Star Wars Roleplay: Chaos

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A Low Roar (Empress Teta)

Barren and burned. An area scorched by war. By conflict. Rendered ash and dust by strife. A snapshot of the galaxy's folly. Millions of places like this existed across the galaxy. Blasters and 'sabers. Sticks and stones. War was eternal. Endless. Broken only by random intervals of rest called 'peace'. It never changed. Ever. The wars of today were the wars of yesteryear. The wars of forefathers. Of ancestors. A war to end all war was comedy. Humor. A joke on life. On death.

A silent figure walked slowly, boots leaving faint prints that vanished in the wind. The wind kicked up dust and grit in small clouds. Visible one moment, gone the next. Here and vanished. Again and again. There, but not. Existing, yet absent.

The figure drew even with an outcrop of stone. Boots came to a halt at the wind-worn rock. From behind, another figure emerged. Both wore armor, both carried weapons. Both wore blank metal helmets. The first figure slowly turned its head to the second. Beneath the helmet, a pair of eyes gradually opened.

No one, was the silent answer of the second.

The first figure's head turned to face the path. Ahead was naught but dust and wind. Grit and sand kicked up and tossed as if by a child. Wordlessly, he stepped forward. The task was at hand. The signs were clear. Visible. Silent.

Ahead lay a simple line in the sand. Solitary and distinct. As if a finger dragged through the grit. A track only he could see. Boots crunched silently as he walked. As the other figure walked.

He could feel them around. Clinging to the sand. To the rock. Imperceptible, yet palpable. Like a pulse, but without heart beat. Without warmth. A chill wind in a hot climate all around. Closing in, yet keeping their distance. Hesitant. Afraid. Unliving.

They could see he felt them. Saw them. Knew him for what he was. Those that could, fled. The helpless could only watch. Hope. Pray.

Sand gave way to debris. Bits of metal and plastic crunched underfoot. Ceramics. Glass. Bone.

It was almost time.
 
[member="Locke"]

Smuggling was the word of the day: no need to be coy about it. Certain things just weren't legal on certain Alliance worlds without reams of paperwork and disproportionate fees. Mild intoxicants, ship modifications, speeders of dubious background, the better grades of salvage - people wanted such things as much as they wanted the Galavant's more legitimate cargo. The Lotekk Deep Space Transport, a star destroyer in all but name, settled onto the Tetan bedrock like a Richter Two tremor.

The rendezvous with the local buyers had been set for a few dozen kilometres away, but the Force had drawn J.Q. Merrill to set down early. Why, he couldn't say. Now as his quartermaster droids unloaded half a hundred crates from the huge freighter's belly, Jorus came down the ramp and peered into the fog. Something, someone, was out there and a problem. He adjusted his gunbelt and squinted hard.
 
The line in the grit slithered and slid. It traced between scrap and stone alike. Broken metal. Shattered rock. Fragments. Pieces. Sundered and splintered. The line dragged between and around. Ever onward. His work was ahead. The call was clear. Keening. Singing. Shouting. A whisper only he heard.

Sand yielded to stone. Cracked and powdered by war. Worn by time. Plenty was left to salvagers that never came. Never bothered. Whether undiscovered or unwanted, much remained. A boot crunched on glass. Sand melted by raw heat. A long time ago, he might have wondered what happened. Orbital bombardment or fiery crash. In the end, neither mattered. What mattered was what lay ahead.

The second figure followed. Silent movements. A dark silhouette. Footprints left in sand, whisked away by wind in an instant. It kept a wary eye on their surroundings, just as he did. Weapon in hand. Both coiled like a spring. His work called to him, but so did prudence. Few places would welcome him. Fewer still would understand. Comprehend. Accept.

The line he followed ended abruptly, then disappeared. Only sand and metal lay at his feet. He knelt down, tendrils of mist slowly appearing. Flowing from nothing. Dripping from reality. Each wisp a midnight black, unaffected by the wind. The figure closed its eyes beneath the helmet. Seeing with another sense. Feeling. Searching.

The soul was there, slumbering 'neath sand and metal. Silent. Dormant. Cold and still, yet content in its tomb of grit. It was old. Not ancient. Not a recent addition to the death he felt around him. Simply old. It was time.

And yet, not quite. He felt another. It was quite simple to sense. Neither a beacon nor an ember. A mere light in the senses. A far off flicker. Distorted by time and space. Distance. Near, yet not near enough. He felt the tremor through old boots. A sensation he'd felt many times. Distant times. Another life, far far away.

