The Games (IG-RO) - Macron, Tra'an, Masika

“The stadium was packed full, brimming with eager, blood-thirsty fans. Antei’s newly refurbished Coliseum bristled with raw emotion. The Independence Games were underway and the audience wanted to see carnage. They wanted to see death. Most of all, they wanted to see victory.

Three combatants entered the arena from the ground-level entrances from different directions. Before them lay the great expanse of the sandy field of battle; already littered with stains of the defeated and departed. Broken weapons, and various traps and obstacles dotted the terrain. The three took their first steps into the Arena; the crash of heavy gates overtook them as their means of escaped vanished. Clad only in minimal leather armor, they would find ancient weapons scattered about the field. Three entered. Only one would leave.

Standing from his ornate throne in the special suite reserved for the Dark Lord alone, the Lion of Tarthos raised his hands signaling for the crowd to grow quite. With a powerful and steady voice he announced, “Dark Citizens, I welcome you! Let the match commence!”

OOC: Each participant will have three posts, one in each round. A round is concluded when all three participants have posted. You will have assigned posting orders in each round listed below

Macron will post first in Round 1, second in Round 2, and third in Round 3.
Tra'an will post second in Round 1, third in Round 2, and first in Round 3.
Masika will post third in Round 1, first in Round 2, and second in Round 3.

Each participant has 24hrs to post or they forfeit that round and lose all participation points for this event, though they will still score in Grammar and Contribution categories. Participants may post the moment the person before them fails to post in time. All edits must be made before the next post is up and cannot be made once they are.

The First round begins with Macron. Good luck.

The dusty sands of the arena were littered with the carcasses and remains from many battles. It was a gory sight, a literal charnel house of both weapons and bodies. Puffs of smoke rose from antique weapons, ruined beyond any normal use. Nearby a sword stood at attention, rammed through the body of a dead Gungan. Macron smiled appreciatively at the corpse’s death grimace. It looked like the Gungan had died hard, and that was pleasing. Any dead Gungan was pleasing, in fact. He wished he had time to disfigure the body further and add insult to injury but the time was not right.

The insane Sith surveyed the arena. The shouts and screams of the bloodthirsty crowd were music to his evil ears. Muz’s words rang in them… “Let the match commence!” The crowd roared in approval. Their thirst for blood was unholy. Even a normal crowd anywhere else in the galaxy could be gluttons for blood, but this crowd of dark jedi and their followers were particularly sanguine. The lust for brutality and pain was an almost palatable feeling in the air. The Dark side seemed to congeal in the Coliseum, hungry for the spilled blood and life essence of those who would soon die on it's thirsty sands.

“Excellent, excellent”, tittered the madman to himself as he eyed his opponents. The archaeologist in him longed to examine the treasures scattered about, but there was no time. He was here to kill, not to dig. Both were enjoyable, but brutalizing hapless flesh was much more so.

Masika he knew. She was his student’s student, Mirado’s Journeyman. “How ironic”, thought the Warlord. “It’s a freakin’ family reunion”. She would have been undoubtedly trained well by her Master. Macron had literally beaten preparedness and tenacity into Mirado, and his Apprentice was sure to possess those same traits. The Sith noted her grasping an ancient straight sword from the rubble, freeing it from a mass of smashed wood and wreckage. She hunkered behind a pile of smoking rubble, orange eyes peering over the top of the obstacle at Tra’an. Then she ducked low again, stalking her prey like a hunter. Macron smiled. She did indeed resemble her Master.

Macron’s yellow eyes drifted to his other opponent. This one Macron did not know well. “Tra’an,” he mumbled to himself. “Prelate.” That could potentially be a problem. Tra’an was even now scooping up an old blaster rifle, and checking it for charge as he looked around warily. That must have been what Masika saw as she took cover. “Smart lady. Blaster. Frackin’ blaster. Of course,” chuckled Macron. “And nary a lightsaber in sight. Damn I hate them so.” His senses swelled in the Force, feeling for danger and itemizing the threats in the Coliseum warily as he appeared lost in thought.

