Wyr'ren Rimrald vs Sarkh

[Dutch]

So yeah, definitely gonna tag DreadPirateMike here cause I just know he’ll want to read this. Given he accepted both you animals

Now -clears throat-

lion is still DUELRAVENOUS as he flails his mighty Sarkh around! Will his thirst for literary blood EVER be sated!?

swrponline2.proboards.com/thread/20622/sarkh?page=1&scrollTo=145784

Rimrald seeks to make his SWU DEBUT by throwing his namesake character into the fray! Young, fresh, and barely legal; will he be able to stand against lizard!?

swrponline2.proboards.com/thread/20641/wyrren-rimrald?page=1&scrollTo=145896

---

| The Arena |

The streets still smell of rain. Rain and the slum. In just another underground alley of an ecumopolis, pedestrians go about their evening business along the walkways. With the rain ceasing, more locals are beginning to take to the streets. All wholly unaware of the deadly hunt proceeding in their sector. One predator. One prey. But which is which? Does a young zelosian seek his fame by hunting deadly game? Or is there a bestial reptilian wraith seeking just another trophy to add to his collection? Will patience triumph? Or will the calm after-rain night be interrupted?

---

I think we’ll go with a solid FOUR ROUND DEATHMATCH for these two.

Given Rimrald’s newbie status, I’ll run down the categories before the match:

EFFORT

Legibility and creativity are most important here

FAIRNESS

Godmodding will score low, injuries and sticking to their faults will score high

DETAIL

The clearer the imagery, the better the score

COOLNESS

Wow us!

BONUS

Sometimes challenge based, sometimes surprise based.

---

Given lion here is the veteran of the two gladiators, I have decreed that HE SHALL START

FIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHT!

[lion]

Impudent speck of scum! Disrespectful whelp, son of a whore mother!

The thought stuck out within the reptilian's mind like a thorn in the hand, ebbing and pulsing anger with each passing second it lingered within his mind, offending his senses. The pathetically frail humans would refer to it as seeing red; to be so enraged that the shade of their blood became visible in all things. But for Sarkh, the only thing he could see was the shame that now bore upon him and the sense of rage it brought on; threatening to crush the man down to nothing more than a wretched peasant.

He'd been stolen from. Right under his snout, right aboard his own ship; the lightsaber that had been trophy-proof of his first Jedi kill. The Scorekeeper, in her divine grace, would never forgive such a failure in awareness; every deed and action Sarkh had ever undertaken in her name had been rendered void, years of hunting and hardship, undone. By another hunter, Sarkh may have understood and even commended their tenacity before tracking them down, but to have his name sullied permanently by the actions of one miserable little urchin unaware of what they'd done? The shame was intolerable, and worse, captured on his ship's internal cameras for physical proof of the indignity placed upon him.

Pacing the streets, the air still bitterly cold from the downpour of rain that had filled the sky just moments prior, had been practically fruitless; what few pedestrians lingered about the damp sidewalks refused to so much as approach, letalone be questioned. It was hardly as if Sarkh could blame them, they had every right to be scared; the trandoshan was agitated but aware enough to know his wrath sought any target it could find, and lesser species often did make themselves scarce when the frenzied Nexu prowled about their fields.

The shame was palpable as, with his jaws bunched beneath the durasteel plating upon his face, Sarkh drew broad lungfuls of the wet-scented air, feeling as if he were only dumping fuel upon the fire. The thief was still here; reaching out through the Force to sense his prey was practically unnecessary, it was just a sense that the little bastard hadn't the sense to flee far enough that spurned Sarkh on to search.

By no means was it easy, after all; the dampness of the air and the streets, mingled now with the fetid stench of those daring to brave the sidewalks, made scent-detection practically impossible. It had only been by instinct, years of studying the habits of the chased ones and how the panicked mind responded to threat, that had guided the enraged reptile to the slums. The Force surged within him, driven on by his anger as if being bent to his will, Sarkh pushed on, shoving aside with a shoulder a frail little woman who dared remain in his path for a second too long. 

The wretch was here, somewhere, and if it took until the end itself to find the miserable little Zelosian, Sarkh would. There would be no hiding, the little waste-of-flesh would one way or another end up his scaled hands, and as the reptile's half-masked face began to twist into an aggressive snarl, Sarkh could practically feel the thief's neck in his palms...

[Rimrald]

This has got to be the priciest thing I've nabbed in quite some time!

The thought tumbled in his head as he pulled his hood down, as he traipsed through the street. People had began returning to the sidewalks now that the rain was gone giving Rimrald the perfect opportunity to make his way out of the area. Knowing better than to leave the scene of a crime with less than a decent plan he waited for the rain to break to avoid being overt and most likely sensible by whom ever he had stolen from; safely assuming the owner of this light saber was force-sensitive.

Moving through the less populated end of the street Rimrald aimed to blend in with a crowd until the next shuttle-bus would arrive that ran the route to the red-light district where his buyer for this odd find had agreed to meet him. As the street became more abundant with the numerous civilians he posted himself under an awning while the rain still dripped down off of the rooftops and the passing person would splash in a puddle; he looked out as it was becoming dark his vision was growing weaker. Quickly moving toward the other side of the street he saw a building that had lights strung almost as if decorative in nature, but combined with the street lights he could still see anything that wasn't lurking in a shadow or down the numerous off shooting alleyways 

Folding his arms and surveying every single person who passed he cataloged in his head the things he had seen in the ship while he had been poking around for something to take.
No robes, or any traditional clothing of a jedi, it stunk like a bantha cage and looked like a nexu designed the interior.. And I could have been seeing things but I swore I saw something made of bones.. Plus I stepped one something crunchy, food maybe? But it was green..
The thoughts bounced around in his head as he attempted to picture whom ever was obviously looking for this weapon, which he kept tucked away in his backpack.

The lights of the buildings danced as Rimrald looked in, the bars full the restaurants music bellowing out every time the door opened even if for a second you could clearly hear the song. As Rimrald was looking through the window at a particularly interesting female human he found himself following her stride and thinking some nasty thoughts as she was cast aside by something.. He couldn't make out what it was until it moved in front of the windows of the restaurant. Watching the man clearly on a mission he ran through the things he found in his head once more as he watched the man, his eyes shot open wide.

This was the man whom he had stolen from, a bone curiass, a green complexion presumably scales as he watched the mans stride it wasn't human much longer with each step and the most obvious thing. This was the only guy he had seen all night who looked like a dew-back crapped in his helmet before he put it on. Rimrald wasn't close enough to smell the man, not that Zelosians had a very strong sense of smell but he would notice it if he got close enough. That aside he safely assumed this was his hunter, and if he did not act quickly he would become the prey. 

He reached for his Ryyk blade, checking to make sure it was still secured at the small of his back handle on the right side attached to his belt. Then he opened a large pouch on his belt, one of two which housed three of the large clunky power cells that fed into the weapon like an old style magazine. Closing the pouch he rested his hand on the machine pistol as he watched his prey skulk through the streets. Ready to move his eyes darted around searching for an escape route, directly to his left a stair case he couldn't see where it led. Across from him and to the left he saw an alleyway, he couldn't see into it but he could see the other end. A street much like the one he was on well lit and with even more pedestrians if he had to run. He was ready.

[Dutch]

Alriiiiight, loving the quick-postin' enthusiasm! Both earn a bonus point from this

Also dun fret if the scores are rather low for the first round, gotta work up from something after all

---

Round 1


lion
Effort: 3/5
Fairness: 3/5
Detail: 3/5
Coolness: 2/5
Bonus: 1/2
Comments: Lol leezard here came off as so human! Found it a little jarring, but neat. Really captured the hunter mindset with him, very nice.

