Deleted
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Post by Deleted on Jul 23, 2013 1:07:44 GMT -8
3 - Honoghr: Colosseum de L'Ange Tomb
Top 10 force, GBA standard rules, no firearms, light to no armor.
This massive amphitheater, near the Spaceport in Nystao, was built using the plans of ancient builders, found on holocrons uncovered in the Rakatan Temple. The Honoghr government wished to pay tribute to those that had come before them, and by using these designs, they built this structure, using modern construction techniques and materials. The elliptical building is immense, measuring 388m by 356m and reaching a height of more than 60 meters. The Colosseum can accommodate some 550,000 spectators who could enter the building through no less than 80 entrances. Above the ground are six stories.
Below the ground, under the actual arena floor, were rooms with mechanical devices and equipment, to provide for the most interesting combat, or sporting event, possible. The huge amphitheater was built on the site of a hot-spring-fed lake, which gave the ability to flood the lower levels of the actual amphitheater floor, should the games require it.
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Post by Alkor Centaris on Jul 23, 2013 8:58:46 GMT -8
There was something to be said for the complexities of life; one moment you find yourself awash in the sea of confusion and malcontent, and the next, you are able to come up for air and, by the grace of a power you will never understand- a power that you have come to abhor for the same reason you now bitterly praise it- you are able to find your way again. But, as if to strike you in the face, that power thrusts you directly into the face of your past life, and it bids you confront it outright. If there was a god, certainly, he had a sick sense of humor.
Honoghr was a largely unaffiliated world in the scope of the galaxy, but for the heartstrings of Master Matango- a man who had suggested Alkor come to Nystao to make his peace with the horrors of combat in the colosseum. There had been whispers of a darker creature lurking in the shadows, waiting for a worthy enemy to slake his thirst for a challenge. Of course, who else but the one-time Jen'jidai would see that as a challenge for himself?
The folds and tattered, frayed fabric of his dark colored robes blew ominously in the wind as he watched the sands blown around at his feet kick up, and he stretched his shoulder and neck muscles. His fingers curled and relaxed, and his accute senses- the blessing and curse gifted him by the force- drank in the world around him. The only detectable weapon on his person hung there like a badge of rank, idly at his waist, in the manner of a Jedi. His brown hair hung more cleanly than it ever had, cut down to his ears, and his eyes sparkled a brilliant blue as he gave a somber smile to the world.
The crowd was wild, some love for the Jedi probably still in their hearts and minds because of Adieumus, but that would give over to an enjoyment of battle soon enough. That was the way of things, was it not? People, at their basest levels, all wanted to watch others suffer. To watch them toil, and in some cases, even die. Alkor pitied them in that- that they would never see their own folly, and if they did, that they would never truly change.
The same, in fact, might be said of his opponent... who he now watched with disbelieving eyes. "...Ishmael."
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Ishmael
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Posts: 134 
Affiliation: The Way of Lapay
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Post by Ishmael on Jul 27, 2013 19:41:18 GMT -8
*He stepped forward from the darkness ringing the walls of the arena, just another shadow come to life. Pale, long-fingered hands- like skeletal spiders, floating in a sea of black- rose to pull back the Sith's cowl. His lips bowed in a sardonic smile and he started forward, trudging across the sand towards his other half. A gust of wind sent up another cloud of dust and sent the sorcerer's tattered, flayed robes billowing about his meager frame. Coming to a halt perhaps five meters from the Jedi, he let his shoulders slump and turned his face towards the sky.* "Ahhh...brother..." *His voice was little more than a rasping purr, but it echoed through the arena nonetheless.*
*He stood that way for a long moment, with his head thrown back and his eyes half-closed. He'd been here, feeding on the energies of those who'd sought to stand against him, for nearly a week. Growing stronger and stronger as he awaited Alkor's inevitable arrival, he'd accumulated a healthy reserve of power. Power that now coursed through him, sparkling in his blood and sending shivers down his spine. The sorcerer couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so strong, so alive.*
*Of course nothing could be further from the truth.*
*Finally he breathed out a long sigh and straightened, dropping his amber gaze to meet its cerulean counterpart. 'What will it take to cut your strings?' Ishmael wondered idly. 'What will sever the Jedi's hold on your heart?' In truth, he was unsure such a thing was even possible. But, if anything could allow him to reclaim his lost brother, it was combat. The endless dance along the razor's edge separating life and death. He was armed only with his saber- tucked within the ragged confines of his robes- as it had been the first time he and his sibling had danced. A poignant memory for both warriors, a turning point.*
*The air hung breathless as Ishmael resumed his slow trudge forward.*
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Post by Alkor Centaris on Aug 5, 2013 16:36:25 GMT -8
All great things came to their end, inevitably. That was the nature of things- fleeting, finite, fading. Impermanent. And so too had been the kinship between the once Dark Jedi and this perverse mockery of what had once been a great man. Great men, perhaps, in that Alkor was his twin in ruination. Monolithic in memoriam, though markedly more so in the case of Ishmael.
