ToC: Ashin Varanin VS Alen Na'Varro

[Evelynn]

The air was electric.

Like a huttball stadium on derby day the ground beneath their feet rumbled. Anticipation hung thick in the air as the capacity crowd bayed for blood. The privileged sat high in the booths and balconies above, sipping on champaign and gorging themselves silly on the various delicate entrees. Meanwhile the common rabble below stomped their feet and began the familiar chants:

“WE WANT BLOOD!”

The fight occurring on this night was between @[member="Ashin Varanin"] and @[member="Alen Na'Varro"] was tinged with much anticipation, especially considering what part of space the planet of Rattatak found itself in. One of the tournament's hotly tipped favourites were fighting tonight. Keen spectators camped out in droves for the chance to purchase a ticket.

The announcer briefly with the crowd, attempting to sedate them somewhat with witty banter. It wasn't working.

“WE WANT BLOOD!”

The gates rumbled open.

 

[Ashin Varanin]

Durasteel grated on sand as two sets of doors opened wide, revealing the arena and her opposite number. "Apparently they want blood!" Ashin called out with half a grin. A trick of the Force carried her voice across the arena; whether @[member="Alen Na'Varro"] heard her above the din, that was something else entirely. She wore her usual, for fights like this, the same as she'd worn to challenge Moridin for the throne. A sleeveless shirt, loose trousers, light boots -- sufficient to fight someone she respected. Against unknowns or the contempt-worthy, she wore armor when she had the choice.

Good memories. The man across from her might be an ally, and a reliable ally at that, the only student who'd ever grasped her specialty, but nothing tasted like victory.

Not just any victory would count, of course. Most added no meaning or substance to her life -- humbling the proud, breaking the unavoidable, that was nothing more or less than her day job. But every now and again, an opportunity presented itself, and she took the chance to stretch herself. Moridin had been one such, in their duels at Keldabe and the bridge of his Harrower. Darron Wraith on Kamino, and then on Roche. In none of those had she emerged victorious, but she had denied victory to her enemy as well. The other paired duels -- breaking the hubris of Arumi Zy and Akain Karna, overcoming the combined weight of Voracitos and Apparatus, shrugging off the full might of Reyvan Samoth and Josiah Denko and a dozen more -- weren't what came to mind here today. What came to mind what another kind of victory.

Victory over limitation. Pushing herself to the very top tier, and then -- more importantly -- working to stay there. Alen Na'Varro, when his field technique was noted by other Fringers, was considered top tier despite his recent accession to Mastery. She'd marked his competence when training him in her specialty. Like Moridin or Wraith, losing to Na'Varro would only be a defeat if she failed to hold herself to her own high standard. If she gave less than her best.

That, and it had been a long time since she'd faced a real possibility of defeat. To have something at stake invigorated her.

She limped out across the sand, unlit sabre loose in her hand, and a Derriphan's Eye strapped to her left thigh. Grandmaster Darron Wraith had damaged her right knee at Roche when she put a sabre through his gut, and by some karmic whim of alchemy the limp had remained when Val'Ryss Zankarr gave her a new body, after her final duel with Morigin. Josiah Denko had added to that limp, and then she'd hurt it again falling through the roof of a certain cave on Dagobah. All in all, that right knee had taken more hits than half the Jedi Council put together.

As she drew closer to Alen, she evaluated him and knew he did the same. At this level, focus naturally adhered to the important points without crowding out the situation as a whole: His breathing, the way his weight shifted as he walked, how level his head remained while moving, where his motions began, the extent to which he wasted movement or momentum. Not that she expected to see weakness. This was just how one fighter got to know another's state of mind and focus. Knowing herself, she knew what someone of his level would see – the limp, the muscle in her shoulders, the thin scars on her hands, the simple focus into which she'd slipped. In a natural way, she'd passed the point where speech was much of an element. She didn't talk as she fought, or at least she didn't banter or launch diatribes. Those moments were better spent in other ways.

"May the Force be with you, Alen. See you on the other side.”

She settled into a basic Shii-Cho stance, the only form she ever used. Simple, balanced, right foot forward, sabre in both hands. A snap-hiss cast burnt-yellow light over the sand.

 

[Aran Finn]

Na'Varro had not joined this tournament for the love of violence itself, as that love at faded with time. He was no longer the young, blood-thirsty Dark Jedi known as Strider, who in ancient times had actively sought out fights. That man had been an angry man. It wasn't like he had been given a choice to be anything else. His blood lust had been forged in the fires of his childhood by his father ... Aran Na'Varro had told his son that he was chosen by gods to rule the kingdom of men. And the brutally savage nobleman had made sure his son had learned tough lessons. Alen too carried the slightest of limps ... his father had broken his left leg during martial arts training to remind him that mistakes have consequences. That had been one of the most painful experiences of his life. That was why he had somehow found violence all of his life. But as the years rolled on, violence had begun to lose its previously undeniable allure. Na'Varro was not here for the sake of violence itself. He was here for respect.

