Colonel Shanree Argentin vs. Adept Celevon Werd'a

The darkest rooms of the Tempest Crown Cantina hide many secrets, shady dealings, and unsavory types. The Backroom Ring is one of those secrets. Known to many as top tier entertainment on Nancora, but restricted, open to only those who can pay to fight. And it is lucrative.

Fifty feet in length and width, the Backroom Ring is a square room used long ago as a water cistern, now repurposed into a bloody combat arena. The ceiling is low enough for the taller fighters to feel claustrophobic whilst the walls are layered in dented durasteel plating equipped with shock prods and deadly spikes. Humid air fills the room along with the stench of sweat and bile. Neon lights dot the ceiling in the middle of the room, splashing color and shadows in circles further out. No seating arrangements are available, only cam droids showing live feeds on the cantina screens. Speakers bolted into the walls spread the crowd's cheers in the ring, blasting fighters with their energy.

The ring is segmented into square panels, each capable of independent activation. Pressure plates hidden beneath the surface trigger traps when stepped on. Most panels do nothing, but some discharge electrical bursts strong enough to stagger even armored fighters. Others superheat, glowing dull orange before cooling, forcing constant movement. Some panels are purposefully unstable, collapsing underfoot without warning, to disrupt balance. Many and varied traps exist underneath the floor, constantly innovated on and changed from day to day. Gravity projectors under the arena can alter gravity, making combatants float or pinning them to the floor. The ceiling hides gas vents, misting combatants with stimulants or pacifying and disorientating them.

There is no place for elaborate maneuvers here, no space to breathe or rest. The Backroom Ring is made for pure close combat. No high ground, no distance, only brutality as panic and pain close in.

A younger man stepped into the low-ceilinged chamber. Shanree stood on the far end of the room from him where the sliding metal door had deposited him moments earlier. The middle aged Miralukan had clearly taken a wrong turn as he’d been skulking the back passageways of the Syndicate’s cantina front. Shanree had been searching for the boss’s office, a place where he could slice into a terminal and retrieve the information Army Special Activities Group needed to anticipate the criminal organization’s next moves in Nancora. Instead of a secluded office and a terminal he found himself opposite a man he’d met years previously. That he was here, now, was deeply concerning.

“Don’t tell me you work for these thugs, Cel.”

The younger man stopped after the sliding door he’d entered through closed behind him, sealing the two of them into the relatively small chamber, “Colonel Argentin? Well… Isn’t this a surprise?”

“You didn’t answer my question Werd’a”, Shanree reached up and over his shoulder for one of the Wroshyr wood lightsaber hilts he wore in sheaths back there, “what are you doing here?”

Celevon flexed his head to one side, allowing his neck to pop in a satisfying manner, “I enjoy the sport of a good death match. Celestials forbid, can’t a man have a hobby?”

Shanree drew his weapon from over his shoulder but did not ignite the emerald blade within it, “Cel… I really don’t have time for this.”

“According to the rules Colonel, this chamber is the only thing you need to concern yourself with until one of us is dead. Two enter, one leaves. Thems the rules.” Celevon grinned sardonically, “If you surrender now I’ll make it quick and dignified for you. What do you say?”

“I say fat chance”, Shanree lunged forward with preternatural speed.

The Wroshyr wood hilt in his hand swung with the ruthless efficiency of long practice and use. Shanree moved with a grace and ease that belied his advancing age, honed from long years and hours of physical training, martial arts practice, and combat scenarios just like this. He wielded the dense limb of wood like a fighting stick. Celevon dodged and weaved his body around Shanree’s swings, stepping lightly on feet long-accustomed to dancing in the circle of a death match. He juked at the waist, twisting his shoulders under a strike that could have broken his elbow, before he drew a bladed knife with snake-like speed. Shanree used his free hand to push Cel’s hand away, redirecting it as he plunged the dagger towards his heart. The Miralukan threw his right shoulder into Celevon’s chest, hitting him with the full force of his weight. When the Shaevalian stumbled backwards a step, Shanree pressed the attack by following up with an elbow to the man’s breast bone.

Shanree used his own growing momentum, and the space created by the staggered Celevon, to wind up a spinning back-kick. He was in the middle of the leaping spin when Cel’s foot triggered a pressure pad behind him. A blast of hot air hit the two men from behind Celevon. Shanree was blown backwards into a tumbled which he recovered from with a barrel roll over his shoulder. The breathless Celevon was caught from behind and pushed forward onto his hands and knees. He looked up, panting as air returned to his burning lungs behind the sore sport on his breast bone.

