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Post by Jarkiv Beviin on Apr 26, 2013 12:13:50 GMT -8
*Echoy'la raced toward the surface, leading on the small force of landing craft full of hardened verde that would storm the Temple, kill any Jedi they found, and ravage the place. So was the plan, anyway. Jarkiv only had intentions of killing anything that got in his way. Maybe capture one of them for interrogation, if possible; did the Jedi commanders send themselves out into the fray, or did they barricade themselves in like cowards?
No matter. The landing group managed to shake and evade pursuing enemy craft and laserfire, though not without some casualty. Fortunately, now, they were unable to prevent the Mando'ade from reaching their destination. They were swooping in toward the Temple's hangar; they fired upon any visible defenses as others began setting down upon the ground outside the hangar. Jarkiv let his ship's internal AI carry out the landing procedure as he headed aft towards the ramp, preparing to be among the forefront of those who stormed the hangar.
Ships landed, warriors disembarked. Jarkiv charged in along with many others towards the hangar's entrance, weapons loaded and ready to open fire. There was already a Jedi resistance there. Excellent. Weapons began to light up the hangar from both sides; Jarkiv himself was picking targets and firing. This was only the first stage of the siege; before long, they'd be able to force themselves inward, and raze the Temple...*
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Post by Alkor Centaris on Apr 26, 2013 13:46:25 GMT -8
"May the Force be with you, Watchman."
The words were haunting echoes in his mind as the last of the younglings, Padawans and personnel who were not evacuated slipped through the doors of the hangar and into the depths of the Praxeum. Alkor half watched, half listened as the doors slid tightly shut, then the gears and servos turned and fastened the lock that would preserve the innocent for a time, should the former Jen'jidai fall.
"Watchman." The title was still new, still foreign to his ears, yet the concept of protecting these people rather than throwing them on the fire was even newer. Alkor still struggled internally with the idea, though there was no inclination that might lead anyone else to believe it. As he turned from the door and the deafening sound of battle swarmed into the Hangar, Alkor observed almost lazily as a blaze rose up on the horizon, and the all too familiar feeling flooded the Force.
Death. His oldest and dearest friend, come to call again. His neck popped almost on cue, a practiced roll of his shoulders setting his spine to an almost sinister creaking, and then, calm. As the storm rolled toward him and bodies fell all around, Alkor narrowed his eyes and focused himself on the task at hand. All of this was happening because of some damn self-righteous, Force hating misanthrope. Someone who wanted not just Alkor, but millions- no, billions- of innocent people to die, solely because of the conditions that there lives had played out in.
There was no Justice in this slaughter. And when the Mando'ade came, against his greatest fears, against his own desire to hide from his past, Alkor would give answer. If this was the Mando brand of honor, Alkor would see it torn down. Swiftly, and with supreme prejudice. After all, that seemed to be his lot in life.
The hilt of his weapon in hand, Alkor's fingers moved with familiarity over the iron handle, and he let out a soft breath, pressing the pain from his mind. There would be a time for rest later. A time to give answer for his own sins; it seemed the Force had designs for him to answer the sins of an entire culture today. If only on the smallest of scales.
If he died, well... at least he would die doing what was right. For the very first time in his life.
The blood colored blade came to life in his hand, bathing him in a crimson afterglow that made him shiver with anticipation. Soon, he realized, there would be death. And it was far, far too late to back out...
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Post by Jarkiv Beviin on Apr 26, 2013 19:26:26 GMT -8
*Everywhere, sounds, motion, flashes. Blasters screamed, slugs roared, lightsabers sang. Jarkiv himself picked his targets, more keen on removing enemy marksmen to make the advance easier on them, but a new figure entering the battle caught Jarkiv's attention. This one held a weapon of a color Jarkiv hadn't anticipated to see a Jedi wield. If the figure was a Jedi. Jarkiv had no way of telling other than by appearances, and appearances could be deceiving, especially from a race of people who relied on deception. He smirked beneath his helmet, calling out over the roar of the battle.*
Siit protecting jetii? Not thought I'd see the day.
