The interior of The Nightshade, Tagrei Sula’s Theta-class T-2c Shuttle, was nothing to holo home about. Although it was bedecked with luxury upholstery meant to provide the utmost comfort for himself and any guests housed within it, there was a distinct rugged simplicity to its design that alluded to his practically minded disposition. Slightly smaller than most shuttles and far smaller than Katrila’s own starship, each room was a testament to his ability to optimize space. Nearly every one was easily rearrangeable to serve some other purpose. Their tour of the ship was brief, culminating in the training room that featured a large sparring mat that took up most of the floor space and an assortment of exercise equipment.
At some point during their tour, the duo had decided that a sparring session would make for a worthwhile use of their time for the evening. Knowing them, things likely would escalate to a more ardent interaction later. But that could wait. Tagrei didn’t have much time to spar these days. He was lucky that he’d managed to keep up with his combat forms since his relocation to Selen. With the recent disaster and relief efforts meant to succor the pain of those affected, there was so much to do.
“I may be a medic, but I’ve had my fair share of fights, Katrila,” he said while unclipping the two halves of his electrostaff, Tal'ra, from his belt.
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Katrila padded behind Tagrei as he stepped into the Nightshade’s various rooms and described their purposes. The shuttle had its charms, a certain romanticism she associated with patrician senators of the Old Republic escorted to smoky backroom meetings or Imperial Moffs on route to quell an uprising. A medic treating patients of all stripes certainly belonged among such prestigious company. Of particular note to her were the aspirations to luxury and comfort; she could picture herself spending time here. It would do nicely.
“Oh? Couldn’t afford dummies? Had to practice suturing wounds on yourself?” she teased, turning her jet black lightsaber hilt in her hand. Between the constant drudge of business trips and exhausting herself in the Singularity tournament, exercise or training hadn’t figured much into her schedule. Not the kind that happened in a gym, anyway. She thumbed the ignition, and the crimson blade sprang to life with a snap-hiss that gave way to a dull hum. Turning her body slightly to the left, she raised her blade in the traditional gesture of respect she learned from the Academy’s blademaster.
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“Every young Devaronian growing up on Kal'verra learns to fight. I didn’t learn that the best practice is out in the field until the Rebellion formed and war broke out,” he replied while watching her lightsaber spring to life, painting her slender form in a lambent scarlet glow. With his grip on both halves of his electrostaff, he lowered himself into a ready stance – feet kept shoulder width apart and staggered, right side forward. When decoupled, the two halves of his electrostaff resembled two batons approximately 35 inches in length.
Once he was sure they were both ready, he initiated their spar by stepping into range while executing a jabbing thrust with his lead baton, aimed at her chest.
Katrila’s eyes gleamed with amusement as she inspected Tagrei’s form. His stance was solid and his approach methodical. More than she expected from a medic who presumably valued saving lives over the ability to end them.
As he stepped in to thrust his baton at her chest, she moved with the fluid grace of a dancer to sidestep the attack. A flick of her wrist angled her lightsaber to meet his electrostaff, a shower of sparks erupting from the point of contact. She pushed the baton aside with ease, whirling her blade back to a ready stance.
“Impressive,” she murmured, voice dripping with a mix of sincerity and playful taunting. She began walking a slow circle around the Devaronian as she spoke, a predator stalking her prey. “But you’ll need to do a little better.”
No sooner than the words left her mouth did she pounce at Tagrei, saber whirring in a flurry of slashes designed to overwhelm him.
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Tagrei was no stranger to what Force adepts could do; he’d fought them before, back during his days as a Rebellion medic and soldier. And although he could use the Force himself, it was a drop in the proverbial ocean compared to what he’d witnessed them do. When Katrila pressed forward with an attack of her own, the comparative minuteness of his own Force strength became clear as the well-defined shape of her saber’s blade melted into a haze of crimson light. Try as he might to defend himself, she was just too damn fast; he suddenly found himself thanking shining Vah'Kal above that his Plagueian acquaintance had switched the weapon to its low-power setting, which delivered a number of strikes that left him with little more than nagging burns on his arms and torso – a more preferable outcome for a penetration of his defenses that would have spelled his demise in a real battle.
