Blood in the sand

[TheLastLine]

The crowds cheered into the arena, chanting the two competitors names, one significantly louder then the other. They chanted, Mordain, Mordain, Mordain, Mordain... It was starting to annoy him, annoy him to such an extent that it was hard to keep his anger at bay.

While these peasants ruled their lives off of this emotion, he knew better, he was better and he was to prove it again and again. This whelp was just the latest opponent in a line that were quickly destroyed by the King, the veteran, the master.

His reputation had swollen during his time on Conscio. He had gone from a nobody to a somebody. He felt nothing for this though, for they were nothing to him. He merely had to find someone, or something sufficiently powerful to teach him what he had to learn.

But this was at the back of his mind as he, the scarred warrior darted around the arena, looking at his pray standing idle. In his hand was a scimitar, a relatively blunt weapon (so not to cause permanent injury to his opponents) and he donned only black shorts, his terrible body scaring visible for all to see. His eyes hungered for it, his subdued anger begged for its release, and oh it was to have its release. His control of this feeling was finite, but he had never been pushed to that limit and this walking carpet would not be the first to break that boundary.

The Wookie, became enraged by the mocking and lunged forward sweeping for Mordain, Mordain had underestimated the beasts strength and speed, but he still managed to bring his weapon up in defense. The impact was so strong it knocked the scimitar out of Mordains hand, the crowds were ecstatic, they were to finally see someone who could beat this King.

Jumping back Mordain simply let out a gasp as the Wookie lunged again, this time underestimating him in turn, but he was not to be underestimated, he wouldn't let the Wookie make another mistake. Using his hands he grabs the wrists of the flying Wookie, bringing him back onto the even ground.He used the force to hold the Wookies armed hand at bay, but the other arm swung at Mordain's face, but hecaught that aswell. Sensing an opportunity he pulled the armed hand over the unarmed and preformed a cartwheel in the air, still holding onto the Wookies hands.

The spectators, the vast majority of them did not know what he was doing, but as Mordain flipped the wrapped arms were forced into moving a hundred and eighty degrees and the prey's forearms snapped out of the sockets making the Wookie scream in agony.

The pain made the crowd shout for blood and sensing his defenses were weak Mordain ripped through the Wookies defensive barrier, picking him up with the force. He forced the Wookies head repeatedly into the stone side of the arena. After the tenth slam against the wall he was ordered to stop as the unconscious, bleeding Wookie fell into a heap on the floor.

Mordain simply marched off the stage and into his locker room to grab a shower, hoping he had actually impressed a master and not a weakling, again. Many had come to him wanting to make him their apprentice but he refused, he said that he was not interested, he would only accept someone whom he could respect. This had forced him into many conflicts which their other apprentices had tried to solve in that very arena, but grudges are dropped when the best students are left with their blood seeping into the sand...

 

[Ols]

Nescius often came to the arena when he was actually on Consico. Gladiatorial bouts were exciting to watch, and it was a sport of real intensity. Death was far from uncommon on the sand, and the competitors were all insane. One way or another, putting your life on the line for financial reward, bloodlust or fame, they were some of the vivacious people in existence, almost more than soldiers they knew more than most that the next day might be their last. And in Nescius' line of work he could respect that.

This newcomer, Mordain, had been around only a short time, not a huge amount of bouts to his name, but a chancer of a fighter, and one with a one hundred percent record, was a real crowd favourite. His uncanny luck, of course, was not that at all. He was, knowingly or otherwise, relying on the pushes and aid of the force to charge to victory. To the untrained eye, of course, he was lucky, but as Nescius well knew, you made your own luck.

He was dressed in a light battle garb, rather than usual ceremonial or fancy dress that accompanied his status as Count of Serenno. Along with black boots and trousers, he wore a sleeveless black top, form fitting with thin strands of silver decoration glinting in the sunlight. A hood was attached to the top, with similar silver markings, and it was raised, obscuring his shadowy face. Leather black vambracer like items were borne on his forearms, with silver mark as well, and he wore a black fingerless glove on his right hand. He did not carry his lightsaber, but across his back was strapped a short gunmetal sword.