"Apparently they want blood!" Alen matched Ashin's grin with one of his own. He regarded his two lightsaber hilts with disinterest, knowing that neither drew blood so much as burned an opponent. One rested in his right hand, the other on his left leg ... now he looked up at his opponent. Ashin Varanin, he could not have hoped for better. She was one of the most powerful beings he had ever encountered, and Na'Varro had encountered many, many Force users in his lifetime. He had learned from the best, fought the best, and he knew the real deal when he saw it. Varanin knew exactly what she was and what she could do, and was better than everyone else in the galaxy at it. Even Alen ... it would be no disgrace to lose to the former Sith Empress. If he acquitted himself well, he knew he would make her work hard for it, and anyone who gave Ashin Varanin pause was worthy of respect.

The Dark Jedi Master strode out to meet his opponent as the crowd roared, though he could not hear them. He was focused on Ashin herself, noting everything about her. It was not fear or anger that gripped him, just a heightened sense of himself and his opponent, and the connection between them. Because all beings were connected to each other, and the Force only amplified that connection. He saw the limp, which he knew of previously, and noted it with interest. He noted her focus more, however ... it was savant-like in its simplicity. She would not be distracted easily. Alen himself wore not much, just flexible white gi pants, light boots and a red tank top. Ashin would notice a few nasty-looking scars on his shoulders and upper arms, but the tank top covered his worse one, when Zephyrus Cloud, an ancient Sith Master, had run him through with a crimson lightsaber blade as a mere Apprentice. Alen's skill had been forged in the fires of dire straits, there was no doubt that he would give Varanin a good fight.

"Good luck, Ashin." He said so sincerely and snapped a Makashi salute at her, a sign of respect, before settling into a modified Shii-Cho beginning stance, with his weight shifted more to his back foot than his front. Though he appeared to be using Form I, he would actually be using Form V. Djem So was his baby, and he saw no reason to change things up now. However, there would be no going through Ashin. She was not like anyone else that he had encountered. His breathing slowed with his pulse, and the Dark Side raged through him with an exultant fury. He was ready. He would not fall.

Na'Varro began their dance, he darted forward with the Force fueling his movements at great speed. Holding his hilt at chest height, his wrists rotated downward, bringing his crimson lightsaber into a cut at Ashin's right knee. His weight was still more back than forward however, as he was not committing himself as yet. Combined with his movement forward, the Dark Jedi was still able to generate a decent level of power into his blow. It was not a Falling Avalanche-type super-powered attack, but it would do as an opening strike.

@[member="Ashin Varanin"]

 

[Ashin Varanin]

Each datum - each component of range, timing, angle, stance - fed into the machine, and her rising opinion of @[member="Alen Na'Varro"] as a duellist was interpreted dispassionately as one datum among many data. That was how it had been explained to her once, anyway, and she was in no state of mind to come up with metaphors. She evaluated her evaluation in a moment, instinctively, and instinct informed her actions. Not many would think to keep their weight back, or even balanced, when transitioning so much forward momentum into such a powerful strike. Not many could do that; she'd certainly faced powerful, experienced Masters who didn't understand commitment.

No, that was not a dig at Darron Wraith's love life.

Focus without tension. Fluidity without lassitude. Awareness without distraction. She had known duellists who claimed the wisdom of centuries, and defeated more than a few of them, because what mattered was the now, the moment. What mattered was how you were, the state of mind you had achieved. The experienced and pretentious spoke of emptiness or perfect clarity, absolute rage or utter serenity. These were not the truth. The truth was that, at the highest levels, absolute readiness meant you had cleared out every obstacle to fluidity of thought and well-honed muscle memory.

And that meant minimalism, more often than not. No wasted movement. Her stance deepened as she dropped her blade and turned her wrists to bring the forward edge of her blade to bear, a last-second partial rotation about the long axis, reorienting downward momentum to meet the attack. Her left elbow slid out, naturally enough, and the midsection of her sabre met his strike. All true movement began with the feet, with her connection to the ground, then made its way to the bladetip; likewise, the firmest blocks, with the best-trained muscle behind them, took the power of the incoming strike and sent it through her body to her feet. Her boots shifted incrementally with the force of his blow, quick as it was.

The burnt-orange sabre didn't budge an inch.

His hands being at chest height, somewhat higher than hers, such a low strike necessitated some degree of rotating torsion to his wrists. Torsion meant they could -- and often did -- spring back to straightness, but quick use of a circling bladetip -- akin to what fencers called a disengage -- could trace that returning spiral, just in advance of the return that would likely double as his simplest and most instinctive parry. It didn't always work, but when it did, people lost blade emitters or fingers. The deeper stance, the wide but low left elbow, made her low block more a matter of a simple cutting motion. So when she worked her hands in opposition to each other -- torso and shoulders going to a 'closed' position, arms coming closer together, right hand moving forward as the left moved in under her foream -- the massless blade came around, in, and down with a quick flick at his hands on the lightsabre hilt. It was the kind of move that lent itself a bit too easily to committing weight forward; she didn't, though her toe dug into the sand.

