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The Unrepentant eased into position like an old beast remembering a familiar path. Its hull bore the polish of too many campaigns and the scars of too few repairs. Domaric Mordane stood on the fore bridge, palms flat against cold rail, watching the fleet settle around the battle station with the slow, inexorable certainty of tide. The Painkiller and the Tigator carved station lines to his starboard. A handful of frigates and destroyers angled in the outer rings, hulls and signatures tight and clean.
He listened to the soft chorus of the bridge, to the clipped reports that came and went like the measured breath of a living machine. Odria Kaelthron
had played her hand and the Breakwater had opened, a slice small enough to pass a Death Star through but wide enough to kill a fleet that trusted too easily. Mordane did not romanticize the gamble; he had seen men folded by worse odds, but he understood the arithmetic. The Emperor laid down the desire. Others matched the courage to the cost.
"Unrepentant to Battlestation Control," the communications officer intoned, routine as prayer. He passed the authentication codes across the secure channel. Mordane watched the little green light wink steady. In the corridor behind him sailors moved with the composed violence of men who had been told for years to make the impossible possible.
Control answered in the same flat voice all such systems used. "Authentication confirmed. Task Force Ananke verified. Perimeter sectors assigned." The words were dry, procedural, the voice of a machine that must not be tempted to mercy.
Mordane inclined his head. "Order the fighter shields to stagger insertion patterns," he said. "Small windows, distributed arcs. If the Anshin holds, we trade a shore insertion for the slow grind. If it fails, we pour everything through the breach. Inform the other Task Forces that I am requesting comm silence on non-essential channels. Any anomalous rebounds should be flagged and sent to Battlestation Control directly."
The reply came without flourish. "Message relayed, Moff."
He turned away from the young officer as orders began to unspool. The Unrepentant and her Task Force was ready. So were the rest of the fleet. The line held. The drop would come. The Empire would test Atrisia and Atrisia would teach the galaxy what cost obedience demanded. He did not say the words aloud. He did not need to. The crew knew. They always knew what came next.
Aether watched the formation of warships as if he were watching a theory become fact, the memory of a younger self laughing at the very notion folding into a smile that never reached his eyes. Years ago, when his shoulders had not yet been blessed with mantle, he would have spat at anyone who said Mandalorians would stand aboard vessels forged by Sith hands and call it honor. He would have called it madness, a betrayal of blood and bone. Time has a way of teaching hard lessons, and Mandalore has learned them well. The men and women before him had been forged by shame and hunger and now stood as proof that weakness is not inherited but corrected by iron and will.
He inclined his head toward Srina, a small, private nod that the hall could not claim because it would have been theft. She had given them credit, ships, and an answer in the face of old ruin. The arrangement was more than coin and metal; it was a statement that Mandalorians could be remade into something other than victims of history. That they could be the hammers that break histories open and write new endings upon their carcasses. For reasons both personal and political, he could not help but feel a measure of gratitude, and so he let them call her Dral'buir, the Bright Mother. The name fit in the strange, stubborn way of titles that are born from blood and respect, and he did little to stop it for it contained a truth he was not ashamed to own. She had once braided his hair into dreadlocks, and whatever kingdoms they now led, that small, human thread endured.
The hall still thrummed with the residue of training when Srina's words cut through it, simple and cold with portent. He felt the Force hitch around her like a cord being drawn taut and then snap. He watched the motion of her fingers toward the Blackwall and the vein of ancient power ripple outward, and where others had stood tense and frozen he felt rather the heat gather in his bones, an old bell ringing in the chest of a man who had been raised to answer calls like this.
From behind his helm a grin, hungry and small, coiled at the corner of his mouth though nothing in the room saw it. He stepped forward enough for his voice to reach every ear without ceremony. "Mandalorians always keep their word." he said, the vocoder thickening his vowels into something like thunder wrapped in velvet. The words landed and held.