Rimrald
Effort: 3/5
Fairness: 2/5
Detail: 3/5
Coolness: 2/5
Bonus: 2/2
Comments: Love that you took up lion's reasoning for the duel, way to be a team player newbie. Bonus point for that.

I did notice that you went ahead and popped this into your post: swrponline2.proboards.com/thread/20643/pp-21-kicker-plasma-revolver?page=1&scrollTo=145897

Now mind you, as the practice duels are considered non-canon due to their deadly nature it's not necessarily a no-no. Since it's not accepted yet though, it wouldn't be allowed use in the boards. I'd recommend you nab Fromikeable sometime and toss him the link


Total:

lion: 12

Rimrald: 12

---

HA! A tie from the start! Love when that happens.



Without further pause...

begin Round 2!!!

[Rimrald]

Aug 22, 2015 12:08:32 GMT -5 Dutch said:

I did notice that you went ahead and popped this into your post: swrponline2.proboards.com/thread/20643/pp-21-kicker-plasma-revolver?page=1&scrollTo=145897

Now mind you, as the practice duels are considered non-canon due to their deadly nature it's not necessarily a no-no. Since it's not accepted yet though, it wouldn't be allowed use in the boards. I'd recommend you nab Fromikeable sometime and toss him the link

I didn't pop that in, the weapon I described is the weapon with his accepted gear.. the STP-33

[Dutch]

RESUME FIGHT

[lion]

"Watch where you're going, sleemo dog!" Barked a voice behind Sarkh, angered in its tone, as the trandoshan continued along his path, his eyes wandering above the heads of the few mammals lurking about the streets. It was tempting to turn and face the wretched waste-of-space mammal, maybe feel the warmth of her blood on his claws, but priority demanded Sarkh's attention elsewhere; staying his hand rather than bounding it off of her skull. Through sheer luck, the loud-mouthed mammal would live, if only because Sarkh's aggression hungered for specific prey; as tempting as random violence was to alleviate the sting of insult, it just would not do.

Another grievous insult you'll pay for when I peel the skin from your bones, thief. Sarkh's inner voice hissed, his facial expression shifting beneath the durasteel plates as his nostrils heaved another deep breath; water-scented air filling his reptilian lungs to the brim. The chill of the air was uncomfortable in him, a sliver of frosty-cold pain teasing its way down his throat to his chest, but it was far from intolerable; it was far from cold enough to be as severe as warranting concern of dormancy or hypothermia for at least several hours.

Certainly long enough to find and drag the sticky-fingered Zelosian back to the Ashen and make him pay in the comfort of a thermally-stable cargo hold. The thought threatened a distracting smile; it had been far too long since he'd killed just for the sport or the sheer fun of it. A Zelosian's skin would be next to useless, and whilst it had made off with his lightsaber, there was surely nothing else of value on the thief to claim as a trophy; thievery hardly came from those with plenty.

But for those few hours that the deed could be dragged out aboard the Ashen? Just the notion of making the smug little urchin wail like a wounded kath-hound was enough to drive Sarkh's heart into excited anticipation; his imagination running wild. Vivid imagery painted with the sensory information only experience could give left the young hunter practically feeling the thick damp of blood on his hands.

Excitement, however, quickly became alertness; a sudden sensation brought the reptile's senses to their finely honed points. There was a feeling the weak mammals described as 'hair-raising'; the throwback prey-defensive sense that someone had singled them out for the chase. Sarkh himself had never had the feeling quite the same way, as Trandoshans were rarely the prey, but his years on the predatory side of the hunt had garnered a similar sense of awareness. Heightened by the Scorekeeper's gift, the senses reserved to the wretched Jedi, only furthered this, as if her divine voice whispered into his very soul the instructions she required.

The little parasite was here, watching him; staring intently. Prey had found the hunter and the fear was practically palatable, even without the Force to let him know, just from the subtle shift in the air. It were as if reality itself were inching closer to the edge of its seat to get a closer view. Slowly letting his right hand fall to the belt around his waistline mid-stride, fingers wrapping around the cloth-wound curved handle of his hunter's sword, Sarkh's movements became deliberate as his eyes wandered the street for the standout figure; there was no sense startling the quarry too soon...

...There.

There he was. A standout among the destitute street-wanderers and discarded refuse, given away not by his appearance so much as his gawk-eyed stare and the threads of panic guiding the reptile's senses to their source in the Zelosian. Beneath the durasteel plates protecting his snout, Sarkh could only smile, his fangs baring and parting the 'mask' open for a half second, as a hissed breath escaped him; a preparation for the chase to come.

The prey was there, the hunter was there; both aware of each other in a moment that seemed to stretch; silence dominating the semi-occupied laneway. Like two actors upon the stage, both surely knew the part each had to play for their audience; Her divine grace and will demanded a clean hunt, personal honour demanded a painful death. Both were unerring, unyielding in their desires, and Sarkh had no intention of denying either of them.

The Force surged within him, empowered his body beyond his already strong physical presence; footsteps became broad strides became practical leaps as the reptilian figure broke from the footpath into a dash across the street. Bone clattered against his scaly form like a threatening chime, the jedi remains sounding the staccato rhythm of death as Sarkh charged. With a snap of his right hand, a sudden roll of the wrist, the reptile drew the blade from his belt; the sword catching the mixed light of the holographic street displays as it swayed into position. 

In the hand of the charging Trandoshan, the almost beautiful Chalon-forged sword seemed like a terrifying cleaver, as its subtly-serrated edge threatened closer and closer with each step the reptile stole. It would take little time now for Sarkh to close the distance, throwing himself forward the last few steps with a violent leap, using a quick spin of the curved-handled sword to gather momentum for the strike that was to follow; intent on separating the Zelosian's head from his neck with one swift stroke.

[Rimrald]

Oh goddess... Oh goddess...

The panicked thought raced through his head as he leaned against the wall, still under the strung lights and still locked onto the large reptile stomping his way, it seemed as if he was almost bounding with how large his stride was. Seemingly frozen in the moment, Rimrald felt foreign to the idea of death, fighting and training he felt had prepared him for the encounter he knew he would one day face. One day he wouldn't be able to talk his way out of a corner, or be able to best a man in a fight, but he did not think today would be that day.

The reptiles feet threw water into the air like a torpedo hitting a ship as he moved through the wet street, watching as the lights danced across the large figure.. Even closer now the man was towering compared to Rimrald. Oh it cannot be the day, come on move.. Work with me! The thoughts raced through his head as his gaze was locked on the man. He felt as if he had a heart it would have jumped out of his chest. His legs stuck in place like they had been welded to the sidewalk. Fight or flight had kicked in but his body seemed to be having trouble picking which to do. Resulting in a short stocky target easy to pick.

As the man drew near and Rimrald saw the large blade drawn, watching him wind up to swing; his body turned on and Rimrald dropped backwards, not with any fancy roll or rehearsed movement simply falling backwards and down as the blade swung above him. Realizing he was not dead Rimrald simply blinked a few times looking up at the man. Listening to the bones clatter as they settled from the movement, the clicking of the durasteel plates as the large lizard mans jaw moved. Rimrald quickly rolled to the right attempting to get by the large man only to find himself being stopped in his tracks and lifting into the air. Sarkh had grabbed him by the pack, legs flailing but the ground below did not connect, Rimrald grabbed the large green arm with his left hand. He could not see the man, his face pressed against the wall of the building.

