The Call of the Dark Side.

[Denzein]

​

Oseth. Kamino.​

The eternal storm raged in the heavens above. Lightning crossed the bruised sky with the intensity of stars, thunder rolling across the horizon in its wake as if the Gods were rumbling their approval at the scene before them. It was a terrible display of the power of nature, and to the thinkers of the world a fitting metaphor for the helplessness of all things living in the face of the elements.

Those thinkers would be mistaken, should they come to that conclusion.

There were few who could contend with the holy fury of Mother Nature herself. They were exceptional people, those who's actions shaped the futures of all. Throughout history their kind have existed, forging legends and songs and religions for the lesser people, those who cannot summon enough light or shadow to make their mark upon anything. Those were the unworthies that Lecchamemnon had no time for, even though he ultimately fought his selfish counterparts in their name.

People like himself were so very uncommon. It was his guess that there was less than one person of note for every planet in the Galaxy, and yet here on this very world there was perhaps one other who was worthy of song. One more man capable of bending the fabric of reality to his will... Something new for the masses to fear.

Darth Oseth.

The Sith Lord was the man responsible for the creation of Andreus Makaryk, a Jedi padawan under Lecchamemnon's tutelage. Sith Alchemy had spawned the boy, a power so abominable that the Loremaster was secretly still pondering whether Andreus was safe to be left alive, let alone allowed to remain a Jedi. One side of him argued that the boy was too dangerous to cast away from the structure of the Jedi life, that now more than ever he needed to be surrounded by the light of the Jedi. The other reasoned that he was simply too dangerous to have within any temple, that he posed a massive risk to everyone he was near. One small part of this half of his mind quietly thought that Makaryk was just too dangerous to even be left alive...

That the boy had surrendered his information willingly (remarkably willingly, given the situation) was important in his consideration. It showed that he was not lost, despite the stuff from which he was made. It weighted his thoughts towards the more merciful of choices... Although Andreus' fate was still very much in the balance. The Loremaster had thinking to do, and that was why he was here. Here for Oseth.

Oseth had answers to his questions, and he would give them before the Kaminoan sun set. Lecchamemnon knew this for a fact, just as he knew that no method was below him when it came to interrogating or capturing, or even killing a Sith. Together he and Oseth would figure out the Makaryk Conundrum one way or another... And so one way or another would this distraction in Lecchamemnon's work be ended. War had not even broken out yet, he did not yet have the time for conflict. He still had preparations to make.

He left Sable in the downpour on a circular landing pad. There she would wait for him and his charge as she so dutifully did each and every time. She knew her part in this, for it had been played many times before.

Always the same.

Now he waited in some unused storage room, meditating quietly. He sensed darkness... and this was good. The call of the Dark Side was strong this day, and Oseth could not be far from him. Knelt on the floor of a storage room Lecchamemnon felt a glimmer of what might have once been jubilation. It really had been too long.

 

[D.C.]

Her screams sounded like music, a song of agony and darkness. She sung of pain and fear. Her bright blue eyes reflected that feeling. That emotion. She was beautiful, even when she bled. Was she crying? Were those tears made of blood? It was a question he asked her, but she didn’t answer. The Wolf crouched down beside her, gently touching her pale cheek.

The lust. Is she angel? Or is she demon?

Crimson, such a beautiful colour. It covered her face, her lips. Her sensual lips. His blood boiled and he leaned in to taste the blood on her lips. She cried as he did, and still cried when he pulled away. His eyes had been emeralds before; beautiful orbs that’d mesmerized her. Now she knew that he was the devil, and not the handsome gentleman she’d thought him to be.

The room was small. Dark. They were alone. He had led her here, seduced her so easily. Perhaps the pretty girl thought she was getting laid. Perhaps she had felt fine, only moments ago. The truth was different.

The truth was darker.

He was unlike any man. He was a predator. A wolf, thirsting for blood. The darkness radiated off him, flooded the room. It surrounded her, went over her entire body, like the hands of a lover. She wanted to scream, but found herself lost in his cold, deadly embrace.

He guided her down to the floor. She lied there, staring up at him, knowing that this was the end of everything. He ripped open her shirt, tore away her bra. His eyes were all-black pools of darkness. He was upon her, but this wasn’t about sex. He felt the excitement; the adrenaline. It coursed through his veins. No, he didn’t seek to touch her; he was hungry instead. He had to feed.

* * *​

When he was done, he rose to a stand. She lied in the centre of the room. Her body was still warm, but she was not alive anymore. Blood seeped down from the corners of the Wolf’s mouth. It was as if his sensual lips were lined with lipstick. He thirst was quenched, for now. Soon, he would have to drink again—feed again. But, he was done now.