“Yeah, I really do,” he said in response to her call for him to up his game, rolling his shoulders a few time before lashing out with a flurry of his own strikes.
As the electrostaff came at her again, Katrila crouched and twisted to evade each attack. A few nearly made contact with her arms or torso; whether it was luck, the Force, or her feline instincts she didn’t know, but she appreciated it all the same. Either way, her strategy of ‘overwhelm with speed and quantity’ seemed to be working. Tagrei’s movements seemed slower, jerkier than his last attempt.
“Nice try, but it seems like you’ve been spending too much time in the medbays.” The Togorian smirked. Taunting wasn’t generally her style, but it was quite fun provoking this one. Before he could respond she lunged at the Devaronian with her saber extended and ready to “stab.” (Not that the training mode would actually pierce the skin. What fun was that?) She twirled and spun between slashes, her movements agile and unpredictable. The two may have been friends, but her competitive nature prevented her from holding back. After all, whatever threats he faced in the Dajorra system wouldn’t hold back.
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With how labored Tagrei’s movements felt in comparison to the seemingly effortless fluidity of her own, he was starting to feel like she was correct. Had he spent too much time treating patients to the neglect of his combat? He was a combat medic, after all, and that most honorable calling demanded that he defend life with all the zeal and expertise that he possessed when saving it. Could he really expect to do that with such disappointing displays of his abilities? Even with the Force warning him of impending danger, he was unable to fend off Katrila’s attacks for long before one slipped through. More pain. She was keeping him on the back foot, and he needed to do something if he had any hope of winning their spar.
The muscular devaronian imposed a brief lull in her attack by batting her lightsaber aside, using that momentary reprieve to connect both ends of his electrostaff with its magnetic coupler. After performing a quick flourish to secure another vital few seconds, Tagrei gripped the staff’s center with a single hand and lashed out with his free hand; with his thumb, index, and middle finger pressed tightly together to resemble an avian’s peak, he struck with the intent of jabbing the soft flesh of her trapezius, hitting a bundle of nervous housed within it.
From time to time in the course of her various exploits, deservedly or not, Katrila had been hit before. It was never her favorite thing to experience, of course, but through toughness or stubbornness she had developed a pain tolerance that meant a few choice curse words could get her through it.
This was not one of those punches.
On the initial impact of Tagrei’s hand, a sharply intense pain elicited an involuntary yowl. A moment of shocked numbness preceded a radiating ache in her neck and shoulders. Holding her lightsaber in the ready position now felt considerably more difficult. But a growl through gritted teeth helped her push through the pain.
This was the weakness of her chosen saber discipline. While the constant stream of attacks often overwhelmed opponents, its many acrobatic maneuvers sometimes left her undefended and tired. That some attacks would land was expected. That a targeted strike with such precision would come from Tagrei? Somewhat less expected.
“Your anatomy lessons have served you well,” she said, stretching her neck out. She had been paying attention to anatomy, as well, for a few reasons. Tagrei’s stance lowered his center of gravity. Messing with his stability might throw him off his game. So, with her free hand, she reached out as though to balance herself. She summoned memories of time spent with the medic, let herself feel the connection they shared in the Force. Her eyes fixed on his ankles, she pulled her hand back to apply telekinetic force to his ankles and, hopefully, topple him.
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Through the haze of throbbing pain, her telekinetic grasp felt weak. She was unsure the gambit would succeed. For a moment it looked as though it wouldn’t as Tagrei began to steady himself, but his foot reconnected with the ground at a weird angle. His balance was off. Flailing, he crashed to the ground with a resounding thud.
Perfect, she thought, barely stifling a laugh. People slipped on banana peels with more grace. Nevertheless, she couldn’t let the moment pass. She stepped forward and planted a digitigrade foot on her opponent’s broad, golden chest. With a flourish of the blade that emitted a satisfying whirr, she angled it down to point at his neck. “Do you submit?”