Hearing the blade move through the air Rirmald caught a glimpse of it resting on his shoulder, quickly he reached for his belt. Still on the back secured was his Ryyk, with his left arm holding Sarkh's he drew from the right, bringing it through the air and around himself fluently. Plunging it into Sarkh's forearm with great force the lizards grip released and Rimrald fell to the ground, the large sword scraped his face on the way down and he was now blade less.

Breathing rapidly his eyes darted to the alley he spotted before the encounter, taking off like a sprinter he crossed the road into the darkness. Completely blind at this point in the light less abyss that the alleyway had turned into for him he tore through it praying he wouldn't knock into anything. But as fate would have it, his inability to see would be an issue. Barreling through the alleyway Rimrald could only see the other end as the light peaked in. Aiming for it and putting one foot in front of the other Rimrald felt his leg hit a solid piece of metal, before he knew it he was on his back for he had knocked into a swoop parked in the alley and went head over heels.

Rolling onto his side he looked back at the light from the way he had came, seeing the large man hulking his way still not giving up on the chase. Rimrald stumbled to his feet diving a hand into one of the belt pouches as he began to jog forward with a limp he pulled out one of the drum style energy cells, then un-holstered his machine pistol and played the game of 'find the cup holder on the movie theater chair'; in the pitch black as he slid the energy cell along the base of the weapon until *click* the sound of a loaded blaster. Flicking the weapon off safe he continued down the alley way as one of the back doors flew open and a man was thrown into the alley for a few seconds he could see what was in front of him.

Diving behind a dumpster, panting as he was out of energy making the run through the alley, Rimrald was no athlete and it showed. Being close enough the the other end Rimrald could see for a few feet ahead but nothing substantial. Not knowing where the one hunting him may be lurking in the dark he braced against the dumpster, his hands shaking and breathing heavily he felt as if he had just eaten a bag of sugar there was so much adrenaline flowing through him. There he waited drawing in large breaths and straining into the darkness as he poked his head around the side of the dumpster.

Although he could not see, he could hear. The bustling street behind him muffled the sounds of the alley. Turning his head inward he could make out the sound of the rattling bones as the hunter pursued, but he quickly lost the sound to a group of people walking by, shouting and raving over their night. The green syrup like blood dripped from his neck and onto his boot, splashing as it hit the metal, the wound was not deep but it gave him an idea of how sharp the blade was. Quickly pressing a hand to the wound and removing it he grimaced and returned to waiting.

Waiting for death to show itself once more.

[Dutch]

Not so swift to post this time, so no bonus from that :c

Rimrald! Your mother tells me you've been NAUGHTY

---

Round 2


lion
Effort: 4/5
Fairness: 3/5
Detail: 4/5
Coolness: 3/5
Bonus: 1/2
Comments: Lol I like leezard's paranoid ass inner self xD Bonus for accurately portraying a cold-blooded alien. Literally Gotta admit, you've made a Sarkh fan outta me. Fantastic villain lion.

Rimrald
Effort: 4/5
Fairness: 0/5
Detail: 3/5
Coolness: 4/5
Bonus: 1/2
Comments: Uh oh. Seems DreadPirateMike (stalkerpiratemike in this case) and yourself were right. raldie, that was def a case of god-modding. Not the worst we've ever seen on SWU, but still something in character we try to avoid. Luckily this is the practice duels thread, and is much a place to learn as it is a place to beat one another senseless

So keep in mind not to mention anything about the other author's duder, keep it to your duder's actions/reactions. Gotta dock fairness, but hopefully for the last time yeah?

Bonus for being FREAKED THE F OUT c:

I'm also a bit unclear here, did you just blind wyr'ren?

Aug 27, 2015 11:27:39 GMT -5 Rimrald said:

Oh goddess... Oh goddess...

-has Liara flashbacks-




Total:

lion: 27

Rimrald: 24

---

PREDICTION FOR NEXT POST





begin Round 3!!!

[Rimrald]

Zelosians are blind in the dark! And yea not used to text based fights my bad!

[lion]

The finely honed, toothed blade of the Chalon sword howled death as it carved through the air once containing the Zelosian's throat, connecting not with flesh and bone but instead the thick permacrete wall behind, as the sword's teeth bit hard into the surface. Inertia carried the sword through its arc nonetheless, scraping hard against the permacrete as the very points of the teeth fought to grip the imperfections in the wall; gently sparking as the friction shimmed some of the metallic points down to dull nubs. Chalon was a durable metal, much like the beings who favoured it, but there was little argument with construction-grade permacrete; its porous surface was far too rough for an edge to stand up to without some damage.

To his credit, however, Sarkh was no crazed knifeman swinging at whatever he could get with impunity; countless hours of practice with the very sword in his hand had given the reptile a great command of it, like an artist to their brush. Adjustment of the rear fingers against the contoured handle shifted Sarkh's grip on the sword, allowing his wrist to naturally roll and absorb the impact of the blow, rather than strain against itself and lock up. Bleeding off the excess momentum by guiding the blade downward, the reptile achieved two goals; circular motion brought the sword back into a ready striking position, and with the sweeping action, guarded his legs against potential counterattack.

It was a habitual move, taking little more than the space between two breaths to complete, and whilst no attack came for his then-unprotected legs, it was certainly enough of a concern for Sarkh to consider the defense. A double-legged takedown from ducking a sword blow, after all, was almost verbatim a sequence he himself had been taught as a child to deal with opposing fencers. Indeed, the lack of such an answer from the Zelosian had brought something of a sense of further disgust to the reptile for his adversary, and for the first moment, Sarkh could only wonder if the smaller man could understand the trouble he was in.

"Filthy wretch."Sarkh growled, practically hissed, spitting the words as he restrained from another swipe; reacting and catching in mid-roll the Zelosian thief by his pack. Claws dug into the material, piercing fabric with ease as the Trandoshan hoisted up his far lighter prey, slamming the Zelosian against the very wall his sword had slashed against, face first.

Disgust and indignity washed over the reptilian figure, whose blade settled against the thief's right shoulder; the minute teeth of the sword that hadn't been dulled beginning to press against the skin. Gone was the potential thrill of a lengthy, torturous kill; the Zelosian wouldn't be worth the effort of dragging back to the Ashen even if he had put up even a resemblance of a fight. The insult of even tolerating the criminal aboard his ship, even as prey, would have been unbearable, letalone disgracing his skinning table by putting it to use against him. Far worthier targets had felt the bite of his treasured peltist's knife; to even have the Zelosian in the same chamber as it was an insult not only to Sarkh himself, but to the prey whose death had served Her will.

No, killing him here and now would be the only worthy course of action; let the body rot and never speak of it again. Street violence was a common occurrence in slums like this; maybe it was some drug-addled fiend that had done the bloody work. Maybe some gang rivalry, maybe just an unfortunate mistake; not the work of Her chosen hunters. It would take nothing to drag the sword down; a push cut through the shoulder and down to the heart would do the work in seconds, using the elevated heartrate of the Zelosian's panic-response to hasten the blood loss. All it would take was a sharp push downward, steady pressure to part the flesh...

Motion; fast and stressed, a sudden flash of light bouncing off of a polished steel surface drew Sarkh's attention and ripped him from his thoughts, momentarily confusing the hunter. There was little time to respond; Sarkh could feel his grip tighten to try to bring his sword up to bear but it was too late; a sudden spike of pain and pressure lodged itself deep into his left arm with such force that muscle-reflex caused the trandoshan to let go of the pack, and thus, his victim.

A Ryyk blade, buried practically halfway to the hilt in his left forearm, brought a wail of agony forth that Sarkh failed to contain; his eyes clenching tightly closed as pain took hold of him. White-hot tendrils of pain lashed at his mind, jaws suddenly clamping shut to try to tolerate the sensory overload, as involuntary response and trained procedure battled for supremacy. His right hand dropping his sword with a clatter, Sarkh dropped to a crouch, his eyes painfully wincing as they examined the damage.