Alkor's eyes were filled with sorrow in recognition of the accursed aura that permeated the man now calling him brother. The same profane rituals that had sheltered the soul of C'thulu Plaga from damnation had now stolen Ishmael away from the will of the force, sequestering the last vestiges of humanity far beneath the surface. He knew, instantly, that there was no hope of saving this man, now, though he sorely wished it were not so.
Fumbling with the small ruby gem that hung loosely at his neck, Alkor felt the microcosm come to life in the presence of it's missing half, the Quixoni gem torn asunder by a genuine miracle of the force. Something so perfect, so immensely powerful as the remnant of a star gone supernova had known a single moment of weakness, broken into two even shards, and the resulting blast had- Alkor thought- ripped Ishmael's life from him.
But he saw the untruth in that, now. Ishmael had been unmade, but the darkness had fashioned him a new, more bitterly perfect image to suit his desires. Alkor's eyebrows knit into an expression of exasperation mixed with sorrow, and he looked at the lich through force damned eyes, seeking in vain some means of delivering him, some way of breaking this curse he had subjected himself to, and, failing that kindness, Alkor resigned himself to the grim duty that he thought he had left behind him forever.
"Was it so foolish of me," Alkor asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, "to hope the nightmare had ended, brother? For both of us?"
But justice would not permit Alkor tears; not now, in the sight of men and gods, in the face of adversity. His hand dropped from the gem, pulsating with unholy light beneath his tattered and worn robes, and fell gently to the cylinder resting at his hip. As it fell away, into the practiced, familiar grip of the Demon, the pale blue blade cackled hellishly into being, and it's warmth sent a chill exploding through Alkor's body.
The night was falling fast.
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Ishmael
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Posts: 134
Affiliation: The Way of Lapay
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Post by Ishmael on Aug 16, 2013 12:02:28 GMT -8
"Aye," *Came the sorcerer's rasping reply.* "Foolish indeed, to think I would not return from the hell you consigned me to."
*Minute puffs of sand rose from beneath Ishmael's boots as he advanced. The crowds were dead silent, and for that he was thankful. Wrath gleamed in his amber eyes as he raised his right hand out to his side. A tendril of force energy plucked his saber hilt from within his robes and sent it spinning outward; he seized it in a firm, practiced grip- thumb extended down its length rather than curled around it- without breaking stride. Simultaneously the crimson blade flared into existence with its customary snarl.*
*Gaze dropping to the smoldering gem hanging from Alkor's neck, an exasperated smirk painted the Sith's pallid features. He could feel the low thrum of his own gem, fastened about his neck with a leather thong and stuffed down the front of his robes, as it reacted to its twin. More than one pair of siblings being reunited; a big day for everyone. That one got to him; he had to choke back a sardonic laugh.*
*As he came to bear upon his elder brother, walking slowly with his shoulders slumped and his blade trailing down at his side, the sorcerer's bloodless lips drew for but an instant into a regretful smile.*
*Then his features twisted into a sneer as he exploded into motion.*
*Planting his right foot and orienting his hips and shoulders toward Alkor's right side, Ishmael flicked his wrist, blood-hued blade snapping up into a horizontal position with the tip aimed at the Jedi's bowels. In the same instance the deadly weapon flickered forward in a shallow jab to the abdomen and then retreated with the same lightning speed, hilt coming back to hover near the sorcerer's hip.*
*Despite the hate he harbored for his sibling, despite the rage quickly building within him, he could not help but feel some measure of excitement. Alkor's bladework was impeccable, and as a lifetime student of the sword, Ishmael could not help but appreciate that.*
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Post by Alkor Centaris on Aug 17, 2013 7:41:28 GMT -8
Thrust, parry, riposte. That game could go on for daunting hours, if either man allowed; no, Alkor would not fall into that trap with his brother's Makashi. Instead, the tip of the cool cyan blade dipped beneath the probing strike from Ishmael, giving the Sith's blade a plane of resistance upon which to catch. And sparks went wild.
Of course, it would be all too simple to stop at a block and talk. All too easy to get wrapped up in the moment, to eschew swordplay for minced words and squandered time. And neither man had much appreciation for such things. Thus, Alkor's reprisal was a bit more instantaneous. As the two blades met, Alkor stepped forward, and with Ishmael's retracting strike, he moved his body toward his brother in a swift motion.
The blue blade blurred up, pushing the underside of Ishmael's weapon in an attempt to keep it preoccupied. With his arms rising, his body remaining relatively compact, elbow angling toward the Sorceror's cowled, grim visage. Alkor's smile slid into a sad shadow of it's former self, his body remembering the moves from their first dance, all those many years before.
Words were worthless, now, under the scrutinizing sight of gods and men; where once they had gone unsung, this battle would be remembered. Retold, as a story of greater days, from a time that would inevitably be lost. And so, Alkor would leave those words to them, the narrators of what would one day be his only legacy. A tale written in blood.