As Macron mused, Tra’an took his first shots at the obvious target. Two went wide of the thoughtful madman, but one seemed right on target. Macron raised his hand as the Dark Side swelled in his black soul. The bolt from the antique rifle splattered harmlessly on his outstretched palm as it was dissipated by the Force. The Warlord ducked behind a ruined chariot as he formulated a plan to deal with the interloper. His ally was the Force, and weapons were not needed-yet. The alchemist snarled as he used invisible tendrils of energy to toss a mass of broken stones at the Obelisk. They arced high and came in like indirect shells, a shotgun mass of boulders and debris. An ordinary man would be crushed and broken like walnuts in a nutcracker.

Meanwhile, Masika stalked her prey. She made herself very small in the Force, hoping her target was too pre-occupied to notice her. Macron would undoubtedly assume she was after Tra’an. The wily Krath used his arrogance against him. Macron was in fact her prey. Hopefully he would kill Tra’an first. She would then stab him in the back with the ancient blade, a death worthy of a double-crossing Sith. Her orange eyes smiled at the wicked thought.

The force bespoke warning like a lover after a coupling, soft and with intensity, bespeaking of the impending barrage and sending the shape shifter into immediate action, dodging out of the way. Ever wary of the unstable ground and the nature of the arena, the tall and stocky alien rushed forward, seeking to get in under the arc of the ballistic projectiles. A last minute rolling dive for the tipped carcass of a land speeder laying partially over a rancor and with another crushed speeder behind it, saved him from the outer remnants. A loud roar of disapproval rose from the crowd, even as the debris finally landed in the sand, sending it up into a high plume, obscuring the view for a moment. Masika continued to slowly advance on Macron, doing her best to stay low to the ground and generally out of sight, her eyes alighting upon a chain whip that had few rusted links and lay coiled near by. She dropped the blade she was holding, grabbing for her more preferred weapon in a rush that cause some of the junk to shift.

Macron's attention was momentarily shifted from the more potent threat by the noise of an even closer foe, eyes narrowing at the youngling that dared to make him her target. Dismissing her as nothing, and yet ever wary that anything was a threat, the Sadow reached out to his link with the flowing current and wrapped it around the female, raising and swirling her in the air for a while. The Plagueian had not waited while Macron was busy, having advanced a good ten feet closer to his rival, blaster centered on the exposed sith-ish paint. Steadying himself with power, Tra'an unleashed a rapid three shot combo before the ancient blaster disintegrated, only to watch as the sound swung the attention around, and the energy of all his hard work was absorbed through that insane clown-like grin.

Masika crashed to the ground, her bonds loosened, and her slight body dropped agilely to the soles of dainty feet, the sound obscured by that of rattling chain. A brief shared glance between them met with a nod, it was time to end this posse of one, and then other things could be decided.

Masika knew she was up against two of the finest in the Brotherhood. They both had much more experience in the battlefield than she herself had. She had met and had heard many things about the Mad Alchemist, being as he was the Master of her battleteam leader, Mirado, whom she didn't exactly get along with very well. Therefore, in some ways, she thought she knew what to expect from him, of course she would find out if that were true soon enough.

She hadn't heard much about Tra'an, as he was in a different house then her. Yet, spanning from her knowledge, she believed him to be the lesser of the two evils she was up against. After the beating Macron had just given her, she was starting to believe that even more so. As she landed, sharing a look with Tra'an, she knew he meant for them take him down in a team effort, and to worry about each other when the time came.

After said looks were exchanged, Masika grabbed the sword and chain whip and took cover behind the closest piece of debris to her proximity. She peered out above the wreckage and watch as the two men took cover for themselves, planning their next moves, as she was doing the same. She knew she'd have to come up with some surprises to throw Macron off his game, something that might be just crazy enough to work. Masika knew he had an abundance of the force on his side, and she was not as well studied in that area as she would have liked to have been at this time. Therefore, she would do her best with what she had at hand. Taking the chain whip, she wrapped it around the hilt of the sword she had in her hand. She waited, keeping her eyes locked on Macron's location, with a short glance over at Tra'an every few moments. After a few minutes, Tra'an gave her a quick nod, and came out shooting with a blaster rifle he had been holding while preparing himself behind his mound of debris. Macron followed suit, and advanced on him as well. Both men raised up their hands, and began using the force to throw anything and everything at each other that was scattered around the coliseum.

