An Old Wolf's Return

[Slade Xandir]

Noise. Noise! Hot, blaring, and disturbing his meal prep! The demonic father turned to nearly impact the pipe with a volcanic stare, pulling a single hand from the onslaught to drown the metal that dared to interrupt with lightning as well. The other remained on Kroxata, too possessive to let his meal not receive his attention either. But upon turning back, his annoyed grimace became a grief of smirk. He was too focused on damning the Dathomirian until now to realize-

“Oh, so ssssomeone wants to be crafty now...”

It was the frakking alien that did that. Even under this drain, he fought. Even with nothing, he still had something. Just then, Blood’s mind was made up. The lightning never stopped, and with every fraction of drain and agony that came with it, the draconian pulled it within himself.

‘I’ve got plans for you, dog.’ If the hide wanted to tan, then Blood would give the thing what it wanted. For as long as he could stand it.

[Ben Kenobi]

Darth Blood VS The Dreadlord

Victorious
Slade Xandir
25 EXP
40,000 cr

Defeated
Kroxata Akhoi
5 EXP
10,000 cr

[Slade Xandir]

And so it had. Blood had been starved of this victory for too long. The time when he had wanted to nearly kill the Zabrak for Xendiss, a Miralukan who had disappeared, a neglectful woman who vanished all too soon. "I should have finished you, then-" his voracious baritones jutted into the crackling whips of the scarlet and ruby electric sappings. And he should have. The bastard was weak, but Blood knew why he didn't. For the same reason as he had now, watching the alien writhe upon the scarred floor of his own throne room. The same room he was nearly bested in, before.
Blood, was a gift giver. What a caring guy.

"I had told you then, you poor poor bastard. I told you there was a gift I had for you," the growls soldiered on. "And I haven't forgotten. You will have your gift, Brother." Sharp ivories glared with such hunger in the sparkled flecks of his energy drain, casting red glow upon the fangs.
He hadn't had Dathomirian, before. Especially not served up so ... freshly. Lying there, fading in and out of consciousness...it would be so easy to just-

Wings unhinged and unfolded as he pulled himself forward in one natural gust of flight, standing over the fell Sith. And before he could think twice on the matter, he hauled the Dathomirian up through the invisible prowess of his Telekinesis, and with more hostility in the Forcely grapple he had on him, it soothingly ebbed into a Force Choke. While the struggle lay strong still within the Zabrak, who resounded the final fight to claw at the invisible vice around his windpipe, Blood moved closer, near intimately to the Sithian brother, and eyes the thick and possibly well marbled bell of meat where his thick neck met collar, and trailed it along the course of his left shoulder blade.

His palate had been wetted through the perfect combat they had prior, the appetizer being the wonderful victory, and now he hungered for the entree. Maw opened, his scaled mouth pulling back and issued the ursine trap of daggered conesque rows. A tilt of his head and a forward lean, he thrust his face towards the thick shoulder meat, and the garnet wine pooled into his mouth, flowing as though it belonged in his mouth, down his gullet, into his core.. but that wasn't merely enough.

His drive to sate the emptiness the Dark hole in him that had festered for too long. He gripped the swollen biceps of his adversary and with teeth still locked into his prey, pulled away. The wine spilled from the goblet of his maw, splattering atrociously against his face and lushly draining down his own throat, over obsidian orbalisks that rounded the front of his frame. Tender tendons and chewy thick meat freed in a yank, and Blood released his hold once his pound of flesh had been deliciously taken. The Zabrak collapsed to the floor, bleeding mess as he was, no other drastic cuts or burns to contest with the mauling his new Lord had given him on his left shoulder.

A couple of feral chomps of the ripe and hot meat, then down it went. thick swallow allowing the harvest to settle within him. Hmm. It wasn't as seasoned as he would have usually had it, but it was rich, with only a pinch of bitter aftertaste. Almost gamey, as though he had decided to eat from a predator, and not a prey. With as much virile adrenaline that coursed through the Zabrak, it was only to be assumed it was due to his manhood.