The knife had gone clean through the scales adorning him ,shattering a plate as the Wookiee knife buried into flesh. The blade had fortunately gone between the bones of his forearm, rather than break them outright, but the result was devastating; no resistance of bone contact meant the merciless point had driven through to the other side. Red blood dribbled from both sides in a messy display, barely contained by the Ryyk blade, pattering against the footpath in staccato much like the rain that had preceded it.

Biting down hard, drawing sharp breaths from the cool air to try to calm his racing heart, Sarkh gripped the handle of the knife and winced; the microscopic wiggle of the blade in response to pressure nearly bringing a grunt of pain forth. Gently, carefully, slowly, the reptile began to pull; inching the steel sliver from his forearm as delicately as he could in hopes of avoiding more trauma. Blood vessels were already damaged, sheared by the blade on the way in; ripping the knife out would only serve to sever more and expedite blood loss.

Bitterly hissing his breaths to slow his heartbeat, incensed with fury at the lapse in concentration and the pain burying its way deeper into his psyche, Sarkh managed to pull the knife from his forearm, tossing the vile Wookiee knife to the ground with a clatter. Extraction, however, brought its own issues; freely open, the wounds on either side of his forearm began to seep blood freely; the crimson fluid dribbling through the cracks in his scales like water through a stream.

Once more, training brought action to the forefront of the reptile's mind; his right hand immediately shooting down to his left ankle to tear at his nerf-leather footbands. Thinking fast, the winds of tanned leather would serve as a makeshift tourniquet; the reptile swiftly binding his forearm above the wound painfully tight to help stem the bleeding. It was the best he could manage; the blaster pistol that might very well have served to cauterize the messy holes in his arm had been left aboard the Ashen, and whilst recrimination was far from helpful, Sarkh couldn't help but curse himself for the lapse in judgement.

The wound was savage; blood loss would remain an issue even with the leather tourniquet in place, but other issues would swiftly arise, as Sarkh lifted himself up, retrieving his sword with a pained grimace. Temperature, already a punishing foe, now had advantage; every drop of blood seeping from him quickly cooled in the rain-dampened air, and now with a clear fissure in his forearm, the cool air now had direct passage to him. The bite of the cold was tremendous already; his toes began to gently numb among the chilling cold.

I have to kill him, now, before I become weaker than a hatchling. Sarkh thought grimly, his expression souring behind the facial-plates, as he reached out with the Force. Pain and anger, like adrenaline, served to sharpen the reptile's numbing senses, and once more latching on to the panicked beacon he could only guess to be the Zelosian, Sarkh gave pursuit. The scent of blood in the air, his own and his prey's, filled the reptiles nostrils, further pointing the hunter further along his trail; following the coppery-tinged scent into a darkened backalley.

"I will rip the flesh from your bones, coward." Sarkh growled from the shadows, his reptilian voice rasped and hissed, as he ventured deeper into the alleyway; fingers tightly wound about the curved handle in his palm. Fatigue from blood loss and the cold was already beginning to settle; the reptile felt slightly hazy and foggy in thought, blinking hard for a half-second to try to regain his bearings. 

No! Not yet you won't...Vile Zelosian scum. Sarkh thought, inching closer and closer to the source of the smell of blood not his own, feeling through the Force the ever-growing thuds and thumps of his victim's terrified heart, the gentle vibrations through his feet of a shifting body. There, behind a large bin, his prey; practically oozing salty sweat and fear as the reptile drew closer and closer, stepping out from the shadowy abyss like a wraith from the pits of Hell so vividly described by the frail humans.

Steeling himself, masking signals of his injury as best he could, Sarkh tightened the grip of his sword before launching into assault; diving atop the lid of the dumpster chest-first with a grunt of effort. Right arm extended, Sarkh brought the sword downward over the edge of the bin and skewer whatever part of his terrified target he could reach, the serrated teeth hungry for Zelosian skin to catch and tear.

[Rimrald]

Letting himself slide down against the dumpster Rimrald attempted to catch his breath, panting after the encounter, peaking around the corner from time to time. Suddenly the entire dumpster shook and with a loud crash and shriek the sound of metal tearing into metal shocked his senses into an overload. He suddenly felt warm, calm and focused trying to stand up he writhed and nothing came out accept the panicked sound everyone makes when they're fighting to get loose of something.

There it was, as he looked up first he was the large reptilian man, practically face to face atop the dumpster, then he looked down and followed his arm to see his own, amidst the blade and dumpster pinned just above the elbow for a moment as the blade passed through. Rimrald still in a half standing position became fully erect as he stood, not noticing the pain or how bad the wound was. Survival was the only thing flooding his mind at the moment, getting as much distance from the Trandoshan as he could. For he knew he would not survive yet a third encounter with the reptile, if he was to see him again it would have to be on his own terms.

As he jogged off, limping slightly after crashing over the swoop he turned to his right, over his shoulder he aimed his blaster back into the darkness of the alleyway, flicking the setting to full auto as the distance from his target was not great he knew the spread would be tight and deadly if he was in the open. Holding the trigger down for two seconds then again for three more seconds a hail of yellow bolts flew out of the weapon in a flurry toward the reptile. Not sure if he hit anything he continued into the street and onto the opposing side walk.

Pushing everyone whom got in his way, gawking revelers on the street, the people whom didn't notice him until he crashed into them forcing his way by, he made his way down the crowded street past two store fronts and pushed his way through a large half open door as a man and woman were exiting. At his full capable speed he sent the man mid stride to his back with violent speed as he barged into the building. 

Light, light at last! He thought, finally a well lit building area where he felt the fight would be on his terms. Quickly looking around he couldn't help but notice the crowded bar seemed to be focused on him, wide eyed as if they had seen a ghost, or a dead man walking. Rimrald looked down at his arm, proceeding to return to a panic almost instantly upon seeing the wound. Three quarters of the way through his arm, slightly above the elbow the large serrated blade had made its way through him like a hot knife through butter.  His entire right arm below the elbow was covered in his green syrup like blood, oozing and dripping onto the ground, no doubt it had left a trail for anyone who bothered to look down. Quickly throwing himself against the bar he reached over with his left arm, blaster still in hand grabbing a rag from the counter top and a handful of napkins, and quickly dropping his weapon on the bar he picked up and dropped his right arm atop the bar, placing the rag around the wound, holding one end of the rag with his mouth over the stack of napkins as he tied the knot as tight as possible with his left hand.

A tourniquet, the best thing he could do right now with the tools he had and the situation that he had gotten himself into. The blood still soaked into the napkin/bar rag makeshift bandage. He knew full well he would continue to bleed until he got proper treatment or he died. Quickly looking to the bar keep, whom was still in utter shock at the spectacle unlike the rest of the bar, whom acted like this was a normal occurrence; Rimrald shouted at him.
"Sugar, do you have sugar!" 
The bar keep quickly pulled up a small sugar pouch, one like you would find at the market, branded and produced by some mega corporation. Rimrald quickly taking a pinch of it and making a line with his pinky finger, proceeded to snort the line. 

Rearing his head into the air, pupils dilating he began to blink rapidly as the sugar entered his system. The pain flowing away, his fear dissipating, and his over all state feeling like he could take on a thousand Sarkh's.. But that was the drugs talking, he was still in banged up condition but his body wouldn't notice until the sugar was out of his system.