He turned his face to the Death Watch as if measuring their resolve by the way they swallowed and squared their shoulders. "Everything you have endured in training, every bruise and triumph, has led us to this moment," he said, his cadence building like tide and blade in the same breath. "An enemy waits beyond the black of stars whose flesh has never been cut by Mandalorian steel. Their bones have not tasted our grind.We will not be idle while such a travesty exists.We will give them what they ask for and more: utter devastation, as a craft and a prayer. Take up arms and make ready, for our contract and our honor demand it. Take up arms and make ready, for your Mand'alor demands it!"
He allowed his gaze to slide along the host, meeting eyes that would answer with feats rather than promises, and then he turned toward Dima with the deliberate gravity of a man assigning a rite. He half-bowed his head with the old courtesy that a commander gives a blade. "My Executioner..." he said, the epithet a benediction as much as it was a command, "Witch of War, bless our warriors in the ways of the old. Call Kad Ha'rangir down upon us so that every soul we lay low becomes an act of worship to war and an offering to Mandalore."
There was no flourish in the request, only the absolute conviction of a man who knows the shape of the thing he commands. The name he gave her did not soften or flatter; it consecrated. Around them the air seemed to tighten with expectation, the way iron waits to sing when struck, and Aether felt the pull of ancestors like hands upon his back, urging him forward into the work he had chosen and the path he would not abandon.[/color]
FLEET ADMIRAL VORIN ZONILL
OBJECTIVE II: ACROSS THE STARS
ORBITING ATRISIA
Fleet Admiral Vorin Zonill paced around the bridge of the MIN Conqueror's Bane nervously as his fleet exited hyperspace just outside of Atrisia. His instructions had been shockingly clear: organize as powerful a strike force as possible and head to Atrisia with all due haste. He was to rendezvous with Supreme Commander Marlon Sularen
and Governor Amalia Visconti | Mira Rhory
as soon as possible, so that the Imperial Confederation could strike at the heart of the Galactic Empire's operations, halting their advance once and for all!
Of course, such a massive undertaking was bound to hit a few snags along the way, the first of which was the fact that Zonill's usual flag, the MIN Collateral Star, was still undergoing repairs from the damage it had sustained during the Brosi Campaign, to say nothing of the teething mechanical and electrical problems that the ship seemingly experienced on a daily basis. With the vessel currently and firmly out of commission, Zonill was forced to look elsewhere for a ship befitting of his status.
He found it in the Heimdall-Class Fast Battlecruiser. It was, to be sure, a versatile and powerful vessel, and made an excellent addition to the Imperial Remnant's arsenal. Unfortunately, as potent and impressive as the vessel was, its starfighter capacity was sorely lacking compared to the Collateral Star, forcing Zonill to rely on his ships's extensive array of offensive and defensive weapons.
In fact, compared to other fleets that he had commanded, this particular one was rather light on starfighters in general. Breaking with traditional Mahporeem battle doctrine, Zonill had elected to go heavy on ships with a powerful armament, as was evidenced by the Imperial I-class Star Destroyers, the Impressor-class Acclamators and the Loki-Class Fast Corvettes he had brought with him for this battle. Zonill also had a single Vilifier-class Star Destroyer with him to try and make up for the lack of available starfighters missing from his fleet.
However, the most important part of Zonill's fleet composition was neither his battlecruiser nor Star Destroyers nor Acclamators or corvettes, but the three Von Strauss-class cargo ships that he had brought with him. In fact, these three ships were critically important to the success of the Imperial Remnant's mission to Atrisia.
Although some of Mahporeem's forces had made it planet side before the Empire showed up, most of the Imperial Remnant's army hadn't been ready to sortie out, having been caught by surprise by the speed and efficiency of the Galactic Empire's assault. The three cargo ships Zonill had brought with him would be able to remedy that situation, as each ship was capable of holding thousands of troops and numerous amount of weapons, vehicles and supplies within their spacious cargo holds.
Naturally, such ships were also immensely tempting targets, and highly valuable ones at that. Even the loss of a single Von Strauss-class cargo ship would be devastating to the Imperial Remnant, and would result in numerous lives lost and immense damage to Mahporeem's war effort. It would be up to Zonill to ensure that this didn't happen.