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Tagrei landed on the tatami-style mat with a muffled grunt only to have her pin him against the floor with her foot. He tilted his head with a cheeky look. “Well, if you wanted to step on me, all you needed to do was ask,” he said in a deadpan tone that belied the grin on his face.
But he had no intentions of submitting. Instead, he quickly wrapped his free hand around ankle, trapping it within the fold of his elbow and twisting just enough to off balance her. He rolled, using that momentum to pull her leg out from under her while he tripped her other one.
Before she knew it, he was on top of her, pinning her to the floor with a knee pressed into her back just enough to keep her there.
“I could, but where’s the fun in ask-“ She began before a gasp cut off her retort. The floor rushed up to meet her as Tagrei twisted her ankle and swept her leg out from under her. A rush of adrenaline mingling with the lingering ache in her trapezius made the sudden shift from dominance to being pinned a little disorienting. The pressure of his knee in her back felt kept her grounded through an initial struggle. A series of scenarios running through her mind, she considered for a moment admitting defeat. But her competitive spirit wouldn’t allow it. Focusing on the sensation on her back, she could feel the vibrations of his breath followed by a slight shift as he adjusted his weight. With her natural contortion abilities, that was all the opening she needed. Inhale. Exhale. On the out breath atrila arched her back and pushed up with her hands to create just enough space. In a swift, fluid motion she twisted her body and rolled to the side, her limbs moving with the practiced ease of a seasoned fighter (and seasoned getting-stuck-in-small-spaces-er). The momentum allowed her to roll the Devaronian off of her. She remained on the ground, now acting on instinct. Her heart pounding, the thrill of a fight pumping more adrenaline through her system, her eyes widening to large black circles, she began to bunny kick. He would be prey whether he wanted to or not.
“You don’t give up easily, do you?” Tagrei asked when she rolled from under him. Of course she didn’t. She was tenacious and determined in her work life, so why would she behave any differently during training? A flurry of kicks flew in his direction, forcing him to step backward to avoid them. He abruptly sidestepped her, pivoting so he faced her exposed side as her momentum carried her forward. Then, he struck, sweeping his electrostaff low to knock her off her feet.
Her kicks missed their mark; it had been quite a while since she’d been forced to the floor. She saw Tagrei’s electrostaff coming at her and, in that split second, realized she wouldn’t be able to parry the incoming strike. Her arm movement was compromised on the floor, so her lightsaber blade stuck out at the wrong angle. She couldn’t fall back on fancy footwork or acrobatic stunts. She tried to raise the blade in time, but the remaining pain slowed her movements just enough. The staff, crackling with muted electricity, connected on her upper thigh, just below her hip. A sharp jolt of pain caused her to shout. Her hands instinctively grabbed the site of impact, sending the spiked lightsaber hilt clattering to the floor. Left defenseless and aching as she caught her breath, her emerald eyes flitted up with a mixture of frustration and admiration to look at the medic standing over her. Something about the way he looked at her, the warmth she sensed from his aura, stirred something within her: a blend of respect for his martial prowess and something else that had nothing to do with sparring. “Alright, alright. I yield,” she panted, opening her palms and stretching her hands out slightly in a playful gesture of surrender.
It had taken longer than he would’ve liked, but He’d eventually knocked off the rust to reveal the skillset that had kept him alive during in the fight against the Empire. Any traces of his practiced compassion and warm bedside manner had vanished in favor of a calculating, resolute mien shaped by the hardships of war. He exhaled softly while decoupling his electrostaff and hooking both halves on his belt.
“You did well,” he replied, kneeling before her to get a closer look at the spot where his weapon had touched her. Signs of mild electrical burns were present across on a small patch of fur on her hip, prompting him to click his tongue. “Let’s get this taken care of.”
He wasted no time in lifting her off the floor and heading toward the medical wing of his ship. There, he’d be able to take care of her.