A Rush Of Blood To The Head, Attn: Tristanian

[Fiona Athiachos]

Thrust. Retract the blade, spin it parallel to the body once, and thrust again, this time at the feet. Jump forwards and spin the other side into the blade onto the opponent's skull, then spin yourself in the air in the same motion, lashing out with your feet in midair. Land, roll, come to a stop in the roll on a knee with the blade thrusting.

Fiona's hands gripped the double-bladed lightsaber as she stood to her feet from the knee she had taken, deactivating the two blades. Wearing nothing but a customary tanktop and pants, she swept her hair back and tied it up as she considered getting water. Sweat blanketed her body, making it gleam in the artificial light of the wide, spacious room and red where the light from the energy blade struck her. The area she was in was a solitary octagonal training room, reserved by her for several hours of training earlier. She had to bully around a few Aspirants to get it. As most Sith structures went, it was semi-elegant, having two depictions of opponents with lightsabers fighting it out on both the Northwest and West walls. They bore an ancient, awesome look. The only entrance and exit was on the south wall.

She was practicing while waiting for Champion Venalis. He had agreed to train Fiona in the advanced stages of Makashi, a form which she had learned from her master before. She was skilled with the lightsaber, but anyone with more practice and experience could defeat her-which was why she pursued Makashi. Power, power to bring down her enemies and those who sought to hurt her.

Or, to bring down the Cult's enemies. Since being kicked out of the Mandalorians, Fiona had had no real purpose to her life except the Cult. She enjoyed killing, she enjoyed holding the power to take life or grant it, but all of this power would corrupt her unless she put it to a good cause: the Cult.

So, Fiona trained. She grew stronger to better serve her masters under a banner as a warrior, perfectly honed for combat by the Mandalorians and expertly trained in the ways of the Force by the various teachers she'd had since coming here.

Maybe she wanted that drink, after all. Someone had told her that the best practice was constant training, constant use, vigilant opportunity-seeking. So instead of walking to get her thermal, she instead lifted it with her mind and watched it float to her, and into her hand. She took a swig of the cold water and then, using the Force once more, put it back where it rested.

Instead of waiting still for Master Venalis to show up, she focused on training. Activating her lightsaber again, she began in an aggressive stance and attacked an invisible foe.

[Tristanian Pax]

Death and arrogance – the very stones of the ancient structure reeked of them, like the stench emanating from a rotting corpse. Of all the wings of the Cult’s hideout on Korriban, the old training rooms were without a doubt the one he disliked the most. The darkness was thick and ancient here, and blood of the true Sith was still adorning the walls for those who knew what to look for.

Stalking silently through the corridors, Venalis’s uninterested eyes swept over the members of the Cult that were up at this early hour – mentally he conceded them a glimmer of respect for having the discipline to hone their skills before the sun was up. There was a certain… productivity to the Dark Side, for all his distaste at some of his colleagues he recognized that. Power was addictive, in any shape or form, and some members of the Cult would spare no effort to sate their thirst of it. The assassin would have preferred that such abilities were not in the hands of people with so many forms of psychosis, but if they were motivated enough to seek them in the first place then they were deserving of them to some extent. Tristanian had never been one to refuse credit when it was due, no matter how much the individual reaping it offended his more civilized tendencies.

Had he been left to his own devices, the dark-haired man would not even be on this accursed ball of dust – he had little love for Korriban and no time to waste in the company of his fellow madmen. For over thirteen years he’d been tracking that ever-elusive knowledge left behind by the likes of Exar Kun and Naga Sadow, hunting down Holocrons from the shadows. He rarely spent more than a week at the time on the Cult’s planet, coming back only to give in person the reports that could not be risked through the usual communication methods and delve into the organisation’s unique banks of information on the Sith. As it was, he’d arrived yesterday and was to leave before two days had passed: he’d uncovered a trail of rumours that might lead him to what he sought after and had no intention of letting it get cold. Yet here he was, walking through these hallowed halls with the commitment of teaching swordsmanship to one of his associates. There was no one left conscious in the galaxy that could have read the irritation in his dark eyes, but the other Cultists left him a wide berth by instinct as he neared the solitary training room.