"This is Supreme Commander Marlon Sularen, all Fleet Commanders report in.
Sularen's voice crackled to life over the Conquer's Bane's commlinks. Governor Visconti quickly replied to Sularen's summons, and Zonill answered as soon as they were done speaking.
"This is Fleet Admiral Vorin Zonill, standing by. My fleet is ready and able to begin landing operations immediately. We eagerly await your command, over."
Zonill braced himself for the battle to come, and for the critical part he was going to play in it. After all, the fate of Mahporeem's mission to defend the planet from the Empire rested solely in his hands, and his actions today would determine if Mahporeem would carry the day or be forced to retreat in shame, just like they did in Brosi.
Korda shifted his weight, the steel of his boots whispering against the polished deck as if the floor itself recognized the cadence of a warrior tempered by fire. He did not move forward, but adjusted his stance at the edge of the Death Watch ranks, a subtle lean that brought him closer to Aether's rhythm without infringing upon the space Domina claimed. The air around him seemed heavier, carrying the faint metallic tang of his armor and the acrid, curling smoke from the ember embedded in his gauntlet, a residue of ritual flame that clung to him like a mantle.
His gauntlets were scarred and pitted, each nick a story of battles survived, and his fingers found the braided leather bracers at his knuckles. He twisted the clasps with meticulous care, each soft click a heartbeat, a silent invocation to Kad Ha'Rangir that whispered along the edges of the hall. Sparks of residual ember danced briefly, kissing the steel of the floor before vanishing, unnoticed by all but the devout.
He breathed in the tension of the hall, the faint quiver of suspended muscles and the scent of sweat, oil, and anticipation mingling in the charged air. His crimson visor glinted under the light, catching every shimmer of steel, every flicker of movement from the warriors frozen mid‑strike. His gaze lingered on Domina, tracing the way her presence bent the Force around her, thickening it, shaping it, making even the air an altar to her will.
Through the vocoder, his voice cut low and reverent, rolling like distant thunder through the chamber: "Your command is ours to honor, Aether Verd. Your words are the forge; we are the hammers, and the flame shall judge us rightly."
He flexed his gauntlets again, sending faint sparks from the ritual marks etched along the metal, tiny, fleeting, a promise more than a display. Every scarred plate, every ember, every careful movement spoke of devotion and readiness, a silent offering to the Destroyer God. Korda remained at the side, unmoving yet alive with potential energy, a sentinel coiled in anticipation, waiting for the moment when Domina would unleash the will of war and the steel would sing.
The bounty hunter earned his share of glares from those standing. He never seemed to pay them much mind. Faceless nobodies, the lot of them. Corpses to join the mass of fodder needed in order for Fett to reach the bridge. Razmir and Mauve might have been on board, the crime bosses had their duties, but this was his domain now.
"Do as you're told," he continued, "And you might just live."
Renn's eyes wandered over the members of Death Watch as he stood just behind Aether Verd
clad in his full Beskar'gam, the days having been long after much training with the Praetorian Guard attached to Srina Talon
. The men were well rested this day; the training had drained much of his men over the last few days, but he could see the benefit of it. Each one of them had learned something from their Praetorian counterpart, something that was invaluable in battle.
His heart swelled as he listened to the words of the Mand'alor fill his ears with him and his men; he could almost feel the bloodthirst of those under his command rise as the words escaped Aether's mouth.
Stepping forward, his vocoder echoed to life as he spoke, "VODE AN brothers of Mandalore! You have heard the words of our Mand'alor, and he has given you a command to bring death to our enemies and honor to our clans. The manda has answered our prayers and has given us a battle worthy of our attention. We have trained all our lives for days like this, and we have been hand-fed a story to span generations." He opened his arms towards his brethren, "Ib'tuur jatne tuur ash'ad kyr'amur, remember these words today, brothers and sisters of Mandalore. For we will take down a hundred for each Death Watch that steps foot into battle, but remember, it is a fool's folly to not know when to keep himself alive." His voice grew solemn, heavy as thoughts of those who had passed in battle came to his mind, "Do not make me bring you back in Holo-beds, to mourning Clans who have lost their sons... daughters... brothers... sisters..." Each word was accented by his directioning towards a different member of his regiment.