*Were the Jedi prone to anger? Not according to propaganda. But was this particular Jedi prone to anger? Jarkiv would have to see. And hope. Angry foes were more fun to fight.*
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Post by Alkor Centaris on Apr 26, 2013 21:32:10 GMT -8
Alkor watched almost passively as the Mandalorian came into focus in his mind, the Force swirling about him as if to paint a target; the feeling Alkor got was almost like a wild vibration, and as he stared intently at Jarkiv, the words moving through his mind a backdrop to what the Force whispered in his ear, Alkor knew that this man held significance to the attack. This was an integral piece of the puzzle, this man's very existence was tied to everything going on right now.
.
Perhaps, Alkor thought, if this piece could be strategically removed, or stalled, he could buy the Jedi some time. If nothing else, Alkor knew that he had to try. He spoke up, barely audible beneath the overwhelming sound of warfare, "if that is what you see, I suppose." Alkor was not altogether convinced that he wasn't some manner of dark sided creature, at that- so why hold any delusions about what he was? He was a man with a lightsaber. That was more than sufficient for him. It ought to be enough for his newfound friend, too.
And then, Alkor knew what had to be done. His gaze moved slowly over the battle, the numbers overwhelming, the death intoxicating, the very heat of battle crawling up his skin and abolishing sanity- Alkor locked eyes with the T shaped visor and he spoke, loudly this time. "I have heard your people value honor," he offered, half praying the savage had at least a modicum of understanding of Galactic Basic, "and yet, you attack a place filled with women and children, a place of learning and of teaching. Am I to believe that this is honor?"
He paused, knowing words would neither stay this man, nor cause him to relent; no, rather the words would incite him further. For Alkor needed to pluck the proper strings to illicit the response he needed. This man's honor had to come to question. This man would have to give answer for Alkor's offense. And in light of that, the skirmish would have to slow, if only for a time.
But a time was all he needed. "I, Alkor- a man with no family, nor of any clan, without any place to call home, and without anyone to go back to- challenge you to answer for this crime, this honorless slaughter you hope to bring on these people. I will do this without the Force, and with only one weapon. Do you accept these terms, Mandalorian?"
As he spoke, Alkor spun his blade, deftly deflecting a series of blaster bolts that had been meant to end his short speech premsturely. These men were far from patient, and it was evident that most of them neither cared for what he had to say, nor that he was saying it at all. Typical.
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Post by Jarkiv Beviin on Apr 26, 2013 22:13:36 GMT -8
*Without his audio boosters, Jarkiv couldn't have made out what the man said, but he heard him loud and clear. Sarcasm? Or a simple deflection of Jarkiv's accusation? Impressive, either way. But he wasn't done speaking, and was outright questioning the honor of the Mando'ade. Hut'uun. Calling to question the honor of a hardened race of warriors, where on the other spectrum were masters of deception, tricksters, and manipulators. Who was the less honorable here?
Although certain of the siit's—or jetii's—words did give Jarkiv mental pause. He tried to tote the "women and children," which, in all actuality, Jarkiv had no intention in killing himself. At least, women who were not trained in the arts of the Jedi. But were his comrades fully intent on destroying those as well? Even the children? Was his new Mand'alor, the man behind this crusade, intent on destroying children? Who was Jarkiv following? Was this truly a quest for answers or revenge, or was this one man's vendetta, fueled by his leadership over a proud group of warriors?
Not the time to think on these things. The Force-user was singling Jarkiv out personally to an honor duel, a true honor duel, no help, no Force, only his own skills. Truth, or deception? Jarkiv could not be sure, but he had confidence in his own abilities if this jetii/siit pulled anything, and he had his vode to cover his back. Already he extended an arm to halt his comrades, and spoke aloud through his headpiece.*
You heard the man. A duel for ijaa. The battle will resume when one of us falls.
*Strangely, both sides seemed to come to a sudden agreement, coming for the briefest moment to trust that the other side would not break their word. In the event of such, however, Jarkiv was already transmitting a private message along to the other Mando'ade through their transceivers.*
:: Keep an eye on this chakaar. He pulls anything, off his shebs. ::
*Jarkiv lowered his arms to one side, and tossed his carbine upon the ground. He unholstered his rippers, gave them a flourish, then lowered his arms to the side, dropping them as well. Two Mandos came and collected the items as Jarkiv unsheathed Talyc Bev, his beskad. He pointed it towards the Force-user, brandished it, then lowered it to one side.*
Elek, burc'ya. I accept.