A silent command was given. Wordless, but understood. The second figure stepped forward and slung the blaster in its hands. It stooped, gloved hands digging. Rubble shifted. Metal slithered. Sand blew away in the wind. His work was at hand, but the variables unknown.

Eyes closed behind the faceplate and a single hand stretched out, its palm held facing where the line ended. He concentrated inwards. Outwards. On the soul below. As it slumbered, the black mist focused on the figure's gloved hand. Slowly at first, it dripped and poured down. Seeped into the sand and rock and steel. It was time. His work had begun once more.

The wind and fog increased around him, tearing at his armor. Pulling. Rippling. Whether in excitement or to hide a perceived stain upon itself, he didn't know. Didn't care. Didn't matter. It had no bearing on his work. For what can nature do to one who controls the unnatural?

[member="Jorus Merrill"]
 
[member="Locke"]

Once upon a time, before a strange encounter in Wild Space, he'd had cybernetic eyes that could see through fog. Today he had nothing but vanilla biology and instinct.

Straight ahead, the fog swirled and contorted in a way that no wind could duplicate, not without a vast noise. Jorus drew his blaster but left its light off. Instinctive navigation would get him closer than a light could, and not give his position away in the process. A touch of nausea and dread told him something unnatural was in the vicinity. Maybe something worth shooting. It hadn't been that long ago, after all, that he'd been here fighting the One Sith conquerors.

The mist curled away for a heartbeat, and he saw two figures, both apparently intent on something near their feet. A patch of ground, a fallen object, maybe a body.

Jorus stepped forward, blaster up, and whistled for their attention.
 
The figure remained unmoving. Concentrating. Focused. The mist dripping, flowing to the sand. Into the stones. The second figure reacted. Movements quick, if only stiff.

Practiced hands tucked the blaster rifle into it's shoulder. Gloved fingers took up the slack on the rifle. Inside the husk of armor, the bound soul roiled. Squirmed. Danced. Chained to it's master, it had no will of it's own. Only a second death would set it free and the ancient spirit of Quan Quo knew this.

The mist bubbled around the disturbed rock, metal, and sand. The soul beneath jerked awake at it's touch. It pushed back, the spirit immediately understanding what had begun. What grasped at it's form. It's light. It's bones.

The figure opened it's eyes beneath armorplas plating. The HUD told him someone stood nearby. Armed. Ready. Curious. The flicker in the dark was a flame before him. Small, but bright. Worn, but wary. Learned. Experienced. Jaded. A kindred spirit, in a way.

He didn't move. He didn't have to. His minion jerked forward, old boots across dust and scorched glass. The meaning was clear: leave.

Below, the soul writhed as tendrils sought it's incorporeal form. Ropes to lash it to bone. Bindings. Shackles.

The wind roared higher.

[member="Jorus Merrill"]
 

Mala

Guest
M
At the time, she'd thought she'd been super sneaky and clever smuggling herself onto the ship, but as time went on along the trip it became apparent that the crew knew she was there and simply opted to play along. The first signs was the fact they left her an extra plate of rations out after there dinner, and the odd trinket appeared near her hidey hole in the cargo hold. She sulked when she realised they were playing with her, refused the food and the trinkets, but eventually her inability to resist shiny objects and the growl in her stomach had forced her out.

by the time they'd come to land, Mala had stopped trying to hide from them...well most of them anyway, she still ran when the Captain entered a room, disappearing into the nearest vent or smugglers hole she could find. Now however, after much clicking of tongues for being under foot she perched on a crate, chewing on a candy bar someone had given her, hungry eyes watching the droids with interest. Three times they had stopped her attempting to dismantle one of them, hence the candy bar.

She gave a small squeak and rolled backwards off the crate at a glimpse of the captain, candy bar toppling from her hand and into the dirt. Purple ears drooped at the site of it all covered in dust, even she, scavenger of all things inedible from dustbins, drew the line at grit in her mouth. Peering round the crate she watched the Captain pause at the foot of the landing ramp, eyes gazing into the fog.

So far, she'd avoided looking at it for too long. When the weather was bad in Coruscant, the lower levels would fog up and the best any street rat could do to survive was find a hole to hunker down in. It dulled the senses, made everything seem quieter, except for the screams. You didn't wander in the white, for the worst of them came out and they'd take all your shiny's and leave your body to rot...and if you didn't have shiny's? You'd rot all the same.

