Vartuk vs Zrask An'tei

[Dutch]

Laaaaaadies and geeeeeentlemeeeeeeen!

Here we come once more, to these sacred and most noble of halls!

Newcomer Jounin has the guts to call out SWU’s current Duel Champion, lion!

-fans cheer and jeer all around-

And I am more than happy to grade this, will Jounin surprise us with a win? Or will lion continue his duelravenous reign!?

LET’S FIND OUT

---

The Arena

Mere hours have passed since the fight moved on. This section of the city, now burned and mostly abandoned is only the most recent victim of the battle which waged across world. Most of the soldiers had long left, with only a few stragglers either trapped or wounded during the great fire. A great bridge sits in the middle of the city, spanning a droughted river drained from quelling flames. Here the two fighters find themselves, each blocking the other from crossing…

---

BRIDGE BATTLE

lion, you're the champ; Show us how to start these things!

ROUND ONE, BEGIN!

[lion]

It was almost as if the air itself were ablaze, Zrask thought, as the Bothan took a gentle breath of the soot-tinged air. The acrid tang was enough to make most men want to sneeze, and had certainly taken some getting used to in early deployment; the stink of burned propellant and lingering pockets of charged Tibanna gas mingling together in a horrid concoction. An offense to almost any nose bearing follicles enough to smell it, the ammonia-like burning sensation that lingered was enough to bring water to the eyes of the uninitiated.

Nobody ever said deployment was easy, after all, and when it came to quashing a civil war for the sake of planetary stability, easy didn't come anywhere near fitting the situation. The exact political issue had escaped many of the soldiers that the Republic had sent down, but the mission profile was clear enough that even a blind amoeba could grasp it; re-establish the status quo. A violent coup like this posed threats simply beyond a change in government, after all, and keen to maintain some influence in the sector and display force enough to stem the tide at a trickle rather than risk a flood, the Republic intervened.

And boy, had it gone up in their faces. Scorched-earth didn't begin to do justice to what was going on, this was an active assault on practically anything in order to deny it to anyone else. No sooner had the detachment of Republic soldiers dropped in assistance of the beleaguered guardsmen had the rebellious faction declare its bloody intent; anything that even remotely stood to assist the interloping forces would be destroyed. Assets such as key buildings and transit roads were either outright destroyed or laced with traps to deter advances. Noncombat structures such as hospitals, declared no-conflict zones by the Republic, were quickly commandeered by the rebellious faction as secure bases of operation; forcing the evacuation of those in need of treatment and foisting them onto the Republic's hands.

Those that could be moved, anyway.

Civilians that were not actively against the Republic were treated with suspicion, and among strong-arm drafts to thicken their numbers, reports of civilian executions at the hands of the rebel insurgents had begun to pour in; proof of which was evident enough by even the simplest of sweeps. Bodies left to rot where they fell, field-stripped for whatever valuables remained upon their person; those among the initial squads to push deeper into rebel territory reported back the grizzly details to their commanders.

The message had been clear, however; assist the Republic, and whatever happened to you was no one's fault but your own.

That hadn't been so long ago now; the conflict had been drawn out for days. Fights were intense and brief, house-to-house slugging matches that won and lost ground seemingly continuously. The Republic was clearly the superior combatant, of course, but the grit determination of the rebels to hold ground and fight on had meant that practically every home had to be cleared, every building floor-by-floor covered before moving on.

Hours had passed since the Republic had secured the main bridge connecting the capital to its industrial sector; an intense bout that had cut off the rebels from the resources they so desperately needed to control. Precious fuel refineries and factories would ensure the continuation of the rebel effort, and thus, had been a key target for the Republic. Holding the bridge was important, and even as the fighting had pushed deeper into the capital, a security detail remained to establish a no-go zone, planting explosive traps among the wreckage that remained. Anything that crossed onto the bridge was under the cross-hairs of the Republic; a word could end a life.

That was where Private Zrask An'tei found himself, hunched behind the wreckage of a burned out speeder, cradling his weapon stock to his chest as if it were a long-lost love. The hefty Aratech AM-25 had served the Bothan well so far; in the hours that had followed the combat, it had stopped no less than four marauding speeders dead in their tracks, and between it and the skilled marksmanship of his fellow troops, their occupants. Among the irrecoverable wrecks of speeders and tread-car transports were the bodies of those who dared provoke the Republic, and the grizzly fate they had met at the hands of the greatest army of democracy known.