He left the room, left the body in a pool of blood. Her hands were red, it dripped down his chin. He wiped some of it away, but lots remained. Was it really the lust for blood? The thirst that had to be quenched? The addiction that hunted him as if he was a prey, instead of a predator?

Or was it something else?

He knew the answer. He’d known it all along. It was the Dark Side that drove him ever onwards to commit such crimes. The Dark Side that had blackened his heart, tormented his thoughts and haunted his dreams. The Dark Side that swirled around him like a hurricane.

He liked to think that he was in control, but in truth he doubted it. Control, that was something the weak craved. Something they longed for, for those in control could shape the galaxy as they wished. Oseth began to doubt anyone was in control. He started to believe that those who claimed they were; were ****ing liars and whores.

So, perhaps he wasn’t in control. Perhaps the Dark Side controlled him. Did it matter? He didn’t think it did, because he also thought that he was just fine. O, he felt ****ing perfect. His son had left days ago, and ever since he’d been hunting. Preying upon those who came to Tipoca to work. He’d slain them; ****ing torn them apart. All his victims. None lived to tell the tale, for their hearts were eaten by a hungry wolf.

Why?

After Andreus had left, travelling all the way back home, he suddenly felt so empty. So ****ed up. I had to do something about it. He had to fill that hole in his heart, and he did. He did, and he did, and he did. He’d fallen deep, o so very deep. Deeper than most followers of the Dark Side did, and perhaps in a different way.

Those who fell, often found themselves angry; frustrated. Course they were driven by passion. Course Oseth was driven by passion too, but it was a different passion. Different from what so many others claimed to feel. And how could he tell?

Because he ****ing tore their chests open and ripped out their beating hearts.

He sauntered down the dark corridor of Tipoca. He didn’t know if it was night or day, for it always seemed to be dark on that stupid water world. Dark clouds were always up in the sky, rain always pouring down from them. There was the occasional lightning flash, lighting up the city for a few seconds, but that was about it.

He also couldn’t tell if it was day or not because he was so kriffing high at the moment.

As he sauntered onwards, down the corridor, he let his hand slide along the left wall, leaving a trail of blood on it. Some of the blood dripped from the fingertips of his right hand, falling onto the metal floor. His hair was dirty, soaking wet, and hung in front of his face. His eyes were still black. Black like the eyes of a vampire. The only difference between him and a vampire, though, was that he did not have those sharp teeth. He was Human. Only Human.

His robe was tattered and torn and he’d ditched it. It lay somewhere in a corridor in the city. Of course it was only a matter of time until the authorities would find it. The robe was drenched, just like the rest of his clothes. The authorities would immediately see that the robe belonged to the psycho-killer that roamed the enormous city.

He only wore his shirt. It had once been white, but now it was red. His shirt was open, his chest and belly bare. His muscles could be seen, his strong muscles. The black pants he wore, torn at the knees, had quite a few blood spatters on them as well. His sword was clipped to his belt, for all to see. That was alright, he didn’t care if they saw it.

He didn’t look like the monstrosity he was now, when he first seduced the girl. It was ironic how it’d only taken a few moments to get covered all up in the crimson.

He smiled to the thought.

* * *​

Oseth stopped short. He’d caught the curious scent of something... someone... Who was that? That signature in the Force had to belong to someone. Someone powerful. Someone old, for only someone old could smell like that. It smelled bad, it was a stench that penetrated his nostrils. It wasn’t the Light Side, nor the Dark Side. It was like a shadow... like a dark cloud in the sky of Kamino.

It was someone... someone evil.

* * *​

Lecchamemnon sat in the unused storage room. Suddenly the sound of footsteps reverberated. It came from the dark corridor, that led to the storage room. Footsteps, getting louder and louder as the creature—surrounded by the Dark Side—closed in on the old man like a wolf.

The door slid open with a hiss, the dark corridor appeared. The footsteps got louder, and then a monster emerged from the shadows. A monster, coated in blood. A monster, whose eyes had lost their colour. Black eyes, empty yet all-seeing.

He stood inside the room, glancing at the old man who meditated in the room’s centre. The monster smirked, stood like a devil, and remained silent. He tasted the darkness of the old man, eagerly. It tasted bitter.

Darth Oseth had emerged.

And he was o so very hungry.

 

[Denzein]

Knelt on the floor, Lecchamemnon did not open his eyes. He barely even acknowledged Oseth's arrival at first, preferring instead to allow himself a few more seconds pondering Makaryk's fate before addressing the devil before him. He was tempting fate and he knew it, but life was unbearable without at least a little thrill. There was no guarantee that the rest of this encounter would produce anything other than monotony for him, he wanted to make it worth his while with at least a little risk.