"White death." Mala murmured, sliding out from behind the crate, edging towards the Captain, her shyness forgotten. "Smells bad. Smells like..." her fur bristled, an equivalent of a shiver "Bad juju. Mala doesn't like." She followed the Captain's gaze, freezing to the spot at the figures enveloped in white.


[member="Jorus Merrill"] [member="Locke"]
 
@Locke @Mala

He could barely hear the Squib stowaway over the wind. Like most who followed the Code of the Outer Rim, Jorus didn't mind stowaways unless they made a nuisance of themselves or screwed with lift mass calculations. Right now, Jorus found himself far more interested in the two misty figures ahead: two men wearing and carrying old Republic gear. Popo's era, unless he was much mistaken. Significant firepower, better than his simple blaster. He kept the weapon raised. One of them had moved in answer to his whistle, but he hadn't heard a reply.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," he agreed. "You're the one we've been leaving food for, yeah? Should probably head back in where it's warm. Nothing shiny's gonna happen here."

The fog condensed despite the strength of the wind. Jorus' jaw knotted. Blaster first, he plowed ahead into easy gun range of the two figures.

"Who goes there?" he snapped.
 
The wind roared in his ears, eyes closed as he concentrated. He felt the black mist pulse around him. Inside him. Embracing. Enticing. Calling. It spoke to him and him to it. Each was a part of the other.

Beneath the grit old bones shifted. Aligned. Connected. The soul below found escape impossible, but fought nonetheless. It was time consuming. Difficult. Slow. Unlike the puppet he'd taken before. It still grasped it's use of the Force. It could fight back. A useful tool.

The flame that appeared grew stronger, the presence moving closer. Clearer. He no longer needed his helmet's HUD to see him. To sense him. To feel. A wordless warning left unheeded. Unheard. They did not understand. Or, perhaps, did not care.

A silent command. Toneless. Soundless. His minion's reaction spoke clear. Ancient bones within armored gauntlets jerked, the black mist within pulsing. The spirit within obeying, for it had no choice. No will. Only it's skills remained, it's training. It's mind. It's actions shackled by it's master.

The old Valor blaster barked as a burst of fire flew from the muzzle. He shots were low, but lethal. Dangerous. A wounding attempt, for his master had sensed the flame. The Force the newcomer carried was clear. The wind stopped around them, but spun on and on just beyond. A clearing, unnatural and forced. Alien. Artificial.

The sand at the first figure's feet began to boil, black mist seeping upward. It was time.

[member="Jorus Merrill"] [member="Mala"]
 

Mala

Guest
M
Mala looked up at the Captain nose twitching at his advice. Nothing shiny no, she gave another glance towards the figures, her stomach tying in knots before she bounded away up the ramp as the Captain headed in the opposite direction, blaster fire echoing around them. "Bad juju." Mala muttered again, scrambling through the cargo hold and into her hidey hole to rummage through her collection. She pulled a set of goggle to keep out the dust and pulled them over her head settling them into place.

"Mala doesn't like bad juju, nuh uh. Bad juju takes things from Mala. Not shiny's no, nothing takes Mala's shiny's, but different shiny's they take...yes, shiny on the inside. Nope, nope, nope. Mala doesn't like. Mala says no!" She pulled on a belt, fro it hung an old lightsaber, a pistol given to her by a hunter with a shiny patch on his head...she paused, fingers stroking it for a moment. She'd liked that hunter. A sniff and she snatched up a make shift bolas, weighted with lumps of metal welded together, all the edges sharp and shiny.

She darted past a set of legs. "Hey! Where you going?"

"Bad juju!" Mala shouted back, not bothering to stop and she half ran half slid down the ramp again and darted left, disappearing into the mist her keeping the smell of the captain at a distance on her right. Why would they pay attention to little Mala? A giggle escaped her, nervous and cut short as the bad smell wafted her way again. She paused in her tracks trying to pinpoint it in the mist, she didn't want to hit he Captain after all. Fingers tightened on the bolas.

[member="Jorus Merrill"] [member="Locke"]
 
[member="Locke"] [member="Mala"]

Jorus snapped off a couple of wild shots as he scrambled to the left. Mala had vanished in the mist, and he found himself hoping the little stowaway had evaded the enemy's blasterfire. That old Republic rifle was no joke.

He took shelter behind a gnarled lone tree. It wouldn't last long: a battle rifle would chew into the trunk and boil the sap explosively, given enough time. Lacking any weapon but the blaster pistol, Jorus couldn't-

Well, no, that wasn't quite true, was it. His belt held two spare powerpacks. As blasterfire shivered the tree against his back, he stripped the coverings off the overload sturm dowels and broke a couple of small structural elements. He clipped his multitool back onto his belt, wrapped space tape around the mated powerpacks, threw the whole affair and covered his ears.