Cel’s face was a snarl of satisfaction and competitiveness, “You’ve got to be careful of those triggers, Old Man.”

Celevon looked down and, as he was expecting, saw another pressure plate. He had a good idea of what it did from his previous experiences fighting in this room. He slammed a fist down on it and looked up to watch.

Thump-thump.

A heartbeat passed.

Then two.

As Celevon continued to breathe in the humid air and stench that had been momentarily super-heated, he couldn’t help but wonder if this pressure pad had no effect. Across from him, the Miraluka looked back, a tensed hand tightly gripping the hilt of one of the Arcanist’s lightsabers. Wary.

Then a barely audible hum in the background ceased beneath them.

Slowly, a sense of weightlessness overcame both combatants as the Gravity Projector altered and both rose into the air.

“... Well, I can't say that I was expecting that,” the Seeker quipped out of habit more than anything, organic and cybernetic eyes taking in the numerous shock prods and spikes lining the walls. Only as a last resort would he consider touching those.

The grin returned as a thought occurred to the half-Shaevalian, grip tightening around the hilt of the dagger that the Odanite had somehow held onto during the earlier tumble. Celevon’s other arm reached behind him and unleashed a blast of emerald flame.

Unbidden, a shout escaped the younger of the two as he was propelled toward Shanree far faster than he had expected.

His opponent’s hand going behind him had been warning enough for the Colonel, who reached out with the Force to push himself out of the path of Celevon’s slashing Sith dagger. The rush of Force energy had sent the Miraluka into a somersault mid-air.

As he came out of his turn, Shanree heard a groan mixed with cheers from the speakers beneath pained swearing. The Arcanist had a brief moment to wonder before he finished the turn to see smoke rising from the twitching younger male.

The Seeker had slammed into one of the durasteel-plated walls. Whilst his armor had protected him from the spikes, the beskar metal had enhanced the properties of the shock prods, which acted as a conductor. The Miraluka’s eyebrow slowly rose at the vociferous, multi-lingual litany of swear words... some of which he was fairly certain were anatomically impossible.

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth, Werd’a?”

Celevon glared back and swung a fist out toward Shanree, off-arm jerked back to add momentum. From the clenched hand came a burst of emerald flame, headed straight for his face.

Reflexes honed from decades of combat training and battle experience kicked in. Instinctively calling on the Force, Shanree responded with a burst of telekinetic energy that dispersed the flames safely before it then slammed into the half-Umbaran. As a result, the younger man was bounced off of the wall once more.

A pained yell was torn from the Seeker’s lips as his body spasmed uncontrollably, answered by a roar of approval from the spectators. Their cheers rose in volume as Celevon used that agony, sending a more condensed lance of fire.

The Gravity Projectors re-engaged in time, which allowed the Miraluka to safely drop, tuck and roll beneath the fiery projectile.

Shanree’s thumb hovered over the activation switch of his lightsaber, arm extended at the ready.

The Odanite grasped the Sith Dagger from where it had fallen in his off-hand, simultaneously drawing the Force-Imbued Blade from over his shoulder as he rose to his feet.

His wariness was understandable, as to the Arcanist’s senses an inferno seemed to grow from within and outside of the half-Shaevalian. Emerald flames spread to cloak the Seeker as though he were covered in accelerant, going from the armor to slowly encompass both blades.

Harmless to Celevon and his gear.

The Miraluka? Not so much as the heat levels within the chamber climbed.

On the plus side, the miasma of old blood and vomit was gone.

Shanree recoiled from the sudden heat of the flames, shielding his face with his left arm. He took several steps back but stopped when he heard the cackling of electrical discharges behind him, a row of evenly spaced prods lined the chamber’s walls on all sides. Celevon was on him without hesitation, lurching forward with a hacking strike of his longer blade. Shanree used his Wroshyr wood lightsaber hilt to bat away the attack, hitting the flat of the blade and knocking it aside. The Arcanist thrust with the dagger forcing Shanree to give ground and dodge. With the armored mass of his opponent engulfed in flames this close the heat was almost too much to bear. The Taldryanite wove under a slash and used his foot to kick away another probing thrust of the dagger. He leapt and spun, planting a rear kick on Celevon’s chest causing a spray of sparks and flames, but it only opened a little space between them. The added weight of his heavy armor gave Cel, who was otherwise essentially the same size and weight as Shanree, something of an advantage there.

