Battle of Coruscant: One Last Time

[Soverin]

This was the destruction his people foretold of? This was the destructive theory they had dreamed, realized? A figure stepped down one quaking hall of the Republica building, walking opposite of the gentrified wealth fleeing their estate buildings. In days past it would have been a glorious reckoning, something promised to him as his right, and he would spill blood in the glorious name of the Sith.

Mors lifted his gaze, shadowed under the guise of his hood, to reveal ice blue eyes washed clean of their sithly corruption. He was clear of mind, able to see that for all the destruction that surrounded him, it was nothing. Another great conquest to grace the tragedies of history and be forgotten to time. The petty wars of creatures too short-lived to see their victories pass like breaths. The jedi knight lifted a gloved hand to brush the hood back from his ashen black hair, decorated with the braids of a jedi learner. He was renewed, revitalized in his faith. Where once he was but a cradle of fear and anger he had found purpose. Deft ears took him toward the sound of lightsabers humming and buzzing through the air.

Something pulled at the back of his mind, however, dulling the senses as he listened for the location of his enemies. It was an intangible sensation, the calling of the force. It was trying to alert him of something, but to what he knew not...

He ignited his saber, holding the slender hilt by the center as he admired the glow of the orange blade, crackling wildly like it was born of pure fire. A few more steps around the circular hallway and he saw the fiend, a hooded warrior bearing a crimson red blade. Another terribly corrupted soul holding onto their want to cause pain. A hollow disciple, he thought, fooled just as he was. Mors rose the column of plasma up into a fighting stance, held strong within both palms. The anzat uttered not a word, achieving a mystical battle focus.

( @Feather )

​

 

[Feather]

Said hooded warrior stood with their back to the Jedi, idly spinning that vicious red saber from their left hand. The rhythmic thrum - thrum - thrum resonated in the air, rippled among the sounds of explosions and blaster fire. They were faced away, in such a motion that it seemed they had frozen mid-step as Mors had come around the corner. The lightsaber still swung, but the body did not move for several more breaths. Then their feet came together, the blade hissed and flickered - and withdrew back into itself. The hood tilted up towards the ceiling, searching for... something... before a black-gloved hand rose to pull the flowing cover from his bronze-skinned skull.

Besef sighed.

"You know, I had hoped it wouldn't be you." The Firrerro twirled the hilt of his saber between his fingers before tapping it on his thigh. His gaze was still turned towards the ceiling as he spoke, and that honeyed tenor voice carried a weight that it was not use to bearing - one of genuine regret. "When you disappeared, I'd thought you'd escape. Come back. Or have the decency to die, if you realized that escape wasn't possible." Thin shoulders, shrouded beneath layers of thick black robes, drooped low with solemn realization. "I'd hoped that maybe, just maybe, you would have resisted the pull. That blatant brainwash. Those lies. And I had hoped, when I felt that little pull of warning, that the Jedi who came around that corner wouldn't be you..." His chin dropped as tired lungs expelled stale air, his head turned to one side to observe a bit of dust on his shoulder. "...But no." With a fluid shift of weight, he turned to face his old friend. Hazel eyes turned up at the corners in a smile, the brief flash of pointed canines were all the grin he gave.

"I wouldn't be so lucky, would I?"

 

[Soverin]

Mors' own soul was stricken as he heard that calm cander. As the Sith turned face he wanted to shout and curse fate for playing so cruel. His skin grew ghost pale and cold chills snapped up and down his spine.

His expression showed the pain he fought to suppress as he stood opposite. He was sunkissed and red, having put on a healthy stature since his time being starved and choked into a mindless machine of the Sith army. He thought for a moment how free his friend would be, how powerful his affinity for life, if not following a path of destruction. Mors took a step forward. Instinct? He didn't want to, no... "We keep walking, I didn't see you." He begged, pleaded, in voice.

 

[Feather]

"You see me," Besef challenged, his words clipping at the heels of Mors'. "You see me. And I see you." He regarded the Jedi coolly, unmoving as that step was taken, an ebon statue draped in rippling cloth. The contradictions came gently, like a parent telling a child why they were, in fact, completely wrong. Why things weren't going how they planned. The errors that led up to this consequence. "We don't keep walking, Mors. We stay here."

Besef's saber was still in his hand; he dropped his gaze to it and pursed his lips thoughtfully, regretfully. It flickered to life and resumed that swinging, heavy rhythm as before: Thrum, thrum, thrum. The hallway lit up red, pulsing with the hissing weapon's light. "D'you remember when we used to spar, Mors Soverin?" The saber leapt from his left hand to his right, not breaking its cycle. "Neither of us ever came out on top. There was never a clear winner." With a sigh, the Firrerro smiled and slid one foot behind him, dropping his center of balance slightly as the saber arm extended before him, the blade held at an upward angle across his body. A defensive stance. A fighting stance.