The Bothan, carefully nestled against the cool steel stock of his rifle, slowly exhaled as he pressed in to tighten himself up against the stock. The artificially illuminated display before him, tinged a pale-ish blue as the scope picked up the ambient light of the night sky and amplified it, seemed eerie; like watching the world through a poorly-filtered holocam. Every detail stood out, of course; Republic gear was as good as it got when it came to night optics for its marksmen, but just something about the night-scope seemed both high-definition and B-grade holo-horror at the same time.

Maybe that was the idea; keep the mind active, keep out the night-time urge to sleep and take a break from the scope. Zrask could hardly blame them, of course, as he slowly began to pivot in place to sweep across the bridge, steadily guiding his weapon in a right-to-left arc. Folks at training had always said that too long behind a scope was bad for the eyes, could wear on the mind and make you tired; maybe the dodgy blue tinge was to keep you active enough to be effective, if constantly trying not to remember 'Night of the Living Horrors' or some other horrible holoflick.

It was either by bad decision or by a sheer gift that something began to move, however, along the opposite end of the bridge on the city side. Training flared up as if second nature, and wasting no time in shifting his body to wheel his rifle about, the Bothan began to line up against it. A small group of humanoid figures of varying size, exactly just what was difficult to tell from the distance between he and his target, but orders were orders, after all; anything approaching that bridge was likely not going to be friendly.

"This is An'tei; I've got eyes on a group of possibles on the far side of the bridge. Advise, over." The Bothan spoke, carefully keeping his scope trained on his targets, feeling the telltale rush surge through him that instantly brought the alien's senses to sharpen, as his suit-mounted comms unit sent the message to his superiors deeper along the bridge. Sharpshooters had it all the time, the sudden adrenalin rush that came from knowing what you were about to do, seeing the target, that had to be managed. Steadying himself, pressing his trigger finger to the side of his rifle rather than the trigger guard, Zrask already began to steel himself; taking slow and cyclical breaths to combat the surge in heart-rate and bring himself back down.

This had to be methodical; clean. A finger twitch and hard trigger pull at this distance would be entire body-lengths off target and alert the squad they hoped to put down. There was a process to go through, and as the call came back through giving the Bothan the green light to engage, it became all the more important to follow. Flicking the weapon's safety off as he had just hours ago to slap down advancing speeders, Zrask continued his steady breaths and allowed his trigger finger to slip into the guard, but held from firing.

Just like training, the Bothan began to run the numbers in his head as he traced the movements of the targets on the other end of the bridge with microscopic shifts in his posture. The distance was at least a mile, well within range of the AM-25 but still a long way by any stretch, with the slug needing to spend around two and a half seconds in flight as it hurtled from barrel to target. With little wind in play, the bullet would stay relatively on target during its travel, leaving only gravity and the motion of his target to consider. A careful adjustment of the scope brought the Bothan's sights into proper alignment for the range, further negating adjustments. 

Taking one last steadying breath, reaching out with his left hand to grasp the rightmost leg of the rifle's bipod and further steady the weight, the Bothan committed; setting his sights center-mass of target. His clawed finger gently held against the trigger, Zrask exhaled and fired, waiting until his lungs had practically all but deflated before gently guiding the trigger back. The pull was practiced; a fluid two-pound consistent pull guided the trigger fully back against the guard slowly, minimising any risk of jerking the rifle off-target.

The hammer struck the firing pin, thumping it into the loaded slug's primer, igniting a chain of propellant that sent the slug hurtling from the lengthy rifle barrel with a thunderous crack-thump as the high-speed round quickly pushed past the sound barrier. The rifle jerked back hard, and with it, so did the Bothan's upper body, taking the hefty recoil of the anti-materiel rifle as best it could. The standard issue armor certainly could take a hit, but with enough oomph behind it to put a hole in even light armor vehicles and cut an unarmoured man in two at even a mile, the AM-25 was by and far a shoulder-masher.

The force of recoil, gas buildup from the round propellant, threw the bolt of the rifle open to eject the spent casing from the chamber. However, as training dictated and to avoid an accidental misfire, Zrask kept the trigger held down until all motion in the rifle ceased; steadily regaining his sight picture as his body settled from the hefty punch to the shoulder it had taken.

