Practice Makes Perfect (Open)

[lion]

There was something to be said for the detail that had gone into the design, Sarkh mused, of the Sith training droid that had been designated his sparring partner; the humanoid structure of metal and components standing across from him was certainly a good facsimile of the humanoid frame. Photoreceptors gleamed red, no doubt the machine was sizing up its adversary much in the way the Trandoshan was, and for the brief moment of silence between reptilian and droid standing across the floor from each other, much was learned.

The gentle breeze of Korriban, as the evening began to die into the night with a cold breath as if from the tombs of the dead themselves, seemed to be the only thing that moved in that moment in time.

Appearing confident in its chances, as the digitized brain fired the signals to its servomotors, settling with unnatural precision of movement into a combative ready-stance, the droid made the first move and advanced. The Trandoshan could recognise the form, Teras Kasi, in its posture, as the mechanical man closed in; as the instructors had pointed out, countless forms and sequences had been recorded into its data banks, it would have the technical prowess of lifetimes, with the inhuman physical poise and acuity to back it up.

The Trandoshan had to admit, the results were certainly impressive; almost enough to make up for the loss of tactile pleasure that was the feeling of warm blood on one's hands. The knowledge that it would simulate responses of pain and incapacitation was something to be admired, the jedi-hunter knew, but that it wouldn't be able to express those as a living being would, well...It seemed artificial.

Obviously, it had selected the Bunduki-native form as its best chance, as it closed the distance and launched into the offensive, ripping initiative from its organic adversary. Servos whined and pistons pressed as the droid closed in and opened fire, a hard left-right-right triple strike serving as its introduction. 

The Trandoshan was far from slow, and whilst the first strike landed with a blossom of pain against his jaw, the reptile wasted little time in defending the second two blows from finding their mark. Backing away as he raised guard, the green-scaled Trandoshan put his forearms and hands to good use; swatting away the droid's arms as they rocketed in, sending the punches wide of their mark.

A surprise knee from the droid, tying smoothly to its last attack, almost caught the reptile off guard; at the last second did Sarkh's hands drop and grasp the metallic 'thigh', catching it in midstrike as it sought his chest. Riposting, the twenty-seven year old Trandoshan fired back, shuffling forward, using his right leg to attempt to hook from the inside the droid's remaining leg and use his momentum to trip the machine up.

The droid, however, had a counter of its own; using its only support base as a springboard to jump, the machine twisted its hips over with inhuman speed. The uninhibited leg that had once supported it rocketed about, and with severe force, hammered into the side of Sarkh's head; the Trandoshan letting out a rasped shout as the mechanical foot bit deep into the left side of his face. Scales buckled, skin shifted around the bone beneath, and as the Trandoshan staggered back to try to regain his composure, the droid's gyroscopic-like balance mechanics wasted no time in setting it right.

Blood trickled from the slight cut across Sarkh's lip, the warm, red fluid filling the road-like crevasses between the rigid scale plates of his chin and jawline, as the Trandoshan stood up right. Frustration began to well, but thinking the better of it, the reptilian crushed it down; the droid had correctly responded, the fault was his own. 

Settling once more into his own ready posture, wiping from his mouth the slight welling of blood with his thumb, Sarkh instead opted for the riposte. Like the machine, the twenty-seven year old Trandoshan wasted little time in advancing and closing the gap, launching a left-right punching combination that the droid had no issue eating up. Two metallic hands batted away the strikes, much like Sarkh had, but rather than engage with a knee, the Trandoshan went lower still; swinging his hips forward as his right leg attacked the droid's leading knee.

The low kick landed, and even without proper ears, Sarkh could hear the slight whine of servomotors struggling against the pressure imparted. Droid or not, there was only one way that joint was meant to move, and whilst humans might not have been able to strike with such force as to cause damage, the three-hundred and fifty five pound Trandoshan certainly could. Gears rotated backward, grinding as they fought against their own limitations, and as the simulation-response kicked in, the droid staggered backward, shifting its posture and switching stance to protect the 'injured' leg.

And for the barest second, offered an opening that Sarkh could not resist; a slight hobble. Were it a human, it would have been a wince, a mistaken effort to put weight on the damaged limb; realistic testing to assess the damage that the droid had been programmed to reflect.

