Recipe for Disaster
Scene 10
"Face facts, Kenobi: you're a sore loser."
Obi-Wan accelerated the tempo of his level four velocity until his 'saber's blade was a continuous blur of sapphire light, its signature hum a threatening subliminal rumble. "I would gladly reduce you to the same condition," he grunted.
Vos idly rolled back to his feet from a one-armed handstand. "With that thing?"
Insults to his honor were one thing, but disparagement of his lightsaber was... insufferable.
"Yes," he snarled.
Quinlan rolled his shoulders a few times and grinned impertinently. "I'm more in the mood for open-hand."
An advantage in height and sheer musculature fell to Vos' side of the equation, but this consideration weighed as nothing in the scales of his opponent's outrage. "Fine. But grappling precludes the use of teeth."
Spreading his hands pacifically, and starting an assessing prowl about the sparring circle's perimeter, Vos flashed a dubiously innocent grin. "Bite me."
The battle was joined with a ferocity more evocative of starving akk pups fighting over a scrap pile than of aspiring Jedi Knights engaging in a friendly scrimmage. It was a mercy of the Force that the salles were otherwise unoccupied at this early hour, for the exchange of skillful blows was surpassed only by Vos' inventive deployment of vernacular idiom.
Blushing furiously at a particularly ribald compliment paid to his hindquarters, Obi-Wan paid dearly for his lack of focus. The half-second's distraction landed him hard on his back, wind knocked clean out.
Vos gave him a hand up. "The thing is, man, I won before we started." He tapped his temple. "It's all in the mind, know what I mean? I got your number."
The incapacity to speak saved the vanquished youth from further violating the precepts of conduct. He gritted his teeth and bowed, wheezing softly as Vos stripped off his tunic, wiped his tattooed face and shoved the soiled cloth into the laundry receptacle provided for towels. He fastened his tabards in place over an otherwise bare chest. "Good enough for Troon, good enough for me," he remarked, swaggering confidently out the exit.
Dropping to his knees, Obi-Wan sought to regain his center. There was a taste of sour arkkhula in his mouth, and a dull ache in his back and sides.
"He's right you know," Cin Drallig's baritone voice echoed across the empty chamber.
The Temple swordsmaster was leaning nonchalantly in the interior doorway. "It is not superior skill, knowledge, experience or aggression that ultimately wins a contest. It is focus."
"Yes, Master." Everybody knew that. He who controlled the context and meaning of a conflict was its master. The true struggle was in the domain of mind, not gross matter. BUt that insight did not assuage the scars of his present humiliation, nor quell his urge to unleash a flood of sophisticated vituperation upon Vos' supercilious head.
The senior Jedi quietly strode across the floor and touched the padawan's back with a calloused hand. " At least let me check your ribs. Come now. GIve the lesson time to digest."