Making his way to the back of the bar, he looked at the interior as he made his way through. Typical durasteel construct with fake wood paneling all around, to give it a rustic feel. Several tables maybe 25 in total scattered through the bar, a band on a small stage playing the overly stereotypical cantina song, a small group forming on the dance floor in the middle of the building, the band positioned in the back left corner and the bar along the back wall, centered with the front door, Rimrald pushed to the back right corner, sitting at one of the high chaired two person tables, resting his feet on the bottom rung of the chair he picked up the empty bottle that was left on the table, sliding it close in the event he needed a weapon other than his blaster. While sitting he kept his eyes focused on the door, finger resting on the trigger. His plan was crazy, if the reptile were to enter that door he knew it would be their last encounter, one of the two would leave alive. If the reptile came in Rimrald planned to let his weapon fire until the man was so full of holes he would resemble a battle standard after combat. 

Eyes still locked on the door, the sugar shooting his senses into overload he began to fidget as his eyes wandered, looking up to the ceiling he noticed the large skylight, the size of the dance floor. If his plan did not go accordingly he figured he could always shoot that to make a distraction if the hunter got too close.

He waited, knowing the hunter was after its prey, a wounded target was what he assumed the hunter was expecting. But the wounded hunter would be hot on his trail, as he left a physical one this time, but Rimrald had no worries about this, naturally he would but the sugar in his system calmed him. He felt as if he was in the advantageous position for the next encounter. He had no intention of running, and no intention of losing. He had looked death in the eyes twice today, and he had every intention to look death in the eyes from above him, with his weapon situated to end this gruesome battle as the victor. Or at the very least go down fighting.

[Dutch]

Alriiiiiiiight back to the quick posting bonus! Ya'll both got a point for that.

Rimrald! Hope you learned your godmodding lesson

lion! Way to be a good sport with the newbie

Now let's get to the nitty gritty!

---

Round 3


lion
Effort: 4/5
Fairness: 4/5
Detail: 4/5
Coolness: 3/5
Bonus: 1/2
Comments: leezard's devoted hatred to poor mister plantbro amuses me greatly. Way to roll with the last round and keep the narrative the focus, def helped your fairness score. Great set up for the final round

Rimrald
Effort: 4/5
Fairness: 3/5
Detail: 4/5
Coolness: 3/5
Bonus: 1/2
Comments: RUN PLANTBRO RUUUUUN I would recommend a re-read or two next round, to up your effort score a little. Tense issues can sometimes get confusing to read! A technique I use often, is reading your own post aloud to yourself. Amazing how much you'll catch! Also I see you taking my snorting sugar thing



Total:

lion: 44

Rimrald: 39

---

Nice round three boys, ya'll set yourselves up for a hell of a finale here I think!

But now for your BONUSTRAVAGANZA

Kill as many innocent bystanders in this cantina as possible in your next post Can earn up to FIVE bonus points in the fourth round!

FINAL ROUND!!

[Rimrald]

My Round 4 prediction.

[lion]

A hit!

The feedback of force traveling through his sword's handle and into his arm was as familiar to the reptile as the back of the hand that guided it; the pressure imparted against the blade unmistakably contact of flesh to steel. The panicked wail that escaped the Zelosian beneath the lip of the bin all but confirmed the blow's landing, the strained grunt of trying to tug free of the sword's subtle saw-teeth clear as day even to the reptile's covered ear-holes.

Tugging the sword upward, over the lip of the bin once again to attempt another thrust, Sarkh brought those teeth into action; biting deeper into the victim's arm as the edge withdrew. To the Zelosian's credit, what little of it he deserved, he was up on his feet and practically staggering deeper into the alleyway. Scrambling from the dumpster-top and clamoring to his feet on the cool ground below, Sarkh wasted little time in giving chase; the trandoshan's powerful quadriceps shuddering beneath his scales with every sprinted step, hurtling himself down the alleyway in chase.

Until a sudden shard of surprise, terror and awareness of peril sent him diving to the ground, almost bouncing as his chest smacked into the damp asphalt with a meaty thud. Motion around him seemed to slow, each moment stretched like elastic almost to the point of feeling as if it were about to break. From above, the telltale flashes of blaster bolts soared, yellow arcs of energy sizzling through the air that had once held the trandoshan's torso before slamming into the far end of the alley in a cascade of sparks.

If there had been nothing but disdain for the Zelosian thief before, at least there was a saving grace, an iota of respect beginning to form. If nothing else, the inability to forgive the theft, at least the tactic of an aggressive retreat was something to be seen as commendable. By no means did Sarkh find a sudden void in his anger through which mercy would rear its head, of course, as he staggered back to his feet with a shake of the left arm; the thief would breathe his last tonight, and Takfi's lightsaber would be back in his possession.

Of that, Sarkh was certain.

Giving chase, gritting his teeth against the cold of the air as it seeped deeper through his body, the Trandoshan reached the mouth of the alley. Once more guided by instinct, the reptile stopped short, pausing for a moment as the words of his father surged through the fog of thermal torpor and pain. Survey your surroundings; three words that had been practical gold in their wisdom, ignored at the peril of many hunters who had eventually regretted their lapse. Prey sought refuge; shelter, and the Zelosian had proven in his desperation that he was still dangerous. Simply running and gunning was not always the correct method, and with the advantage of range, the Zelosian thief would benefit from such a strategy.

Taking the time to breathe, Sarkh's eyes narrowed as they took in his surroundings. The alleyway opened back into the street he had encountered the thief; pedestrians still meandering about in their aimless strides and staggers. Across the street, a tavern; the glow of the holographic advertisements more than enough to indicate what was going on, even without the stench of alcohol lingering about the place.

There, he had to be there, even as Sarkh's eyes took in the rest of the scene, he couldn't help but return to the bar. It made sense; a warm, crowded area in which to hide. Music would drown out any potential chance of being overheard, the mixture of varied species would confuse the eyes, the stench of smoke and alcohol likewise rendering scent moot. With only the one entrance door to speak of, too, ambush was a potential risk as well, leaving Sarkh all but certain that his prey had taken refuge there.

But how to enter without arousing suspicion? A blaster would have sufficed for a ranged kill, as no doubt his intended target was far from striking range of the door, but in such a contained area filled with people, marksmanship would prove difficult. Innocent bystanders would be killed, and whilst Sarkh had no issue in condemning a room full of people to death for his own gain, the reptile was far too aware of his poor skill with a blaster to have faith in it.

No, it called for a different approach, one that would re-..

"E-ey, yoush go'anny credsh?" A voice rasped, seemingly from a pile of refuse and food-scraps seemingly days into its decomposition cycle, slurring in intoxication. The voice was human, male as far as Sarkh could tell, as his head turned to face the source of the sound. There, among the waste, a frail little man lay sprawled in a patchworked coat, glassy-eyes staring up from the dark to the reptilian figure before him with mixed expressions of desperation and disbelief.

Mercy and compassion were far from Sarkh's mind, but closer inspection of the beggar brought an object to the reptile's attention that seemed to hold the answers to his problems. In the filthy human's hands resided a flimsiplast bag, its dry surface suggesting purchase after the rain had passed. The bag itself was inconsequential to Sarkh, but what was inside drew his attention; the glass neck of a bottle promising an answer to the problem so vexing the hunter.

"Not for you, ape." The metallic plates upon his muzzle shifted, teeth becoming visible in an amused smile as Sarkh stepped closer, bending down with one swift motion to snatch the bottle from the mammal's hands. Mass shifted within the bag; the general weight of the bottle within the bag and the sloshing of fluid within suggesting that there was still a fair amount of alcohol within.