The seconds from flight to result, as the howl of the rifle report echoed into the night air, seemed to stretch on for an eternity, but the results seemed to whiz by in a heartbeat. The target was there one moment, and with a sudden jolt and a puff of what looked to be dust, gone the next; thrown out of view behind the twisted metal hulk of a speeder. A haze lingered that, with the blue-tinged night optics, only seemed like a dark blotch to Zrask's eyes, but it took no scientist to guess just what that was.

One down.

[Jounin]

Vartuk loathed it whenever the Republic interfered with the planet he was on. Normally it was just petty conflicts that got quelled with ease, but this time it has broken out into full on war. Trying to ignore the fighting Vartuk rented a private room in a rebel controlled cantina. Having a myriad of Republic troops around made Vartuk tense so he tried using this room to meditate. This was all in vain when the sound of explosives and fighting broke his concentration. Without being able to properly calm down Vartuk exits the room trying to suppress his annoyance.

Three rebels came storming in with desperate looks twisted on their faces. Two of them were humans, one male and one female and the third was Rodian. The female spots Vartuk's lightsaber and comes running up to him. "Master Jedi! If you're not fighting us then you're with us right?" Vartuk gives them a curt nod.

"Vartuk normally likes to avoid conflict, but this is a special case. Vartuk knows all to well what being oppressed by the Republic feels like." All three of their faces eased immediately. The male then piped up.

"The Pubs took control of the bridge. We're gonna have to take that back to turn the tide." Vartuk nods and heads out of the cantina getting on his swoop bike. The other three get on their speeder bikes and they head off. Upon arriving at the bridge an eerie sense of silence washed over them. Things seemed calm here...almost too calm for a pivotal area. They got off their bikes and Vartuk focused his energy to sense any presences. All he could get was one at the other side of the bridge. With a skeptical look he explains that they seem to have the numbers on the Republic.

Confidence seemed to boost immensely at that comment and they started marching ahead, blasters ready. Vartuk stayed back trying to warn them that this meant it was either a trap or a sniper is at post, but his warning was only heeded when the male human fell dead. "To cover! It looks like we have a sniper and we're sitting ducks!" Vartuk commands as he rolls behind an emptied crate that must have been left behind from the battle to secure the bridge.  

[Dutch]

Due to my delay, and ya'lls quick responding I'll go ahead and toss a bonus to both

Dun worry if the scores are low; the first round's always are. Need to make sure I leave plenty of room to amp everything up!

---

Round 1


lion
Effort: 3/5
Fairness: 3/5
Detail: 3/5
Coolness: 2/5
Bonus: 1/2
Comments: Remember my finely furred friend, we like to have duels be quick and brutal. A great read, but dun forget to keep things succinct. A good read as always though.

Jounin
Effort: 3/5
Fairness: 3/5
Detail: 2/5
Coolness: 2/5
Bonus: 2/2
Comments: Bonus for bugbro's loathing at the pubs, always interfering with the proletariat working man! Be sure to watch you tense though, as you're sliding between first and third making it a little on the hard side to read.


Total:

lion: 12

Jounin: 12

---

Ah, the classic first round tie. They've happened before, they'll happen again. Great set up there lion, and Jounin you handled the response very well.

But I won't delay any long,

ROUND 2!

[lion]

They'd always said there was a few seconds of utter silence after a successful shot, a few moments of processing the notion of a life suddenly snuffed out from seemingly nowhere, and through his scope the Bothan was privy to all of it. No sooner had the humanoid figure dropped did the remaining three dart to whatever refuge they could find among the twisted hulks, momentarily abandoning their advance for the sake of self-preservation. 

As the Bothan's grip of the rifle bipod leg momentarily relaxed, resettling his rifle into proper position along the roof of the wrecked speeder he'd leaned against, his mind began to whir. The AM-25 certainly had the firepower to punch its way through most obstacles, certainly the downed wrecks that it had put there hours before, but knowing exactly where those scattered rebels had gone once they had gained shelter was difficult to know for sure. 

The option for patience was always there, to simply allow the trio to become complacent and wait for one of them to poke their head out too far, but no sooner had the thought occurred did the potential threat come to the surface. Pinned down as they were, the rebel trio was still a mile away; any soldiers sent forth would have to spend time navigating the wreckage to reach and subdue them. That was an awful long time, after all, and there was no knowing for sure what their intentions were with such a small group; a four man assault was not likely to succeed, but a four man demo team to blow the bridge and deny it to both sides was certainly not out of the cards.

