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.