It had all been a mistake...
Cheyenne wasn't quite certain just where everything had gone wrong and was still trying to figure out where her miscalculation was. The Jedi wasn't used to failure, only victory or standstills. She was caught off guard by the fact that she was about to lose, her allies were falling one by one. She had given the signal to retreat back where they had come from, but mines went off, destroying her back line as well. She kept trying to think of other paths out, to bring some sort of victory to the Rebels, to save her comrades! Another blaster fire whizzed by her and she heard the cry of a man fall to the ground, dead.
This wasn't how it was supposed to turn out.
They encircled her, believing that they could kill her with numbers, she would prove them wrong. She began slicing through their numbers, their army backing up. Maybe there would be a victory in this, if only Cheyenne could get out.
Before she could even try to though, the ground shifted from under her unexpectedly and she began to drop. The army stopped firing upon her the moment that it shifted, and that was when Cheyenne suddenly realized what her miscalculation was. It had been her. The army hadn't been put there to kill her Military, they had been there to capture her. It was obvious now since she had fallen for the trap, cut down their pawns, only for them to lead her right into the falling ground and them abruptly stop firing. Who's commands were these though? Who had outsmarted her? A General of the Rebellion who's prestige was renowned through the galaxy...
That was it again, she miscalculated herself. She had made her presence known, wanting to mark her victories and take her claim for her wins. It rallied troops around her, but it also held grudges and enemies against her. They knew of her at that point. She had been the mistake.
She dropped with a crouch, turning to the presence that she sensed. Deep blue eyes that looked almost green glared in the shadows though she couldn't see. This was the one, he had been the one that had calculated for her to be arrogant enough to keep fighting in the battles, to take arms in the front line even though her presence was well known through the Empire as the Jedi scum that gave them trouble.
Lights slowly flicked on, first at her feet and then steadily moving towards the other person in the room. She had been right about her assumption of it being a man - he had been waiting for her. His head was bowed so she could only see the crown of horns upon his head. But as he rose to look at her, smirk at his victory of trapping the Jedi, she could feel the dark side radiating from him. He had been able to cloak himself? Most impressive. Cheyenne sort of recognized him, he had been one of the few that she had tarnished the Empire's plans for.
Glaring at him, she ignited her lightsaber and took her stance - she wasn't going down easy if he was going to fight fair.<|im_end|>
Coerced into failures of the fleeting past only spiraling indirectly into erupting racially as a Zabrak's known self-assuredness; prompting a berserker physiology oozing complete animalistic fury. Drakron held prestige amongst the elite of the Empire, forgoing the christening names Sith are accustomed towards seizing after the metamorphism. Attunement over one's mental attributes paralleling to the traits strengthening this beast by raw emotion. Deep immersion to the gifts of the dark side were symbolized immeasurably by the trademark corruption of luminous, sulfuric yellow hues tracing over the form of his Jedi prey. A Zabrak nightbrother held no contempt, only acclamation for his origins despite feelings he was taken as some exotic barbarian warrior-slave for the Emperor himself. Neglecting repressed opinions, a barbarous grin psyched for glorious combat listening to the wailing and screams of dead rebels by the cumulative streams of red lasers emitting from E-11 blaster rifles the Stormtroopers fired with reckless abandon.
Witnessing the vulnerable surface rattled, he patiently though expressing an virtue even partially associated for placid action was an unfortunate forgery of his intentions for his prey. A stratagem befitting for a formidable force sensitive as herself, Drakron kept his blood lust famished when such subtleties became significant, though to the rebel's fortunes he relied on his own skills versus larger scale skirmishes with complexities involved. An abundance of capable combatants from both sides of the conflict never beheld a specimen of his stature, towering warriors with an staggering height of seven feet tall with protruding obsidian colored horns fashioned like a crown secured over the dark brown complexion harmonizing with the motif of sheer terror masked with blackened tribal tattoos of the planet Dathomir amplified further by highlighting the tattoos with red scarification marks adorned in his perverse version of glory and perhaps a hint of masochism. Shirtless with armor allocating near the Cestus like gloves, bracers, even braces near the dark cloth of his pants, he represented the martial warrior of the ancient times.
" Decided running not worth dead comrades? "
The dialect was chalky in pronouncing words within the confines of comprehend, utilizing the most prevalent of languages known as basic or galactic standard. Brawny, infused by the passion of a challenge and other horrific imagery amassed in the horned skull of this venomous creature of importance to his military. Cheyenne's lightsaber once conjured painted vivid supposition over the details of past battles. A lightsaber burned marked the left corner of his face where eyebrows would be positioned should his species really bore hair, another greeting flesh through the bicep and an invisible one cloaked by clothing through the right upper thigh. Anxious to test her fighting prowess after an extended vacation away from each other, the Zabrak would finally exact revenge in a style only suitable for his species and the disciplines of the dark side itself. Diverting into a mantra emulating a mirrored sentiment of the former Jedi order, its served for psychological warfare and heightening himself mentally for the duel ready to commence between two practitioners of the force.
" Peace is a lie, there is only PASSION!!!
Through passion, I gain strength.
Through strength, I gain power.
Through power, I gain victory.
Through victory, my chains are broken.
The Force shall free me. "
Weight began to distribute between the staggering feet of the martial sith, fixated at width approximately at the shoulder. Aligning them accordingly, she eavesdrop upon these antics prior to combat itself, both feet angled slightly to the side and the knees should be facing in the same direction of the feet; never flatfooted. Hands adhered to about temple level, back slightly hunched, and most important having elbows raised to safeguard the chest. Manufacturing a distinguishing fighting style of unarmed combat with the capabilities of a sith warrior made this brute versatile and incredibly lethal. Muscles swelled, though trained eyes could watch the force manifest throughout his core with controlled breathing.
Literally the calm before the blood stained storm, Drakron's hunger grew insatiable the longer he stood composed. Unknowingly this effect struck at a Force-user's energy and metabolism, pulling out all the weapons for the long ride. Assuming the usual stance, his right foot rose above his towering height before slamming his armored boot forward; appearing akin to a blur. Masking telegraphed maneuvers, a powerful current of kinetic energy surging through the might of the sith targeted the midsection, soaring like laser fire and crashing like the fury of a Wookie tackling an adversary.
" Peace is a lie, there is only PASSION!!!<|im_end|>