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Post by Alkor Centaris on Apr 27, 2013 3:25:44 GMT -8
He took several breaths as the man spoke, and began to shed his weaponry, Alkor's gaze intent as the other armored warriors collected the items quickly. Alkor, satisfied as the man brandished his kad, pulled at his robes gently, letting them flow off his mantle and glide down his back. As the tattered fabric fell uselessly to the ground, Alkor's heavily scarred and bruised torso became visible, the bandages covering his midsection rife with dried blood. Pulling at the spot where they were held, Alkor unraveled them with a motion of his hand, letting them fall to the floor in a deject heap.
And there it was; for the first time in full view since he covered it, so long ago. The tattoo on his abdomen, the black rendition of the star forge that the Ordo clan had chosen as their Clan's symbol. A long, deep scar running through it, as if cut by a metal blade. And it had been- but that was a tale for some other day. His right hand found the second lightsaber at his side, and pulling it free, he dropped it on the pile of rags that he had discarded.
Standing in naught but his long, black pants, Alkor's toned muscles were drenched in perspirstion that glinted into visibility under the lighting of the Hangar. The low hum of his blade coupled with the eerie light it gave off felt like miasma in the Force, the palpating feeling that some vergence in was upon them now pressing down firmly upon him. What happened next would go untold, Alkor mused silently, by anyone. When it came time to sing songs of his own death, not one of the men present would remember his name. And if, by some stroke of fate, he took this man's life, they would remember him as nothing more than a murderer.
"No," he recalled with a faint smile stretching his lips, striding forward slowly to close the distance between them, pressing all thoughts beyond this moment from his mind, "they will remember me for just what I am. What I will always be." With a quick and masterful flourish of his blade, his hand barely appearing to move at all, Alkor exhaled in silence, his blade held now in an offensive neutral position, tip slightly out ahead of him,blade angled out toward the Mandalorian.
The Demon nodded, not a word escaping him. The Jedi in the Hangar seemed riddled with disbelief, the tide of battle stemmed for the moment, and were quickly gracious in catching their breath. Alkor knew what would come when this duel ended- when one of them died, those Mandalorians would all open fire. And it would be slaughter. Somehow, he would have to figure that out.
But one thing at a time. Now, they fought.
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Post by Jarkiv Beviin on Apr 27, 2013 13:27:59 GMT -8
*As the man also began to discard his outer robe and his second weapon, Jarkiv reached up with one hand to unseal his helmet and remove it, revealing his pale, lightly-scarred head, his face clean shaven, his blond hair buzzed close to his scalp. He flipped the helmet behind him, one of his vode catching it.
This was a battle that needed to be done face-to-face. Would he be making himself more vulnerable this way? Perhaps, but they owed each other the pleasure of seeing the light leave the other's eyes.
Though as the man removed his cloak, the tattoo drew Jarkiv's attention as he witnessed the mark of Clan Ordo upon his abdomen. Who was this man? A former Mando'ade, betraying the brotherhood? Dar'manda? The scar cut through the tattoo could have been a symbol that he'd betrayed them. So, Jarkiv may be dueling a dar'manda to the death. A dar'manda, a deceiver, a wielder of "magic." Perhaps this would be even more satisfying.
And now they stood, at the ready, in preparation for a fight. It was said that Jedi never took the first blow, and practiced defense. Perhaps the man Jarkiv was staring down was no siit after all, or just good at pretending. Whatever the man was, it was time for a fight. Jarkiv could never say he'd dueled a foe with a lightsaber before, but he could learn on his feet. And so he did, lunging forward, both hands on his beskad as he brought it down in an overhead swipe, from his right-to-left. Right now, he was testing what one of this man's kind could do. Then he'd go from there.*
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Post by Alkor Centaris on Apr 27, 2013 13:46:31 GMT -8
Alkor was familiar with the weight and speed attributed to most beskade from previous experience; the opening swing was almost always a test against an unknown or inexperienced opponent- the manner of the strike, however- overhead, and with the precision of a hammerblow, told Alkor that this man was not fully aware, or had no experience dealing with a lightsaber. As the man rushed forward and his weapon drew back for the vicious swing, Alkor spun his saber deftly in three quick arcs out to his left, and again to his right, moving to his right in a slow, rhythmic pattern of steps. As the blade came down to rip through him, Alkor brought the saber sundering down on the rear side of the blade, encouraging it's downward momentum with a slapping strike.