 

[Aran Finn]

After over a hundred duels over the years, Na'Varro had come to know the difference between a skilled duelist and a brilliant one. Skilled duelists had all the moves and knew where to put their blade and how to use it effectively, but brilliant duelists ... they did things effortlessly. The way Varanin absorbed the power of his strike with flawless technique showed the difference between her brilliance and the skill of others. Had Alen been in another frame of mind, he would have been suitably impressed, but for the moment he was in the zone. He was fighting against a brilliant opponent, fighting for his life. He did not think in Galactic Basic anymore, there were only feelings ... and they all translated to either the feeling of 'yes' or the feeling of 'no.' Such was his level of concentration that he probably would not have been able to speak if prodded ... he was like a mathematician or physicist working on quantum mechanics, or a composer creating his masterpiece. There was only him, Ashin, their blades, and the feeling of 'yes' and 'no.'

Her counter, had it been manifested inside of a training spar, would have elicited a "Force damn" from Alen's lips. Her technique was flawless as she went for the hands, which in Alen's opinion was a seriously underrated target area. All these kids, going for the head or heart, kill or be killed. A crippled opponent was much, much easier to deal with ... how could Alen Na'Varro hope to face down Ashin Varanin with four fingers from his right hand missing? It would be next to impossible, and Ashin knew it. Her excellent technique was combined with excellent application and excellent focus. This was why she had such a tremendous reputation ... this was also why Alen was the perfect dueling match for her. He felt already like they were coming to a mutual understanding.

Her orange blade snaked around in a very quick circular motion, the motion created by the rotation and movement of her hands, and snapped towards where his hands met the hilt of his blade. An experienced swordsman could still be forced into a mistake by the strike, it was both quick and tricky to deal with, as it took advantage of a break in timing to throw an opponent's mind off-balance, as well as his person. If Alen had panicked, he would have pulled his blade into a haphazard, jabbing style block with his hilt at almost head height, which would have compromised his form, his balance and probably his life. Thankfully, he was not prone to panicking. He was better than that. And he knew when to give ground, and when to take it.

As Ashin's blade snaked forward, muscle memory made Na'Varro take a backward step with his left and shift the hilt of his blade down to his left hip as he straightened his crimson blade. His weight remained with his right foot, which was now his front foot ... this created ample space between he and his opponent to maneuver. Swaying back from his waist with supple ease to avoid the counter-strike reaching his head, his now vertical blade moved in a short, powerful "punch" to intercept Ashin's from his left to his right. He powered his blow with his left pectoral muscle, trapezoid and tricep, locking his elbow to generate a short, sharp application of power. His crimson sabre met Ashin's orange one with a clash of light, and it held firm against her quick strike, the energy of the blow flowing through his body and entering the ground through his right, anchoring leg, and looked to knock her lightsaber to her left, away from her body. Now he flowed with the Dark Side as a part of him, holding to the tenets of Form V. Momentum, momentum and momentum...

His riposte was quick and clean. As his effective block had punched at the orange blade with force, hoping to knock it towards her left for a few inches at least, his savant-like concentration told him he had a little bit of space to work with. With his weight resting easily on his right, forward foot, keeping his balance centred, he struck forward powerfully, with his hilt once again coming up to his chest. The crimson blade rotated downward once again from his right to his left in a short arcing motion, much like his previous strike, but this was aimed at Ashin's left-hand side abdomen rather than her leg. With his weight further forward, he was able to generate more power for this blow, and such was the nature of his attack that his blade was well-positioned to avoid any counter from Varanin.

@[member="Ashin Varanin"]

 

[Ashin Varanin]

@[member="Alen Na'Varro"]

That block, so close in, had diverted her bladetip strike pretty well, thrown away the throwaway move. What came next was interesting. To go from knocking her blade that way, around and down to a strike for the side of her belly, required the base of his blade to go through or around the bladetip he'd just blocked, or hope that her retraction got the bladetip out of the way or left it pliable. And, truth, she was no fencer, to overcommit a bladetip strike. A straight lunge from here would impale him, no question, but would also end with her partial bisection.

Ashin was not a fan of partial bisection.

Her right leg remained forward, and she shifted her hips just so, putting them parallel with her legs rather than facing Alen as before. With her right toe pulled in, her left toe pushed out, and her weight settled, that put her in a wide, low riding stance, with her feet functionally in the same places as they'd ever been. She held her sabre low, vertical, blade perilously close to her own face, handle down near her belly and groin. The settled stance gave her the extra inch or two she needed to catch his low strike just above his lightsabre emitter. This stance was, it should be noted, a very, very bad idea for any duellist taking a Djem So strike perpendicular to the riding stance. It was the sort of scenario that generally ended up compromising balance and either putting you on your rear or forcing your guard wide open. Because a riding stance, feet parallel, weight evenly distributed, hips even, legs symmetrical, was very strong against impacts from the other direction, but a simple push to the gut or the back would send you off your feet.