As the wookiee had been pounded into the wall, Nescius had slipped out of the crowd baying for blood. He sped down the stairways to the very edge of of the barrier for the crowd. As Mordain was called off the wookiee, before he could disappear down the stone corridor, Nescius vaulted the barrier and softly landed on the sand.

"Gladiator!" he shouted at Mordain, standing up to his full and rather average height of a little under six foot, continuing, "fight me!"

 

[TheLastLine]

After breathing in deeply he let out a big sigh, he couldn't be bothered. But the adrenaline still pumped through his veins, he could of humiliated the individual by ignoring him and pushing through to get back to his room, but there was something amiss. Something that triggered the gut feeling, he shouldn't underestimate this warrior.

Taking a few steps backwards he then back flipped into the centre of the arena preforming some dexterous move with the blade making it spin around in a clockwise fashion, this made the crowd go wild as they sensed another epic battle. But Mordain had something better up his sleeve.. Or down his pants, to be more precise.

Walking slowly forwards he runs his hand down the front lining around his pants, summoning the iron blade into his palm, nobody sees... He keeps his mind clear bringing both hands together to grasp around the blades hilt. Walking towards the new competitor he shouts, swinging the blade at his head and the battle ensued.

Though Mordain was forced to use extraordinary moves, pushing his body past its limit the crowd seemed strangely subdued, this atmosphere distracted him momentarily. There was something about this man, but surely that would make him a hero if he could strike him down..

Things started to get more and more desperate as he could sense his progressive tactics disintegrating into desperate swings and cleaves to repulse the ever speeding thrusts by his enemy. But he knew what to do.. He had been holding something back, maybe, just maybe this attack would work.

As Mordain stood with his back almost parallel to the floor, the opponent tried to use his strength to force him into the ground. The only way he could sustain this position was through the force and as he prepared for his final strike it was obvious to all what power he was going to use. He took one hand off of the blade and screamed, using all his might to propel the enemy into the air. This was only the start, Mordain spun around in circles releasing the scimitar at him, but what wasn't as obvious was the iron dagger which followed, he hoped he wouldn't notice but did not let this cross his thoughts, for he knew that he could read them.

 

[Ols]

Nescius watched the man leap backwards into the arena and dance his sword around. Impressive to a child or a moron, but simple showboating did not lay well on Nescius. In fact, it even annoyed him a little. Comparing the two the younger gladiator was reeling from the crowd's adoration, as though it fed him, whereas Nescius had no qualms of walking up to and dismantling a crowd favourite, as he was confident he could do, without such showing off. Nescius practised simplicity and ease in success. The man had just wasted valuable energy both physically and in the force, that he may well need once he had joined battle with the dark master, and in battle even that one tiny drop could be the difference between success and failure, or even more importantly, life and death.

Nescius said nothing however, drawing his blade from over his shoulder. The blade was a matte black colour, straight and simple. A shining silver edge ran up one side, coming to a slanted point at the top. There was no real handguard, a notch on the blade signified the start of the handle, black insulation tape tied around the metal to make it comfortable in his hand. The handle was designed to be held in one hand, but two hands could fit with overlapping fingers if a two handed blow was necessary. From tip to flat 'pommel' the sword was no longer than a yard.

Nescius met the first attack with a slanted parry, the full force being softened by his blade angle and causing the next attack to come off balance. Nescius' form here was precise and fast, preferring those boosts to raw strength, which could force one to tire far quickly. It matched his preferred fighting styles with his lightsaber: while not stringently tied down as the practitioner of a form, the elegance and precision of Makashi and patience and defence of Soresu were all attributes Nescius valued in sword combat.

Nescius felt the energy building as Mordain, like a cornered animal, saw he had one strong attack left as a last ditch hope. Nescius pulled back, knowing what was coming and the easiest way to counter it. The burst of force energy smashed upwards. He did not try to deflect it, or absorb it, however. He relaxed his joints and muscles, jumped up slightly and felt it gently into his body. He rode the wave meters across the sandy floor, flying through the air, not thrown back in a flurry of limbs, but holding his position as he was thrown back towards the far wall.