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 the droid's chest chassis, squarely against what would have been the liver, catching the droid hard. The next strike went high, a right fist soaring and smashing against the droid's jaw with enough force to rattle the metallic plates forming its face, rocking the machine's head back and to the left as its spinal servomotors struggled to contain the impact.



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 machine to keep it in range. Another left handed shot streaked in for the droid's 'liver', near bending the training droid's body around his left fist as it pummelled just beneath the 'rib' with a meaty thump, denting the metal. Programmed to simulate natural reaction as it was, reaching for the damaged body part, the droid begun to drop its hands from its high head guard, leaving the next blow open; a stepping right handed cross, straight down the line, smashing right into the centre of its face.


This time, Sarkh could feel the metal give in against his fist, bending around the hardened scale and bone, and it felt good; the pain pulsing from his own hands far worth the pride running through him as one of the photoreceptors popped loose from its housing. The sheer force of the punch sent the droid 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; staggering just wasn't enough damage.


Stepping forward with his left foot in lead, Sarkh continued the body-breaking assault, his right foot rushing up to smash against the droid's left side as it tried to recover and retaliate, severely impaired by the damage it had undergone; 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 droid a short distance from the ground with a blood-curdling thud, near bending the machine around his foot.



Refusing to let up, however, Sarkh immediately recovered, ducked a desperately thrown left hook, and followed with a right handed short hook of his own, again catching his now weakened opponent in the chin with his fist; rocking the training droid's head once more to the left. Once again the servos and gears shrieked their indignation, working against themselves to keep the droid's head from clean popping off of its body, only this time complete with sparking from within the inside of its chassis as something seemed to disconnect.


Keeping his right hand clenched, Sarkh swung back with a grunt; a sharp back-fist sent the droid's dented head back the way it had came, sending the machine staggering toward his right with a groan of its damaged servos. To the droid's credit, one photoreceptor down, dented and beaten down and his head jiggling rather uncomfortably against its own housing, it attempted to swing back, but whatever damage had been done was clearly beginning to show itself; far gone was the perfect stance and poise, instead moving as it were drunk.

Even through this, the machine 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 droid's neck. Sarkh could feel the weakened servos buckle and yield instantly, imparting pressure that they just could not take.


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. Were it a living being, the blow would have been paralysing at best and lethal at worst, shattering the vertebrae and crushing the spinal cord. To the droid, however, the results were far less gory, but nevertheless destructive; the servos failed completely, letting the head drop to the floor with an unceremonious clatter, soon followed by its dented body.

The fight, just as soon as it started, was over, and with the gentle panting of exertion beginning to form, Sarkh could only close his eyes for a moment and try to let the wave of adrenalin wash over him and subside, as the chill of the night began to loom. The warmth of his blood, still trickling down from his mouth, was almost calming as the pain of the blow began to rear its head against the analgesic effect of adrenalin's surge.

[Fox]

As day gave way to night, the dull but unmistakable sounds of combat rang out from the temple of Korriban. Lady Sicaria's mind and eyes probed the area from just outside, feeling a presence she had only once felt before in passing, and very recently too. Her sightless eyes peered through the Force and it showed her the form of a reptilian locked in heavy combat with a training droid. Rabid and explosive blows were exchanged and the Sith Lord had to admit she was intrigued.

Sicaria's pale eyes watched from not far off, careful to stay out of the fray and any collateral damage. The droid moved with an unnatural and remarkable precision, appearing to the Miraluka like an anomaly in the Force. The Trandoshan, however, moved with incredible grace, remarkable agility, and struck with explosive force. One after another, he countered, dodged, or simply shrugged off every blow that came his way. She had trained in some unarmed martial arts, but nothing like this. This Trandoshan was quite skilled.

The final blow came and the droid ceased to function. It fell to the ground as a lifeless lump of scrap metal and a still silence enveloped the temple for a brief moment. "Impressive." The Sith Lord commended, lowering the hood of her cloak as she stepped a little closer to the reptile. "You must be Sarkh: The Jedi-hunting mercenary I've heard about." A grin crept across her face. "Always fun to meet someone who shares the same profession as myself."

