Sonata: Choir of the Damned

[Brand]

"Move your feet. Mobility is a tool," Tharrow said calmly to his student. Clad in a light tunic, the master's violet lightsaber was held in a defensive posture while his student was armed with a durasteel training saber. A durasteel cargo bay surrounded them, providing ample training space aboard the Crusader's personal vessel.

It had been over a month since Mikelus had submitted to Tharrow's tutelage, and with the boy's previous knowledge of sparring he had progressed in their short time to at least provide a challenge to the experienced warrior. The Sith engaged again, charging forward with deadly precision.

Tharrow was on him in but a moment, his speed augmented by drawing on the Force. He delivered a quick cut aimed at his opponent's kidney before stepping back and transitioning fluidly into a strong thrust. Tharrow's vicious style was that of Vaapad, which required the practitioner to savor combat. Reaching within himself, Tharrow drew strength from the emotions roiling in his soul, and transferred this energy into his attacks.

 

[Toska]

In the bowels of a cargo freighter rusted and decayed by time, Mikelus scrambled under the tutelage of his master. A month had passed since his chance encounter on that war-torn planet, and every second had been put to good use. Having been taught the basics of swordplay by various tutors, Mikelus knew a smattering of techniques when the training began. The weeks to come showed him that his knowledge was laudable at best. The real world of swordplay did not care for formalities or style.

Over the course of the month, Mikelus' skills were hammered and refined. His master threw him into veritable life-or-death situations, in which he was forced to fight for the right to survive. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined the sheer ferocity that could drive a blade. When his master struck, he did so with the full weight of his malice. He struck to kill, holding nothing back, even while dealing with such an inexperienced apprentice.

Mikelus shone in those intense conditions. By fueling his defense with his desire to live, he shrugged off his master's attacks. Then, mirroring that refined hatred, he countered. It became routine, day in and day out, with hardly a pause to eat or satiate one's thirst. His body grew lean and he stopped wasting motion in his attacks.

Now, the training continued, with his master charging at him head on. The charge was too quick, causing the perpetrator's feet to blur together with each step. Propelled at such speed, he was on Mikelus before the young man could blink. However, Mikelus was accustomed to such tactics. He was well-prepared for the counter, and deftly brought his training blade down to glance the resulting thrust out of the way. He only put marginal force into his counter, leaving enough room for him to dance into his opponent's next move.

Like clockwork, his master followed through with a full-armed strike. His hostile intent was evident in his flared nostrils and malevolent eyes. The intent transfered into the blow, creating a conduit for his mental prowess to enhance his strength. Mikelus didn't blanch. He shifted his weight, slipping out of the way of the brunt of the strike, meeting the trailing force with his durasteel blade.

He knocked his master's lightsaber on the side, momentarily creating an opening. Adroitly, he stepped into it, using the resounding force of his master's strike to propel his blade straight towards the man's chest. Simultaneously, he sent a wave of concentrated power at his master's legs, shifting his own weight away from the blow in the case of a return.

 

[Brand]

They danced.

Mikelus' retaliation was strong, and Tharrow exploded into action once more. The Crusader brought his blade up forcefully from where it had been slapped away at his side, deflecting his apprentice's stab to pass only centimeters away from his sleeve. If it were a saber it would've singed the cloth of his sleeve. Tharrow then responded to the push by throwing himselves backwards in conjunction with the block, drawing on the Force and kicking his legs out at his student to keep him busy while he regrouped from a span of over two meters away.

"Good," he said simply. A light sheen of perspiration glistened off his bare arms, and even though his face remained concealed by his omnipresent helmet he panted slightly under the mask. "Your rage serves you well. Feed off not only your opponent's emotions, but also your own. Your hunger for knowledge has served you well, and your skills have exponentially increased over the time we've been together. In combat, though, you must expect the unexpected. I have become a predictable enemy to you. Each encounter you have will be acutely different, and you must prepare yourself for these variables."

Without another word, Tharrow extended his hand palm forward and called his second lightsaber into his outstretched hand, and the crimson blade snapped to life. Casting a crimson glow over the durasteel floor, the warrior jumped forward, his blades twirling and gaining momentum as he flew across the distance separating them once again. The sabers came in at opposite angles and sides, his amethyst main aimed for the boy's upper thighs while his red sword screamed towards his shoulder.

Tharrow remained in full control of his physicality, ready to curb the blows at a second's notice, and kept his senses supernaturally heightened. It would do neither him nor Mikelus any permanent good if he was dismembered during training.

 

[Toska]

With survival as a goal, Mikelus listened to his master's speech. He soaked the words in, from the first syllables to the intonations employed in delivering them. By taking his master's words to heart, he could gauge the enigma's character. Furthermore, by accurately pinpointing the man's character, he could predict future actions as standard deviations. Sentients were predictable, after all. Regardless of how much gilt they covered themselves with, the essence of their lives could be charted and followed.

Tharrow was no different. From what Mikelus had gathered so far, his master was a man with a singular goal. He wanted power in its purest form. As a result, he was disgusted by impurity. When confronted by a being wielding such imperfection, he would treat the instance as an encounter with a mutated, over-sized insect. The premise behind it led Mikelus to the conclusion that his master followed a simple ideology and wished to see the rest of the galaxy follow it.

Mikelus lacked the motivation to whole-heartedly convert to his master's doctrine for the purpose of gaining strength. He supposed that he would take whatever he could from the man before going off on his own. As long as Tharrow delivered what was promised, he would be satisfied. The means should never be correlated with the end. Otherwise, justification would be necessary both for oneself and their audience. However, idle justification was necessary for the common progression of sentient life.

In the midst of thought, Mikelus felt a shift in the general atmosphere. He had not noticed that his master had ceased speaking to charge forth, a second blade ignited. Cursing himself inwardly, Mikelus threw his training blade obliquely to brush aside the lower attack, ducking in the motion to avoid the blade rushing toward his shoulder. To compensate for his awkward positioning, he turned his exposed shoulder into a battering ram.

With only a few feet to close, it would be impossible to put enough force into the charge to do any substantial amount of damage. Likewise, it would be impossible for his master to recover enough to use one of his lightsabers to counter his charge. However, the charge would cripple him as far as offensive and defensive capability. To nullify that impending weakness, he slammed his master's violet lightsaber out of the way with his already locked blade.

He closed his charge as a feint, throwing the remainder of his weight into his blade arm. The durasteel blade whistled as it cut through the air. Holding the pommel in a two-handed grip, he managed to almost triple the strength behind the otherwise sloppy blow. The variables, as he saw them, rolled in his favor.