He darts in to wrench at Unhalad with the strength of his mind, the Force and adrenaline singing in his veins, a dark and delicious cacophony -- they skirmish, and swerve, and clash again, and the lightsaber finds good purchase at last -- and it's no steel blade. One good blow is all it takes. A withered limb comes off. The warlord, stoic in its despair, desperate in its want, lunges forward again as the only thing it can do with survival on the line. Archeval strikes once more, boots grinding his own blood into the snow and black ichor spattering against his cheek.
And so this is the great warlord Unhalad, the conqueror of Sa-Hareth, kidnapper and slave devourer, their inexorable demise. Brought low under the assault of so few as this. The sheer immenseness of presence around Archeval is absolutely dizzying now, threatening to overwhelm him once more as he stabs, as he slashes, as he takes no chances with taking Unhalad utterly apart. If it can't take him in body, perhaps it seeks to overwhelm him in mind, but in that last moment as he can feel the immense presence shifting he sidesteps into the currents of the Force--
It's called walking, but really, there's nowhere for him to go right now. He has only to expand his sight to the world beyond the world in front of him, and -- there it is. Massive. The thing that is Unhalad, or was Unhalad, a black blotch of spirit of truly overwhelming size--
His now.
Arche reaches out through the Force with all the weary, desperate anger left in him at the end of this long, long day. The one who started all of this is damn well going to answer for it. He touches that darkness -- wrenches it forth--
Stumbles backward and down to his knees in the snow as it rushes inward, the immensity of it blinding his every sense for a moment with sheer despair, utter futility, emptiness--
He breathes hard as he rests there, utterly vulnerable for a moment, bleeding sluggishly into the snow as the saber in his grip deactivates. Fighting for control. He is Archeval. His name is Archeval and he remembers it still and this thing is not the master, he has to wrestle his way back to himself-- It's snowy again today, they're outside Sa-Hareth and he still owes Theron fifty credits, and peace is a lie there is only passion--...
2/2 wasn't sure if you meant me to go on, lmk if you wanted to interject, will happily make room
And so this is the great warlord Unhalad, the conqueror of Sa-Hareth, kidnapper and slave devourer, their inexorable demise. Brought low under the assault of so few as this. The sheer immenseness of presence around Archeval is absolutely dizzying now, threatening to overwhelm him once more as he stabs, as he slashes, as he takes no chances with taking Unhalad utterly apart. If it can't take him in body, perhaps it seeks to overwhelm him in mind, but in that last moment as he can feel the immense presence shifting he sidesteps into the currents of the Force--
It's called walking, but really, there's nowhere for him to go right now. He has only to expand his sight to the world beyond the world in front of him, and -- there it is. Massive. The thing that is Unhalad, or was Unhalad, a black blotch of spirit of truly overwhelming size--
His now.
Arche reaches out through the Force with all the weary, desperate anger left in him at the end of this long, long day. The one who started all of this is damn well going to answer for it. He touches that darkness -- wrenches it forth--
Stumbles backward and down to his knees in the snow as it rushes inward, the immensity of it blinding his every sense for a moment with sheer despair, utter futility, emptiness--
He breathes hard as he rests there, utterly vulnerable for a moment, bleeding sluggishly into the snow as the saber in his grip deactivates. Fighting for control. He is Archeval. His name is Archeval and he remembers it still and this thing is not the master, he has to wrestle his way back to himself-- It's snowy again today, they're outside Sa-Hareth and he still owes Theron fifty credits, and peace is a lie there is only passion--...