"I can't help but be curious though. How does one such as yourself take down a Jedi with your bare hands?" Her grin returned, stretching wider than before. "Maybe you care to demonstrate?" The right side of her cloak opened and her hand emerged, bringing the hilt of her saber from her belt to her hand with telekinesis. A single crimson blade roared to life and filled the air with a static hum. "Or are you too tired?" She taunted. Training droids did little for Lady Sicaria at this point. Provocation was how she preferred to practice.

[lion]

It wasn't the voice that had drawn Sarkh's attention, slicing through the tranquil quiet of the late evening, but the taste of human that drew the reptile's focus from his silent concentration. The scent of mammalian flesh and sweat clogged the air, overpowering the tang of coppery iron left from his bloodied lip, leaving a salt-ridden, perfumed mess upon his taste-buds.

The forked tongue in his mouth parted the lips for a mere moment, further sampling the air, and before even turning, the reptilian hunter had a fairly humble guess as to what he was facing. Human, but the smell-taste was off; far from the standard fare stench, masked as it was in the arid air by dust, mingling with a scent he'd not tasted before.

There was no doubt, however, the interloper was female. Young, in her prime, definitely mature; or at least as far as that word seemed to carry when it came to the soft-skinned deformities. Her out-of-place smell-taste might have well been alien to the Trandoshan, obscuring her full heritage from him, but the putrid scent of the mammalian feminine hormones and pheromones was unmistakable. Mate-less but in her prime, unless the anomalous odour of her mixed breed muddied the waters, Sarkh could only wonder what the intentions were.

Likewise masking the disgust from his scaled face, Sarkh turned as Sicaria began her speech, watching the smaller mixed-breed pull away the hood obscuring her fragile face from view among the shadowy cloth. The scent rarely lied, the bloody-hued eyes were an instant alarm bell that rang off in Sarkh's conscious, an anomalous feature among the baseline human breeds that pointed toward some genetic muddling.

The way they seemed to stare, as the Trandoshan gently narrowed his own eyes for a moment, seemed out of place; not looking to him with the alertness present with most beings, but through him, as if seeing beyond. Distant staring, those red eyes almost appeared inert, as if no stimuli of the surrounding world could draw their full attention. Were they even functional? It was difficult to know for sure, but keeping his suspicions kept deep and quiet within him, the Trandoshan paid it little mind.

She stepped closer, did the sith woman as she continued her soft-voiced inquisition, and Sarkh gave the ground willingly; his gaze toward her left unchanged as he listened in. Another flick of the tongue against the air detected the faintest hints of adrenaline, of a small spike of testosterone within her, the precursors of hostility. 

"I'd ask how you know my name, human, but given you've failed to introduce yourself, I'd suspect courtesy isn't your strong suit." Sarkh offered, the Trandoshan's rasped, growl-like tones grating against the Korriban air, running a harsh counterpoint to softer tones of her voice. "But yes, you presume correctly."

It was tempting to ask, perhaps, just what the mammal's business was here, but rather than verbalise the thought himself, it seemed as if she would answer the question for him. The topic of the Jedi, facing them in unarmed combat and succeeding, arose with the predictability of a sun's rise in the morning sky, but rather than become annoyed by it, Sarkh could only find himself amused. Of course she would ask that; the rise in hormonal production practically screamed combative intent from the girl, it was only natural she would preface the thoughts with words.

But it wasn't merely words that the Sith brought to the table, but actions; not only did she inquire, but with the drawing of her lightsaber and the teasing goading that followed, practically demanded. The red, plasma-like beam glowed bright in the late evening air as it bloomed from the tube in her hands, humming its soft monotone as it waited at the ready, bathing a small sphere of the training floor in its reddish hue.



As if playing a game of sabacc with eyes on her cards, the Trandoshan couldn't help but let the most subtle of smirks begin to pull at the sides of his fanged mouth, ignoring the subtle twinge as the parted skin of his mouth cut began to stretch. There was no surprise on the reptile's face, no sudden shock at being drawn upon, and as the reptile began to speak, he seemed even calm.