For that brief second, Zrask could feel his stomach turn as the potential severity of the situation became obvious to him. Immediate and decisive action was required, and as the guy with the rifle squarely on it, it was his job to do it. Sucking a mouthful of air to blow off the tension and quell the sudden sense of pressure, the Bothan steadied into his weapon once more and drew a bead on the leftmost hulk that had once been a fine landspeeder. It was a blind guess as to precisely where the target was, of course, but perhaps the stress of being under fire would keep the three from achieving anything long enough for help to arrive.

"Requesting drone over-watch on the bridge; can't get a clear line on these guys." The Bothan spoke into his comms. unit, the small device crackling to life as it once more sent his voice over the air and to his superiors further back. The unmanned drone would easily be able to provide a means of picking out the rebels among the wreckage; the human pilot controlling it from the ground could relay positions as necessary and allow the Bothan sniper to pick them off with less guesswork.

But it would take time to arrive.

Another steadying breath and hold, and the Bothan sent another round downrange with a thunderous roar; crossing the mile-long gap, into and through the passenger-side door of the trashed speeder. It was a blind shot, as sparks lit up from the side of the speeder as metal punched through metal, but an unsuccessful one; the human female missed by mere inches. Another clatter of the brass casing ejecting and tumbling across the road helped to focus Zrask's mind to the task as he resettled from the recoil, cutting down the slight nervousness picking up in his chest, keeping his body and his hands steady as he hunched down once more.

The three had to go.

[Jounin]

The Gand took this chance to calm down and meditate, to avoid doing anything rash. An aura of serenity started to wash over him, only to be interrupted by gunfire. His eyes dart to the other side to check on the rebels, luckily neither of them were hit. He had to think of something the sniper would never guess...something that would let them advance on and gain the advantage.

The Gand looks frantically around the bridge, but there was only so much burnt war torn scrap metal a person could see while behind a crate. Then it hit him...there's no way the sniper can shoot faster than his swoop bike. The only problem is getting to it. Knowing he'll have to risk a gambit to accomplish this he yells to the Rodian.

"Vartuk has a plan! Go get Vartuk's swoop bike and drive it to Vartuk! This Gand will protect you!" The Rodian nods and scurries back to the bikes. The Gand's distraction plan was anything but full proof, but he couldn't just tell the Rodian that he just signed himself to die.

The Gand focuses his energy on the corpse of the human male and throws him up like a rag doll in the air. Whenever the corpse came close to the ground he'd throw it back up. This was in hope that the corpse would block the sniper's view, but he knew in reality the time that it would actually obscure the sniper's vision is dwarfed compared to the time that they had a clean shot.

The time that took the Rodian to run felt like hours and the Gand could hear his own metallic breathing through the respirator. The blaring sound of his swoop bike revving broke him out of the trance, but a flurry of other noises rang through his head seconds later leaving the Gand dazed. Unsure if it was one or multiple sounds he tried to make sense of what just happened hoping that his swoop bike made it to him.

[Dutch]

Sorry for the delay boys, I'll make this quick so ya'll can get back to the postin'

---

Round 2


lion
Effort: 4/5
Fairness: 4/5
Detail: 4/5
Coolness: 2/5
Bonus: 0/2
Comments: Remember bud, this is Star Wars. Think more classic Napoleonic warfare than Call of Duty: Modern Warfare A solid second round.

Jounin
Effort: 3/5
Fairness: 4/5
Detail: 3/5
Coolness: 3/5
Bonus: 0/2
Comments: Don't forget to edit for tense! Otherwise, a good follow post for round 2.

Total:

lion: 26

Jounin: 25

---

Alrighty boys, this is still anyone's game! Round three is usually when things get real good, so get to the nitty gritty. I need BLOOD NEXT ROUND

ROUND 3

[lion]

Training and careful breaths brought Zrask back into line as the Bothan settled back into firing position, feeling his toes gently curl against the inside of his boots for a brief moment in concentrated effort. Missing a shot was always a stress-inducing moment in a sniper's life, as an incorrect judgment call cost lives. The frustration that even the most minute of errors could bring was potentially enough to completely throw off the mindset needed to stay on target.

Everyone had their method to try to rein in the jitters; for the twenty-one year old Bothan, it was as simple as a squeeze of the toes. Just a gentle reminder of feeling grounded, safe, to let go and focus as he leaned into the rifle once more, scanning the target zone. Steadily measuring his breaths, Zrask could feel his heart begin to slow its slightly accelerated pumping, forcing his body from undue stress and into cool, level-headed calm.