WHAKKARABOOM
 
The ground shook, trembled, at the explosion. Fine dust filled the air, a choking film settling upon the clearing of stilled air. Gagging. Clogging.

The figure was far enough away from danger. From the blast. His minion was closer.

The puppet picked itself up from the sand, it's skeletal form intact. The armor had saved it from the worst of the damage. Ancient reflexes sent it diving away from the improvised bomb. Undeath had it's faults, however.

Bits of stone and metal tore fabric. Small holes. Some tiny. Miniscule for his puppet. Crippling for the living. Debilitating. Perhaps lethal.

Black mist seeped from the wounds in the suit. Dripped. Trickled. It leaked into the sand, floating down from the second figure. Unfazed, it shouldered the Valor rifle and opened fire again.

Beneath a blank helm eyes closed once more. He rotated the outstretched hand, palm now facing the obscured heavens. The bones below twitched and spasmed, the blackness giving it 'life' once more. Dark energy flowed forth, now upward. The mist connecting the new puppet to it's master.

The soul itself shrieked. A silent call. Wordless. Voiceless. Felt only in the Force. Intangible chained, lashed, to the corporeal.

Around them, the wind howled once more, then stopped. Fog and dew hung in the air. It was time.

[member="Mala"] [member="Jorus Merrill"]
 

Mala

Guest
M
The explosion kicked up dust in a shcokwave that rippled through the fog the light illuminating everyone for the breifest of moments; the captain pinned behind a tree, the beast hitting the sand and the third one out of harms way. Fesr gripped her heart, made her muscles seize for a moment. She should run, she should hide. Thats how she survived wasn't it?

But that was also why she was alone.

She spun the bolas in her hand, faster and faster as the beast picked itslef up off the floor, black leaking from its wounds. Bad juju, indeed.

The bolas flew aiming for the beast head and neck and Mala sprang after it a madness glittering in her eyes. "MY SHINY!" she shreiked, barreling into it a split second behind the bolas. Intent on taking it back down and keeping it there.

[member="Jorus Merrill"] [member="Locke"]
 
[member="Locke"] [member="Mala"]

He'd meant to attack in the grenade's wake, but instinct told him to stay put. Snapping off shots around the trunk, he caught a glimpse of the gunman, still on his feet, still shooting, but leaking black mist or goo. No droid, then, but too durable to be a person. What? Some kind of Force wraith, maybe? A blaster wouldn't do much against that, and he didn't have his lightsaber.

The stowaway leaped for the armored gunbeing. Jorus knew he was out of time: he could act, or he could watch the monster shred the Squib.

He broke and ran, holstering his gun in case he hit Mala by mistake. A zigzag course kept him a step ahead of the rifle fire. One bolt came close, but he met it with a one-time miniature shield from his old Rebel Alliance signet ring.

His rings...

One of those was something of the Force, wasn't it: his Kathol liberation memorial band, made by his daughter. It had some strength to it, though it hadn't been designed for anything like this. Still, it might let him do a little damage.

He wore that ring on his right middle finger. As he tackled the gunman, he started punching for all he was worth.
 
Eyes opened, brows furrowed. A small creature had entered the fray. Small. Furred. Clearly intelligent and shrieking. The contraption it had thrown had wrapped itself around the puppet's head. A moment later, so did the creature. The initial threat, the flame he'd seen. Sensed. Felt. Followed suit, one arm swinging. Striking. On its hand, a glint. A sparkle. A flash of light in the senses.

A tiny thing. Minuscule. An ember held in the hand. But even a spark could burn down a forest. Brown eyes turned black behind the armored faceplate. His work, his effort, was in motion. All that remained was the culmination. The true beginning. Unveiling.

His mind reached into the body of his minion. Grasping. Clawing. The bola and creature blocked his puppet's sight, but not his own. He could still see. Watch the fist fall again and again. Sparks flying in the force with each blow. Each clash of meat and armor. The fruit of his labor could not be risked. Not now. It was at his fingertips. Warnings went unheeded. Unheard. It was time.

The revenant under his control shifted, its hand grasping the knife at its belt. Clutching. Pulling. Naked steel glinted in the dim light before the point jerked upward. He didn't know if it connected. He couldn't feel the arm. Feel any impact. Any pain. Any remorse. He could only control. Manipulate. He was the puppeteer, not the puppet.

