On Tatooine, it paid to have a sixth sense. As a native of the planet, Deven had honed this particular skill to a fine art. This day, out shopping for his weekly food supplies, Deven had felt as if eyes were upon him all day. It could have been paranoia since his release from prison, but there was always the chance it was something far more sinister. As such, his nerves were on edge, practically singing to be used in either attack or defense. Perhaps it was luck, perhaps the Force spoke to him that sunny, sandy and rather unpleasant day, but Deven half-turned. His eyesight was still sharp, but even if he'd been half-blind, there was no clouding the aura of the darkside that swirled around the man not ten paces away. The man who, incidentally, was drawing a blaster.

Deven wasn't quite surprised, at least on some level. There were bound to be those who followed the old Code of the Sith; those who would never agree with Novak's teachings and who, likely as not, had come to finally put an end to Deven. The Sith would have none of this 'quietly into the night' attitude of defeat though. As the man cleared his holster, Deven completed his turn, bringing his right hand upwards and shoving outwards through the Force as he hurled himself sideways. Ideally, the man would be unable to draw an even bead on him, but he'd also have to contend with having three strangers shoved violently towards him.

Drawing his lightsaber as he rolled to his feet, the weapon springing to life defensively, Deven first looked to see where his target was before deciding his next move.

Now, having a variable-length lightclub (or greatsaber) as an arm did tend to make combat odd, in a fashion. Wielding a blade that could project to a maximum of three meters changed the term of 'reach out and touch someone.' As such, when his attacker aimed to hurl food crates at him using the Force, Deven half spun, bringing up his left arm and kicking the lightclub to life for a length of one meter. The blade, still workable in close proximity, burned in a lightning-bolt pattern through the crates, flash-frying the fruit and reducing the wood to minuscule splinters, which, still being dangerous in themselves, were shoved backwards in a burst of Force by Deven's still-existing arm.

Considering his opponent, Deven sneered and shook his head while settling into a stance that offered high guard with his greatsaber, feet moving to keep the same distance they had settled upon, at least for the moment, separating them by the same distance as they had begun at, yet carrying him in a clockwise circle relative to his attacker.

"it is obvious you aren't a Sith... yet you attack from behind like a cowardly Jedi. What brings you here, stranger? It would be a shame to send you to the Force without knowing who you are."

Simultaneously stepping backwards twice and keeping the point of the greatsaber aimed at his attacker's center mass, the man would find himself, unless he stopped his headlong rush or dodged to one side or the other, impaled by the three meter blade that lanced outwards. The steps back would suffice, along with the raised lightsaber held diagonally in his right hand, to ward off any cuts at his face. For now, he planned to keep the attacker at a bit more than arm's reach, getting a feel for him, so to speak.

With the Force at his command, Deven's own speed increased, as did the strength of his leap, carrying him up and backwards, the hiss of ozone and plasma as his enemy's saber just missed his feet the sound of a nearly career-ending wound as he landed lightly and out of range on the roof of the cantina just behind him. The man was not likely to give up so easily though, and as such, Deven rapidly backed away so as to have more room to maneuver. Here on the rooftops, they were more likely to be conspicuous, which would mean the man would only have so much time before the authorities intervened. That, or someone tried to collect a bounty by attacking one or the other Force user.

"All of them, stranger. The Republic. Druckenwell. Even the Ewoks. Every being who has wronged me, left me to rot in a cell. Why does it matter to you, stranger?"

Closing to within striking distance, Deven hammered downwards with his own not-inconsiderable strength, backed by the power of the Force, with a crushing blow. A Djem So user to the core, for Jar'kai and Niman came difficult with the second saber being rather attached to him. Of course, the greatsaber was still useful for blocking in a case such as this.

The Sith's right knee bent outwards, a direction it had never been meant to go. A hiss of pain escaped him as the injured leg gave out, dropping him rather unceremoniously to his good leg and, unfortunately, right where his attacker wanted him. That wasn't good. Oddly enough, the man hadn't struck a killing blow. He'd have an easy time of it, and Deven couldn't very well maneuver quickly with a knee injury. Fighting from the ground, especially with only one good arm, didn't do much to help his cause.

Between choosing a life of serving again or death though, it was an easy enough choice.

"If you can give me my revenge, then so be it. I, Darth Flare, last of the New Sith, swear my loyalty to you, stranger."

Throwing himself over the side of the roof, he landed rather ingloriously in a pile of refuge that at least broke his fall. Stumbling to his feet, Deven struggled down the narrow side-street and out into the crowds of people who normally walked Mos Eisley's streets, once again just another normal person out for a walk on a dry and dusty world. But he'd be waiting.