When he was good and ready his eyes cracked open, not corrupted and yellow as a Sith's should be, nor even black with the ecstasy of slaughter like the depraved psycho's in front of him. No, Lecchamemnon's eyes were pure. Mottled brown at a distance, yet dark green up close. They were curious, but they were probably the thing Oseth was paying attention to the least of all the parts of the Loremaster's body. He stank of murder, and no doubt was looking at Lecchamemnon with hungry eyes. Such a slave.

Such a Sith.

He looked upon Oseth with something akin to mild disdain, or perhaps disgust. Slowly he stood, adding just a hint of stiff old man to the way he did so. He didn't suppose the Sith Lord would be deceived by his feigned show of weakness, but it never hurt to try. Oseth wasn't going to play fair, and the Loremaster had never really seen the point in honour. Once we was standing he remained there, watching the bloodslicked killer before him. He looked high, and that was good.

After a long silence between the two of them Lecchamemnon decided to say something. He'd throw Oseth a bone, just one. It was well gnawed by all the others before him that had willingly taken it out of fear of Lecchamemnon's wrath, but there it was. One shining chance for the Sith to avoid the unpleasantry of an earth shaking duel...

"It must have been all of six months since I last encountered a case of Sith Alchemy, Darth. Your work could be considered admirable by some... But not by me. All I see is another abomination, just as disgusting as it's creator," He allowed Oseth a moment to think about what he meant, although he doubtless already knew. Lecchamemnon wondered if this was what it had been like to enjoy something. "You know what I mean, don't you? Andreus Makaryk... If that is the name you gave it. It's sold you out, Oseth, in the hope that it can be saved. How does that feel?"

 

[D.C.]

He stood tall, staring at the old man. He knew that this one was a Jedi—or at least, supposed to be a Jedi. Oseth knew he had to pull himself together, because a fight was inevitable. He knew because the old man was him trying to fool him. That insane Sith Hunter. Yes, of course he knew who that man was, because that man had quite a reputation.

The words of the old man echoed throughout the storage room. Oseth didn’t respond immediately; merely gazed at the old bastard, standing like a cripple to try to distract him. But he wouldn’t let it fool him, for he was unlike any other Sith. He didn’t think that because he was arrogant, but because it was a dark, sinister truth. He was a murderer and he, unlike the rest, didn’t just seek power. Power to do nothing with it in the end. No, he sought more than that.

But for now, something to quench his thirst would do it. Yes, just something to quench his thirst.

Perhaps Lecchamemnon expected him to answer the question. He did not, instead he said something that had nothing to do with the question. His voice was dark, haunting. A voice that could make women weak in the knees, and made men run away like cowards.

‘You ent no ****ing Jedi, you old bastard.’

He laughed, but only shortly. Who was taunting who? Oseth glanced at the old crook, a grin on his wolf-like face. His black eyes, somehow, shimmered in the faint light, that weakly illuminated the room.

His hand was never far from his sabre, ready to grab it and ignite it. It was a matter of seconds. Who would lose his patience first? The Jedi or the Sith? Oseth knew the answer. Of course he knew the answer.

Because he’d known it all along.

‘False Jedi,’ he whispered, though his whispers were still very audible. ‘Tick, tack, boom. **** the code.’

He smiled.

 

[Denzein]

Lecchamemnon didn't rise to Oseth's barbed words, because in his eyes they weren't really barbed at all. They were true, after a fashion at least. Lecchamemnon was not truly a Jedi when all was said and done... He was something else. No Jedi would have learned the paths of the Sith, no Jedi would have mastered their black arts and no Jedi would ever use them alongside the powers of the light. Not a Jedi of the current description at any rate.

No, Darth Oseth was right about Lecchamemnon. It didn't change a thing. He would still accompany the Loremaster to Tython, no matter what the Loremaster happened to be. He would still come and view his monstrous creation, and aid the Jedi in saving it from the darkness that so threatened its sanity. The thing that was Andreus Makaryk deserved a chance, if nothing else.

Lecchamemnon had decided. Makaryk would be saved, if it were possible.

When he spoke again his voice had changed. It was not low, full of the barely concealed rage that Oseth was perhaps expecting. The Loremaster did not have time for anger, he had no need of hate. Instead his voice was bland, matter-of-fact. He was simply going through the formalities.

"You will come with me to Tython, to help redeem your creation. If you like we can even skip the part where I beat you down from that high and drag you to my ship by your throat..."

 

[D.C.]

‘Stop talking,’ Oseth said. ‘You ent even Jedi.’

He straightened his back, ready to draw his sabre if Lecchamemnon would lash out. He summoned his ancient, black magic, in case Lecchamemnon decided to use his own mystic powers. He loved this stage, the calm before the storm. The seconds before the enemy would strike and the earth would start to shake.

Who was in control of the situation?