There was no warning of his presence through the Force that warned of the assassin’s entrance in the area, a habit he’d developed from his constant assassination assignments. Relaxing, even on Korriban – especially on Korriban, he corrected sardonically – would have been rather foolish. The only thing more lethal to a Cultist than his enemies were his comrades, a truth Tristanian had never forgotten. The woman he was supposed to enlighten on the intricacies of the Makashi style was named Fiona Atiachos and held the rank of Aspirant, these were the only things he knew about her. Teaching her, and later others, a few of the more useful trick’s he’d learned from all those years at the edge of a blade was the price he was paying to the Triumvirate for refusing to take an apprentice. If gracing an Aspirant with his presence for a few sessions was enough for the Lords to stop pressuring to nurture a serpent with his experience and time, then so be it. Venalis would do what he had to, as he always had and always would.

Dark eyes fell on the hard, lean form of a woman who’d just fallen into a guard more reminiscent of Djem So than Makashi – her back was to him, and the assassin decided to observe her before revealing his presence, leaning against the doorway lazily. How individuals acted alone revealed more of their personality than years of studying them in public could tell you, he’d been taught by his father all those years ago on Dolomar - and while Reatir Pax might have been a brutal, harsh man, the assassin had learned he was rarely wrong when it came to humankind. The woman continued to focus on her exercises, the blade tearing at the emptiness with a brutal viciousness that Tristan easily associated with someone tapping into their hunger for domination and power as they fought. Repressing a sigh, the dark-haired man flicked his wrist nonchalantly and a vibroblade fell into his palm silently, yet to be ignited. In flash the assassin crossed the distance separating him from the Aspirant, passing through her guard with what looked like nonchalant facility but was in reality born of years of training and instinctive precognitive capacities. The durasteel blade came to rest on the woman’s carotid and the Dolomarian spoke, a sardonic smile quirking his lips.

“Trading situational awareness for focus is a beginner’s mistake, Atiachos – I expected better from an Aspirant,” he greeted her calmly.

[Fiona Athiachos]

Fiona froze instinctively long enough for Master Venalis to address her in greeting. “Trading situational awareness for focus is a beginner’s mistake, Athiachos – I expected better from an Aspirant,” came the calm voice. It reeked with sarcasm and humor, but Fiona could tell that, just by the voice, he was far more intelligent than she was. She'd have to stay on her toes.

Because weren't all teachers just challengers, seeking to test you, and then destroy you? It was how the Mandalorians had treated her, and how the Academy Instructors had taught her. There were no teachers that gave their lessons without seeking to bring about your demise somehow. You had to surpass your masters in all of their own skills and then conquer them, showing no mercy.

Master Venalis, however, would take a little longer than her last teacher. "I was expecting you to present yourself to my face, Master Venalis," she replied with a slight smile.

At that moment the lightsaber came around to knock the vibroblade away from her neck, and her breath fell out as if pushed. She spun and hopped back, then hopped forwards again, bringing her lightsaber down above his head. He blocked it coolly, his eyes never leaving hers. Fiona would of likes to match his gaze, but she was too busy trying to find openings in his defense. Openings that never presented themselves. He kept backing up, giving ground, as she continued moving forwards. Sometimes, in a supreme show of skill, he would just...stand there, one hand behind his back, as he repelled all of her attacks.

Then once, she found it. An opening. A blaze of power surged through her as she charged into it, and her lightsaber was set to stop an inch before it hit the skin. Yet, the Assassin stepped forwards to take the lightsaber in the side, and with a satisfied smirk, exploded in rainbow colored confetti.

Fiona blinked several times in confusion, her stance frozen. What in the karking thousand moons of Iego had just happened? Enemies screamed and died when you hit them with a lightsaber. They did not explode in confetti Especially confetti that disappeared when it hit the ground.