Seeking that space, Shanree darted sideways giving more ground. He felt a plate shift under his foot as he moved, accompanied by a click as something activated. Nozzles set into the wall flooded the small chamber in a thick white smoke that quickly filled the entire room. It smelled sweet, like a marshmallow, and slightly oily. It was a smell that the old soldier recognized well, having spent years throwing and utilizing countless hundreds of thousands and devices containing the stuff. He also knew it wasn’t combustible. Lacking eyes sometimes was its own advantage; Shanree could perceive Celevon’s location perfectly as the thick smoke descend upon them, while the other man was clearly unable to see anything judging by his defensive posture and the uncertainty in his body language. Cel was facing him, able to sense his vague location in the Force, but with that certain Miralukan way of seeing Shanree could easily pin-point him.

Shanree began sweeping his arms through the air before him, his fingers splayed and clawed as they grasped at something unseen. He allowed his shoulders to sway as his arms circled. The air in the chamber began to race, quickly swirling around them and gathering up the smoke. He opened his arms out wide and then collapsed his hands together, the left clasping over his right which still held his saber hilt. The smoke swirled around Celevon who was buffeted by the rush of air around him. The smoke surrounded and encased the Arcanist who slashed about wildly seeking to fend off, or at the very least dissuade, the attack he was certain was coming but unable to see. The swirling smoke collapsed in on him and turned black as the flames of Celevon’s armor and weapon were snuffed out from lack of oxygen.

He released his grip on the tempest of air and launched his attack at last. Celevon recovered his balance in time to see Shanree’s Wroshyr wood saber hilt swinging at his armored head. The dense length of wood from Kashyyyk connected with the man’s Beskar helm which filled the chamber with the loud clang of metal that echoed off of the hard walls and surfaces around them. Cel was on his backfoot when the second strike connected with his helmet, again ringing his bell. He roared gutterally, throwing his arms out to either side. Shanree was thrown backwards by an invisible wall that hurled him bodily through the air. He hit the ceiling hard but landed on his feet all the same.

The Colonel reached out and with his open left hand he clenched at the air and pulled. An unseen hand latched itself around the Shaevalian’s ankle and pulled him off of his feet. With both hands Shanree grasped at something before him. He turned his palms up and lifted his arms as if heaving something. Celevon was thrown upwards into the ceiling above him before the same unseen force slammed him back into the floor again. Dazed and breathless he flailed helplessly on the ground. Shanree did not give him time to recover; he fell into a Teras Kasi stance with his left foot forward. His left hand pushed forward as well, his palm open and held with practiced rigidity. The armored man was hurled into the wall behind him with a deafening clamor. He crumpled to the ground, landing on his hands and knees more by accident than intention, but was hurled once more into the wall behind him– again with the clamor of crashing Beskar’gam.

Celevon would not quit however. Drunkenly he tried to climb to his feet from his hands and knees. Shanree really did not want to kill him. He did not know the Shaevalian all that well but they had fought together across the surface of Arx, and they’d each saved one-another’s lives. Celevon swayed on his feet, but his eyes seemed fixed on Shanree under his armored visor. A prickle ran down Shanree’s spine moments before his opponent drew a slug thrower from a holster on his side with preternatural speed. The concussion of three explosions filled the small combat chamber as the slugthrower fired. The solid slugs sizzled as they impacted the emerald blade of light that had emerged from Shanree’s saber hilt, the snap-hiss of its activation having been lost in the cacophony of the firearm’s discharges.

The Shaevalian tracked Shanree as the Colonel dove sidewise, and he fired three more times emptying the revolver of rounds. The first two slugs missed but the third found Shanree’s thigh. The round slammed into his light armor and, though the round’s energy had been greatly diminished, pierced his flesh and buried itself beside the bone. Shanree hissed in pain as he landed on his side and barrel rolled into a kneeling position. The Force rushed to the puncture wound and relieved him temporarily of having to concern himself with the pain. Frustrated, Cel threw the slugthrower at Shanree only to watch it be caught in the Colonel’s off-hand. Shanree threw it back at its owner who caught it with his helmet’s face plate, snapping his head back.