"You want to know how to fight Jedi unarmed? The answer, mammal, is simple; you don't, and frankly, you shouldn't." The trandoshan offered, and as the slight amusement bled from his face, the cool-blooded, calculating stereotype of the reptilian hunters remained. The air seemed to shift about Sarkh, his demeanour subtly shifting from hospitable and tolerable to the finely-harnessed aggression he'd been raised to cultivate; subtly shifting his posture in a veiled ready-stance. "Your methods alone should point to you what your frail physiology has yet to, and were you not stupid enough to approach head on, perhaps you'd understand the depths of mistake you've already made trying to goad me."

[Fox]

The Trandoshan confirmed that he was indeed the one known as Sarkh, spitting back something of an insult for having not introduced herself. Unfortunately for the lizard, this was no formal gathering and if he was looking for manners, he was certainly on the wrong planet. Her mind lightly probed him, feeling the arrogance and disdain he felt, which quickly gave way to a seething aggression. He spouted about her having made a mistake in a rather matter-of-factly tone. He was confident and cocky. She had to admit, she liked that.

"Mistake?" Lady Sicaria chuckled at the thought. "The only mistake was you coming to Korriban. You've no place here." She taunted further. "Things travel and information is part of my trade. Your reputation precedes you underground. But one of our profession should operate from the shadows, even when in plain sight." From beneath her cloak, her left hand emerged with her helmet in hand. As the black steel was placed atop her head, the face plate extended on its own to cover her face entirely, leaving only a faceless warrior.

'Show me the skills that make you so confident, lizard." She prodded again as she tossed aside her cumbersome cloak and lowered her body into a battle-ready stance. But a brief moment of silence would pass between the two combatants before the Sith assassin darted forward, keeping low and moving with remarkable agility. As she closed the distance between them and reached melee range with Sarkh, her legs bent and sprung her up, utilizing the Force like invisible springs. She propelled herself into the air, somersaulting at an angle and flipping to her left, landing to the Trandoshan's right. Landing in a low, crouched stance, she swung her saber low and wide, aiming for the lizard's legs. Her intent was not to kill nor even seriously harm the Trandoshan, but to test him and get in some exercise.

[lion]

Once again the half-cast human spoke, and once again Sarkh could only find himself merely a step about outright ignorance. More taunts, more goading, in line with what the Sith Instructors among the Temple had dubbed the 'Dun Moch' technique; psychological warfare designed to chip and crumble away the confidence of the opposition. Be it arrogance on her part, perhaps, or merely an attempt to even bolster herself, Sarkh didn't know, but as the reptilian male steeled himself for the fight, his response was wordless.

Slightly lowering his own centre of mass in response to Sicaria's own ready-posture, watching the helmet-adorned Sith woman prepare and advance, the reptile was far from surprised. Leaping in from his right, the human mutt swept low with her lightsaber; seeking to attack at his support and put an end to the fight early. It was a common strategy; many of those uninitiated in the combative arts would fear strikes to the head and thus leave their legs open to assault, but for Sarkh, the tactic was about as obvious to him as the glowing beam in the semi-dark that sought to deliver the cut.

Instead, Sarkh took to the air; the Trandoshan showing the agility so commonly assumed non-existent in his kind as his powerful legs coiled and sprung, propelling him upward. Merely dodging the blow wasn't enough, as the lightsaber streaked from right to left beneath him, as with a sharp twist of the hips, the Trandoshan launched his riposte. Left leg lowering to assist the turn, Sarkh threw his right knee upward and extended out with his foot; the powerful tendons uncoiling their fury in a bone-jarringly fast round kick, whooshing through the air as it screamed in for Sicaria's left jaw.

[Rugs]

Cowritten by Rugs and Dutch

---

It had been a brief, if pointed hearing with the Inner Sanctum. The aftermath from the Tarisian failure clearly had kept the Darths busy, enough to call their most trusted followers to them to take the reigns.

“Did they seem a bit grumpier than normal?” Nieraan asked, idly zipping up his jacket as he walked alongside Jessoin. “I mean I know Taris didn’t go quite as planned but I wasn’t even there.”

He snorted as he glanced out a window set high in the wall. The sun was noticeably lower than it’d been when they went in for the meeting.

