Adept Farrin Xies Tarentae vs. Golden Envoy Karracca

You had arrived on Arx after hearing word of a fighting tournament. It had been set up by the Combat Master and had been advertised as a Revival of the long held tradition of naming a Champion of the Antei Combat Center. As you had arrived at the signup table after waiting in line, you were met by a Trandoshan who looked you up and down, said nothing, and slid a form attached to a clipboard to you. A cheap chain linked a pen to the clipboard.

You read it over and it was a standard legal waiver noting that you could not hold the Combat Master or the Brotherhood liable for any injuries or even potential death that occurred during the tournament. You were entering this tournament of your own free will. Any and all repercussions of doing so were at no one’s fault but your own.

You signed, and the Trandoshan hissed with delight as he pointed to a door behind the table. A cheap paper sign was taped to the door that read “ACC Championship Introductory Meeting” in what looked to be felt-tipped black marker. You stepped inside the dark room and that is the last thing you remember until you woke up just now.

The world around you was dark… and soft. The area that you lay on felt just a bit more firm than a standard pillow. A quick check of yourself revealed that you still wore and carried everything you had when you had signed the waiver. While vision was extremely limited, you could tell that someone else was in the room with you. Four ceiling lights clicked on, one at a time, giving the room a bright glow beneath the four lights, but an eerie darkness outside of their radiance. You were in a padded room with a barred and sealed door. Every surface of the room was covered in thick, firm padded square tiles. You lay on a bed made of the same material in one corner of the room, while someone laid in another bed in the opposite corner. It was too dark to make out their figure well.

A holoprojection dropped from the ceiling, giving the room a pale blue glow. It was Combat Master Vincent Brujah. The Sith smirked as he began speaking.

“So, you’ve signed up for the tournament? Where I come from, that makes you a little crazy. I’ve taken you to a more appropriate environment for someone with your condition.”

As he smiled, pink mist began spraying from the ceiling at the same location as the lights. Slowly, what little you could see of the full room began to tint pink. The Combat Master’s smile grew wider.

“And if you weren’t crazy before… well… we can fix that. The effects of this drug will be pleasant… at first. You must be careful, though. Take too big of a dose and things can get downright terrifying, or so I’ve heard. Prolonged exposure will result in death.”

He shrugged slightly.

“The only way out of this room and into safe air is when I tell my crew to open the door, and I’m only going to do that when there is one of you left capable of walking away. Until then, enjoy the ride.”

The holoprojection blinked away. There was no starting whistle. No horn. No audience. Just silence, dim light, and the realization that the longer you sit there, the closer you would come to death.

Farrin sighed, running his hands through his thinning hair as he took in the scene around him. I've been in worse... and probably weirder, he thought, half-remembered drunken hazes flashing quickly through his memory. He had to admit, this was a first while completely sober, though. He regarded the pink mist that was slowly beginning to seep into the room and decided he didn't care to remain in the padded cell longer than necessary, just in case the Combat Master's boasts had any truth to them. After sliding off the bed - and quickly and surreptitiously patting his weapons, both obvious and hidden - he pulled himself up to his full, slight height and strode to the door. The Elder balled his hand into a fist and banged on the door, the padding muffling it far more than he would have liked.

"Hello! There's been some sort of mistake, I need to speak to the Combat Master at once!"

Farrin's voice took on an imperious tone, clearly that of someone used to giving orders - and of having them followed. After a beat where he expected a response and was annoyed to not get one, he banged on the door again.

"I neither know nor care who is in here with me, but I'm clearly not supposed to be locked up in a cell right now. I signed up for the tournament, I have no idea why I've been put here."

Frustration began to seep into his voice and he coughed as the mist began to mildly irritate his throat. He muttered unkind thoughts and curses about the ineptitude of the Combat Master and his staff before he finally turned to regard the other figure in the corner of the room. Focusing his senses, everything in the room sharpened with crystal-clear clarity. The former Headmaster studied the Wookiee still sprawled out on the other bed, searching his memory for anything that would tell him who his fellow prisoner was. It wasn't a surprise that nothing was coming to him, as Farrin had had little contact with most of the rest of the Brotherhood during his recent self-imposed exile. Moving his cloak to the side, he rested his left hand on the hilt of one of his blasters and called out in much the same tone that had gone unanswered to the door.