"...Do you think that's changed?"

 

[Soverin]

"They manipulated us." A spectre of infernal red swirled in his eyes. The next few steps were easier, lightsaber floating from it's holster into his palm and igniting with a raspy snap-hiss! He didn't want to use his weapon, fighting the bleak inevitability that he would have to. No sound escaped him as he choked on the beginnings of words, trying to devise a way to talk himself past bloodshed.

The look on Besef's face was resolute, there would be no more words -- they were both warriors, in truth, better with blades than debate. Gusts of dust flew in from the blown out windows they stood between, showing clear view of Coruscant's untimely destruction all around them. Mors twitched his thumb past the ignition button on his saber, pressing down on another that caused the custom saber's handle to extend into an unconventionally wide grip. The jedi knight took a stable stance, distancing his legs and keeping saber extended out.

"The light is strong, Besef." He was still as stone, eyes sharpening in the slightest. "But no... I hope not."

tack tack tack TACK TACK! the jedi knight swiftly closed the distance between them, throwing his saber up over head to fake out Besef's defense before lowering and jabbing forward, intent on impaling him through the chest.

 

[Feather]

Besef dropped, contorting and leaning far back beneath the forceful saber thrust to glance it sideways with an upward sweep of his own violently crimson light, following with the blade to push it down and away. A feint and a jab. It was familiar, not quite anticipated, but recognized. The form lingered on the edge of his mind like a wraith, too vague to properly call a memory. There was a response to that, he knew, as his weight shifted to his hand and he struck out with his feet. He aimed to kick his adversary's legs out from beneath him, perhaps shattering kneecaps if connected properly. The kick was backed by weight far beyond the normal capabilities of a simple swing of a foot; Besef's manipulation wouldn't be new to Mors. Punches landed harder, rocks fell more heavily, each blow would have so much more force behind it. And it made for many bruises, after each spar and skirmish. But this was... not a spar.

It began as one, though. It was a dance, a routine, that became more familiar with each passing breath. Feint and jab; drop and lash. Old forms and motions that they'd gone through dozens of times in practice.

And once more, Besef realized then. One more time. Perhaps... one last time.

 

[Soverin]

Mors' kept hold of his saber as Besef's defensive maneuver pulled him this way and that, leaving him curling inward. The Firrerro ducked down and kicked out with such fierce power that the smoke around them swirled inwards with the attack. Using the momentum of his fall, Mors dove forward over the kick and rolled back to his feet, safely away from what would have been a crippling blow.

He recalled past duels, the aching of bruised ribs and broken noses. Spars with Besef left him bloodied, not burnt. A hit like that would end their battle all too quickly. "They poisoned us -- lied to us about right and wrong!"

Fire. Mors threw his hand forward in a much less passive manner than most used to beckon the power of the force. It was savage, and feral, spawning dull coloured flames that arced up and lashed out at the sith warrior. "We were younglings, and they used us for their war!"

 

[Feather]

Besef's reaction was swift, not not quick enough to prevent the flames from licking at the edges of his sleeves. A furious saber sweep brought a small hurricane of wind down that corridor, pulling hungrily at Mors' fire. "It was never just their war. It was everyone's conflict; it became our war. OURS." One hand beat solidly against his chest, emphasizing each word. The scorched edges of his robe fluttered in the steadily increasing wind as feral, gleaming fangs framed each defiant cry. With each passing second, Besef's anger burned brighter. His rage boiled, threatened to burst. "Yours. And mine. We were going to destroy them, Mors Soverin. We were going to conquer, and build anew from the ashes of old."

Down the hall he stepped, swinging his saber in wide arcs before him, sweeping from left to right, and right to left as the wind scythed from each swing. "Your light is the poison," he continued. "It dulled your judgement. Pulled you away from your reasoning. Murdered your ambition, and for WHAT?" Any remaining windows in the hall shattered as the young man's temper reached a fever pitch and he closed the remaining space between them, first feinting a cross slice at Mors' torso then dropping his blade to bear up from the ground, aiming to bisect him from groin to crown.

 

[Soverin]

Mors could only cover his face with his arm as wind and fractured glass soared past him. Mustering a great portion of his force energy, he throwing his hands aside to part a safe path through the swarm of glass shards. When the cloud had passed he was cut from top to bottom, arms bearing small shallow incisions, ripped through the thin material of his tunic.