The theft drew the beggar's protests, but unwilling to give the wretch the time of day or even allow him to stand up to defend himself. Raising his right foot, Sarkh brought it down with as much weight as he could bring upon the human's chest; feeling bone shudder and snap as hundreds of pounds of force bore down, aided by gravity, crushing the human's ribcage and its contents. With one stomp, the life was snuffed from the man; a gurgled grunt the only cry that escaped the beggar before silence.

Almost immediately, Sarkh set to a crouch beside the dying human, propping his left arm upon his left knee like a makeshift medical table. The tourniquet had stood up to what it had needed to do; restrict bloodflow and allow what was there to coagulate, but the wound was still severe and in need of treatment. Blood had already begun to dry, surprising given the chill of the climate about him, but open wounds required far more than simple clotting.

What came next, Sarkh knew would hurt, but with great care and a sharp inhale as he set his sword down, the reptile carefully poured a splash of the alcohol, Corellian whiskey, upon the exposed flesh. Pain erupted like a fire as the amber fluid dribbled through the hole, becoming red as it splashed upon the alleyway ground below, seemingly igniting every nerve on the way through. Stifling the pain wasn't enough, the Trandoshan muffling a grunt and groan behind grit teeth as he tried to cope with the fiery pain, settling the bottle down on the ground as his hand rubbed the excess liquor about the wound.

It was painful, agonizing, but even young hunters knew that severe cuts required immediate treatment; chief among them post the cessation of bleeding, disinfection. It would serve no purpose to survive a punishing, potentially lethal blow only to risk losing the limb or dying of sepsis, Sarkh had been taught; medical alcohol was the called for treatment to ensure bacteria were burned away from exposed flesh and blood vessels, though in a pinch, high-proof spirits could work just the same for temporary treatment.

Of course, not every hunter carried such things; most hunting packs had with them a dedicated medic to ensure any risks were taken care of, creating a habit among solo hunters to leave such treatments back aboard their ship. Admittedly one of the latter, Sarkh once again shoved recrimination aside for practicality; it was fortunate that the beggar had been there when he had. Already, the pain began to numb, nerves that blazed with pain settling down into a tingling haze.

Some time had been bought, at least, but the sooner Sarkh could get himself back to the Ashen, he knew, the better. The beggar's alcohol, fortunately, provided a second benefit that once more brought a slight little smile to the trandoshan; enough to quash what pain remained in him for the time being. There were several ways to make an ambush zone safer to enter, after all, and now through good fortune and the death of one waste-of-life human with a drinking habit, Sarkh had been handed one.

All he needed was a spark.

Pulling the bottle of liquor from its bag, Sarkh wasted little time in setting to work. On forest worlds such as Kashyyyk, where flammable material was abundant but metal less so, hunters had been taught that Chalon could serve as a spark-source. Like iron, pure Chalon burned on contact with oxygen; oxidization prevented large veins and chunks of it from burning up, but shards and powders lacked that ability. Hunting swords, therefore, scratched with rock or another porous and rough surface, could act as a flint-and-steel as the Chalon cores were exposed and fragmented; whilst the sword would become damaged and require repolishing, it was generally seen as an acceptable risk.

And with the permacrete slabs of buildings on either side of him, there was no shortage of rough, porous materials with which to put to use. Already having damaged the blade somewhat with his first missed blow, Sarkh saw no issue in going further; scrunching the flimsiplast bag into a long tube-like shape before stuffing one end into the bottle, leaving the other end of the bag open to the elements as the trandoshan hoisted it up to the nearest wall. 

All it took was a sharp drag of the sawtoothed sword, against the grain, to bring sparks; what was left of the razor-sharp points shearing off as they fought and failed to grip the permacrete, fragmenting and subsequently igniting. It wasn't much, but dry flimsiplast needed little to ignite; merely a few embers settling upon its surface was enough to bring forth the flames the reptile so eagerly sought.

Action from here on was swift; the improvised incendiary explosive in his hand was more than enough to require serious attention, as Sarkh moved closer to the middle of the street, his mind already setting into action the series of events that would bring about the most desirable outcome. The bar itself, way in the back of the room, was visible through the exterior windows; entire rows of high-proof spirits of various worlds a far too inviting target to pass up. 

Reaching out with the Force as he strode, Sarkh felt his mind brush against the glass between him and his target, felt his senses made contact with its cool surface, only to shove outward as hard as he could against it. The glass was sturdy, but it had nowhere to go against the unseen force pressing into it, unable to bow or flex to tolerate the strain that inevitably caused the pane to crumble and shatter, showering the inside of the bar in its remnant fragments.

Speeding up his stride, the Trandoshan wasted little time in hurling his weapon through the opened gap; the burning-capped bottle tumbling through the air as the reptile's throw guided it to the back of the room. End over end the bottle flipped, flying in almost a straight line from the middle of the street, into the tavern, over the bar and right into the shelf upon the back wall, shattering on impact.

What came next could only be described as strangely beautiful, as the first screams from mammalian mouths made themselves heard. Whiskey from the bottle, sprayed in all directions as the vessel ferrying it had broken, immediately ignited on contact with the burning flimsiplast bag; a sudden flash of a fireball creating a small blast of pressure that knocked several more bottles along the shelf down to the floor, adding to the liquor-fueled inferno. For the unfortunate soul behind the bar, tending their patrons, there was no hope; in the space of heartbeats the fire had ripped up the entire rear of the bar; there was no place to go that wasn't set ablaze. Almost instantly, the unfortunate human had been set entirely alight; dropping below the surface of the wooden bartop in wailed screams as his skin burned.

But the pain didn't stop there; as the fire raged on, the bar quickly beginning to swell in temperature, smoke billowing swiftly to the roof as the flames chewed through oxygen. Alcohol spills, half-finished drinks, every bit of liquor fume contributed to the firestorm; what started at the far end of the room swiftly reached into the rest of the room, causing a frenzied panic among the patrons who hadn't immediately caught fire. The wooden bar itself had ignited, covered in the spilled booze of its drunken tenants, as had several sections of the floor, along with the fabric curtain of the stage. 

Pressurised CO2 cannisters beneath the bar, serving as the carbonising agent for the pre-mix drinks, only furthered the danger; pressure against the aged metal drums of heat bringing the molecules within to an excited frenzy. With nowhere to go, the pressure only built and built to rupturing point; two sudden thumps shaking the bar as if a giant's fist had pounded into the sides of the room, right down to the foundations. Burning bottles, shards of metal, wood, bits of charred cloth and skin were blasted about the room; the compressed CO2 choked some of the alcohol-fueled flames but not enough to put an end to the inferno raging as all sections of the bar's wooden decor, liquor-spilled tables and cloth seats began to burn. Two unfortunate Duros, spacers by their dress, had been shredded by the shrapnel of the cannisters; dead before their bloodied bodies hit the ground.

More died in moments; flesh and alcohol burning with a sickly scent that could have put a warzone to shame. Screams from both inside and outside the bar raged as the fire-supression system kicked into action far too late to stop the blaze; those few who hadn't burned ran around in a blind panic, desperate for whatever cover or escape their adrenaline-surged minds could find.

And through the window he'd blasted in, flames casting an orange-red glow across his green, bone-adorned frame, stepped Sarkh. Dressed as he was, semi-dulled sword shimmering in the firelight, the reptile's nigh-otherworldly attire gave him all the terrorizing appearance he needed as the panicked patrons still alive tried to flee. Gone was the torpor haze; the chill of the night air cast aside by the heat of the fire and his senses flared back to life. The Force surged; the Trandoshan could feel his prey close by, could taste the fear and the panic welling through the room, as with a raise of his wounded left arm, the reptile guided the mass of a still-living, still-burning Gran female up into the air and flung her toward the Zelosian's position as hard as he could.

