Hevn vs Alky

Whenever Hevn graced the planet of Coruscant he visited the opera. It was his favorite pastime as Regent of the Underworld in a time long ago. A time to reflect and relax as the weight of planetary affairs grew heavier with every day.

The data pad chirps as a message lights up the screen.

The tournament has begun. Your opponent will be Alkor Centaris.

The rest of the details and fine print seemed to blur as a grin settled on his lips. He excused himself from his seat and made his way outside. Hailing a speeder, he sits in the back throwing his feet up on the front passenger seat. “Republic Executive Building,” he commands the driver.

They whipped through the speeder lanes and the grin grew wider as the wind whipped through his hair. He was elated at the opportunity to face his brother in competition. They had scrapped in training, and demonstrations before, but this would be the first time there was nothing to hold back.

He steps from the speeder flipping the driver a few credits. Through the doors and toward the elevator his imperious strides carried him. He stood as the doors closed before him. “Chancellor’s Suite,” he commands the elevator. The lift lurched before whining as he rose high and fast into the heart of the structure.

For a moment he ponders what the Jedi thought about as they took the same path toward apprehending Lord Sidious. Surely not the elation that Hevn did. The pure rush of excitement he felt.

As the doors opened he laid eyes on Alkor. Simmering in a pool of the dark side. He unclips his utility belt, and an arsenal of weapons falls to the floor of the elevator. Grenades, knives, poison, and his blaster. He plucks his signature lightsaber from it before striding forward.

He throws his krayt skin coat to the floor. His left hand was adorned with C’thulu’s gauntlet. A tool of sorcery that Hevn never parted with. His right hand is armored with his own dueling gauntlet, void of any of its usual tricks, and gripped the black leather of the dragon’s neck.

His pale chest bare, scarred, bulging with the subdermal armor beneath his skin that protected his vitals. His left hand uncaps a flask of whiskey. His pace slows as he enters the opening of the circular room. He toasts Alkor and drains a long gulp from it before he softly grumbles, “To Leto, our brother.”

With the flick of his wrist the flask flies toward Alkor. Hevn contorts his body, stretching and twisting, the sounds of sickening cracks and mechanical whines following each bend of his form. He was ready.

The pale sapphires, frigid and grim, lock on Alkor’s face. “May the force serve you well, brother.”

The first to fall would have the glory of entertaining Leto on the other side. With a wicked grin Hevn adds, “Let us not bore him.”

Hevn thumbs the switch of his lightsaber. The dragon’s jaws snap open and the pearly white blade within roars to life, and hums.

Hevn takes a deep breath, flipping the lightsaber in his right hand into a reverse grip. He was in his comfort zone initiating, even against an opponent like Alkor. The elusive devil was slippery, patient, and an expert at punishing even the smallest mistakes. Hevn would have to put the pressure on, and heavily.

The sorcererous brute draws in the darkness around them. Generating his own with the loss of Leto brewing within him. Feeding on the grief within. There was no customary roar as Hevn charges toward Alkor like an animal. His heavy steps thump as he dips his right shoulder, and keeps his saber hand at waist level, the blade extended towards his right. His left hand rises to his left breast, arm bent at the elbow.

His mind races ahead toward the action Alkor could take, as he prepares to react with force of will. He seriously doubted Alkor would let himself get trampled.

The leap was almost a blur. A soft kiss of air brushes against Hevn’s face was the only clue that the assassin had been there only a blink ago. Hevn digs his left foot in as he spins to track Alkor toward the ceiling. He drops his immense weight, pivoting on the fulcrum of his left heel, flipping his saber back into a normal grip with a deft click of his wrist. The demon of Corellia kicks off the ceiling, a black clad shadow wielding blistering fangs of red light.

The nerve of Alkor! Leaving one’s feet had been often frowned upon throughout his training. Although a moving target, Hevn saw this as an opportunity to punish Alkor. His pride swells. His certainty in himself, in his fighting style, in his toxic superiority complex burns hot in his gut.

Hevn reacts without hesitation. His focus pin pointed on the incoming attack. Hevn drives upward to greet Alkor, off of his left foot, his right fist wielding his white lightsaber rising. Trying to cut the possibility of Alkor flipping away, Hevn times his counter against the ruthless arc of Alkor’s red blade. When Alkor’s swing reaches the point of no return, an exhale lets the pent up energy course over Hevn’s skin to encase him in Force Armor. The red blade fills his vision as he boldly meets it with his shoulder, his force of will rejecting the cutting power of Alkor’s blade. The red light filling his eyes that now bled into golden halos of bloodlust. Hevn’s right fist shoots toward Alkor’s face in a merciless uppercut, while the white blade extending from his grip was on a line to sever Alkor’s left arm.

Alkor’s falling form suspended in mid air as if he were yanked by a wire. The body twisted, and the red blades of his sabers lashed. Hevn’s fist was no longer on track to pulverize Alkor’s face.

Anger rips through Hevn’s veins like a bolt of lightning. His intense fury stoking higher as Alkor’s saber strokes across his field of vision. Hevn snaps his right elbow, and flicks his wrist, chopping the white blade of his saber underneath Alkor’s, toward the flying man’s chosen center of gravity.

As the heat pours over his bare skin he feels his boiling fury fueling the Force Armor begin to exhaust. Wearing thin against the cutting power of Alkor’s assault on his will. Hevn’s left hand was still at guard near his left pectoral, and his eyes were hard at work keeping track of both Alkor’s sabers. When the thrust of Alkor’s right saber snaps out of the spin he instinctively twists his hips to the right, and his left hand flicks out to meet the tip of the red blade with the back of this gauntleted palm. Hevn parries the thrust as cool and confidently as if wielding a buckler. Smacking it low and wide to his left, the heat stings even through the dueling gauntlet. The twist away from the thrust generates all the more torque for the strike arcing toward Alkor.