“Who could blame them for being saltier than normal, losing an entire fleet like that.” Jessoin replied, his own gaze set out towards the setting sun. The Zelosian had been there, had waded into the center of the rakghoul storm and returned a changed being. Instead of speak on this, he turned his gaze back to the Firrerreo

“I guess,” Nieraan grumped, shrugging. “Oh, we got our fleet blown up, guys, so come be the whipping boys…”

“Really did drop the huttball with that prototype, didn’t they?” Jessoin added, a light shrug and a single lifted brow accompanying his statement.

“...And I wasn’t even there!” Nieraan said again. It normally wasn’t in the Firrrerreo’s nature to complain about things too much, but all he knew was after that meeting was that he was being sent off to backwater-ass Toprawa to facilitate the world’s transition to Imperial rule. In order to secure a path for Sith forces into the Ojoster Sector. Or something like that.

The joys of being a Sith Lord… Despite the perks.

“The joys of being a Lord.” Jess joked with a wink as a pale and skeletal hand patted Nieraan’s shoulder.

Nieraan stopped for a moment, lips pressed slightly. He looked at Jess and sighed, eyes rolling slightly and kept walking. “Sometimes I wonder why I put up with you.”

“My charming personality and winning conversational skills?” Jessoin offered, that signature grin spreading widely from verdant tinted lips.

Nieraan snorted a laugh, smirking slightly as he looked at Jess to show a lone pointed tooth. “More like I’m waiting to see how long it takes a flower to spring up from that pretty hair of yours.”

“It has rather flared dramatically since you last saw me.” The Sith replied as a hand rose to brush said hair back behind a shoulder.

“Oh it has,” Nieraan answered. Their walk took them outside, into cooling evening air beneath the setting sun. Just as he was preparing to say his goodbyes to Jess and head off to find Danica and the children, something in the training yards down below piqued his interest. Someone was fighting with a fury in the courtyard a few floors down. Hardly a rare occurrence, that, but the primal ferocity stood out…

“Do you feel it?”

“That sickly sweet scent of pride saturating this stunning Korriban sunset?”

Nieraan breathed in deeply, as if smelling the evening air himself. His senses spread wide, ignoring the countless other Sith that filled the Temple as he focused on the courtyard. “Yes… That’s it exactly.” He smiled, a subtle, more-than-slightly mischievous thing as he glanced at Jess. “I think we should take a look.”

“I thought you would never ask, Onin.” Jessoin replied, a slow nod of approval given. A lanky arm gestured down below, and a tilt of his head was made before continuing. “After you, Lord’s first.”

Nieraan snorted a laugh. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Zarander,” he said wryly before he stepped up to the balcony edge. With little more than a glance, he hopped over the side.

The Zelosian was a half step behind Nieraan, a half flip leading him to follow the Firrerreo to plummet. From this vantage Jessoin could now see the source of strife clearer, his brow raising in glee. He would pull the Force into himself, a telekinetic burst erupting from his presence to halt his fall. His robes billowed dramatically as Jess landed with a surprising lightness, his long legs striding to the railing of this new balcony overlooking the training yards.

Nieraan’s landing was less subtle, as was his way. He hit the balcony hard, with a bit of dust picking up around him as his white kama flared wide, but drew the Force into him to absorb the landing, rather than slow it. As a result, he stood casually up from an impact that should’ve put his knees somewhere near the same level of his eyes and stalked to the edge of the balcony to look at the spar beginning below.

“Ah, yes, the lizard,” he said, recognizing Sarkh from the cave some weeks ago. “Not Sol’Kanar. Another… lizard.” The other, he wasn’t quite so familiar with.

“Terribly hard to tell their kind apart.” Jessoin quipped.

“You’re tellin’ me, brother,” Nieraan said with a laugh as he leaned forward to watch the duel unfold...

[Apillis]

The sound of the light, long-legged strides of someone who was bare foot came from shadows a fair distance behind Jessoin and Neiraan. It was Hervor but she did not arrive with them, in fact, she had been there for some time--she was just making herself a little bit more visible upon there arrival. She was observing. It was the entire setting and scene playing out before her that she was observing, including the entry and antics of Jessoin and Neiraan.