Licking his scaled lips, long tong cleaned what it could before retreating back into it's nest. And with a look around, no one rose against him-
Even Karliah looked appalled.

[Kroxata Akhoi]

Bloody and scorched from the crimson glare of a lightsaber, his battle was fruitless in achieving his desired outcome, the Empire did not heed his plea and had abandoned him in his most desperate time. He was always told the will of the Force would come to those to shape the destiny of the galaxy and yet his fate from certain death was not altered. Perhaps this is what he saw roaming the temples of Yavin IV, perhaps it was a warning to change the path he walked that he did not listen to. Was his destiny to simply die as a pawn to a greater power? As a pretender to greatness, a dog that followed their master to his death whilst being fed lies of greatness. He could feel his consciousness fading, a pool of blood spouted out, changing the colour of his orange skin to a dark red, his body could feel nothing but pain, a burning sensation through every blade strike that slashes over him powerless to stop the abomination from tearing into his flesh.

The siren’s wailing became quieter, the sound of his heartbeat rang louder through his ears, his eyesight failing him and the Force felt... different. No rage or anger flowing through his broken body no, it was empty, abandoning its host like everyone else did to the Dathomorian, reverting back to the lost warrior in a galaxy that he could not comprehend. He was slumped on the metal floor of the Maul, his flagship, an empty gift of promises manifested into a metal frame that housed the Dathomiri Hammer in its cold walls. Every breath was more raspy and drawn out but he was not dead yet.

Kroxata’s weary eyes, with all the effort he had left in his body, peers up to Lord Blood one final time, seeing him relish in his feast of...him… whether it was through sheer willpower, the Dark side of the Force he connected himself too or the pride of a warrior in the face of death, he began to move. Pushing up with his arms, each slight movement of his muscles causes extreme pain, he groans and growls pushing himself to his hands and knees. His breathing heavy, exhausted but not yet defeated, no he refused to die kneeling to a false idol, a pretender to a throne -he- was promised!

He continues to rise, his back completely hunched over, with no effort or energy left to even keep himself upright, his feet stumble around to place some footing yet he was clearly unstable. Swaying side to side with every breath he took, he pulled whatever energy he had left to pull his head up to face his enemy one final time. No words were spoken, but through his deadpan face, his eyes glared into Blood’s soul in defiance, one final time. He brings his hands together, clutching tightly his Lightstaff, his entire body trembling with every movement. It was ironic, this blade he wielded once belonged to his true master, this final act would be in his name, Lord Tormentous.

He ignites his Crimson blade, holding his Lightstaff as if it weighed more than he could handle, dragging it across the ground. This would be his defining moment, in his final moments in death he would be standing, hid final battle cry echoes throughout the thick smoked hall charging towards Blood, his weapon held high above his head bringing it down with all the momentum he had left to try and slash Blood down from head to waist but the distance was too far for his body to handle.

Crumbling back to his knees his head hung low to the ground but he did not bow to the floor, the Force betrayed him again. Not even allowing him this final act of the Dathomiri Hammer to be a warrior’s death, his final thoughts tread to his clan, to Karliah, of the future he could have had if only he had accepted his fate as the lapdog. But that was not of his culture, not of his nature, he was a champion at heart, a conquer in will and he would die the way he had imagined in glorious combat.

[Slade Xandir]

With interest he watched the Dathomirian, a wicked mess of a man still trying to strike him down. He, in the end, coupled with pain, exhaustion, and torment, fell upon Blood’s clawed feet in a heavy ‘hmph’. Not even a groan had escaped the tired and bloody warrior, but Blood felt his consciousness add to the air they both inhaled.

Valkyr, having already indisposed the warbots which guarded the dying man’s chambers, stood awaiting her Maker’s next command. The Cathar Warborg was brought to him with an amused wave of his meaty clawed hand, and after a point to the fading Kroxata, he unfurled it. “Bring him to the medbay on Dromund Kaas. Bacta him, and watch until he wakes. Once he doessss, inform me immediately.”

A confirmation punctuated the situation, and Valkyr and Karliah left in a helix of verde ichor, abandoning Blood on a leaderless Dreadnaught.