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Ishmael
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Posts: 134
Affiliation: The Way of Lapay
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Post by Ishmael on Sept 1, 2013 15:50:41 GMT -8
"You play at attrition, old man." *The words reverberated through Ishmael's memory like a thunderclap. He recalled the howling winds of Bespin, the glaring sun, and the Jen'jidai youth that had stood before him, haughty, impetuous...deadly. Only later had he learned of their shared blood, but their kinship had become apparent within moments. They were twin souls of the blade, peerless yet equal.*
*But that was a long time ago.*
*He took a measured step backward to match Alkor's advance, right foot sliding back, taking his weight, and then pivoting as his left followed suit, coming around behind his right. The tip of his blade snapped up, jerking above its snarling blue partner. It was tempting, the urge to lose himself in this deadly dance, to shut out all but the crackling of tangled blades and the furious race to prove one style superior- but it had been shown time and time again that Alkor's Juyo was every stroke the equal of his Makashi, so he resisted its lure.*
*His blade arced to the left, and snapped out once more to deliver a stroke to his brother's right side, midway up his ribcage. *
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Post by Alkor Centaris on Sept 1, 2013 19:41:53 GMT -8
Alkor's frosty gaze flickered as he recounted thoughts of the man who he called brother. His body twisted, touched by the decrepit and yet intoxicating power that they had in common. He felt the rhythms of their shared world, the heartbeats in their chests, every single breath, and the tainted touch of darkness battling against the ever present light. Push and pull- when Ishmael's blade pulled up, as Alkor had intended for it to do- in the instant that their blades separated, the Watchman pulled harshly at his blade, ripping it upward, perpendicular to the ground.
Red met blue in a hissing splatter of sparks behind Alkor's back as he did a full spin, his own blade parallel to his form, left arm rising up so that his elbow pointed skyward. In the heartbeat that he faced away from Ishmael, Alkor's right arm punched through, exacerbating his natural momentum, and ripped upward to reinforce the grip on his lightsaber.
Pulling downward in a choppy motion, he made a wide circle that would hopefully shunt his brother's blade wide to the outside, and follow through with a deep arcing strike to the Sith's torso, from the left shoulder to the right hip joint. Their eyes would meet in the next few instants, Alkor knew, and whether or not he struck true, the sinister glow from their blades would illuminate the unspoken feelings between them. Inevitably, one man would cease to be. Only one of them would walk away from this.
And neither could be certain that it would be him.
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Ishmael
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Posts: 134
Affiliation: The Way of Lapay
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Post by Ishmael on Sept 2, 2013 18:14:35 GMT -8
*It would seem this duel was about to begin in earnest, then. His brother began his spin, blade flashing along in his wake to carry the sorcerer's saber out to his right. With a lazy roll of his wrist Ishmael sent his blade into a clockwise arc that carried it to the left and then up, leaving a molten trail through the sand between them before spearing up into the air just outside Alkor's descending slash. Stepping to the left, he oriented his hips toward Alkor and snapped his blade to the right, hooking it behind his foe's saber.*
*The two blades descended for but an instant before Ishmael slashed forward, aiming to cut a swath of ruined flesh through the right side of the man's breast.*
*Briefly he wondered if this clash- sure to be their last- would last as long as the first. His body had been wasted and ruined, then, and near the end he'd been struggling just to draw breath and remain on his feet. He wouldn't have that problem this time around. No, the victor would be decided by pure skill, not endurance or stamina. 'And that's how it should be,' the sorcerer thought approvingly.
*He was still drawing upon the force, of course, centering himself within the dark side, but he didn't savor the thought of calling upon it. It seemed...distasteful, somehow.*
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Post by Alkor Centaris on Oct 26, 2013 17:48:10 GMT -8
Alkor ripped his blade upward as their blades began to descend, abolishing the momentum in a wrenching twist of his arms. The blades flickered their concurrent energy as they clashed, spewing sparks, and Alkor's blade rose with it's tip facing the dirt, parallel to his body. At the same time, Ishmael's blade stabbed in toward Alkor, and the crimson blade narrowly glided along the outside of the Watchman's blue saber.
The Corellian narrowed his eyes. This was the sort of deadlock he expected from his brother. But there was something else. Something far more pressing, aggressive. There were differences to both men, possibly moreso in Ishmael, as respect and anger tempered his movements, whereas Alkor was not ruled by his emotions. Dangerous, how he had moved so far beyond Juyo to where he was in command of himself once more. Dangerous, but powerful in an entirely different way.
As their blades went to Alkor's right, the former Jen'jidai twisted his hips in that direction, encouraging the Sorceror's pressure to take him off balance. Alkor threw his left elbow forward, toward Ishmael's unguarded face, to steal a cheap shot and possibly disorient the other man. Less honorable, in the opinion of some, but warriors knew better. An advantage seen is a moment of triumph. Dark siders knew that. Ishmael knew that.
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Xeonon Solomon
The First Order
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Post by Xeonon Solomon on Apr 18, 2014 11:42:24 GMT -8
Well this had all the marking of a great duel. Two excellent swordsman, battling it out. Sadly it seems this duel fell into disuse before either of us could gain even the slightest advantage over the other.
As such this is to be marked as a tie, should you wish to continue this fight in the future PM and I will make it so.
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