"You will die here, vermin." Sarkh growled, his hissed threat audible over the crackling of the flames and terrified patrons, feeling his fingers tighten around the handle of his sword as the trandoshan stepped closer and closer; his gaze behind the metallic plates and hard scales one of sheer, unadulterated will to finish his target utterly and completely.

[Rimrald]

Come on already, walk through that door you mongoloid...


The thought rolling in Rimralds head over and over again as he chugged a glass of water, the wired zelosian attempting to rejuvenate himself for the final fight, pounding glass of water after glass of water. Looking around and admiring the bar he began to fidget becoming more and more uncomfortable waiting as the sugar had made him over energetic and shortened his attention span greatly. Casting his gaze up at the sky light then back across the bar he looked at the large metal door to his back right side, assuming it led to a kitchen or bathroom he payed it no mind in his mental state. 

Scanning a few more times his eyes darted back to the door, curiosity growing with each pass. No one had come in or gone out of it the whole time he had been sitting there. Finding this rather curious he finished his glass of water and stood slowly, putting his bruised leg down first; not in pain anymore the hobble seemed to be gone. Then moving his right arm the pain faint due to the drugged state but still prevalent. Holstering his blaster he walked over, the few patrons around him going wide eyed as he pressed his hand against the door pushing it open, seeing an empty short hallway he made his way for the second door. A big red metal door, peaking through the small circular window he saw three men standing around a card table, a large jar of red spice and a case of credits. Two of the men standing squared off the third man to the rear of the taller human, holding a blaster rifle, all three seeming at ease until the rifle toting rodian spotted Rimrald.

Pulling the door open before Rimrald could turn to run, the rodian had hid by the collar of his shirt yanking him into the backroom. Knowing this was not a good thing Rimrald with his back to the three men, being pulled into the room looked left to right as quickly as he could. Seeing a large stack of crates, presumably the different alcoholic beverages, bottles or all sizes and shapes poking through the exposed crate tops, on the wall to the right some tables and chairs stacked to save room and three chairs around a card table where he was promptly slammed down onto. Then the barrel of the rifle pressed to the back of his head, the two other men stood in front of him.
"Oh kid, why'd ya have'ta come through that door? Now we gots'ta kill ya!" The shorter man with blue hair proclaimed. Looking up and at the Rodian and giving a small nod. The bolt of the rifle catching as the man racked it--

Quickly pulling the rifle from his head as an eruption of screaming and whaling came from outside the door Rimrald had been pulled through. The two men without rifles quickly running through the doorway and out into the bar, only for one to return on fire. Flailing and shrieking like a cathar drowning. His eyes meeting Rimralds as he flopped on the ground like a fish out of water. The panic and fear could be seen in his eyes amidst the flames engulfing his body, burning through the black suit with ease, quickly interrupted by the quick as accurate bolt of red energy flying past Rimralds head by the rodian rifleman, putting the burning man out of his misery.

Pupils dilating even further at the spectacle. Now was his chance to act, not entirely sure why that man was on fire or really caring Rimrald could see the barrel of the rifle out of the corner of his left eye. Quickly throwing his arm up and grabbing the barrel from the rodian who had a rather lax grip on the rifle, pulling it downwards as he stood and swiveled toward the man. Forming a knife hand with his right arm, coming down on the mans neck with great force right above the collar bone. Sending him to the floor body locking up, as his muscles contract smashing his head against a table on his way down, a small pool of blood forming around his cranium. In total shock Rimrald simply looked down, never having killed someone before he just blinked a few times.

With the rifle in hand Rimrald knew for sure now that the rodian lie dead in his own blood that there was no getting out of here without a fight. Moving towards the door laying a hand on the cool metal he stopped and listened, two loud explosions rocked the wall to his right, loud and violent, Rimrald quickly racked the rifle, his training from the cadet program flooding into his head like pure animalistic instinct, weapon raised he moved for the second door. Laying a hand on it this one was considerably more hot, there was no window in this door. But as a child Rimrald remembered that a hot door meant fire. Looking down he saw smoke begin to seep in through the bottom of the door, and he could hear the sounds of the screams still.

Pulling the door open Rimrald simply stood and looked for a moment. Fie engulfing the entire inside of the building, starting to creep up the wooden paneled walls, he looked from right to left. Weapon raised and ready to put any attackers down, first seeing the lack of a bar, simple blood stains and fragments of wood where it once stood. An arm stuck into the small wall mounted coat hook a foot from his head. Casting his gaze in the arc he saw bodies strewn across the ground, toppled over tables and chairs all on fire, the front door engulfed with fire. No exit there, continuing he saw the bands instruments melting in the fire. 

Taking a step forward onto the wooden floor. Metal boots guarding from the embers on the ground. Being that Zelosians do not breathe oxygen, they are plants. Carbon Monoxide being put off by the fire was of no issue to him, so long as the plant did not catch a stray ember. Having taken in five glasses of water prior he felt energized, the fire gave light to the street in the night, although he could not see through the smoke, when it did rise he could see out as if it were daytime. 

Suddenly a loud screech caught Rimralds attention as a burning body flew through the smoke cloud at the table he was once sitting, cracking against the wall. The creature rolled inching towards him, quickly dropping the barrel of the rifle to its head he pulled the trigger once, hoping it did not suffer for too long prior. 

Looking upwards Rimrald saw the skylight still intact, quickly firing a few bolts at it, the glass shattering and falling to the floor like snow in the early morning amidst the floating embers, somewhat serene in the chaos that surrounded Rimrald. But this gave a great avenue for the smoke to clear, as it did rising hastily creating an easier view but still very hard to make anything out. Rimrald stepped up onto a knocked over table making a short leap across the burning floor and onto a charred body. His feet sinking into the body, quickly pulling them out and stepping onto the edge of a booth, clambering onto the leather seat and over it, only a patch of burning floor and the stage were between himself and the second window. 

Letting a few bolts fly through the window and shattering it, the smoke found a third avenue to escape, as the fire suppression system kicked on Rimrald muttered something to the effect of its uselessness. Quickly sliding down the back side of the booth he took a sharp breath inwards and figured if he ran fast enough he wouldn't catch on fire. Wrong. Sprinting over the left side of the dance floor and up onto the stage, he leaped out the window, rolling as he hit the ground the rifle falling from his hands. Looking down to see his pants on fire he began to slap at it as fast as he could. Slapping at the ankle high flames he took one metal boot off stamping the flames with it and sliding it back on. His legs with minor burns, but he felt something far worse.

Looking up from his seated position on the ground he saw him, Sarkh still outside assuming full well he had seen him, Rimrald scrambled for the rifle lying on the ground next to him, flicking the selector switch to full-auto and holding the trigger down, not realizing he was screaming as he did so. The excitement and rage had built in him to the point where he had burst. In an uncontrolled fury he drained the energy cell, clicking the trigger a few more times as nothing else came out of the barrel.

Casting the rifle aside he pulled the blaster pistol from its holster, slapping the energy cell in he dumped its load in Sarkhs direction, still screaming as the weapon clicked empty too. He stood and charged the man, not sure what the outcome of his two previous attempts were due to the smoke clouding the air. He charged forwards, ready to meet the outcome of this encounter once and for all.

The culmination of the nights events whirled through his head, first the taking of the saber, the hiding on the street and the first meeting of the hunter, turning into the hunted and the cycle coming round to seemingly leave him as the hunter in their final collision. A lizard fighting for honor and retribution, a thief fighting for his life. Rimrald never even thought a day in his life that he would be put in a spot like the one he was currently knee deep in. But he knew if he was going to go out, he always vowed it would be with one hell of a bang.