"You there, Wookiee. I have no desire to sit in this room longer than necessary, so get up and help me or I'll be forced to take action against you."

Farrin waited by the door, expectantly. After a moment, he realized that the Wookiee had made no effort to move. Grumbling and with his frustration mounting, he strode toward the prone form huddled in the opposite corner. Hands on his hips, he sneered down at his cellmate.

“Now see here, you should listen to your betters. Get up, and help me-”

Almost like a hairy rocket, the Wookiee leapt off the bed toward the diminutive former Imperial. Only the slightest hint from the Force that something was amiss allowed Farrin to narrowly avoid a sharpened claw to the throat. He rolled backward to give himself space from his newly-minted foe, the hilts of his lightsabers jumping to his palms as he slid with practiced ease into the Shien form - left foot forward, facing the Wookie, his left hand gripping the hilt as he had been taught in the Shadow Academy so many years ago while his right hand held its hilt in reverse. With his eyes narrowing angrily and the white light of his weapons shining, he growled across the room.

“We could have done this the easy way, but that clearly wasn’t good enough for you. So be it.”

Scowling, he thrust his left hand forward as what likely felt akin to an invisible sledgehammer slammed into the Wookie’s chest and threw him against the padded wall. What a waste of my time… and Brujah will definitely be hearing from me when this is dealt with, Farrin thought, struggling to contain his anger and annoyance.

Karracca pushed himself off the wall with an elbow and grinned. His opening gambit had not been nearly as successful as he had hoped. He had remained lucid but in his usual meditational, or napping state until the reddish haired man had eventually approached.

“We can still do this the easy way.” Karracca roared and then quickly realized that it was highly likely that the stranger was not one of the few galactic denizens who could comprehend his native tongue.

The Wookie gently raised his hand towards what he had discerned to be his first round opponent, as if to say ‘just a second’. He then reached out with the Force and spoke directly into the mind of pint-sized human whom Karracca could sense easily rivalled or exceeded his own powers and training.

*“I am Golden Envoy Karracca, a strategist on the Exarch's staff. The announcement stated only one of us may leave on our feet, not leave alive. I am a Jedi, and I vow I will not harm you any more than I must to prevail in our match. Good luck to you.” The enormous and appearingly elderly Wookie locked eyes with Farrin for a moment before Farrin simply nodded, though the Jedi wasn't quite sure what the man was actually signalling in the affirmative to.

Karracca returned the nod and fraction of a second later his lightsaber whipped off of his belt, into his hand and ignited.

“And to you, furball.” The Imperials' inherent sense of superiority over non-human clearly shined through. He ignited his own sabre.

The two circled as if mirroring each other and both launched a few casual probing attacks to no great effect.

“A fellow practitioner of the Niman form, I see.” Farrin taunted as their sabres whipped and cracked during a series of strikes, parries, and reposts.

“Clearly I am less refined at it than you.” Karracca growled, not caring if the man actually understood. It was quickly becoming clear that when it came to a straight lightsaber duel, he was out matched. Given the tight confine and relatively low ceiling that would negate much of Karracca's power and strength advantage, he was doubly handicapped.

The old Wookie was able to parry a strike from Farrin and he could sense the short, lithe man's frustration growing. Karracca capitalized by swiftly cracking his foe in the side of the head with an elbow before lashing out with a vicious front kick that landed hard against Farrin's gut and sent him sprawling half way across the room.

The Jedi didn't need his Force senses to be aware of the anger that grew within the man that was busy scrambling back to his feet with a grunt.

“Don't make me break both of your legs pal.” Karracca roared full throatedly, trying to project some false bravado, before parrying another flurry of swift but haphazard strikes from Farrin.

In an instant Karracca narrowly ducked to avoid a whirling back handed sabre strike. He was able to briefly grab Farrin wrist before the Imperial shoved his hand towards the Wookie and again sent him reading back into a wall without ever touching him.

Karracca groaned slightly as he felt the sharp pang of a presumably cracked rib on the upper left side of his chest.

For a brief instant he considered yielding to the clearly superior Force user, before disregarding the notion as more likely to actually see him killed at the hands of this speciesist piece of sith.