Ashin used the Force. This wasn't the first time she had used the Force in a conscious way; in point of fact, she still hadn't. This nameless, ancient technique was so instinctive, so integral to her primary skillset, as to be unconscious. Every Form, in her opinion, relied on the Force to allow its wielders to transcend the limits of their bodies, each form a different limit in its way. Makashi, precision. Soresu, coordination. Djem So, strength. Ataru, speed. (Niman, physical tolerance for sheer boredom.) Vaapad, endurance. Insofar as Shii-Cho could make such a claim, Ashin suspected it would be centeredness. The power she employed had no name; was, by itself, useless or even dangerous to spinal health; certainly didn't belong on the very short primary skill list of a very powerful Master.

She should have been knocked off balance, or been forced to lean forward and risk compromised balance in that direction. Instead, she simply didn't move, rooted to the ground for an instant, the Force enhancing the strength and resilience of her body to match.

From that angle, you could knock that stance over with a feather. But nothing happened. And in that moment of impossibility, as her low, near-vertical blade caught the Djem So strike and refused to budge, Ashin's rootedness reoriented itself from immovable object to unstoppable force. So to speak. Na'Varro was her height, and had about ten pounds of muscle on her, plus his primary style was all about handling strength. There was a better than average chance he could stop anything she could throw at him. Even so, her strike uncoiled with her full power behind it, because...well, that was what one did in a duel. And sooner or later one might get through.

She didn't give him time to adjust that twined-wrist low posture for his blade. He'd have to go counterclockwise from five to, well, five o'clock to block this with any kind of momentum. Either that, or wager that his nearly-inverted wrists and fully inverted blade could handle this strike without letting the weapon be jarred from his grip. Not a full disarm, of course -- the worst-case scenario for Alen at this point wasn't losing the weapon, but losing control of the weapon with the blade perilously close to his own right leg.

Well, that and/or failing to fully stop the lateral two-handed cut currently stampeding for his right hip. Every action began with the ground, infinitesimal though the time intervals of causation might be, and as she struck Ashin's feet shifted and her hips torqued right, back into a front stance. Her shoulders and arms and sabre came along in due course, frames in a high-speed film. A film about bullwhips, perhaps.

One block, one strike, one exhalation.

 

[Aran Finn]

Alen fought duels like he played holo-chess. It was an impetuous, high risk high reward style where the Dark Jedi ended up taking a lot of hits to dish out a few more. His nasty collection of scars was testament to that fact. He went hard or went home, and had gone out on his shield more times than he could count. But as he had grown older, his risks had grown more calculated and shrewd. He had opened himself up to be skewered by a thrust, but in his innate concentration he knew that Ashin did not fancy dying today ... and as such her reply would be defensive rather than offensive. And he was right. His technical strike, starting close to his body so as to avoid Ashin's blade on the follow-through, reached out and smashed into the Jedi Master's guarding block. Her stance, Alen would have noted consciously if his mind was not so entrenched in and attuned to the feeling of the fight, was all wrong. Well, not all wrong. It showed Varanin's level of skill that her blade even got around in time in order to intercept Na'Varro's, but it did. However, the perpendicular placing of her feet coupled with low distribution of her weight would mean that she would likely end up on her backside, if Alen's attack didn't smash her own lightsaber into her face. Only it didn't.

@[member="Ashin Varanin"] remained rooted to the ground, like a massive rock in the face of a gentle breeze, and her orange blade intercepted Alen's own crimson one, and the power he had generated, like it was nothing. Now that was something that Alen needed to learn. This was the moment when Alen realised that he was not fighting to go further in the tournament ... he was fighting to survive a duel with an opponent who quite literally had him outgunned.

Feth. That.

This wouldn't be the first time that Alen Na'Varro had beaten the odds. Thank the Force he was able to think outside the box.

Now she sent her blade crashing laterally towards his right hip, a forceful cut that rivaled the concussive power that Alen could muster into a strike. Had he attempted to complete a full counter-clockwise rotation with his wrists, Na'Varro would likely have ended up without a right leg to stand on. Men were not considered so attractive with wooden legs, he knew. Even cortosis ones weren't exactly stylish. He didn't fancy losing a limb, in any case. If his blade remained in place, his defensive posture would have been compromised and he knew that he wasn't able to do what Ashin had just done ... his crimson blade would likely have removed his right leg as well, or at least cut into his artery and cleaved into both bones. Na'Varro did not fancy that either. He did not fancy getting cut up at all, thank you very much. A pity then, that he found himself fighting one Ashin Varanin. In the midst of the moment, Alen found his connection to the Dark Side grow stronger. Only it wasn't passion, anger or frustration that drove him ... it was desperation. It was his will to live. And that will was unconquerable. He would fight, he would survive, and he would win if the Force saw fit to accord him that honour. He would win with his mind. He would win by doing what was obvious.

It was not often that Alen found himself being pushed back, but against an unmovable object coupled with an unstoppable force, he found himself giving ground out of necessity.