Normally she would adapt to the situation and see what could be done, but she was just too confused to do anything. She turned to sit down and there was Master Venalis on her bench, arms crossed. He waved sarcastically.

A Doppelganger. Fiona had heard about that power. To be able to create tangible copies of yourself that disappeared upon the first strike against them...

She snarled quietly to herself and walked almost angrily over to him. "Master Venalis, if you are ready to begin, I would like you to teach me Makashi." She half-assed.

[Tristanian Pax]

"I was expecting you to present yourself to my face, Master Venalis."

Tristan was a perceptive man, it was a needed trait for continued survival in his line of work – as such, it was remarkably easy to gather the younger woman’s train of thought from merely glancing at the feel of her presence and a few surface thoughts. It was a remarkably refreshing experience to be considered nothing more than a stepping stone, a tool to be used and discarded: very few had ever possessed the sheer nerve to consider a man with his body count in such a manner. Venalis considered her reply a moment before cocking his head to the side, mildly puzzled by the comment.

“Are you sure we’re members of the same Cult?” he quipped cynically.

Most of the Cultists he knew understood that ruthlessness and surprise attacks were the sharpest weapons in the organization’s arsenal. Tristanian himself had never been a partisan of direct confrontations, preferring ambushes or hit-and-run tactics: it was one of the reasons he’d been considered one of the Confederation’s most promising strategists-in-training. Guerrilla tactics were the Alliance of Free Planet’s specialty and an officer capable of retaliating in the same manner would have been priceless. Many things had turned differently since then, but the dark-haired man’s dislike of cruder methods had remained the same. Why would he bother to show his face when a shot from a rifle two hundred meters away would yield the same results for a mere fraction of the risks? The assassin was a pragmatist above all – let the Jedi worry about absurdities like honour and daring, they were nothing but a waste of time. Fairness was a fine concept, he’d never said the contrary, but it had nothing to do with reality. If Atiachos wanted to survive in this den of wolves, she’d have to learn to watch her back and keep her eyes open: knifes sprouted more often than flowers on Korriban.

The Aspirant’s lightsaber struck suddenly and pushed away the black-clad man’s vibroknife – he could have forced it to remain at the woman’s neck with brute force but there was no point to the act. Rotating on herself, Atiachos skipped back while he simply spun the vibroblade between his fingers, dark eyes remaining fixed on the ex-Mandalorian’s face. If he was to teach her the finer points of the art of Makashi, he would need to start by gauging her skill level and how much she’d already learned. Her overhead strike was met by an indolent parry, the cortosis-inlaid vibroknife meeting the searing blade without coming out any worse – he deflected the hit to his right and riposted with a lightning-quick swipe that came an inch from taking her left eye. Pushing inside her guard to close the distance and force the duel to a proximity where his weapon would give him the advantage, he forced her to take a few step backs with a note of approval in his eye. She’d already grasped the most crucial element of lightsaber duelling, the use of distance – that already put her above most Aspirants and even some Champions of the Sorcerer caste.

The approval swiftly disappeared as she started to probe his defences. This was… Was she jesting? Surely she would not dare, not after he’d shown her he wouldn’t hesitate to maim her if it was required by the learning process? Interrupting the lightsaber blade midswing with his own edge, he shifted his footing to use her momentum against her – the vibroknife danced around the red blade, leaving a thin gash on her forearm where he could have ripped through her muscles as easily as through silk. He ducked under the counterstroke and deftly redirected the following lunge, both of them spinning like mad dancers as he took his distance again. Atiachos returned to the offensive immediately and, with a sardonic smile on his face, the assassin put a hand behind his back as he stood calmly and waited for the assault. Lunge again – bad form, that, always start with the edge – and the red death was parried nonchalantly. There was no dodging now, no evasive manoeuvres. Venalis simply weathered the offensive with insolent indifference, his vibroknife weaving through the air in lazy patterns and feints that eventually forced the Aspirant to take a step back and circle him warily.