The knight flourished his saber and held it upright near his face, bathing his predatory features in it's fiery glow. As Besef charged he pivoted back on foot for stability, sadly the downward slash to defend the his chest area put Besef's next swing perfectly into action. Red sparks scorched the air as Mors threw one foot back to meet the sith with his right side and slammed his saber down on top of Besef's own, stopping it's flight upward. The anzat grit his teeth as they commenced swordlock, trying desperately to overpower the Firrerro's stance. "They lied to us!" Wind lapped at his ripped tunic, causing the flaps of his robes to carry on it's powerful current. They were walking a thin path now, dangerously narrow between the rows of broken windows. Outside starfighters and destroyers loomed ominously near. "See it to be true, Besef!" He growled, pleading, again. It was all he could do besides fight, and he was far tired of the act. "You must!"

 

[Feather]

Gone was the calm facade from moments before. Besef's was a mask of red fury and yellowed fangs as he met Mors' saber and grunted, bearing up against his adversary's weight. Mercurial veins of bright silver laced along the gold-bronze of his skin, webbing from the corners of his eyes and trailing along each delicate vein. Lines that belied the Firrerro's stress. Telling marks that Mors would be familiar with, from those rare times when Besef had cracked under stress. It hadn't been often - but Mors had been there to see it each time, coincidence or not. And now he got to see it again, as they two were locked in stalemate, straining against one another with wind tearing at their robes and lingering glass shards nipping at their cheeks.

Besef's feet shifted, there was a brief flicker in his eyes - then slowly, agonizingly slowly, the fire drained from his features. "...Mors, I can't," he hissed, with less rage and more... desperation, was it? "I cannot. You know I can't."

As he spoke, his foot shifted backwards, and he gradually lowered his saber, letting the weight of the swordlock guide his blade towards the hall floor. The wind died, as if a window had been shut. Glass and dust fell to the ground in a sparkling display around the two combatants. His body drew backwards as he did, still tense and defensive - and never taking his gaze from Mors'. He was attempting to withdraw? He spoke again, a pleading whisper. An apology. "I can't..."

 

[Soverin]

"We're just going to kill each other then? -- for them?!" His aura was clouded with darkness, reaching into suppressed reservoirs of anger and vengeance. When Besef's steps faltered, his became strong, marching forward to close the distance between them. He always knew in another life time they might have called each other friend, though the words never left either of their mouths, he did fantasize the idea. Mors' luck was either poor or so great that he never had many friends to call his, but if there ever were one, it just might have been "Besef..."

Tears welled in his eyes as the Sith facing him refused to lower his defense. His old ally... His friend. Mors looked astonished, a subtle twitch popping up between his cheeks and forehead as rage boiled just beneath the surface. Eventually he took on a snarl, raising his saber in challenge. "Don't stop. This is the end for us, old friend."

Fire. It manifested with his emotions, crackling and popping into existence in small embers around them before returning to calm air. It scoured the surfaces of metal around them to find sustenance, reviving itself with greater vigor. Eventually the hallways were covered in small plumes of forcefire, rising and promising much greater untold destruction...

 

[Feather]

It seemed that their roles had changed. The rage from one had found its way to the other, and the defensive pleading had flown from Jedi to Sith. As soon as the kinetic winds from one had died down, fires had bloomed in their place. "...Mors. You left us." Voice wavering, Besef eased himself upright, standing tall with his saber once again held before him, a ward against the anger he now stared down. He was prepared to meet any attack, but nearly all hostility had left his stance. Only the lightning-silver veins that wreathed his eyes remained from his previous outburst. "You could have come back, but you didn't. You're a marked traitor." Yes, he told himself as he grit his teeth. Mors was a traitor, and this was what traitors received. "I'm only doing what I have to."

Flames cast faint shadows along the hall, painting stretched caricatures of both fighters against war-damaged walls and broken-out window frames. The building rumbled, dust cascading in dry sheets from cracked ceiling tiles. A vein stood out at Besef's temple as he clenched his jaw and adjusted his grip on his saber. "...You could have come back."

 

[Soverin]

"NO!" Thunderous calamity boomed beyond the burning causeway. Forcefire wrapped around corners and begged to be free only to be pulled back in by wild currents. Their battle was only an echo of the chaos beyond, whole cities being decimated by Walkers now. Sith fighters shrieked past the burst through windows in pursuit of smoking prey; a Republic fighter whose demise was only evident in the distant explosion following their spiral.

"I will never be lied to. Never again." Mors rose his saber, gloves audibly constricting tighter around the weapon's hilt. A walker's massive leg lifted and fell beside them, monstrously strolling past as the jedi knight once again threw himself at Besef. With the crack of their saber's meeting the air was choked with red and orange sparks, fanning out into the burning hall. With all the strength he could muster he pushed against the Firrerro's defenses. When that column of imperfect orange plasma struck again and again it was clear that this was no longer a fight between old friends, but a struggle between the forces of light and dark.