Masika waited for the moment that Macron was distracted just enough, and she decided to make her move, She knew it was now or never. She strode across the ground and got behind Macron, thankfully without him noticing, and moved as silently as she could. As soon as she was out of his range of sight, she begin twirling the chain above her head, with the end of it still wrapped around the sword's hilt. She swung it around until she felt there was enough momentum, then lunged it at Macron, aiming for his back. The gleaming metal blade flew through the air, and within seconds, Macron's free hand flew up, palm facing Masika, and stopped the sword dead in its tracks. An enormous gasp came from the crowd in perfect surround sound, as the chains and sword clinked to the ground, stirring up dust to the slight breeze. Macron turned for a mere moment, with a smirked grin that sent shivers up Masika's spine. She knew he'd be watching her more closely now than he had before, and the adrenaline in her body instantly shot up to staggering heights.

Masika was done playing games. She knew she had to aim better and face this head on. Maybe it was the roar of the crowd, maybe it was the adrenaline pumping through her veins, but she was ready to take him down. After Macron stopped the sword and chain, he lifted her once more into the air, twirling her around and around. She did her best to steady her mind so as not to get dizzy from the effect. Between spins, she could see Tra'an making his move at the most opportune time. As Macron had his utmost attention focused on Masika, Tra'an chose that moment to throw a hatch door from a pile of debris at Macron. It slammed against his back, making a large thud only the three of them could hear, as the crowd roared too loudly to hear anything but their own echoes.

Masika instantly dropped to the ground and landed on her hands and knees. She knew this was her moment. She got herself up, built up the energy inside of her with the force, and gave her self a burst of speed. She had noticed five shurikens lying on the field where she had landed. Moving quickly, head first towards Macron, she sent out the force, and threw all five at him at once. Two hit his abdomen, one sliced his upper arm, while the remaining two imbedded themselves in his upper right thigh. With her next move, she stunned his vision using twilight, and continued go straight for him, lunging anything she could find at him.

Nothing short of severe injury, or death, was going to stop her. As she advanced on him, she could see the mad man's grin becoming wider. Masika continued on, not knowing what was coming next, yet also not caring. She had to prove herself out here, or die trying. There was no other option in her mind. She would finish him off, then move on to Tra'an, and be victorious. Then everyone would know her name and what she was capable of.

The mad alchemist snarled in abject fury. His arm, abdomen, and leg stung from the old rough shuriken embedded in them. His back winced from the hatch door. Truly, this sucked. The Force came to his aid, lessening the pain and quickening his movements as the flesh began to knit. It was now truly time to kick someone’s *expletive*. “Little bastards are trying to gang up on me,” spat the alchemist. “We’ll see about that.”

The crowd roared, sensing the darkening mood in the Coliseum. The madman grinned in lunacy at Masika’s determination. Her thoughts almost seemed to echo in his fetid brain as the Force whispered her overt mental secrets. “Nothing short of severe injury or death, eh?” chuckled the madman. It was time to teach the youngling a lesson, and then move on to the real threat- Tra’an. It would be a lesson she would not soon forget. The scars would remind her for the rest of her life- if she indeed lived. That remained to be seen.

Macron raised his hands as the young woman neared him. A howl of black rage split the air as a massive blast of telekinetic power ripped forth from his outstretched fingertips. Naga Sadow was known for their telekinetic abilities and Macron was clearly showing that to be true. Sand rose from the ground along the path of the blast as Masika tried to dodge out of the way. She almost evaded the brunt of the first blast, but the second and the whirlwind that followed were sheer murder.

The Guardian’s body was hammered by an invisible jackhammer. She could feels ribs cracking, her lips splitting, and something tearing loose deep inside. The world revolved rapidly, nauseating her as she spun around and around in the grip of the Force Whirlwind. It deposited her rudely against the same hatch door that had hit Macron just a few moments earlier. She groaned as consciousness began to flee, desperately trying to hang on. All her Dark Jedi training came to the fore as she clung to life. "Don't ... give...up," she hissed from between clenched teeth.