Weight shifted to his left leg, planted firmly against the ground, as his right leg moved back along with a shift of his hips, setting down behind him in a balanced stance once again. Weight was so, so important, he thought unconsciously as both knees bent slightly. Knowing how to use it was the difference between life and death, quite literally in some instances. Once his right leg was planted again, his weight shifted back there in a 65/35 split. It was a defensive posture, and a safe one. Over-committing yourself against someone who shrugged off your power attacks like a giant brushing away a fly was extremely inadvisable. Bringing the right leg back meant that Varanin's attack hit nothing but air for the time being. However, it only bought Na'Varro an extra split second. Given the short space originally between them, Ashin had only barely begun to rotate her wrists to follow through with her strike. If continued, it would hit Alen's right hip, only not on the spot on the blade that she had intended. As his right leg shifted back, the Dark Jedi Master brought his blade around from about three thirty to five o'clock in a counter-clockwise movement, and as the crimson lightsaber moved it generated power. His blade passed perilously close to his left knee as it came through, intercepting the Jedi's attack with power just in front of his right hip. Her blade touched his flesh for the first time, almost imperceptibly and only for the briefest millisecond. First blood, so to speak, but only the most trained eyes in the watching, bloodthirsty crowd would notice it. As for Na'Varro, he was attuned to the Dark Side and the constraint of battle. Tiny flesh wounds were of no consequence, though he'd feel them later. Nevertheless, his powerful, punchy blocking style pushed Ashin's blade away and saved his right leg, for now at least.

Alen's style was functional and occasionally unorthodox, and borrowed from all Forms of lightsaber combat. Though he favoured Djem So, his masters Killian Quane and Invictus had saw fit to make sure that their apprentice had a sound knowledge of all Forms, if only to know how to combat them effectively. Na'Varro had been Invictus' Hand, and as such his martial skill had to be unquestioned. He had been his Master's sword arm for years, and had faced down his enemies with strength, fire and blood. Most of his Master's enemies favoured Makashi, a gentlemanly, elegant form that was the Form-du-jour of Sith in Alen's heyday. The bearded man had gained a familiarity with Form II, though he did not use it himself. That knowledge, however, stayed with him, and he used its principles to form his counter. Well, barely. The attack looked ugly, but he'd be damned if it wasn't going to be effective.

With about a three-quarter step between Alen and Ashin, with his left leg in line with her right leg, his blade darted forward with a viper-like quality, quick and precise, from his parry. Weight shifted forward to the left leg as he took advantage of Ashin's blade being diverted to his left, he lunged with an ugly-looking two-handed stab, angling in at her abdomen. His left leg bent more as his right leg straightened slightly, shifting his weight forward in about a 70/30 split. This viper-like strike was aimed at landing before Ashin even had time to move her blade backwards. It was as risky as it was ugly, but the Dark Jedi was willing to bet that his opponent would not have time to counter it with her blade.

That flesh wound she'd given him was going to hurt like wildfire after this duel was done. He hoped to repay her in kind.

 

[Ashin Varanin]

@[member="Alen Na'Varro"]

The tip of the blade was seriously under-utilized -- perhaps the only significant, conscious opinion she'd ever shared with Palpatine, Sith Empress though she'd been. If she'd been in the state of mind to flash back to previous training, she would have thought of a basic self-defense class, as a young teenager, before her parents had let her go to the Jedi. When all you have is a stick, the instructor had said, don't swing it. Grab it with wide hands and jab with it. Harder to block, harder to disarm, faster. And when the slightest graze could bring crippling pain, sometimes you didn't need Djem So power. Alen's composite style appeared to have grasped that very, very well.

Instinct and necessity made her accede to number three on her list of things she didn't want to do this fight: Take a hand off her sabre. She let go with the left for a bit more speed and maneuverability as her weight shifted backward, from a mirror of Alen's stance to a 60/40 back stance. That took some weight off her right knee, gave her some relief. Her right forearm blurred out, as if performing a low inside-outside unarmed block, but instead of rotating her wrist to three o'clock, she stayed at noon. The vertical blade slammed into his two-handed thrust, and his blade traced a line of fire across the outside of her elbow.

Crucitorn was a wonderful thing, and she'd trained it in the nastiest circumstances imaginable, but she preferred not to use it. The only time she'd ever employed it in a serious duel, so far as she could recall, was when Darron Wraith took her first body's arm at Roche -- no, wait, then there'd been the time she'd used trakata against Moridin's bladelock at Keldabe, taken his sword's edge from collarbone to sternum, paid the price to put a lightsabre right through his chest point blank. That moment had needed crucitorn too. But, like Alen, she couldn't really be slowed by grazing saber burns, save through attrition. And attrition was her defensive game just as much as it was his.

The ancient warlords said that you could live your entire life with someone, then hang him over a volcano's caldera, and on that day you would finally meet the man. Ashin wasn't much for torture, never had been, but in her opinion those ancient warlords had been, to a man, afraid to put things at stake in duels like this. Because she'd seen people's true selves unmasked under torture, had faced that herself a couple of times, and in her opinion that unmasking was nothing to what you learned about the inner self when you fought someone at close range for a sustained period of time. She'd trained Alen in her prime specialty, Force Weapon, but apart from that they'd never seriously explored each other's skillsets, and she was now coming to realize that -- apart from incidentals like his jackhammer Force shields and her own bits of esoterica -- those skillsets reflected each other. Even their aesthetic choices of movement resembled each other. Certainly her Shii-Cho had been compared to Darth Vader's Djem So, aesthetically.