Very few Cultists would have noticed the minuscule shimmer that passed over the assassin’s form as he created a Doppelganger over himself and took a step back from it under the cover of Force Cloak. Idly walking away from the duel and settling himself on the bench, he watched in mild amusement as his illusion led the Aspirant on a marry chase, evading and feinting but always refusing contact with her blade. In less than a minute the eager Marauder had found an opening and Tristanian let the Doppelganger dispel itself in a shower of confetti – the feel of triumph followed by confusion and then embarrassment that came from her presence drew a sardonic smile out of him and he waved amusedly when her eyes turned to him. She walked back to him with anger radiating from every pore, before half-snarling in his direction.

"Master Venalis, if you are ready to begin, I would like you to teach me Makashi."

Conceding the point with a courteous nod, the Dolomarian got up from his seat and the smile disappeared as the vibroknife went up his sleeve by a flick of the wrist.

“Whoever tried to teach you Makashi was a complete imbecile,” he stated in a pleasant tone completely at odds with his words.

Holding up his hand, the dark-eyed Champion summoned his lightsaber carelessly, the curved handle familiar in his hand. He did not ignite it yet, continuing to focus on his ‘pupil’ of the afternoon.

“What you are using might as well be a softer variant of Djem So, for the difference it makes – either you are your teacher have failed to understand the essence of the style,” he continued evenly.

The silver blade flared to life, tearing through the shadows of the room with a serene glow. Tristanian took the low, one-handed guard typical of his preferred style, not bothering with a salute. Atiachos should have been grateful for that fact, for the rare occasions where he did he intended to leave only corpses behind him. Barely giving her the time to ignite her own sword, the dark-haired swordsman unhurriedly started to walk towards her.

“Makashi is a mindset above everything else, Atiachos – you can practice the movements all your life and be nothing more than a mediocre practitioner if you do not understand .”

The silver edge whipped towards her neck with the suddenness and viciousness of a snake, parried desperately at the last moment. The assassin twisted the attack into an elegant backstroke that arced fluidly and stopped less than an inch from the woman’s smooth neck, almost burning the skin.

“Anger is pointless, the desire to dominate is nothing but a hindrance – clear your mind, look around you. There is nothing besides the opponent and you, the sky, the sun, the very stone you stand on are tools to gain position, leverage, advantage. See his blade, see yours and the flow take you.”

The assassin’s sword left her neck and he stepped back, letting her raise her guard.

"Again."

[Fiona Athiachos]

“Whoever tried to teach you Makashi was a complete imbecile,”

Fiona's anger dissipated at this simple statement, lined with a pleasant tone not very fitting to the word's menacing. Her Master had been regarded as one of the best in the order at his time, yet here was Venalis throwing his name into the dirt.

With understanding came clear-headedness. Instead of growing angry, she thought back to the earlier 'session' and understood that he knew his way around a lightsaber-and that was an understatement. Most likely Tristanian had faced and defeated her master in a duel, anyway. She watched his lightsaber float lazily to his hand.

“What you are using might as well be a softer variant of Djem So, for the difference it makes – either you are your teacher have failed to understand the essence of the style,”

Her teacher, obviously. Fiona crossed her arms, the lightsaber booked at her belt. Sweat shined brightly on her arms, and she ignored a drop on her nose, hanging by a thin wire to the rest of the liquid leaking into it from her forehead. So what was he saying? She was incompetent? Inferior? Understanding was replaced with curiosity, then alertness as his lightsaber fared to life with a silver blade. Her own lightsaber pushed into her vision, the red beams shooting out of both end parallel to the ground.

As he made his way over to him, he said, “Makashi is a mindset above everything else, Atiachos – you can practice the movements all your life and be nothing more than a mediocre practitioner if you do not understand .” The last sentence ended with one of the fastest attacks Fiona had ever seen. Only the Force and her quick backstep saved her. Reflexes honed by countless hours practice, repetition, and learning saved her life here-her lightsaber spun desperately, and, as she was not as off-balance as she thought she was, she was able to deflect it harmlessly to the side. She completed her retreat with another step, and gained her footing. Quickly, she shifted to a stronger, more balanced position.