He was about to smash into it at high speed, and the dark master controlled himslef to land as softly as possible, still with a jar, but through his feet first, rather than his back. The valuable second or so that the softer landing gained him would be crucial. As he pushed back off the wall to land on the floor, he saw the true attempt at a killing blow in the form of the spinning sword. Brining his scimitar up in a two handed grip he caught the attacking weapon with his blade and it clanged off deafeningly before falling harmlessly to the ground. Yet Nescius felt the danger was not over. Glinting in the sun another blade spun forwards at him. It was smaller and would be harder to deflect so effectively. Nescius first instinct was simply to drop, down and sideways. He was fast, but the blade still glanced his left upper arm and left a thin cut along his arm, skin deep and around an inch long. It barely stung, but was impressive nonetheless. But his opponent was now unarmed.

Nescius stood back up, picking up the knife which had a thin trail of red along one edge, in his left hand, holding it in a reversed grip. He sheathed his own sword and put the knife in his right hand as he walked back across the arena, calmly and slowly, to the man, who would surely be tired beyond movement and thought after their battle and that last extreme exertion.

"Yield," Nescius said, "and you may yet live."

 

[TheLastLine]

Mordain's heart plunged as the warrior managed somehow to escape his final attack, he thought he could of killed him with that maneuver but now he was at the strangers mercy. The king was not to die though, he was not to end his glorious existence in a pit where the common scum perished in a last ditch attempt to earn fame and glory. No. One thing that he had learned in his life is that he should not trust anybody, ever. He was not to trust this man and as a result he had one last defense. Something that could buy him time if he tried anything.

Staggering backwards he knelt into the sand, and looked at the approaching figure. He was breathing heavily, his vision slightly blurred. As the man proclaimed yield Mordain couldn't help but snigger. Yield, he would rather die. Wait, would he prefer death ? No, no he wouldn't. There was an emotional battle going through his head. Mordain Edovar, conqueror of nations, master of men and the King of his planet brought to his knees, by a man of which he had never met in his life.

How pathetic, perhaps this was the end, he remembered something he had once said himself to comfort his surviving soldiers after a particularly bloody siege "Life is a prison, death a release." But he thought about it again and decided that he didn't want to be released.

Raising his hands he says simply. "I concede to you oh warrior, honor is of no use to the dead."

 

[Ols]

"You learn fast for a noble," Nescius replied, growing closer step by step, the man's thrown dagger still resting in his right hand, his fingers clasped around the handle. He raised his empty hand and flicked the hood down, his hair dripping with sweat. He wiped his brow on his leather cuff.

"I am not a warrior. My name is Arathilion Icquilu," he used the name he was born with, the name everybody knew him as the Count of Serenno, but he quickly added, "but on this planet and certain others I am known as Nescius Caedo."

He did not expect the man to react to either name, though most people would recognise the former. Depending upon where one was, either carried reputations, not that Nescius relied on such.

"Stand up," he commanded, as he stopped about a foot away from the man, "you are better than an arena slave. You have skill with a blade, and power with the force," he did not feel obliged to explain what the force was, he had an idea one who knowingly used it as the king did, even basically so, would know what it was, "but you are raw and have a long way to go."

"I can teach you how to use this power, to unleash your full strength. But it is not a road oft travelled by Kings. Can you leave your throne behind and embrace your destiny? Or do you wish to return, a big fish in a goldfish bowl?"

 

[TheLastLine]

Raising his head he pondered the question by looking at the roof. He closed his eyes and crossed his arms. When he reopened them he looks at the Count and smiled widely "I am not just King of Dawn, I am more then that. I am King of all those weaker then me, those whom are my inferior and..." He takes a step closer, and thinks before he utters his next sentence but says it with the utmost conviction.

"And with time, I will be king above you aswell." He seemed rather angry at his situation, but this is what he wanted, someone to show him the way forward. "So I accept your demands, for now." He seemed almost as if he had not been in battle, he spoke to the Count as if he was his equal which he had not done since his early years in the military.

Standing up straight he goes to offer his hand with a cold look in his eye, a wide smile across his bruised face.