Tra’an rose nearby from behind a pile of wrecked landspeeder with a functional disruptor pistol. As he raised it to fire, Macron smiled. The madman’s wicked giggle punctuated the now-drained powerpack of the weapon as the Dark Side left it cold and lifeless. “Uh uh,” chuckled Macron. “Not so easy. Still, I am growing tired. The two of you require so much energy,” Mac hissed as he toed Masika’s unconscious but stirring body. He turned and stalked towards Tra’an menacingly. “Best to get this over with quickly.” The crowd roared in approval. Death was surely watching, and they loved the sight of pure brutality. The mad Sadow did not intend to disappoint them.

As Masika stirred behind the Sadow, it was evident that she was all but useless for the moment. The near-Elder sauntered slowly across the sand, eyes glinting in reflective madness, observing every twitch and gauging its intent. Irritation and rage began to boil inside the Prelate, at the sheer audacity of Macron, to think himself invincible. The ego that drove that insanity was truly stunning, and it was time for it to suffer a few blows. Body rippling, as Tra'an stretched without moving, sand shifting under his feet as his weight shifted, and then shifted again as it shifted back. Moving slowly and deliberately, the Plagueian Aedile moved in a slow and decisive fashion, meeting Macron across a square of red sand in the middle, where most of the blood had drained so often to stain the ground.

They circled within arms reach, within an inch or so of each other in height, they had similar reach and strength, meaning that it was going to be hard and brutal. Macron assumed a pose that looked like it was more of a dance form, which Tra'an mimicked, and they moved in to begin. The blows were fas and hard, with Macron having a slight edge, which the Prelate compensated for by pulling on the Force, leaving them equal, until Macron did the same, once again leaving them with a slight difference. It meant that Macron was always just that split second ahead, landing blows that could have been more effectively blocked, or changing angles to slip past a block entirely. When it was clear that Tra'an was landing nearly as much as he was hitting, and that it was hurting more, rage engulfed the Sadow. The anger was laced with darkness, coming from the Force and being fueled with power beyond the physical, sharply increasing his abilities. When the first enhanced blow landed, the Prelate screamed in pain as he heard a rib crack, and jumped backwards, landing gingerly even as the Sith's fist encountered a wall of power left behind.

The scream of moderate pain as the enhanced blow met an unyielding surface gave the battered shapeshifter a moment of satisfaction, even as his own pain receded and began to heal, before the next two blows brought down the obstruction completely. The raging Sadowan came charging across the crimson surface, only to have a solid blow land cross to his right knee, causing it to nearly buckle, even as the Force returned the same obliging defense that blocked the next two Telekinetic strikes intended to disable the angry human. Rib now repaired, Tra'an moved to flee, and require his opponent to come after him, even as their forgotten mutual foe began to finally stir upon the ground. The intelligent sadown soon realized that his connection with the power that aided him was fading fast, and would be gone soon. Moving at maximum speed, he bounded after the fleeing shape shifter and caught him, pinning him to the sand in a jump that sent the alien splayed upon the coarse surface.

Moving to pummel the kidneys of his foe, the first blow landed, eliciting a scream of utter agony even from the captive Tra'an as he released a shaft of Dark Power that slammed into Macron's chest, lifting him up and backward by several feet, effectively throwing the Sith clear, and then into the ground. The energy coursed through the human's body, causing intense pain and coughs of blood, much as the former captive was doing the same only a few feet away. New patches of sand were stained red, as the two fought to survive the pain and injuries they had inflicted on each other. Macron's earlier wounds re-opened in his convulsions, leaking red fluid even as the contortions eased with the dispersion of dark power. Carefully moving to get up, Tra'an nearly collapsed again at a fresh wave of pain from his now destroyed kidney, even as Macron struggled to do the same, his injuries inflicting much more pain being from several sets.

All the while, her eyes finally opened as the world returned, pain receding and eyes clearing. The guardian began to get up, skin singed and wounds enflamed but sealed from the fire. Carefully testing her limbs, her hands ran across the chain from earlier, as she finally began to move with confidence...

The metal chain was cold and inviting against her fingertips. She petted the chain, clenched it in her grasp, and began to sit up. The Zeltron was badly wounded, and seeking revenge more so now then she had ever intended. Now, it was her turn. She winced at the soreness and pain illuminating from her ribcage, running her tongue over her now ripped lips to feel the damage and dried blood upon them. Doing so, she could feel that this would surely leave a horrendous scar.