At his feet, the roiling ceased, a bony claw reached skyward as darkness began to envelop it. It scratched at the sky. At the sand. At the grit. Pulling itself free. Inch by inch. Moment by moment. His lips twitched. Curled. Ever so slightly beneath his armored visage.

It was time.

[member="Mala"] [member="Jorus Merrill"]
 

Mala

Guest
M
Arms wrapped round its head Mala gave the Captain a wicked grin as he came fist flying for the beast too. Still it hadn't gone down, its was solid, much like the meat-heads she used to taunt. But even they had weak points. Fingers scrambled over the helmets near smooth face, hooking under its chin, nails clawed, fingers looking for a groove. Satisfied she had one, the squib planted her feet on its shoulders and heaved.

Something shiny caught her eye, but the most she could do in warning was utter a small scream as the blade hissed for the captain.

[member="Jorus Merrill"] [member="Locke"]
 
[member="Locke"] [member="Mala"]

Jorus struggled with the gunman body-to-body, both crouched and half-kneeling. He got his left arm down in between them and warded the knife away, but the edge bit through his shirt at hip and forearm. With a grimace, he bulled over the man or thing and did his level best to pin down its knife hand with his knee. That might put Mala in a tricky spot, between the enemy's head and the ground, but the Squib could handle herself.

All the while he kept punching. If the gunman had been a living human, it ought to have been out cold by now. That black mist seeping from the wounds indicated nothing healthy. For the twentieth time in the last ten seconds, Jorus wished he hadn't left his lightsaber in the ship.
 
He wouldn't be stopped. Couldn't. Not now. It was in his hands. His work. His purpose. The bones were half out of the sand. Old. Bleached. Wreathed in black, they worked to free the rest. Both skeletal claws were free. The visage of hollow eyes and grinning teeth emerging. Red embers glowed in the sockets. The soul was bound. The bones answered to him. A new minion. A puppet for the puppeteer.

The old one was still valuable. Useful. Needed. The tangle of limbs and bodies fell to the sand. Eyes still black with control he reached out again. The puppet's free hand caught the man's arm in its grip. Ancient bones flexed. The glove tightened. Squeezed. Crushed. The other hand pulled. Shifted. Yanked itself free from the sand and grit. From the pressure the foe placed upon it. Naked steel dragged upward seeking flesh. Death was tireless. Ceaseless. Endless. Seemingly ignoring the impact of flesh on armorplas. The figure knew better. Knew the spark the flame held.

Small claws grasped and grappled. The suit seal vented with a hiss. The bond between helmet and suit gave way with a sudden jolt. Armored faceplate disappeared replaced with the face of Death, wreathed in black. Scarlet coals of hellfire burned in empty sockets and a fleshless grin seemed to mock life itself.

Around them, the sand was quiet. The black mist crept across the grit, pouring from the figure. It seeped its way to the tangle of melee.

A sea of ink around an island of violence.

[member="Mala"] [member="Jorus Merrill"]
 

Mala

Guest
M
Wind exploded from her lungs as the three off them hit the floor but Mala's grip was like iron. Breathless she heaved again and the helmet gave way with a hiss. She slid out from beneath the head...if you could call it a head. Wreathed in black, with hellfire eyes, Mala scrambled back from it fear closing about her once more, seizing her limbs in its icy grip. Her chest hurt and for a few heartbeats all she could do was watch the grapple between the Captain and the thing.

Black seeped across the sand, catching the edge of her vision. More bad juju. No, no, no, Mala must move, Mala must react! Finger's snatched a cylinder from her belt and she jumped to her feet. "MOVE!" she shrieked at the Captain.

Snap-hiss.

The yellow blade cleaved through the air to decapitate the thing, if she could.

[member="Jorus Merrill"] [member="Locke"]
 
@Locke@Mala

Gorrammit but the thing was strong. Jorus scrambled back a breath ahead of the knife. Cuts burned on his arm, side, and belly - shallow wounds, but curses and poison were both things.

An instant later, a yellow lightsaber ignited and started swinging around. Jorus yelped. The Squib stowaway...was a Jedi? Not a very well-trained one, judging by the frantic saber aggression, but still. A lightsaber ought to make short work of the death's-head spectre.

He drew his blaster again and zeroed in on the farther enemy, the man who'd been the epicentre of the torrential mist. The pistol's handle buzzed once: half empty, and he'd used the reloads for the grenade. He fired anyway.
 

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