That similarity had implications for attrition. But more importantly than skillset, Na'Varro had a mind for this, and duelling experience that matched or exceeded hers. Oh, she'd fought a few dozen serious duels, enough that memory blurred, but the bulk of her combat experience with lightsabre or solid blade had been against hordes, armies. Charon legions from Otherspace, massed Dark Harvest undead, Sith cultists by the bushel, Ssi-Ruuk redscales wielding the kind of paralysis beams that lightsabres couldn't block -- the list went on. In terms of formal, one-on-one duels with consequences, though, she was starting to suspect that he had fought more than her, and not many could say that. This duel was far from decided.

Her countermove, when it came, was nothing more than another shift of balance, the same move she'd employed against Ayden Cater in orbit over Kayri. Her weight moved forward, her right knee bent once more, her hips rotated into a forward stance again, and the momentum of that stance transferred into and through the block. Their sabres skittered against each other, perpendicular, her blade still vertical. He'd gone forward for the 70/30, and now she did the same, their stances opposite and mirrored. But transferring stance to stance wasn't about static positioning. Like every block, like every step, it was about momentum.

Their lightsabres finally locked, not far from the blade emitters, and her momentum crashed into him at close range. His two-handed thrust had put him in an excellent defensive position against this move of hers, but she knew that a Djem So fighter knew how to handle a power strike. She wasn't trying to break his guard. She was trying to break his stance. Oh, certainly no professional would ever lock the knee of that straight back leg, but a certain pattern of tension and strength existed around the knee; that was what made it a perfect backstop against something like this. His stance made him a bulwark, and she aimed to break that bulwark, force him out of that stance, compromise his balance just slightly. The full force of her shifting stance slammed into his via the blade lock.

In classical lightsabre theory, this would be a very, very bad time for either of them to use trakata, but he knew her arts; he might try it anyway. In which case, she'd do the same and the whole arena would get to see them simultaneously tanking lightsabres, like Satele Shan against Malgus.

 

[Aran Finn]

Crucitorn had been the second thing that Alen Na'Varro had learned in his new life as a Force user. His sect had been known for their unrelenting nature; they had assassinated important galactic figures, fought side by side with and against Echani, Republicans, Imperials, destroyed huge cultural landmasses with fire, battled both Jedi and Sith for survival. They had been heavily outnumbered at every turn by their enemies, and such a certain level of relentlessness had been required. Crucitorn had been the highest necessity, for in his previous life he had always, always been outnumbered and outgunned. Invictus had made sure that crucitorn had become second nature to his Hand, and Alen could recall various training sessions where the powerful Arbiter had cut on him at will, forcing him to master the skill or drown in an ocean of pain. Much like remaining centred was a natural, inherent part of Force use to @[member="Ashin Varanin"], crucitorn was an inherent part of it to Alen. It was something he would always do subconsciously, and that was one of the reasons why he was hard to stop. That was why he was relentless.

The longer this fight went on, the more Alen began to feel connected to Ashin as his respect for her talents grew. He always knew she was the best at what she did ... there were always muttering coming from the mouths of those who were in the know. Don't mess with Ashin. You're fighting Ashin? Good luck. Na'Varro had understood that she had obviously gained respect from the esteemed others through deeds done in the past, but knowing of her talents and experiencing them first-hand were two different things entirely. Varanin did what Na'Varro did, and she did it very well indeed. Perhaps better than he himself ... her Shii-Cho and his Djem So were both very, very similar. The bearded man was willing to presume that both of their blade styles had started off from opposite spectrums and had converged with each other through compiled experience. The two Masters were testament to the old adage of "discard what doesn't work and perfect what does." Over time, it seemed that they had become almost mirror images of each other. And now finally, in this new period of time Alen found himself in, people were starting to realise that Alen too was not to be messed with. But that didn't mean he would take Ashin more lightly, he was no fool. After this was done, he would resolve to become much better friends with the Jedi Master ... and to never fight her again if he didn't have to.

She was very, very quick. She intelligently removed her left hand for greater speed as she knocked Alen's stab to the side, not without difficulty. The tip of his blade carved the outside of her elbow ... had she not caught him so soon, he would have fully extended and skewered her through it. They were starting to hone in on each other. Some time, some way, something had to give. Now she shifted her weight forward to match his as their blades skittered together, finally coming to a stop close to their blade emitters as Alen's crimson and Ashin's burnt orange locked together, in place. For the first time, Alen's eyes met Ashin's. Completely concentrated, fully and completely in a zone where it was only he and his opponent that were part of his world, the Dark Side was reflected with purity in his eyes ... they were locked, emotionless and determined. And his irises were both now of the deepest blood red. This was the manifestation of the Dark Side. It giveth, and it taketh away.

