BAC Shadow; Mess Hall:
The Qel-Droman Flagship’s mess hall is made up of rows of steel tables, perfectly lined up in an almost compulsive fashion. A ‘U’ shaped bar is positioned in the far corner, stocking a wide variety of alcohols, the barstools are usually reserved for the most senior members of the House while the lower ranks tend to take place in the uniformed and uncomfortable cantina chairs.
“Sashar has brought his lightsaber, LJ-50 conc rifle, SSK-7 pistol, Thunderer-6 pistol, Noghri sickle and a length of metal wire with Llats stocking a DLT-20A, A280 rifle and DH-1. You know the rules, and if you don't then tough luck because you really should. Good luck and have fun gentlemen.”
Zandro turned on his heel and walked away, his cloak swishing out behind him as he stalked from the room, the two combatants now alone and the match officially underway.
[OOC – Sashar to post first]
Sashar given extension to 2359 GMT Sunday
It always came out of the blue like this. A shot. An explosion. A knife. Even with all the preternatural abilities the force granted, it did not grant one immortality. [Expletive Deleted] Sidious. [Expletive Deleted] Plagueis. Both were mystic hacks too obsessed with the meaning of power to be able to understand the simple joy of loving and being loved in return. This time the bullet that tore through Sashar’s rib-cage, splintered his ribs like balsa wood, mulched his lungs and shot out the front leaving an exit wound the size of a [Expletive Deleted]ing tennis ball was an emotional one. It was the second time he’d ever opened up. Trusted someone. It was the second time in life that love had royally screwed him up and he was in a muderering mood. Something on this sad little ship was going to die.
Rage boiled off him like heat from a furnace, and Zandro’s raised eyebrow wasn’t even acknowledged by the Consul – he never opened up with his own problems to his brothers; merely remained available in the event that they needed him. It was a bone of contention in the family, but Sashar was too set in his ways. Unfortunately, once every few years, his ways left him ready to tear someone limb from limb because he simply didn’t have another vent for his emotions other than extreme violence.
Even Llats could sense the Consul’s rage. He knew he hadn’t done anything to trigger it; which left precisely one problem – he was now the target. The punching bag. The deader.
With a bitten off snarl, Sashar yanked his Concussion Rifle from its resting position over his back, rose up to a firing position and stabbed the trigger.
Llats allowed the force to course through him [BOS] and flung himself to the side. He was almost fast enough, too. The pulsating blue energy erupted against the far wall and sent tables, chairs and assorted detritus flying in all directions. It also caught Llats mid-dive and sent him bouncing off the wall with bone breaking force. Sashar didn’t relent. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t even wait for the Mandalorian to get up.
Instead, he adjusted his aim accordingly and squeezed off another round, intent on bludgeoning his opponent into submission at range.
Llats forfeited the battle. Sashar wins and moves to the next round.