It seemed like Lecchamemnon thought he was. Oseth was willing to believe that Lecchamemnon was indeed in control, and that made all this so interesting. The tension in the air screwed with both their minds, whether they admitted it or not.

‘Come, old man,’ he dared, ‘come ‘n get me.’

It was time to wreck this place. Time to let Tipoca sink, swallowed by the sea...

 

[Denzein]

And so it would come to this.

The Sith Lord would duel the Jedi Councillor, and one would remain standing at the end. The Loremaster had hoped it so, deep down. It had been far too long since he had given himself a proper work out. Sparring the masters was all very well, but it just didn't hit the spot, as far as Lecchamemnon was concerned. Perhaps it was the only way the dark taint he carried with himself manifested itself, the desire to test oneself properly once every now and again. People who had never heard of him before usually associated his rank with the most peaceful and pacifistic member of the entire Jedi Order, the man that held them back when war was being considered. Lecchamemnon was not a typical Loremaster.

Lecchamemnon was something else entirely. Sometimes.

"Listen to yourself slur your words like a drunk. I pity you, Oseth."

All pretence of being an old man left him as Lecchamemnon came for Oseth without warning. He looked older than he was, and this was a carefully cultivated mask of frailty. His species were long lived, and although in human years Lecchamemnon was six years short of a century by Sephi reckoning he was yet to hit middle aged. His body was well honed, powerful and fast. One did not garner the reputation Lecchamemnon had without being at the peak of physical fitness.

He did not use the force to augment his speed in this surprise attack, for reasons known only to him. It flowed about him certainly, for he was channelling it powerfully. He drew from the living force around him with great thirst, however there appeared to be no change in his abilities. Was he storing it for later?

Regardless, Lecchamemnon did not even go for his blade. He lashed out with a vicious right hook, bare knuckles speeding towards Oseth's bloody face. The Loremaster's face was still impassive, the very image of apologetic apathy.

It began.

 

[D.C.]

A ripple in the Force betrayed Lecchamemnon’s intentions. Oseth merely stood, watching the Jedi come for him. It was as if the world around Oseth slowed down, and he clearly saw the man coming. He saw the fist cutting through thin-air.

He had been trained in the ways of unarmed combat. He knew how to fight with an empty hand. He sidestepped quickly, dodging the blow in the nick of time. He quickly grasped Lecchamemnon’s arm, pivoting so Lecchamemnon was behind him.

With his strength boosted by the magic, he used Lecchamemnon’s own momentum against him and swung the man forwards, sending him flying through the air, into the darkness of the hallway ahead. At least, that was the intention.

After the defensive move, Oseth assumed the stance of an Echani warrior. He could see through the darkness with his black eyes. He could see clearly, because the darkness was his domain. He didn’t doubt that Lecchamemnon could see clearly as well, for the man dabbled in the darkness as much as he did. O yes.

‘’s been a while,’ he shouted, ‘since I’ve actually fought someone worth fighting. Take that as you will.’

The Wolf, though high as he was, was ready for this. He was ready for the reckoning. The battle. He was ready to fight the evil Jedi Master. The so-called Loremaster. O, such an empty title it was. O, yes. Yes...

The aura around him, clearly visible, began to flood the room. Those standing within its vicinity would feel it. The eternal darkness. They’d feel it and might even be consumed by it. But not Lecchamemnon.

No, you’ve already fallen... Whether you know it or not...

 

[Denzein]

It all happened so fast, there I was attacking and then I was flying through the corridor, flying through the black as if no-one could save me... He'd beaten me with his first defend, not even having to try...

There were many parallel universes with many alternate endings, but none of them had just witnessed Lecchamemnon bested by Oseth. The ending was not even in sight, there was no light at the end of this tunnel for at both openings there was only darkness: Jedi and Sith, the two were one.

In a manner of speaking.

There were many rarely seen applications of the force. Many were too dark to be attempted by all but the most evil of demons, others so pure that only they very brightest may attempt them without fear of annihilation. Some, however, are simply so strange and obscure that they are almost without practice. It takes the skills of a supreme scholar to even uncover their existence...

It just so happened that Lecchamemnon was one such scholar, along with being a ruthless Sith hunter. He had discovered much in his years spent hidden away deep within the Jedi Archives, and he was putting this knowledge to good use now. Some ancient had called this move the "Arte of the Phayse", and a far as Lecchamemnon knew he was one of a very select few who could use it to its full extent today. The art of having matter pass through your body at will was an invaluable tool in his arsenal when he went on the warpath, and he had used it now banking on Oseth not being completely unprepared for his attack. A punch did not encourage the Sith to draw his blade, yet it got the duel moving with neither of them having much of an opportunity to read the other and counter attack instantly, thus spoiling the Loremaster's fun.