Observing the other two also stumbling to get to their feet, noticing neither of them were paying any attention to her, she pulled herself up to a standing position, and stood tall. She took every bit of pain that was pulsing through her body, and fueled her anger and retaliation with it. They hadn't even noticed she had gotten up, as if they had already dismissed her as a worthy appointment, that she wasn't a threat any longer. This fueled her even more so. As she rose, chain whip still in hand, she stepped lively towards her two battered foes. It looked as though they had had a good run on each other, and she intended on finishing the job.

Seeing as Tra'an was the first of the two men to his feet, Masika twirled the chain above her head a few turns, mustered up all of her physical energy, and whipped it at him, tethering it around his waist. Upon doing so, she pulled back and to the side with all her might, flinging him a few feet and back onto the ground. She then set her sights on Macron, who was still kneeling on the ground trying to regain a standing position. With both of them face down, Masika kept her swift pace while conjuring up everything she had within the Force. The Guardian raised both arms from her sides, outstretched them, focusing on her foes, raising them both up and slamming their battered bodies into each other. Both men let out a loud grunt, and the cheers came roaring from the crowd as they hit the ground with a thump. She began putting her next move into action, as she was determined to go out fighting, but she was in this to win it.

Revenge was such sweet nectar. Macron smiled as he began to regain his feet. Masika had done very well, as was to be expected from a follower of Sadow. The alchemist’s hubris was his arrogance in dismissing her as a threat. It was a potent reminder. If the figurative “dice of life” rolled the right way, even the humble could kill. The Dark Side laid low those who forgot this simple rule. It had happened to so many that followed the Path of Darkness. His energies poured into revitalizing his wounded flesh, at least enough to carry on the battle royale. He would not make the same mistake with her again.

Nearby Tra’an struggled to regain his footing. The Shi’ido’s green eyes flashed with anger at his predicament. He pulled the chain from his body with a grunt, tossing it aside. He rose to a crouching position, hands on his knees as his head spun. This had been one hell of a battle. The Obelisk caught sight of the approaching Masika. The Zeltron woman had a length of flexible pipe in her hand and looked as if she intended to beat him to death with it. He snarled, raising one hand as the other supported him. A mass of Force energy grabbed Masika around the neck and began to squeeze. His energy and concentration focused on the Guardian who had insulted him.

Masika gagged, blood beginning to dribble from her lips as she clutched at her throat. She dropped the flexible pipe length as she tried to defend her neck. It was a classic attack. Dark Jedi loved to crush the life from their foes. The Zeltron began to turn shades of purple as her skin darkened to almost match the color of her hair. Cartilage popped in her neck as the vise-like grip closed her arteries and windpipe. Tra’an smiled under his rebreather as the young woman hit the ground in a dead slump. Unfortunately in his consuming rage, he had forgotten about the nearby madman.

The Obelisk was soon reminded as a piercing Sith Force Scream split the air nearby. The waves of sonic power buffeted him as well as the hapless Masika. Macron’s scream born of rage and pure frustration lashed them both, nauseating and disorienting Tra’an. Masika was already unconscious and dying, but her body twitched as her eardrums burst. Several of the crowd nearby fell over the wall, vomit spewing from their mouths as they hit the spattered sands. This was an unfortunate side-effect of visiting the Coliseum.

The time for subtlety was over. As Tra’an gagged, Macron picked up a large rock. It was time to finish this charade, and he would be the one to do it. The mad Warlord held the chunk of jagged stone in both hands and swung with all the Force-imbued might he could muster. The chunk slammed into the back of Tra’an’s head with the power of a rock crusher. Blood spurted from the shapeshifter’s cracked skull as he fell face-first into the sands.

Macron swung again, releasing the rock on the downward arc with an extra shove of telekinetic might. It catapulted into Tra’an’s temple, crushing his damaged cranium still further. Macron knelt by the Obelisk’s side, cradling Tra’ans head while digging his thumbs deep into the now-dulling green eyes of his foe. He squeezed with all his might as the Dark Side coursed through his body. The thumbs burst Tra’ans orbits, gouging into the damaged brain beneath. The Sith howled in release as the body began to flop and twitch beneath him.

The crowd roared in response, appreciative of the extreme gore shown them by way of entertainment. Macron collapsed to the gory sand as the Medbots rushed in to remove the fallen.