At the same time as the saber connected with the beskad, Alkor took a hopping step backward, his own blade now between both weapons keeping the iron weapon safely away from his body. He had learned the best way to deal with weighted weapons from many attempted blocks, once upon a time. A beam of light was unbelievably quick, yes, but with no weight behind it, it quickly became a liability in untrained hands. Alkor had many old burn scars to accompany longer, deeper cuts that still littered his torso. Many of them inflicted by the same man.
Alkor' blade lit the man's face just the same as his own in this proximity, the unholy red light now bathing them both. He knew well enough that beskar'gam coupled with extensive training and honed reflexes would make the parlor trick of a coup de grace highly improbable, and to be frank, even if he were successful in that, the Jedi had not been given ample time to recover. The Mandos would converge on them like death itself, and Alkor's challenge would be for nothing.
That, and Alkor had meant what he said; this was not nust a duel for Jarkiv's honor, but for the honor Alkor had lost as well. In this battle, Alkor looked inward, and he faced not Jarkiv, but a ghost of the past. Looking at the Mandalorian, he saw the gruff face and dark hair of his lost friend, Alverion. And he pulled back quickly, to prevent a quick counter from the Beviin.
Spinning the blade backward in hand, he reset himself into the ready position, held now in front of him defensively. His gaze never left Jarkiv's, a long breath leaving his nostrils. The first few steps of the dance, a stalemate...
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Post by Jarkiv Beviin on Apr 28, 2013 23:38:08 GMT -8
*Jarkiv's eyes only subtly tracked the movements of the man's movements. He only took a moment to recall he actually had a name: Alkor. He might as well remember. Then Alkor moved, bringing his weapon down upon the beskad's rear, giving its downward swing unwanted aid. Jarkiv's left fist barely twitched on the group, preparing to use his gauntlet as a hindrance should he need to against retaliatory strikes as his weapon smacked against the stone floor with a dull thud.
But Alkor had only struck and moved away, perhaps fearing similar retaliatory strikes, or at least wanting to test his opponent before he knew he had a sure killing stroke. Or perhaps he was buying time for his jetii comrades. So, honor, and deception in one duel. Honor, should he be sacrificing himself only to draw out this stalemate long enough to buy time for his comrades, or deception, should he be fully confident in his abilities and was only using this as an advantage to his side. It depended on one's perception, really.
Jarkiv personally thought it was a clever trick.
For a moment, the crimson weapon of his enemy shone on them both, and a split second in time was all Jarkiv needed to see what he was staring into. Not a true foe, but an obstacle. And not even an obstacle to Jarkiv, but to Mand'alor. Mand'alor wanted these people dead. Jarkiv was just going along for the ride. He felt like he was being cheated. Used for someone else's ends, not his own.
But deep thinking had no time or place in a duel to the death. Alkor retreated just out of range of a quick counter. Jarkiv was going to attempt to go on the defensive, take the upper hand. He rushed forward, slashing horizontally from right to left at his foe, then left to right. Was there the slightest hesitance in his motions, as though part of him wanted to delay the fight's end in order to spite the one who had drawn him into battle? Mattered not. Right now, he knew his foe. No, not foe; combatant. Rival. In another time and place, possibly a sparring partner. Pending his possible dar'manda status. This was merely a test of skill, brought about against his will by a chessmaster.*
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Post by Alkor Centaris on Apr 29, 2013 12:42:27 GMT -8
Several seconds in, and already the battle had exploded into a full tilt race to the finish. Alkor had backed away, and the Mando had encroached. Like the fly into the spider web- he could be assuming anything. That Alkor was holding back, or that he was buying time, or that he was toying with his opponent. Any of those things could be true, from some point of view- but to Alkor, there was nothing more than blades, shrouded in darkness. The faces were gone, banished behind expectations. And Alkor's eyes lit up with a life alien to them.