Na'Varro loved saber locks. Djem So was all about perseverance and domination, and gaining the upper hand in a saber lock showed both ends equally. And he'd done a lot of this. Had his weight and hers been more evenly distributed, he would definitely have made use of the principles of trakata. Certainly, two Masters tanking lightsabers in the middle of an arena full of mindless savages baying for blood might have caused a few deaths from over-excitement, but that was something that Na'Varro did not want to do just yet. Varanin was likely better at that too. Instead, Alen aimed to use the saber lock to his advantage, as well as his own, great, strength. And leverage, that too. Na'Varro loved leverage almost as much as he had loved his own children.

As Ashin's push came, Alen shifted his weight with it. His weight distribution went to 30/70 as it shifted back, taking most of the juice out of her push, and he handled the rest of her momentum with the principles of energy distribution and sheer strength. Most of the kinetic energy from her attack was absorbed and dispersed into the ground from both of his legs, which now stood rooted to the ground. He was not so mobile in this position, but he was unyielding. Alen did not know how to use the Force to root his body in place like Ashin did, but he did know how to use his body. That was almost as good when one's positioning and weight distribution was right. His blade moved back as well, locking in place at a ninety degree angle to Ashin's blade. Alen could remain as strong as the oak, but he could also bend, like a reed in the wind. Both principles were especially important here.

He was a combination of the two as he seamlessly pushed forward, much more gently, at the end of her push, transferring his weight back to more of an even split, taking some of the weight she was pushing into him with his elbows, shoulders and pectorals. Now he made use of leverage. His wrists began to rotate with control and precision, combined with sheer, Force-enhanced strength; his right hand started snaking closer to his body as his left elbow slowly came up, rotating his crimson blade towards Ashin's right trapezoid muscle. Such was the snail-like pace of this movement that the Jedi would likely actually see it coming, marking a huge change of pace from the duel so far. However, Na'Varro's blade could not reach Varanin's right shoulder without opening himself up to be split in two ... or, not without a little something else. As his blade came around, the Dark Jedi attempting to overwhelm his opponent with sheer strength, his weight shifted quickly back to a 70/30 distribution with a quick, sharp push. This was designed to push Ashin's blade back, robbing it of any forward momentum, and then skewer her right trapezoid, effectively rendering that arm a liability.

Strength and leverage. Tanking lightsabers could wait.

 

[Ashin Varanin]

@[member="Alen Na'Varro"]
This was obviously not his first rodeo. His backward shift made her concentrate on not overcommitting forward, and if she had overcompensated back in the slightest degree, his quick reversal would have done to her exactly what she'd meant to do to him: Break the stance. And even if she dealt with the strike for her trapezoid, most available defenses would leave her gut wide open for a variety of obvious next moves. It was, on his part, a very, very well chosen move. She might even have to do the one thing she didn't want to do. Oh, number three had been taking a hand off her lightsabre, number two had been tied between pulling her secondary weapon and using the Force overtly, but the number one thing she didn't want to do, for the sake of hubris, was move her feet.

Because as of yet, apart from shifting her toes' direction for different stances, she hadn't.

Oh, a truly practical duellist like Na'Varro wouldn't have a list like that. And if she wanted to win, she would have to discard that list entirely. She'd had her fun. This particular fighter required no handicaps; this wasn't a game of dejarik, where she had to take her gundarks off the board at the start. But the problem wasn't that she needed to move her feet, or draw her knife, or use the Force explicity, in order to win. The problem was that she had a list at all, and impediments to perfect flow were a bad, bad thing. Her state of mind was not perfect.

The split-second realization changed nothing for the moment, but everything beyond. The long, slow blade lock had given her time to bring up her left hand and restore her two-handed grip -- and a good thing, too, as that elbow burn had implications, crucitorn or not. He had about ten pounds on her, and they were of a height. She could oppose his strength, but he was gaining leverage by opening up his gut for bisection, and the urgency of the moment kept her from taking that opportunity. She could move back as he had done, but that would open up her forward leg. She could not twist much farther right to shove his blade's center away, not in this stance.

Such was the foundation. The action, and the consciousness behind it, were far more straightforward.

She took the hit, a sacrifice, crucitorn still at full burn. His sabre's point rammed into her right trapezoid just as her right hand came off the blade, before the implications for function could skew or slow her weapon. A weapon that was now in her left hand only, and in a very, very good position for a powerful slash down inside his guard. If unblocked, it would draw a line through some combination of his face, left trapezoid, chest, right forearm --all exposed by the angle he'd chosen to force his way around her guard.

As her slash came down and his sabre stabbed her trapezoid, a flick of her thumb activated her lightsabre's dual-phase setting with a Trakata master's timing. The second crystal armature rotated into place. Instantly, the blade doubled in length, became twice as narrow, and burned a brilliant sky-blue.