He spun on his heel as he felt the tingling sensation of Oseth's hand swooshing through him and our the other side. He was now facing the Sith Lord, but he didn't attack. Instead he took a step back, putting just enough distance between the pair of them that the Sith would not be able to lash out and strike him with a fist. He stared into Oseth's inky pits of eyes, not phased in the least by them. When he spoke his voice was quiet, although it managed to carry clearly over the crackle of force energy that began to manifest about him once more. The Phayse was over, but he already had something even more epic planned.

"A dingy little cupboard is no place for a duel. let's... relocate."

As the last syllable left his mouth the roof began to groan in unseen torment, as if some unknowable strength was tearing it from its roots. The storage room was on the top floor of the dome they were in, and above the metal over their heads raged the elements in their purest form. His eyes never left Oseth's, watching him for an attack while Lecchamemnon exercised his will over the lesser people.

The roof shuddered, and began to ripple as if it were pretending to be a tectonic plate at the heart of a planet. It pierced itself above Lecchamemnon and folded outwards towards the sky, as a rose opens in the spring. The metal shrieked to be tormented so, but Lecchamemnon cared not. He would have his duel, and then Makaryk would see his salvation.

Without so much as a by your leave the Loremaster leapt up through the opening (which had a radius of about a man's width), and into the hellish storms above. He landed a good distance away from the dome, the wind and his force-aided jump doing much to speed him away from the boundaries of the room below. It was slick with rain, and he was buffeted by strong wind constantly. In spite of this he kept his footing, and felt confident that he would be able to fight the Sith Lord on equal terms. The beautiful thing about the weather was that it was a disadvantage to both.

Usually.

 

[D.C.]

With the hole in the roof, a deluge of water clattered into the storage room. With time, the room would be flooded, but neither Lecchamemnon nor Oseth gave a shit. Lecchamemnon was gone, having leapt up through the hole, onto the roof.

Oseth didn't hesitate. He leapt after the Jedi, landing on the roof. Immediately he got soaked by the rain. The water washed the blood away from his skin, but with or without blood, he still looked like a monster.

On the roof they stood. Like an angel and demon facing off. Only this time it was slightly different. You see, they were both demons. They were and there was no denying, no matter what they were fighting for, no matter their intentions. They were demons, whether they liked it or not. Whether they wanted to be or not.

Oseth mustered the mystical, eternal power of the galaxy, and concentrated it on the sky. He would do something that didn’t require much energy of his own. The energy was already there, up in the sky. It was lightning, and it wasn’t just flashy. It was deadly too. It killed instantly if it hit.

He controlled the storms above the Kamino, and slammed down at the spot where Lecchamemnon stood with the lightning. He quickly sprung up, avoiding getting hit himself by the lightning, because it would pass through the water on the roof.

The water splashed up when the Sith Lord landed again. He summoned even more power, in case he had to defend against a counter attack from Lecchamemnon. His sabre wasn’t far from his hand, in case he needed it.

But until then he would not ignite it.

Only a fool believed he needed a lightsabre to win a duel.

 

[Denzein]

Usually.

The introduction of the storm had always been a risk, and Lecchamemnon had noticed the signs of an imminent lightning strike from the moment his boots had hit the metal. From that point on he'd half expected Oseth to try and harness the weather, it was a sensible mode of attack that was remarkably efficient in terms of force use. He had just a fraction of a second to think, or he'd be toast.

Thankfully he needed less than that fraction. Although OSeth was redirecting the strike at Lecchamemnon the Loremaster knew that this was not lightning crated by force energy, and as such still obeyed the laws of physics that gave it strength. It had been pointed towards him, all it required was a nudge in a more favourable direction. He was a lightning rod on a rooftop, and yet there were others many times taller than himself already in place. The Kaminoans regularly suffered lightning strikes, and had used lightning rods for as long as they had existed. The Loremaster simply gave the lighting a tiny nudge towards the spire of metal that speared into the sky above them and it slammed into the conductor moments later.

That was, however, just half of the story.

The lightning crackled through the roof, sped on its way by the water that covered the entire surface. For a split second Lecchamemnon simply watched it advance towards him, doing nothing as the wave of electrical discharge came for him. When it reached his spot he was still standing there, yet it did not harm him. Rubber soles on boots made for walking great distances had more uses than simple comfort. The electricity simply couldn't pass through and into the Loremaster, and so it passed him by.

Almost.

Oseth didn't know it, but he had just granted Lecchamemnon a generous gift. The roof crackled as somehow, impossibly, the lightning was dragged backwards by the Loremaster's hand. He gathered it all using only a small fraction of his energy, until he held it like ball lightning before him. He had a well of fearsome electrical energy held in suspension by the force, and only thanks to Oseth's attack. His face inside his hood was illuminated by the ball lightning before him, allowing Oseth a rare sight upon the Loremaster's face. His eyes were bright with the joy of battle, and he looked so very alive.