As Jarkiv came in from the left, Alkor spun inward to meet him, blade rising with a verbose vigor that came from a long inside step, dropping Alkor's level beneath the beskad. This shift gave him a considerable deal more control over the weapon's momentum as his saber clashed with the sword's underside, then followed along in its wake.
And Alkor spun the blade backward deftly, then upward, sacrificing raw power for the certainty of a speedy strike. On the frontside of Jarkiv's chestplate. Not a thick strike- surgical, on the top layer of the beskar'gam. It would heat up at best, should it land, but the blade would not melt through. The tip of the blade would then travel upward, directly in front of Jarkiv's eyes, so that the blood colored plasma would blind the Mando for an instant as the second strike came in toward Alkor.
He stepped inward to meet it, near the emitter of his saber, putting his body weight directly. Ehind the weightless blade. As the weapon slammed into the saber, it sent a ripple through Alkor's body, and the saber screamed its defiance, but Alkor stood fast. The intention behind the blinding maneuver would become apparent to Jarkiv immediately. The was no way Alkor would have been able to safely close that distance without forcing his opponent to hesitate. The blade of a lightsaber, in the hands of anyone else, was not a match for a sword handled by a master.
Alkor's knowledge of blades went beyond lightsaber forms and dogma. He had trained for this- and there was no doubt to Alkor that his opponent would see it. Total Warfare. Not darkness. Not light. Just battle. The saber hissed as Alkor turned his hips right, pressing down on the rear of the beskad, eyes moving over the Jedi present.
It was not pretty.
There were men suffering from blaster wounds that had opened their chests and cauterized the wounds, making it virtually impossible to heal them without an on site medical team. At least three were dead, though markedly, there were several fallen Mandos, too. "All of this death," Alkor thought, his lips pulling downward in a frown. He gave his opponent ample time to recover- possibly too much- before he looked back at Jarkiv, letting a long breath exhale from his nose defiantly.
Perhaps, if he hadn't run from his past, he might have met this man in his travels. He might have told him the story, about Alverion, about Alicia. About murders he had never wanted to commit. A brother he had never wanted to lose. But now, fate laughed at Alkor. He had no brothers, and the only thing he had left was protecting these Jedi. Men and women who didn't even like him. People who didn't care if he lived or died. And to do that, he or the man in front of him would have to die.
And it was always the man across the blades from Alkor. With a pained expression, Alkor muttered, to no one in particilar. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry."
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Post by Jarkiv Beviin on May 1, 2013 13:55:37 GMT -8
*First strike missed. Not too surprising; against a skilled opponent, desiring all strikes be successful early on was both greedy and foolish. As Jarkiv corrected his trajectory to prepare for the next strike, Alkor's blade suddenly slapped against his breastplate and flashed between his eyes. Jarkiv shut them tight and bared his teeth with a snarl as he was temporarily blinded, creating a barely-noticeable decrease in power of his latest stroke. He felt his beskad slam against the lightsaber and the full force of the man behind it, but it was just enough to deter its swoop. Jarkiv used this to back away and hold his weapon between them, blinking away the fuzziness in his vision.
Damn, he should have left his buy'ce on.
When his vision returned, Alkor was standing there, blade in front of him, waiting for the next move. Jarkiv couldn't tell if he was being taunted or if the man had no interest in potentially underestimating Jarkiv's abilities. But he was speaking. Jarkiv barely heard it under the hum of the lightsaber—he was so used to his buy'ce's audio boosting—but there was no mistaking the apology, spoken with a pained expression. Jarkiv frowned. This man wasn't talking to him, despite having his eyes on him. Who was he talking to? What tortured him below the surface?*
No need for apology, burc'ya.
*Jarkiv wasn't sure what he was saying, but he said it anyway. There was a battle to be fought, and now, Jarkiv was not so sure if he cared who won.
He then dashed forward, going on the offensive once more, bringing down his weapon in overhead and side strokes, attacking in as much of a "flurry" as possible with the heavy weapon. There was more to this man than met the eye. There was more to this "war" than what Mand'alor was letting on. But in this moment, there were only two of them, fighting for answers to neither of these questions.*
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