 

[Aran Finn]

Sometimes, you had to take a hit to give a hit. Sometimes, opening up your opponent's guard required opening up your own. Whatever the case, against a top tier duelist like Ashin it was extremely, extremely difficult to walk away from a match unscathed. Against weaker-minded opponents, Alen's crimson blade piercing the right trapezoid might have ended the duel altogether. In effect, he'd practically removed an entire side of Ashin's from the realm of combat effectiveness. Her right arm would be a loosely-hanging sack of bone and meat now, more of a hindrance than anything else. That was one of the reasons why Alen more often than not went for the trapezoid rather than attempted to remove a limb. Anything that would slow Ashin down was a boon ... but she was a singular individual, in the highest class of pugilism, and she would make do. Against most others, this would be the time where Alen started slowly picking apart his opponent. But Varanin was still dangerous. Her counter was vicious. And despite his best intentions, Na'Varro was not entirely prepared for it.

During the rotation of his saber to reach her trapezoid, Na'Varro had effectively locked his own right shoulder in place, held taut close to his neck. That was great for strength and leverage, moving a lightsaber around another, but not so great for mobility. Mobility required looseness, and right now Alen had none of it in his right arm. Though this did not occur to him consciously, pure reflex and muscle memory made him account for it. His saber would not get around in time to prevent injury or even death; his guard was compromised and his form was vulnerable. So he moved. He moved in a very unexpected way. A way that had not been available to him until recently, when a certain @[member="Ashin Varanin"] had met him in the Pit and instructed him in an art he had thought dead. It had not been possible until Morna had met him in the same arena to teach him about Tutaminis. Clearly Na'Varro had a lot to be thankful for, for Varanin and Imura and the Fringe. If not for them, Ashin might have killed him.

Instinctively, in the mindframe of self-preservation, Alen removed his right arm from the hilt of his saber and moved it quickly, slamming his forearm squarely into Ashin's rapidly expanding lightsaber. The principle of Force Shield, Alen's specialty, was in play here. Force Weapon made use of a Shield-style Force energy to imbue an object with much greater strength. Alen imbued his right arm with it, out of pure survival instinct, and used it as a make-shift blocking apparatus. In this case, Na'Varro combined his use of the protective power with the principles of energy diffusion that he had worked on with Imura. He had not yet Mastered either power, and as such used the two to compliment each other. This was the first time that Alen had used Force Weapon to protect his arm, and it was the first time he had attempted to diffuse the energy of a lightsaber. Morna's hottest flames more than rivaled the ability of a lightsaber to burn, but regardless, this was the first time he'd used the power for real. Taking into account also the difficulty of using two similar powers at once ... it wasn't entirely effective. Varanin's now blue blade smashed into Alen's right forearm, partially bisecting it and cutting deep into the bone. The damage to his forearm was severe. Completely and utterly focused on stopping and neutralizing Ashin's blade, Alen managed to turn his right arm into something that could stop a lightsaber in a pinch ... it was knocked back a couple of inches, and the Dark Jedi Master could feel the hotness of her blade on his face. Or he would have, but right now he focused on stopping the blade ... and it did. Not even his mastery of crucitorn stopped the blade from creating a devastating burning pain ... for the first time, Alen roared in agony.

That's right, Ashin Varanin's opponent was the one tanking a lightsaber.

Instinct told Alen that he did not have much time before he lost his arm. Remembering where that he had a lightsaber, which was still resting around Ashin's right shoulder, he slashed down through her shoulder at her abdomen with his left-handed hilt and blade diagonally and viciously. Something told him that this duel would not being going on for much longer. If she survived this, she'd likely kill him with her counter, or close to it. Na'Varro was not doing so hot right now.

 

[Ashin Varanin]

@[member="Alen Na'Varro"]

For a heartbeat she pondered winking at him and letting go, letting his blade punch through her heart, vanishing as the Five Priestesses had taught her, finally allowing herself to die. But there were still talks to be had with Spencer and those she'd leave behind. Her penance was to die before her time, and that might be soon, but not quite yet. So, with a lightsabre through her shoulder, she finalized the shield.

Her focus, just now, was split between the crucitorn that kept her from screaming – or, indeed, feeling the pain of the sabre that had just impaled her trapezoid – and her own weapon, pressing down against his forearm. She felt no pain, no impediments to clarity; that was crucitorn's art, with her full power behind it. But in less than a minute her body, like his, would start going into shock, and crucitorn couldn't fully handle that. Not the way she'd learned it, anyway. Perhaps he knew another variant. Until then, she could think and act, and use the Force. His blade swept down at her collarbone, the obvious move, and ran into the barrier of her will, a Force Weapon effect that could withstand starfire. Her focus came off her blade to do that, to save her life.

The power that he had used just now, the one she'd taught him, was her speciality, her first instinct, as much a part of her as breathing or, well, bleeding. The sabre which had impaled her was forcibly repelled against her collarbone. His blade had carved a neat gouge down a good two inches into her body; she'd need serious surgery, perhaps prosthetics or cloned muscle tissue, and her right arm hung limp and useless at her side. Dead weight.

So there they stood, his lightsabre truncated against her chest, hers bone-deep in his forearm. It seemed the onlookers would get to see two Masters tanking lightsabres after all.