The ball lightning retreated into Lecchamemnon's body, an act that might appear to be suicidal madness to the Sith Lord. It was in fact the opposite, as in the lightning strike itself the energy had lost a sizeable portion of its potency. Lecchamemnon channelled it to his hands and boosted it back to its former fury with his own strength, before unleashing crackling doom upon the Sith before him. The hybrid force/natural lightning streaked towards his opponent, and something unthinkable happened. Something that surpassed even the titanic clash that was now occurring atop Tipoca City. Angels wept at the sight...

...When Lecchamemnon smiled.

 

[D.C.]

If there was one thing Oseth really loved, then it was screwing around with the weather. After Lecchamemnon had done everything he needed to do in order to unleash the lightning, Oseth had just enough time to think: why does he use my own technique against me?

Because it was his own technique, he knew exactly how to defend against it. Perhaps Lecchamemnon hadn’t thought of that, but if he hadn’t, then that was a tad stupid. Oseth decided that it didn’t matter, though.

The lightning seared through the air. Oseth moved. It all happened in an instant.

He had already summoned enough of the mystical Force, so he was able to catch the lightning in his right hand. He absorbed it, in a similar way Lecchamemnon had done. He didn’t stand still, though. He immediately sprung forwards. He also wrapped the mystical, invisible currents of the Force around both Lecchamemnon’s ankles.

The idea was to pull the Loremaster towards him, letting the man slide with his back over the roof, while the Sith Lord leapt over the Sephi. When he was in mid-air, right above Lecchamemnon, he would blast the lightning right into the man’s face and chest. It happened in that instant—the one moment he stood on the roof; the next he flew over Lecchamemnon... if the Loremaster was unable to stop Oseth.

If everything went as planned, Oseth landed back on his feet behind Lecchamemnon, in a pool of water. The water splashed up when he landed. He immediately turned around and drew more Force power to himself, in case he needed it.

He was always ready to defend, always ready to attack. He never hesitated to make a move.

Who had the upper hand now?

Well, ent that obvious?

 

[Denzein]

The smile was not wiped off the Loremaster's face as Oseth absorbed the energy. He felt Oseth's pull come for him, and let it. He already had a good idea of what the Sith Lord was going to do with the energy. He fell backwards, hitting the metal and sliding towards Oseth, except Oseth was not there anymore. He was above Lecchamemnon, and lightning was streaming from his fingertips...

..Straight into the waiting blade of Lecchamemnon's ignited saber. Furious lightning met serene emerald light and was no more, safely grounded by the blade. It had been child's play to draw his blade instead of fighting Oseth's pull, and had an attack prepared all of his own by the time Oseth was directly above him and vulnerable as he was ever going to be. Oseth thought he had it all figured out... if only he realised how mistaken he was.

Never underestimate a Necropolitan. There was always a chance they knew how to destroy.

And by the force did Lecchamemnon know. As Oseth sailed by he let rip with one of his more potent techniques. If it hit it had the same qualities as a telekinetic push, but into it the Loremaster poured something altogether more destructive. It was a strange energy, not coming from the darkness or the light but instead from somewhere in-between. A crude name for it would be combustion, although those touched by it did not actually burn. Instead they ruptured, bursting like ripe blisters wherever the power makes contact. It was potentially devastating, and when coupled with a push as Lecchamemnon did now it had the potential to blast an opponent to gory ribbons and scatter their remains far and wide. He usually reserved it for when he needed to make an example of someone the painful way, but he felt that Oseth merited some measure of effort on his part. The Sith deserved the honour of a proper fight, if nothing else.

Regardless of where Oseth landed (and regardless of whatever state the Sith might be in), Lecchamemnon continued his slide for a few more metres before kicking himself to his feet, arresting the slippery slide on the dome through nothing more than dextrous skill, grippy boots and just a touch of force energy to retain balance. He span quickly, facing Oseth with his blade still keen for more. He looked at it briefly, nodding slightly in acknowledgement of actually having to use his blade. Rain hissed off the incandescent luminescence of the blade itself, evaporating even as it kissed the mesmerising energy. A lightsaber truly was a beautiful weapon.

He began to gather force energy to him. A storm was brewing... Could Oseth weather it?

 

[D.C.]

Oseth flew over Lecchamemnon, and as if it came to protect him, like a loyal bodyguard, the Force formed a thin protective layer on his skin. Like a thin amour of sorts. It wasn't much, but at least it was something. Oseth wasn't even fully aware of it, he used the technique on instinct.