 

[Feather]

The building shuddered, dropping more debris, more dust onto the two below. Besef grit his teeth and braced himself. Parry. Block. Clash and redirect. Blink through the sparks and dust and whipping winds, shove with all your might to bury your adversary's blade into the floor or the wall. Do not let him hit you. The Firrerro replied to each strike with unerring defense, matching Mors blow for blow. Downward strikes were met with cross blocks, sparks showered the pair with each collision of blades. If there was ever a time for one to prove themselves superior, this would have been it - but for each attack there was an answering defense, and for each action there was a perfectly executed reaction. It seemed like neither could best the other, that they were too evenly matched, even now. There would be no clear winner, no obvious outcome--

--until Besef stumbled.

The spiraling remnants of a sky-shot speeder collided with their building, shattering into shrapnel and snapping the Sith from his guarded concentration. One foot was misplaced, and his balance tilted. Before the next heartbeat he had tripped and was scrambling to get back on his feet. But he'd been off guard for too long - three heartbeats too long. Get up. Get up get up he will kill you, you will lose you will die. Besef scolded himself mentally, veins still standing along his temples as he strained against... something... In the back of his mind, quieter, a voice wondered if Mors really would take that chance, take that killing blow. Besef wondered if his old friend really would destroy him.

 

[Soverin]

Mors was so careless in the tilt of his saber that the tip dragged through the duracrete beneath his boots, fashioning a trail of singed steel beside each step. The building was quaking now, chandeliers and fixtures toppled to the floor or shattered into an array of sparks. Wind plucked the sparks from the jagged edge of his sputtering saber, buzzing wildly as it came to a point near Besef's chin.

The sith, now a jedi, peered down at his old friend. "We were promised power... All we were given was..." It took a great amount of searching to define what had put in place of his vacant soul -- "Fear. Fear and chains. We are not free." He was yelling again, voice grating as he tried to overcome the calamity of war around them. "With these powers we cannot be free. We are prisoners to our curse, forced to fight in their wars."

"When I accepted this, this power... I did not accept chains." The saber's edge, glowing mere inches away from Besef's chin, sputtered and faded, pulled back into the hilt of his blade before he quickly fastened it to his belt. Thick tension stood between them as Mors stared at the sith. he considered his action -- what it meant. A spidery hand extended down to help Besef up, a silent notion of comradery. "I will not be a slave."

 

[Feather]

Besef held his chin high and glared as Mors monologued. He refused to shy away, even now. He refused to flinch as sparks from the saber bit hungrily at veined gold skin, a hairsbreadth from parting his head from his body. He'd accept his death with the same stubborn, bitter pride he carried with him during life; no turncoat companion would take that from him. Veins strained against his forehead from the effort of battle, his brow had long since been smudged with dust and sweat. As his top lip began to tremble, moments from curling into a snarl, Mors' saber hissed and withdrew. Besef turned his head away slightly, reflex overpowering the urge not to flinch. But as he looked back... there was not the tense upswing of a warrior about to decapitate an old friend, but the solid, solemn gesture of a hand reaching down to help. It was a way up. A way out.

It had to be a trap. There was no way it was anything other. Besef knew this to be true, but yet... He found himself reaching out towards that hand, raising a gloved towards that idea of 'salvation'. The moment was almost... curious. Everything moved slowly, in those few seconds. Things were amplified. Enhanced. His vision panned from the folds in his glove, to the rubble on the floor, to Mors' scuffed boots before him. Then to Mors' outstretched offer, up his arm, past the glass shredded fabric to that familiar countenance. His eyes, clearer than Besef had ever seen them. Resolute and open. Trusting, like they would have never been, had the Anzat remained shrouded in the Dark. Besef dropped his gaze to his own glove once again, watching the leather play about his hand as he flexed his fingers lightly. Then again, he looked back at Mors' hand. He shifted, hesitant.

The building rumbled. The ceiling cracked.

Besef sighed, and clenched his fist.

Decorative tiles and flat slabs of stone came crumbling downward as he exhaled; the tension that had been coursing through his body left in a rush. The entire hall above them - or so it seemed - was here to greet them both with a crushing entrance and a shower of jagged rock and duracrete. Gravity wasn't the only factor in its descent, though. It fell with a speed-- no, a force greater than just on its own. Besef was dragging it down from above, intent on crushing the figure before him. At the same time, he'd reached back to ignite his own saber and strike low at the Jedi's unprotected legs, a sweeping crescent that cut through the dust and debris, intent on biting a sour, burning swath through Mors' shins.