The sight before him, however, laid out in the blue tinge of the nocturnal scope was perhaps as unsettling as it got, leaving Zrask instantly wide-eyed. A figure, limp and clearly lifeless even from the mile-or-so distance, rose and fell as if hoisted up into the air by an unseen hand and left to drop where it fell, only to rise once more. Mouth hanging open like an unhinged doorway, Zrask could only attempt to try to call in the bizarre display but found himself unable to even utter so much as a grunt; the sickening realisation dawning on him just moments after seeing from just where the body had risen.

The figure rising and falling was the figure he'd shot; now being tossed about in the air like a child's rag doll. 

Darting from the macabre display and the last-known positions of the team remnants, Zrask felt his thinned fur shudder in disgust beneath the fibre-mesh bodyglove snugly fit about his frame. Even at this distance, the sheer force of the AM-25 had been clear; every rise and fall of the inert corpse only further began to rend the flesh and bone left torn and shattered by the slug's fatal collision.

If it weren't for the vivid visual demonstration laid out before him, Zrask might very well have found the voice of his instructor explaining the 'temporary cavity' of the AM-25 round being 'larger than the target' somewhat amusing, but as the clinical voice cycled through his head, the Bothan could only find himself all the more nauseated. 

Whatever was causing the lifting, however, couldn't have been natural. A repulsor? Unlikely, there was no signs of propulsion from the ground, nor any cables upon the body to suggest a winch. The options whirring through the private's mind were quickly dwindling, but against what his eye was taking in through the scope, it was a wonder to think clearly at all. 

There was only one thought that lingered in the back of the Bothan's mind; the very notion of which sent a shiver down the young man's back with such intensity that he could feel himself already shudder and grip against his rifle for comfort. There'd been no report of Sith during the mission brief, but it didn't mean the shadowy figures weren't potentially out there, looking to capitalise on a conflict and score points against the Republic.

No, it couldn't have been...

Performing another sweep, however, Zrask could only find himself privy to another surprise; a sudden whiff of motion further from the pinned-down team, as if the air itself had become wavy. It was just a second or two at best, but for what it meant it might very well have been a flare in deep space to the trained eye; the backwash of a repulsor. Zrask could have, and indeed did, spot it a mile away, and once again pushing against the bipod of the hefty slugthrower, the Bothan steadied his sights and took aim.

Slowly, the wafts of air drew closer from the cover of wreckage, and carefully drawing a bead on a spot between two wrecked speeders to 'ambush' the incoming vehicle, Zrask patiently waited for the target to present itself, a humanoid figure upon a speeder bike, before gently squeezing the trigger. Once more, the Aratech slugthrower bellowed its thunderous war-cry, letting loose another monster of a slug hurtling across the mile-long gap toward its prey.

[Jounin]

The bombardment of noises seceded and the Gand returns to his normal alert posture. He scans the area looking more signs of the bike, Rodian, or enemy. He notices blood splatter a few feet away, that ends right after the crate he's hiding behind. Realizing what just happened the Gand peeks over the crate, revealing his location to confirm his theory. About six feet past the crate, his speeder stood idle while the Rodian laid limp with blood pouring from his jugulars.

With the swoop bike now over shot, he couldn't get to it in time. Ducking back down, a series of clicks sounded as he curses in Gand. A new idea hatches within the Gand's mind, but it'd require him to stop keeping tabs on the sniper's location. Trying to stay out of the sniper's view as much as possible he crouches into an Ataru stance. Now in a more nimble position, he jumps over the crate, feet merely gliding over the ground before jumping again onto his swoop bike. 

Not having enough time to start it back up, he focuses his force into boosting the bike. Doing this though meant that he couldn't use his sense to know the sniper's location. Knowing that caution only got more people dead, he executes the final part of this crazy plan. Once he hit high speed, he aims the bike towards a pile of wreckage and jumps out.

The bike went head on into the wreckage causing an explosion that lit up the bridge like a Life Day tree. He rolls upon landing and runs for his life to escape the radius. The explosion covered more than the Gand thought it would and the heat sears his back. He hoped that this killed the sniper, but if not it would've cleared any hiding spots for them. The Gand pulls his lightsaber out cringing in pain from his burn. Everything seemed to catch up to him now. His peace...innocent people...the swoop bike that he bought with his late master...All gone because of this sniper. Anger builds up within him, tasting the darkside he screams. "Show yourself soldier! Let Vartuk show you the flaws within the Republic military!"