Or, so she had planned to do. The silver lightsaber stopped an inch from her neck, taking her breath with the sheer amount of fear and power it radiated.

“Anger is pointless, the desire to dominate is nothing but a hindrance – clear your mind, look around you. There is nothing besides the opponent and you, the sky, the sun, the very stone you stand on are tools to gain position, leverage, advantage. See his blade, see yours and the flow take you.”

The assassin’s sword left her neck and he stepped back, and Fiona, breathless, raised her guard again.

"Again."

Fiona felt a faint sense of hopelessness with just that one word. Again? What was she going do, she, the child assaulting the Mythosaur? Her lightsaber might as well have been a wooden sword, for all the damage it would do.

But Master Venalis had given her the means to overcome and defeat him, if she was crafty and patient enough. It may be years down the road, but she would defeat everyone in the Cult eventually.

She rolled her shoulders and breathed deeply in the way the Mandalorians had taught her for sniping. He would wait for her, she knew. With that, she settled into a more...peaceful mindset. Her senses extended, and she noticed every pebble around her foot-pebbles being the minute specks of dirt on top of the stone. A loose block was to her left, a slightly smaller one behind her. She extended them yet further, and moved to Tristanian, gauging his power with the Force.

He radiated cool, collected thoughts. Fiona wasn't reading his mind, but getting a general idea of what they composed of-body language would of told her the same thing. She, breaking from air pushed out of her diaphragm, raised her lightsaber and attacked again. This time she opted for a fast, yet powerful swipe from beside her leg, aiming for his knee. Distance was her goal, but she stepped into her blow nonetheless, adding power to the strike.

He deflected it easily and she stepped back, bringing her lightsaber down in an overhead strike, which reversed the momentum of the previous parried blow by converting it to the other side of the blade-such was the beauty of her chosen weapon.

The moves of Makashi were there, practiced and honed, but she wasn't fighting with the same...drive.

[Tristanian Pax]

Tristan had never been one to seek recognition, mostly because he accorded no value whatsoever to people’s view of him. He did not need to validate his decisions through the crooked and shoddy mirror that was the court of public opinion: why should their whims and silly ethics matter to him? Jesters bowed to none, not even kings and emperors, and Tristanian had donned the fool’s smile for so long it ran as true as his own blood. Yet, to his mild surprise, his cold-blooded skill and sardonic demeanor had earned him acknowledgement in the ranks of the Cult much more widespread than he was comfortable with. It was not much of a surprise his ascension had been noticed, however - after all, he’d become a Cultist by leaving a trail of corpses behind him, an Aspirant by breaking and mocking every trick from that cursed tomb in the Valley and a Champion by cutting both the pride and the head of a Marauder twice his age on the fighting fields. Of all the skills he’d displayed where the wandering eyes of his colleagues could see, there was one in which even the finest swordsmen of the Cult did not question his talent – Makashi, The Contention Form.

Marauders fancied themselves the blade specialists of the Cult of Sadow, and while there was some truth to this claim as far as the… rougher forms were concerned, Venalis considered that most of them were mere blundering imbeciles when it came to the elegant lethality of the Way of the Ysalamiri. The anger and thirst for domination that fuelled so many of the frontline berserkers the Marauders boasted to be their elite were ill-suited to the calm, focused and precise movements that were the core of the Makashi – Tristanian highly doubted even one of the fools would be able to match a Jedi practitioner of the form, much less prevail against him. Brute force and furious attacks could only get you so far, all the most dangerous swordsmen of the Cult had understood this. Lord Mondi was perhaps one of the best illustrations of that fact – while the man’s temper was known as a thing to be feared, his rage was a cold and controlled thing when he entered the battlefield. Mondi was perhaps the only good thing to ever come out of the Marauders, the assassin reflected.

