Competition: [GJW XII Event Long] Combat Writing - Collective Strike

All the Moonmen want things their way
But we make sure they see the sun

Muz rose slowly, drawing himself up to his full height, the sunset tones of his lightsaber blades retreating into their hilts with an electric slickness. The Huntresses lay around him, limbs strewn in a wild array, the handiwork of a few moments of the saberist's attention. The cold predatory eyes slid up, regarding the horizon, the blackened scarring of his eyes hiding what exactly, if anything, he was focusing on.

The wind tore through the valley, a rush of sand and rust particles sweeping across everything, flecking the Devaronian's black beard with bits that used to be important a hundred years ago. He grunted, raising his hand, the rocket screaming from the wrist launcher in a dismissive gesture. It spiraled toward his foe, a trail of smoke visible before the wind tore even that away.

The Lion tilted his head in confusion, the rocket exploding in front of him, the faint image of a violet tinged sphere appearing for a moment behind the flames. He stepped forward, pushing sabers into their holsters at his waist, a measured and steady gait as he moved toward the alien. It took a few moments before recognition bloomed in his eyes.

"Ashen." He said the name as if it were a malicious curse. The Devaronian bolted to the side, making his way toward an oversized pile of wreckage, the only sort of feature that the Badlands had to offer. Muz kept his pace, slowly walking toward him, as inevitable as death.

"I know you." he snarled, angling himself, worming his big frame through a narrow crevasse, backing himself up, trying to find a defensible position, a place that could funnel the famed saberist into attacking from only one angle while still giving him the room to maneuver.

The crack of shattering rubble filled his ears, the crack widening as the Lion approached, bits of debris cascading from the broken pieces like rain. "Kerwin Drake." The Lion spoke, his words reverborating in the Devaronian's ears and his head. There was no mistaking the green skin and black bearded alien from the dossier that the Consul had provided. Muz kept his pace, his head swinging to look at the narrowing gulch, the unstable earth and ruins before a half smile crept up his lips as his advantage crumbled.

Kerwin turned himself sideways, lowering his center of gravity as his electrostaff snapped to life. "You could surrender."

The snap of lightsaber ignition was his only response.

Kerwin reacted with rage, launching himself at the man, his staff snarling forward to catch the Lion in the chest, but finding himself short by a few feet. Ashen's feet carried him aside the strike, a fast metal hand crashing against the Devaronian's horn. The shockwave sent echoes of pain through his skull that he shook off, breaking backwards to give himself a little distance. Ashen kept moving toward him, the same steady gait, even as his saber rose to meet the illuminated end of his electrostaff. He alternated his strikes, some the man simply dodging, the others intercepted by violet blade. Kerwin was good, better with a staff than anyone he had ever met, and he could not find an opening in the Grand Master's defenses. He felt a bead of sweat on his brow as he moved, buying time and life with each strike, every step backward. He had seen the holos, he had heard the rumors, and he did not understand why the Keibatsu hadn't attacked yet. The thought raised his pulse. He had seen the holos, after all.

"You could surrender." Ashen repeated the words Kerwin had said, half a smile still playing across his face. He tarried a moment, his mind racing to the twins, Den tugging on Ira's horns as they chased each other through their home. Happier times, before the Lotus, before the Collective. He sneered at the Lord, pointed teeth bared as he contemplated options, his staff bouncing forward as if by rote. Who would take care of them? Who would feed them, make sure their clothes were clean, that they got to bed on time?

Kerwin bounded backwards, out of range, his hands slipping toward the power switch on the staff. Perhaps they would take him back, station him somewhere safe, out of the reach of the brotherhood's political backstabbings and open warfare. Perhaps he would be able to watch the twins grow rather than the angry blades of the Lion as he walked toward him. He shut down the staff, lowering himself to one knee, resting the staff on the rusty earth, averting his eyes in the old signs of respect. After all, if he fell here, who would take care of the twins?

The blade screamed through his neck, and he could taste the burnt blood on the back of his tongue as his head rolled forward.

Rath Oligard would.

Again a submission focussing around the idea that more than only Rath Oligard are former members of the DB and thus eventually create situations where former friends are forced to face each other on different sides now, Anyways have fun reading and judging this ;)

Sometimes to win, all you need is someone to let down their guard.