The crowd was still silent, they had no idea what was going on but they knew their champion had been vanquished, Mordain knew he could never set foot in the arena again now his honor had been destroyed, but he didn't care. He knew that he was one day to become the most powerful force user in the Galaxy, and that is what mattered to him the most.

 

[Ols]

Nescius did not bat an eyelid in the face of the man's arrogance. It was to be expected of a king, but it would have to go. If he carried that on outside of his domain he would get himself killed, most likely by somebody on his own side.

Nescius had made no demands for the man to accept. There was no obligation, simply an offer: he had first given him the choice of life or death, and then the choice of training or leaving. When Nescius made demands there was no question of whether they were accepted or not, they almost universally were, and when they were not the opposite usually found themselves bereft of their lives not too long after.

"And with time, I will be king above you as well."

"You have a long way yet to go," Nescius said flatly in response. He looked briefly at the extended his hand to Nescius. The Dark Jedi master leaned in close so he was close enough for his top to brush the king's sweaty, bruised torso, his mouth close to his ear and he whispered, through clenched teeth in a low but serious voice.

"We are not equals. I am the master, you are the acolyte. You address me as 'master' or 'my lord'. You do exactly what I say, unquestioningly and willingly."

Before anything more could transpire Nescius thrust his right hand out the short distance between where it hung at his side to the man's abdomen. The dagger was still in his hand, and with Nescius strength behind it, he drove it home, pushing through layers of skin with ease, and muscle with more difficulty, all the way until the dagger was imbedded up to it's hilt. He whipped his arm away and withdrew it, the silver blade glistening with crimson.

Nescius took a step away so the man could collapse on the floor, with such a serious injury he would surely be going into shock. Of course, if he was treated quickly his injuries, whilst painful, would not be life-threatening. Nescius turned on his heel and walked from the arena, calling over his shoulder.

"Training begins tomorrow."

On his way out he brushed past the two medics, rushing in to treat the king. Nescius had already placed them outside and had given them explicit instructions with what to do. They were to treat the king's injuries, without painkillers of any kind unless absolutely necessary. They were to make sure the scar left behind was permanent, although they were to stitch it up. He was to be treated in a medical bay in the Dark Jedi temple, a speeder was waiting outside to take him and the medics there.

 

[TheLastLine]

Naturally he tried to dart backwards as the Count went for the attack, but he was far to slow and his body groaned as he tried to preform an uncompromising dodge. But it didn't matter as the dagger pierced his skin, it pushed into his body quickly. He didn't feel the pain, at first. He just resigned himself to death, but he would die a dignified death.

It all happened so slow. Falling backwards time almost froze, his vision went from the Count, to the edges of the arena and then to the sky his peripheral vision shrinking and shrinking with every moment, logic, fear and almost every sense fled his body with the blood which poured effortlessly out of him, appeasing the crowd and the blood red sand which let the precious liquid permeate it.

As he lay with his looking at the sky he heard one last thing before waking up. "Training begins tomorrow."

--

Mordain had suffered, bled and felt like death. The surgery to save his life felt incredibly slow and even after this simple procedure he could barely move for the pain. They refused to give him painkillers, and so he reacted, violently. How dare the deny him a basic right. So after he returned his injuries in turn to a paramedic he found himself locked in his cubicle.

After a few hours he found himself at full strength, they must of done something good.. But as he walked to the door he found it was bolted tight. He sighed wondering the repercussions for being late, if he could not get out... At this moment he realized this man was the only person he had ever feared, someone who could destroy him at his whim, for now anyway.

Using the force he merely rips the door off of its hinges, throwing across the hallway. He found a pair of training robes in his locker before walking through the training complex, believing the Count could be there.

His mind was never at peace, but now it was riddled with fear, anger and anticipation. He knew not what was awaiting him in the depths of the temple, but he did know one of the simple believes of these Dark Jedi. "The weak will perish, leaving the strong."

He knew that his metal would be tested, his endurance pushed to the boundaries and his powers augmented beyond recognition.

 

[Ols]

The room that Mordain wandered through, in search of Nescius, no doubt, was large, square and lit only dimly by slitted windows and candlelight. The Bogan temple was an ode to stereotype, after all.