Lecchamemnon's deadly push hit his right leg, and the next moment Oseth felt a terrible sting. Fortunately, it hurt more than it was damaged, thanks to the weak shield Oseth had managed to create in a moment time.

He was thrown into the air and crashed down further up ahead on the roof, in the middle of a pool of rain water. His leg felt as if it was on fire. He sent some of his magical energy down to his leg and the pain subsided. The wound already began to heal, but slowly. The attack had left a nasty cut in his right leg, and blood seeped out of it, drenching his right pant leg. Soon, the wound would close and be healed by the Force, but for now the wound was still open. At least he didn't feel the pain and he could stand.

He stood to recollect Force energy. He took a deep breath. He eyed Lecchamemnon, holding his ignited lightsaber, and blinked. The Jedi had actually drawn the weapon. Why? O, yes, he needed it in order to deflect the lightning, but he could’ve put the glowing sword away, could he?

Oseth pondered for a few moments, whether or not to draw his own weapon. He decided not to do that. Not yet. He did not need it yet. No, not yet. He might need it later, but that was later. Now is now.

He assumed an Echani fighting stance and beckoned for the old Jedi to come at him. The Force swirled around the Wolf like a tornado of darkness, giving him strength and speed, amongst other things.

The predator didn’t smile. No, he did not. Lecchamemnon would handle the smiling for now, that was enough.

‘Still it’s obvious who’s got it, ay? The upper hand,’ Oseth grunted.

Lightning flashed and roared in the dark sky of Kamino. Rain clattered down on the roof. The two demons had only just begun. One holding a glowstick, the other fighting empty-handed, reserving his lightsaber for later usage.

‘Let’s go,’ the Sith suggested.

 

[Denzein]

Why does he use my own technique against me?

Oseth didn't know it, but he had just granted Lecchamemnon a generous gift.

The whispers of the force are a valuable asset to those with the wit to hear them...​

Oseth came down hard, and when he did so the water flowing about him on the roof was intermingled with blossoming crimson. Lecchamemnon had felt the burst connect, but not fully. He assumed that seeing as the Sith was even now pulling himself to his feet he had managed to dilute the blast somewhat, as had he not done so whatever had been touched by the fell technique would have been blasted into oblivion. Oseth would now have to heal the damage, and this would weaken and tire him. He spoke of upper hands... How quaint.

First blood to the Jedi. Lecchamemnon briefly wondered if these blows they were trading counted as the beginning of the inevitable war - To have the Jedi strike first would be a satisfying change of pace. Too long had the Sith held the role of aggressor in chief, it would do them good to learn to defend, to know the indignity of fending off blows without even considering retaliation simply because to fight back would be to die.

He watched the Sith assume the fighting stance of an Echani warrior, his lightsaber humming softly in his fist. Rain continued to sizzle and hiss, the wind continued to howl. The pair of them simply stared at eachother for a moment after the Sith Lord said his piece, before the Loremaster snapped of his blade and clipped it calmly back to his belt. He didn't talk back to his enemy, content to let Oseth handle the empty words now. To someone else his actions may have seemed odd, for why would you not instantly press the advantage with your blade drawn? The answer was simple: Lecchamemnon did not want this to end so quickly. He could bring his sword back to his hand in a fraction of a second had he need of it, and he sensed something else about Oseth now. He bristled with dark power, such that the Loremaster doubted his blade would be of much use as a defence against anything other than Sith Lightning, and Oseth had already seen how well that particular move had worked against him.

His storm was still brewing, but he didn't feel like giving the Sith Lord any respite. He gestured, and there was an almighty shriek of metal shorn clean in two. The main lightning rod, a vast lump of metallic alloy that weighed tons and was many times taller then either of the two of them began to fall as a tree turned to timber by a lumberjack. The wind was with its descent and so sped it on its way, the metal becoming a juggernaut of destruction with just one man in its path: Darth Oseth.

The force crackling about him Lecchamemnon watched and waited, judging and guessing at Oseth's next moves before the Sith even thought of the options.

It was not for nothing that Lecchamemnon had made their ways his life's work.

 

[D.C.]

Oseth saw the rod. He easily caught it with the Force and threw it away. It never even got close to him. He focused on the Force again and let it flow through his leg. He continued to heal the wound, it wouldn’t take long until it was fully healed.

He remained in his current position. The combat stance. He fixed his eyes on Lecchamemnon, but was well aware of his surroundings. He would know when the man attempted something again. He looked rather stern, determined to win.

As he healed, he slowly gathered more Force Energy, but not too much. The time to unleash his fury on the Jedi was coming, but not yet. Not just yet. He needed just a little more time.

He would let the Loremaster come.

 

[Denzein]

The distraction worked.