[Dutch]

Sorry about the wait boys, been a hectic few days for me

BUT ENOUGH WAITING

IT IS TIME

WHO IS OUR WINNER?

let's find out

---

FINAL ROUND


lion
Effort: 4/5
Fairness: 2/5
Detail: 3/5
Coolness: 5/5
Bonus: 5/5
Comments:


Rimrald
Effort: 4/5
Fairness: 3/5
Detail: 4/5
Coolness: 5/5
Bonus: 5/5
Comments:


Total:

lion: 63

Rimrald: 60

---

It was a close fight, and a wonderfully classic example of how fun a duel on SWU can be. Way to go you two, you had DreadPirateMike and I enthralled

BUT THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE

lion you have won!

[lion]

It took little for the fight to spill back outside; the smoke-free air of the outside world far more palatable and tolerable than the charcoal tinged gas permeating the doomed bar. Desperation on the part of the Zelosian, terror etched upon his face akin to words carved in stone, was evident; panic-firing his blaster rifle and later pistol with a frenzied scream. Fear must have held the man tighter than even he would have suspected, Sarkh mused as he used what cover he could get, for each round strayed far from its mark; tearing chunks not from the Trandoshan target but the road, the sidewalk, and the surface of buildings nearby.

Two blaster rifle shots came close, however, in the storm of energised tibanna gas; two large chunks of his sword had been taken clean out of the side of the blade, left exposed in the fire. The sword could have withstood its abuse thus far, but even Chalon had its limits; the weapon would require re-forging. It was unfortunate, Sarkh knew, but the reptile didn't allow grief to cloud his mind or his judgement as he slipped the blade back between his belts; it was merely another insult the Zelosian would have to account for.

And one he would pay for slowly.

Whatever pedestrians skulking about the street had long since fled, no doubt the burning-down of the bar had something to do with it, but with just the hunter and his target left, there were no further distractions; no avenues of escape. It took little time for the Trandoshan to counter-charge the panicked thief; the longer stride of the reptile covering more ground than the Zelosian could hope to match.

What followed was sheer brutality, as near two and a half decades of Trandoshani martial arts experience came to the fore. A short, stiff left handed body blow from below served as the introduction; a scaled fist hooking hard into the right side of Wyr'ren's body, squarely against the Zelosian's liver, catching the boy running in. The next strike went high, a right fist soaring and smashing against the thief's jaw with enough force to dislodge teeth, rocking the far smaller man's head back and to the left.

Sarkh continued, however, the Trandoshan's rapid-fire speed driven by sheer muscle memory and an intense desire to press the action, following the staggering Zelosian to keep him in range. Another left handed shot streaked in for the thief's liver, near bending the smaller man's body around his left fist as it pummeled just beneath the rib with a meaty thump, driving the air from its victim. Whatever natural instinct to reach for the damaged body part or simply slow thought to defend drove the Zelosian to drop his hands from his head, leaving the next blow open; a stepping right handed cross, straight down the line, smashing into Wyr'ren's left cheek from the front.

This time, Sarkh could feel bone crack against his fist, and it felt good; the webbing of bone around the mouth of the Zelosian's eye socket fractured under the force of the Trandoshan's fist. The sheer force of the punch sent the plant-man staggering further back, but once again Sarkh remained on him; like a firaxan shark sensing blood in the water, the reptile didn't let up an inch. The Trandoshani art had always stressed overwhelming destruction of the enemy, after all; broken bones weren't enough.

Stepping forward with his left foot in lead, Sarkh continued the body-breaking assault, his right foot rushing up to smash against the Zelosian's left side; powerful quadriceps and calf muscles flexing under the thick layer of scales as the reptile's foot dug into the flesh just beneath the ribs on the left side. The strike was savagely hard; enough force to rupture the kidney and still have enough to seemingly 'lift' the Zelosian a short distance from the ground with a blood-curdling thud, near bending the plant around his foot.

Refusing to let up, however, Sarkh immediately recovered and followed with a right handed short hook, again catching his now dizzied opponent in the chin with his fist; rocking the thief's young head to the left. Pain was evident on the Zelosian's face; blood dribbling from his mouth, swelling under the damaged eye socket, wincing with each breath as his body struggled and failed to withstand the onslaught. It was a wonder the plant wasn't dead, or at least unconscious, but there was no way in those ever-quickly dulling eyes that much thought beyond instinct remained.

Opening his right hand, Sarkh swung back with disdain; a disrespectful backhanded sweep sent the Zelosian's bloodied head back the way it had came, sending the plant staggering toward his right with a groan. The chase had been fun, almost testing in a way, but there was little in the Trandoshan's eyes that could have spared the thief or earned him a commendable death; grievous insult was enough to warrant whatever demeaning blows Sarkh saw fit.

Beginning to stagger and lower his head, the Zelosian was still not spared the assault; Sarkh's left hand opening as it rose and swiftly fell, like the axeman's blade in period holodramas, against the back of the plant's neck. Sarkh could feel the thin muscles buckle and yield instantly, imparting pressure upon the Zelosian's neck as it struggled to contain the immense force placed upon it.

The blow had been well aimed, almost surgical; a powerful chopping blow to a weak section of the body left little chance of defense, little way to tolerate the sheer impact. C2 through 4 fractured; three vertebrae joining the Zelosian's head to his body giving way to the knife-edge of the Trandoshan's meaty, scaly hand. There was no question that in the likely autopsy to come, the damage from that blow alone would be found to be the lethal one; quadriplegia was almost assured from such trauma to the neck, and with much of the impulses controlling chest muscle reflex now gone, it was a wonder if the Zelosian would even be able to continue breathing.

That much was evident through the slight 'slacking' of the bent-forward plant's body, as if all signals to the limbs had been shut down; hands that struggled to block the blows far too fast to keep up now simply hung low, limp, and legs straining to remain standing seemingly buckled. Sparing no moment, however, Sarkh continued the pressure; a sudden right-footed kick upward catching the thief squarely in the face enough to practically bounce the brain within its bone casing like a rubber ball, forcing the Zelosian up into the air and flat onto his back upon the cold pavement of the road.

The entire series took little more than a few seconds, but the results were tremendously punishing; trauma doctors would have had a nightmare trying to decide where to start. His eyes glimmering with intensity and endorphin rush from the physical activity and the euphoria from catching his prey, Sarkh advanced, wasting little time in finishing his target off; lifting his right foot high up and down in a savage stomp upon Wyr'ren's chest.

The sternum shattered under impact; much like the beggar before him, there was little to stop the forces of gravity and sheer strength coming down and doing its damage. The light frame of the Zelosian practically crumpled; whatever life remained had been stamped out almost completely, barely more than rasped breaths as the lungs struggled to fight what could not be won. The thief would die; paralyzed from the neck down, severe concussion, a ruptured kidney and likely a bleed on the liver and probably the heart, there was little chance of survival.

Sarkh, however, would simply watch and wait, staring down over his adversary with little more expression on his face than an office worker staring over a holoscreen; the reptile's intense eyes picking up the ever fading heat signature from the man beneath him. Sarkh didn't dare move for the pack until the plant had died; the few moments of silence lingering between hunter and prey were something to be savored, even among the dishonourable wastes. 

This, no matter the Zelosian's attempt at theft, was no exception, and as the last breath left the plant-man's body, Sarkh was there to watch it; witness it. The final thoughts of a panicked mind struggling not to die, the Force laid bare for the reptile to read like a book. The last moments of the thief's life, staring up at the man whose hands and feet had broken him like glass, were not the man's own, but Sarkh's; retribution for the theft of the lightsaber. 

For the lack of a sporting hunt or a worthy pelt, the knowledge would have to do.

[Dutch]