted fear of losing, fear of death, into supreme confidence. The closer he got to Rekali, the more confidence he gained ... when he reached the man, he was a god. No one could beat him.

He offered no words, just a simple Makashi salute, and then settled into his usual stance. Left forward in front of the right, both knees slightly bent and supple, with his red blade angling to his front.

[member="Ember Rekali"]

 

[Ashin Varanin]

[member="Alen Na'Varro"]

Ember returned the salute cursorily.

A casual observer might have called Ember's posture a mirror of Na'Varro's: left foot as lead, sabre angled forward. Where Alen prioritized mobility, Ember sank fractionally lower, his boots planted firm in the sand. He'd opted for a sixty-forty back stance, as still and solid as he could make it. A slow breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth. With the exhalation his back stance settled a hair more, his hips facing Na'Varro. His sabre moved into a two-handed grip, the long handle in front of his solar plexus, with all the deliberate, crisp, and unhurried precision of hydraulics. The exhalation ended as the sabre stopped and the stance solidified again. He'd seen enough footage of Na'Varro's last tournament to know that he was facing the Force equivalent of his armor. He had little use for the Echani, but in one respect their philosophy was instructive. They believed, as he did, that to fight a man was to get to know him. All combat was communication, and the tacit message of his stance was clear enough. Come at me. Even in a back stance, I think I can handle whatever you can dish out. I've been playing the Djem So game for forty years. Show me what you've got.

All tacit, all in physical syntax and vocabulary that he knew Na'Varro spoke fluently. This, right here, was why Ember didn't fight in tournaments.

 

[Aran Finn]

Na'Varro took a fraction of a second to note the intricacies of Rekali's stance. It was an apt choice. With his weight shifted slightly rearward, Na'Varro knew that he would not be defeated through power. There were few in the galaxy that could match the bearded Sith's experience with Djem So and lightsabres in general ... [member="Ember Rekali"] just might have been one of those few. The way he held himself denoted experience and deadly skill. Na'Varro knew that he would have to fight a slightly different fight than usual. He would not bludgeon Rekali to death, for there was every chance that the Mando was just as good at that as he was. No, he would be surgical, and use angles and precise bladework to pick him apart.

Noting how low Rekali sat in his stance, Na'Varro began to circle to his left. His opponent's feet were planted firmly and had added pressure placed upon the knees. Such a small difference in their stances added up to a much greater disparity in reality ... Ember had an extremely solid base but his mobility was greatly reduced. And the more Na'Varro circled, the more he would have to reset his stance. That would be frustrating to say the least, and if Alen could catch him as he reset his stance ...

After what seemed like minutes, Na'Varro spotted an opening and moved. Having circled with smooth footwork, when Rekali shifted his feet out of necessity, Na'Varro violently changed direction and closed the gap suddenly with the Force aiding his movements. He sprang forward on his left, bounded forward to his right (closing the gap between them with a mere two steps), and then his body began to work itself into the shape required for the opening attack. Left foot shot forward to re-adopt his fighting stance, weight still evenly distributed so as to not over-commit himself, despite the frightening Force-enhanced charged that had closed the distance so rapidly. As his left foot stepped forward, his red blade came around from his right-hand side with tremendous strength. Held in a two-handed grip, it crashed towards Rekali's left abdomen ... a power blow that was aimed at testing his opponent's shifting stance. And there was the unfortunate weakness of their mutual stance. The left side could be defended with a lightsaber, but with orthodox foot positioning it was ever so slightly, but clearly, structurally weaker.

As opening moves went, Na'Varro's seemed simple but had plenty of nuance.

 

[Ashin Varanin]

[member="Alen Na'Varro"] had picked exactly the right move, confirming Ember's suspicions. Na'Varro's duel with Varanin had been very static, a matter of perfect timing, feet shuffled, weight redistributed. He hadn't had much of a chance to see Na'Varro's footwork, but he'd assumed and anticipated expertise. So many duellists in this day and age strove for power, speed, breadth of training, but to Ember's mind those were tools. Footwork was where the artistry lay.

When he moved, which he had to against someone of this calibre, his back foot slid in. Beskar boot clicked on beskar boot, and for a moment, while Na'Varro was lunging with a quick doublestep, Ember was suspended on only one point of balance. His right foot finished its semicircle, reversing his previous stance for a moment as hips and feet torqued right to face Na'Varro, a motion that couldn't conclude before the Sith Lord's lunge reached him-

But could add momentum to the long beskar sabrehilt in his hands. The scarred Mandalorian iron slammed into the lightsabre blade with a rasping squeal. The strike jolted him fractionally, jarring him into a sixty-forty forward stance, and that gave Na'Varro some options within the next second or two. Within that time, Ember's hands came together, upper right sliding down to meet the left, warm beskar skidding beneath his bare fingers for a hot moment; his armor had no gauntlets. The same motion torqued the vertical blade down at the Sith Lord's head, with the added reach of about a forearm's length.