Fiery irises surrounded by pitch black turned their gaze for but a brief moment to the pair in acknowledgment, but no words were uttered when she turned her gaze back to the duel at hand. Listening to the two combatants back and forth--she found it a bit amusing how either spoke of such authority on matters of the Force and the dark side, when the breath of knowledge there was yet to behold of either or anyone Force practitioner in the galaxy was still yet so fast and uncomprehending.

She stood with her arms crossed under her chest, dressed in a simple part of loose fit black pants that hung off her hips by a snugly tied draw-string, and black half-shirt tank top. That old and ragged white Jedi archivist cloak of hers draped haphazardly over her shoulders. The digits of her hands each having tape wrapped around them as well as her hands and wrists. By her dress and her rakish asymmetrical red hair still damp from sweat it appeared as though she had just finished her own training regimen before coming across the unfolding scene. The level of training regimen for a Darth of her like to work up such a sweat is left to wonder.

A faint smile with a narrow eyed gaze came to her visage as the over-sized lizard spoke of facing a Jedi unarmed and how should not do so, something Hervor has done on more than one occasion, because she can and she had the will and the power to do so. Even as a prattled on about the weakness of human physiology--how fragile a body was when possessing the power of the Force was meaningless. Her own species were agile but physically not very strong, and yet with the power of the Force--more so with the power of the dark side, she knew she could physically likely break the lizard in two with her own bare hands. Perhaps from the reptilian's perspective what it spoke was reality, but reality is viewed differently by each pair of eyes.

"Amusing", is all Hervor uttered--in regards to exactly what--was left to wonder. After all, there were the pair of jokers ahead of her, and then there were the duelists, and each carrying themselves with such surety...

((Edit: Fixed typo, likely others that were missed.))

[Fox]

The crimson saber swung low and wide, creating a bridge of light in its wake that existed for but a brief fraction of time before dissipating. Sarkh's reflexes were kick and he leaped into the air to avoid the attack, returning with one of his own. His body spun and the reptile's knee came straight for Lady Sicaria's face. He was agile and responsive, she had to give him that. But she was quicker. Mobility was the name of her game.

As the knee rose, Lady Sicaria had to think quickly. Her body kept with the art of motion as she allowed her body to follow through with the momentum from her swing. She was pulled forward and to her left into a somersault, rolling just under and past Sarkh's kick and now placing herself behind him. It wasn't the most graceful roll she had accomplished, but it had gotten its job done. "I thought you said you don't fight a Jedi bare handed." She questioned as she stood.

Her saber was brought before her and brandished in another fanciful flourish of spins, twirls, and an occasional trade-off between hands before she settled into a combat pose once more. With her saber arm stretched out behind her, the second blade roared to life and further illuminated the area around her in a menacing red glow. Before she could continue with the fight, she was stopped as she felt the presence of three onlookers. Her mind probed through the Force, feeling the trio atop a balcony nearby. An audience was fine. In fact, it only made this more fun.

Once again, the Sith bound forward through the courtyard, an expression of exhilaration hidden beneath the visage of her mask. Her mind drew in the Force and it weaved up through her legs and into her muscles, launching her into the air as before. Her and her saber spun in a flurry of light and movement before coming down on Sarkh, her saber brought down in a downwards diagonal sweep.

[lion]

Hardened scales and clawed toes carved through the air with little resistance as Sarkh's attack sailed wide of its mark; the target head no longer occupying the space that the reptile's foot threatened. Exhaling to relax his body, Sarkh allowed himself to extend, allowing the twisting motion from his hip to guide him through the half-turn; neatly landing on his left foot before bringing his attacking right foot down to the earth, facing completely one-eighty to where he'd started.

Recovery, on the part of the reptile, was nigh-instantaneous; there was no off-balance jitters as he tried to resume stance, no wincing as muscles fired incorrectly and failed to absorb the landing impact. The round kick might very well have been performed by hologram for its accuracy and technical skill, and in his immediate adaptation to his opponent's nimble evasion, bespoke a speed of mind greater than simple brutish strength.

Flicking his tongue softly against the air, habitually sampling the scents on offer, the Trandoshan allowed himself a slight pause, as the half-cast Sith before him spoke her piece and twirled her lightsaber. The stink of cooked dirt lingered in the air, obscuring partially the hormones seeping from the woman, and whilst the distant scents of others seemed to permeate some distance away, the reptile paid it little mind. The Temple was, after all, filled with people; it was unlikely that the sparring bout would have gone unnoticed, after all.