The hopelessness and hesitation that emanated from the Mandalorian exile were well shielded for an Aspirant but still child’s play for him to decipher – the dark-haired assassin frowned slightly. There is no might in a blade guided by fear, her very upbringing should have taught her this. The shoulder rolling and settling breath drew an unnoticeable quirk of his lips forth. Perhaps this was not a complete waste of time, then: the girl could be educated, if she was willing to learn. The arrogant belief that they could be taught nothing was all too common amongst Cultists, it hinted at potential on Atiachos’s part that she was willing to shelve her pride to clutch at a greater benefit. The assassin’s silver blade hummed quietly as he waited for the exile to gather her thoughts – he was not disappointed when she blurred into motion, crimson sword seeking his leg. Tristan’s eyes read the angles of her body as she moved, idly deflecting the attack with a low swipe of his blade. The momentum of the attack was beautifully reversed, an approving glint flickering through dark eyes at the sight – she understood the advantages that came with her weapon perfectly, as expected of one raised by a warrior culture.

“Better,” he conceded carelessly.

With an elegant twist of his wrist, Venalis brought his lightsaber up to parry the strike – for the first time since they’d crossed swords, he did not deflect, instead closing the distance between himself and his opponent with a fluid jab to the throat with his free hand. The Aspirant evaded the incapacitating attack by taking a step back, ending the strength struggle between their blades. She’d shown she understood the advantages of her weapon, now she had to learn its weaknesses – notably the fact that it required the use of both her hands.

“Yet still insufficient,” he finished in the same tone. “You turn your feet at an angle too sharp, that much kinetic impact behind your first feint is unnecessary.”

The comment was barely finished when his blade sang gleefully in the silent room, bound for the Aspirant’s neck – he was met by a narrow parry that turned into a wide lateral wipe from the other side of her weapon. Gracefully letting the crimson flame pass a hair’s breadth from his abdomen, almost burning his robes, the assassin flicked his wrist and the silver edge reappeared an inch from the woman’s eye, forcing her to desperately duck down. Atiachos did the best of a disastrous situation, attempting to turn her duck into a leg-sweeping maneuver. Amusedly adding a hint of kinetic energy to his movement, the assassin leapt delicately on her back, adding insult to injury by adding little kick to the back of her neck before her returned to the stone floor in another flash of movement.

“As far as direct blade contact is concerned, you meet the expectations I hold of an Aspirant,” the dark-haired man commented as he turned to face her in a flurry of dark silks. “You demonstrate, however, the subtlety of rabid Kath hound as far as your feints and footwork are concerned.”

Giving Atiachos the instant she needed to get her guard back up after the last assault, Venalis turned back in her direction abruptly, letting loose a flurry of attacks that kept the Aspirant always an inch or less from having a burning hole through the forehead. He varied his speed and tempo, breaking all semblance of rhythm at times for purely opportunistic strikes before suddenly falling into sinuous patterns almost reminiscent of the sequences taught at the Academy. Forcing the exile’s blade down with a quick jerk, the assassin evaded the following spin with a sidestep that turned into a lightning-quick counterstrike aimed for her kidney. A well-timed parry forced him to change his footwork midstep, spinning on himself to add momentum to his strike – Fiona took the barest instant where his blade was behind him to thrust with her own… both blades stopped an inch from the skin, the exile’s poised in front of his lungs while his was on her neck. The intensity of the moment was broken when the Aspirant felt a light tap on her shoulder and the assassin’s voice came from behind her, as mockingly pleasant as always. The Venalis in front of her shimmered before bursting in a flock of crows that croaked loudly as they dissipated into nothingness.

“Your understanding of momentum is truly remarkable for one of your age, but it is useless if your speed cannot match mine,” he chided. “I believe part the problem may lie with earlier acquired reflexes, nonetheless. Might I inquire as to the nature of your… occupation before you joined this merry band of psychopathic murderers?”