The moment the Sith unfocussed on Lecchamemnon he struck. It had been such a simple matter for Oseth to dismiss the felled cylinder of metal it still required concentration to do, and Lecchamemnon had never even intended for the lightning rod to do anything other than fail to hit his opponent. Instead he had waited patiently for the Sith to do the only thing that was sensible and remove the threat of the falling object to present him with an opening. The Sith had fallen right into the trap.

Faster than the eye could follow the Loremaster moved. The moment Oseth's concentration shifted he sped towards the Sith, the force crackling about him. Once he was about three metres from the Sith he stopped running, instead sliding along the slippery metal roofing. He was doing a number of things with the force, but the one most immediately relevant to Oseth was the massive blast of force energy that Lecchamemnon sent hurtling towards him from about two metres away, which is where he arrested his slide and stopped moving.

Provided the distracted Sith was hit (and flung back by the blast as it certainly had the potential to do - along with snapping bones and pulverising organs) Lecchamemnon would follow it up by leaping after the Sith, his blade whipping to his hand but not activating immediately. Instead he simply held it as a precaution against counter attack.

Such was the Loremaster's speed that he accomplished all this before even Oseth had turned back to face him after dealing with the rod. The Sith may have only taken a fraction of a second to cast the metal away, yet Lecchamemnon had used the opening to its fullest extent.

Time was nothing in the face of the force.

 

[D.C.]

If Oseth and Lecchamemnon were having a discussion about whether time was nothing in the face of the Force or that it indeed was something, then the discussion would've lasted no longer than a minute. Oseth fully agreed.

He felt the ripple in the Force, the Dark Side growing stronger for a moment. Signs, all signs. Oseth breathed the Dark Side, Oseth was the Dark Side. Of course he would recognize a Dark Side move. He knew Lecchamemnon was going to try to blast him with Dark Side energy and in the nick of time, he shot up into the air, launching himself as if he was a rocket.

He leapt over the blast, so fast that he almost became invisible, avoiding it completely, and landed farther up the roof, behind Lecchamemnon. Perhaps the Loremaster thought he had been blasted away, because the one moment he stood there and the next he was gone.

He let the Force heal him, and soon the wound would close. He didn't spend much energy at all, but Lecchamenon did. O, yes he did. No Force User, not even the best, could last long if he kept on using such heavy techniques. They wore you out, there was no denying that.

It was one of the many rules of the Force. One had to obey them. They were the only unbreakable rules.

He assumed a fighting stance again, because from that stance he could easily move out of the way if necessary.

 

[Denzein]

So the coward fled once more. Lecchamemnon might have considered it amusing, if it wasn't so pathetic. If this Oseth was a typical example of a Sith Lord, then the Sith Order had become woefully weak over the years. He'd only taken mild lacerations and yet he ran before the Loremaster as if he were a demon from beyond.

In some ways he was right to.

It was true that Lecchamemnon could not keep this level of attack up indefinitely, as it was with even the greatest of force users. Saying that, however, was akin to saying that a star must at some point die. His oneness with the force was immense, so immense that if he had to tear Tipoca city apart atom by atom to capture or kill Oseth he would do so. He had more than enough power to continue the fight for as long as it took, although he did not expect it to take much longer now. The Sith was almost healed... He would attack again soon. Lecchamemnon was ready.

Oseth leapt, and Lecchamemnon followed, backflipping smoothly from his landing. While he flew through the air he laughed, although there was no joy in in. A cold man voicing coldness... The sound was cruel to the ear. Even the storm above could not drown out Lecchamemnon's sound, despite it being many times louder. He ignited his lightsaber once more, done with play.

He landed behind Oseth, the force rippling powerfully as he did so. He had no doubt the Sith would detect his movements from the ripple, but he didn't much care. It was unavoidable, much better to consider the move after that the Sith could not predict. He took a step into saber range and struck with his blade, aiming to amputate Oseth's right arm just above the elbow with a guarded sweeping attack. He attacked with all the speed of a viper, and if the attack was not blocked he would finish it up by following the sweep through and removing Oseth's right leg above the knee. The sudden change in tactic would likely surprise the Sith, for a blade is much harder to block than the force when at close quarters...

 

[D.C.]

The Wolf was as fast as Lecchamemnon, if not faster. He felt Lecchamemnon behind him in the Force. Then, it was as if the Force patted him on the shoulder and whispered into his ear: 'Get out of the way!'

He pivoted at the moment Lecchamemnon struck. While he spun to the left, he drew his own sword. The crimson blade ignited with a hiss. Holding his saber in his right hand, he pivoted so that he faced Lecchamemnon's left side.

Oseth slashed horizontally, from right to left, at Lecchamemnon's exposed back, aiming to cut the man into two. He had completely avoided Lecchamemnon's slash.