Nescius himself was dressed not in robes, but black combat trousers and boots, ideal for training, along with a black vest, over which he wore a black hooded jumper, zipped about two thirds of the way up. Through the loops upon his trousers he wore a belt on which his lightsaber was clipped. And the master was standing in the far doorway as Mordain wandered in.

"I was just on my way to your room to see if you were ready to begin," he said rather matter of fact-ly, taking a few strides into the empty chamber. His expression seemed placid, also, as he continued, "my paramedic was left rather battered after treating you. He mentioned that your ire was due to a lack of pain relief. You are bogan acolyte now, pain relief is above you. It is a luxury that maybe you will be afforded if you survive your training."

His tone drastically changed, his words became harsher, but his voice still carried a controlled, calm quality, "You may have been a king, but now you are nothing. You are an acolyte, like the boy who was brought here after his drug addicted parents were killed in the slums of Nar Shadaa, or the girl who was rescued to this place from the Hutt harem. In this temple you do not wound those who treat your wounds."

"Net time you are injured, that medic will happily leave you to die," Nescius said seriously, "is a tantrum to get your own way really worth a fractured alliance and a torn relationship? My advice would be that you learn, and learn quickly, that if you continually cut your nose off to spite your face, you will run out of face to lop off."

Nescius paused, before adding, "Oh and if you ever use the force unecessarily, like blowing the door of your cubicle, again, I'll kill you in cold blood and donate your meat to kath hound farmers. Do I make myself crystal clear?"

 

[TheLastLine]

He listened to his words closely. He ignored the threats and the contempt he could hear and the contempt he felt in himself. He ignored the dark undercurrent and took it as advice, he couldn't afford to take this emotionally. He couldn't and wouldn't let this man break him. He knew that he would be tested and his character would be melded, but would it be him or the master who decided his ultimate fate ? That was a question that was to be answered with time, and he was not a fool, he would never underestimate him again.

Looking into the Count's eyes he twitches alittle as his mouth opens, he says simply "Of course my master, it was foolish of me to burn a bridge which was not meant to be burnt, to injure those who are meant to heal when I might" he put great emphasis on the word might "end up there again one day."

He walked forward crossing his arms, he muttered something under his breathe and then said it louder. It was clear he did not like addressing the Count as master, but he did. "Master... Where are we to start, what am I to do. For the moment, your wish, is my command." He went onto his knee, a position he had not attained since his youth and one that he loathed.

It was clear that he saw the failures of disagreeing, arguing and resisting the Count's whims, he merely silently disagreed. He would not openly criticize the Count until he had the power to crush his little world, as he would try to his.

He looked at the floor silently, waiting further instruction.

 

[Ols]

"If you don't drop the arrogance you definitely will be in there again," Nescius muttered, loudly enough for the apprentice to hear him, but off handedly enough for it to be heard as a throwaway comment more than anything else. The apprentice had not questioned, barely even registered Nescius' comment about the force. Brave, from a man he had stabbed in the gut and left for dead barely a day before. Nescius would have no problems in killing an apprentice, regardless of their potential ability. With sadness, but no regret, he had done it before and he was sure he would do it again.

Nescius did not suffer fools; other masters, even members of the Dark Jedi hierarchy thought Mordain was too old. Nescius had insisted that he was worth training, and self doubt was not something that entered his mind lightly, Nescius was convicted in his thoughts, and he was almost always right. Arguably that had bred a form of arrogance in the Dark Master, but Nescius was alright with that, certain earned arrogance could be helpful for confidence and conviction.

Nescius raised an eyebrow as the man asked for orders and kneeled. It was very stereotypical, Nescius almost laughed a little at the gesture. One minute he was reeling with hatred for Nescius' superiority, the next he gave his pride up and kneeled with a begrudging disdain Nescius had seen in apprentices before. They had had a little success in the temple before and thought they already knew it all. Fair enough, Mordain had more reason to be so than a teenaged acolyte, but it was no real excuse.

"You will complete a task for me," Nescius said, a little theatrically, "bring me the lightsaber of a Jedi Knight."