This was the moment. Shanree pushed with the Force again, thrusting a flat palm forward. Celevon hit the wall behind him again with a clang. Shanree pulled him forward and then slammed him backwards once more. Odanite’s armor was impressive and rather impervious, but the laws of physics didn’t care when applied to the spongey meatbag protected within. Cel was already limp when Shanree heard the cackle of the electrical prods behind him. He grasped the motionless, unconscious figure of Celevon in his invisible fists and pulled with as much bodily strength as he could muster. 100kg of man and Mandalorian Iron flew across the chamber and collided with the far wall. The electrical prods discharged their fury into the armor clad man, shorting out several systems in the chamber’s walls. Smoke began venting from nozzles again, jets of flames and wind issued from ports in the ceiling, and the lights flickered. Celevon’s limbs twitched angrily as electrical current surged through him uncontrollably. The door that Shanree had entered the chamber mistakenly through hissed as it slid open, its locking mechanisms shorted by Celevon’s death. Shanree took that as a sign to leave and he promptly did, leaving his opponent posed in rigor mortis against the wall. He limped from the room before the Syndicate could figure out what to do next.

The Force surged within the cell, a warning screamed to his senses before the part-Shaevalian blurred forward, which gave Shanree more than enough time to flick the activation switch of his lightsaber. An emerald blade erupted into existence with a snap-hiss, maneuvered to catch the Seeker’s weapons. The Miraluka scowled and pushed his opponent back.

He had given Celevon more than enough warnings; the Colonel had a task to complete.

When the Odanite moved in, Force-Imbued blade slashed in an upward trajectory from below, Shanree shunted the blow aside and leapt into a high somersault over his opponent and through the flames. Celevon twisted to where he would be, dagger coming up in a reverse grip toward the Colonel’s throat. As he finished the flip, the Arcanist’s blade flicked out.

There was a clatter as everything below the elbow, above the Beskar Vambrace, landed on the ground between them. The flames died instantly on that limb, left hand still clenched around the Sith dagger.

As the part-Shaevalian continued the maneuver, his elbow slammed into Shanree’s nose.

Before the blow landed, the Miraluka had been offered a brief glimpse at the severed limb. And the sparks of exposed wiring from a damaged cybernetic.

Momentarily stunned, the Arcanist blindly released a shove of Force energy that audibly sent Celevon stumbling back and prevented a killing blow. Shanree quickly felt his nose and discovered that it was, indeed, broken.

He grasped it between two knuckles and jerked it back into its proper place. A gasp escaped his lips at the flash of pain and felt a trickle of liquid before the coppery taste of blood hit his tongue.

The Colonel looked toward the Odanite to find the man glaring at him. Before the part-Shaevalian opened his mouth, Shanree leapt forward, emerald blade whirling into an overhand slash. The Force-Imbued Blade, still coated in flame, swept left to knock the plasma blade aside.

The Miraluka used the momentum to twist around and brought his leg up in a spinning kick, which sent the unbalanced Seeker a step back. Not wasting a moment, Shanree brought his lightsaber down hard on the still-extended Force-Imbued Blade.

There was a screech of the weapon as it skidded across the floor and smacked into the wall.

The crowd cheering in the background rose as the Colonel pointed the tip of his lightsaber at the Odanite, who slowly raised his hands as he took another step back. The blazing emerald inferno seeped back within the Seeker, vanishing as though it had never been present.

Shanree’s brows furrowed at the show of surrender. From what he recalled of the man, that was not something in the Seeker’s character. He noticed the small gestures of Celevon’s flesh hand just as—

The Force screamed a warning and the Miraluka whirled around, emerald blade swung wide in a diagonal slash. There was a hard impact against the beam of plasma before something clanked to the ground.

The Arcanist found himself staring down at the severed cybernetic forearm, still clutching the Sith dagger. Something evaded yet tugged at his memory as he stared at the false limb, from the black colored cloth to the Mandalorian Vambrace.

Snickt.

Then white-hot pain as something pierced his back along with an impact of an open palm.

His mind provided an answer through the haze of agony. A mental flash of the Seeker fighting and killing enemies alongside him with blades that sprang from the Vambraces.

That blade twisted with another bright flare of agony. Shanree could hear the roar of the crowd through the speakers.

Then he felt an arm wrap around him from behind as the sharp agony retreated with a metallic sound. He faintly heard the whisper of an apology from the other man.

“Sorry, mate. You didn’t deserve this, but it was you or me. May you find peace in the Force.”