In the brief interim, Sarkh attempted to reach out; casting out momentarily the distraction from his senses to allow the Force to rear its head and come to him. In the brief weeks of his time among the Sith, Sarkh had found the process to become easier, but nevertheless it remained a conscious effort rather than simply unconscious action to open himself to the Force rather than adhere to merely his physical senses. It remained an alien sensation, to hear the Force speak to him, but where he would have one fought the sensation of lightness and near out-of-body consciousness, the Trandoshan instead tried to lean into it; tried to accept what was going on and act regardless, gently releasing the breath he had held in focus out to the winds.

He felt aware.

Leaping into action as she did, the faceless-helmeted woman once again resumed her lightsaber offensive, and once more did Sarkh respond in defense. Unfazed by the second blade humming violently from Sicaria's weapon, the Trandoshan instead hopped backward; springing from his feet a good step or so in retreat, yielding the necessary space to allow the crimson beam to shear not flesh but air.

However, unwilling to allow the attack to go unanswered, Sarkh retaliated with his own lightning-swift riposte; the Chalon sword resting ever patiently in its scabbard brought forth to the ready with a pull of the black, curved handle. Left hand guiding the weapon, Sarkh attacked, using the his greater reach to his advantage as he slashed out, seeking not to lop a head from the neck but instead diving for Sicaria's hands; the micro-serrated Chalon blade looking to sink its fangs into the very fingers and palms that guided the double-bladed lightsaber in their grip.

[Fox]

Once more, the lizard avoided the strike. He sprung backwards out of the way of the searing blade of Lady Sicaria's saber. It hummed violently through the air as she descended and met no resistance. The Trandoshan would retaliate almost instantly, drawing a serrated blade from his hip and lunging forward once more, but he miscalculated. His attack was too direct and too precise for the speed at which the Sith tumbled.

Her roll continued and she tucked her body tightly. She impacted with the ground and rolled with her momentum, utilizing both the Force and her hand to guide her a bit to her left and to the side of Sarkh once again. Her foot extended and the Force cushioned her as she ended her roll, springing up high in the air and over her opponent to his right. It was a flashy maneuver that took some energy to complete, but it often left her opponent disoriented.

Landing with her back to Sarkh, she immediately spun with her saber outstretched, sweeping wide horizontally at about chest-level.

[lion]

The sword carved through the space Sicaria's hands had occupied just moments prior with a rush, a whooshing gust as if the very air itself gasped in panic at the offence. Tightening his left wrist, pressing the curve of the handle deeper to his palm with but a press of his shorter fingers, the Trandoshan recovered; countering the momentum of the missed swing with almost minimal effort.

Two decades of martial practice were more than brought to the fore, however, as Sarkh followed through, turning swiftly about-face to challenge the threat. The girl was already becoming complacent, predictable; even a beast's sense of pattern recognition was sharp enough to understand what was going on, leavealone a capable fighter. The same leaping evasion flowing into a rear attack as employed before, Sarkh could only find himself wondering just how foolish she thought he was to try it again.

The attack, however, did come as a surprise not from its sudden appearance but from the direction it had come; not left-to-right but indeed the opposite, on his unarmed side. Attempting to defend against the blow, sweeping his blade down from high left to low right at the lightsaber as he back-stepped, it was in fact Sarkh's reach advantage that saved him; the very tip of the lightsaber burning a black trail across his chestpiece, rather than outright cutting him apart.

To the Trandoshan's credit, however, there was no shock, no panic, and no hesitation in the riposte; giving Sicaria no room to breathe and press her advantage, Sarkh swiftly retaliated. A low, step-in thrust to the legs led the assault as the Chalon blade flashed in the night, guided by its master's bitter, scaly hand, only to rapidly change course in a feint; turned a forty-five degree angle, the toothed blade sought the inside of Sicaria's right thigh to bite as the blade pulled back to bring the serrated points to bear. Following on, Sarkh wasted no time in keeping the pressure on, swinging viciously with his right hand, held open to bring his claws to bear, for the Sith woman's left shoulder; hissing his violent intent as his scaled hand descended.