His words seemed to hang in the air for a moment as he let the reality of their future hit, "Although we are the children of Mandalore and battle is in our blood, I do not wish for any one of us to be lost on this day. Fight brave, fight fierce, and fight smart. You are all my, cyare'se. We have trained, fought, and bled together; we have formed a bond that not even death can sever. Close your eyes with me, brothers and sisters, remember why it is why we fight." Renn moved to the center of the formation as he spoke, his hand wrapping around the neck of the Mandalorian in front of him as he bowed his head, their helmets resting against each other. His voice came out almost as a whisper, but loud enough for those around him to hear, "Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum. Trask, Imine, Jarn, and Kad. We remember those we have lost, and we will rejoin you again in the manda." As he spoke the names of those he had lost, each member of the Watch spoke names of those close to them that they had lost, their words colliding into each other as they spoke, but their heads rose in unison.
Standing in front of the members of Death Watch, Renn moved to each one, clasping their hands in his as he murmured encouragement to each one, his voice once carried through the ranks now brought to a whisper as he wished to share an intimate moment with those who stood beside him. Wished to share one more moment with those whom he held dear one more time before they went off to battle, for none of them knew if it would be their last.
To War.
Vode An - Brothers All Ib'tuur jatne tuur ash'ad kyr'amur - Today is a good day for someone else to die cyare'se - loved ones Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum - Daily remembrance of those passed on "I'm still alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal."
Aselia stood at Aether's side, where she belonged. Her buy'ce rested under her arm, the durasteel plates of her crimson armor catching the low light, black accents and a trailing blue cape completing the martial silhouette. The tour of the warships had been long, thorough, and deeply impressive. She had little doubt they would serve Mandalore well in the days to come. For the most part, she held her silence, letting Srina and Aether carry the weight of conversation, her sharp eyes absorbing every detail with the quiet discipline that had long defined her.
It wasn't until Srina drifted toward a nearby viewport that Aselia felt it—a ripple in the Force. The sensation stopped her mid-breath, a chill running down her spine like a blade of ice. Blue eyes flicked immediately to Aether, and in the same motion her buy'ce slid back into place with a soft hiss as its seals locked to the outside environment. The warning was unmistakable. Something was coming.
She didn't know what, only that the air itself seemed to change. Aether stepped forward to address the Death Watch, his presence filling the chamber with steel-wrought authority. Aselia took one step back, watching closely, her posture firm but ready. Renn's voice rang out next, calling to their vod with a tempered urgency, but she remained quiet, arms crossing over her chest as her visor swept back to Srina.
What she saw there rooted her. Power bled from the Echani like moonlight being drawn into the Blackwall itself. The sight compelled Aselia forward. Heavy footfalls echoed as she moved, deliberate and unyielding, until she stood just behind and to the right of Srina. Did she understand the full scope of what was unfolding? Not at all. Was she on par with the woman who now seemed half-woven from the Force itself? Certainly not.
But that did not matter. Srina was like a daughter to her father, and that bond demanded no explanation. Aselia raised a gauntleted hand, and with the same silent resolve, let the Force pour from her into the abyss, lending her strength to the void beside Srina's own.
"Vigilance in the Force will serve you better than any physical armor." —Darth Caedes, ruminations...
The Empress' new warships cut sharp lines through the space before Caedes. The Death Watch, Mandolorians within her Majesty's employment, performed with the expectedly brutal, grim efficiency of warriors from their storied culture. Like a pack of wolves, and armed with these new starships, they circled the Imperial Praetorian Guard and ravaged their flanks. Behind them, the roiling cloud-curtain of the Blackwall's storm flashed and crackled with sorcerous lightning.
Revna Marr
was pressed close against him in the oversized command chair, the chair itself centered in the Eidolon's forward-most Combat Information Center (CIC), her presence coiled with his. Their legs overlapped one another, his arm draped atop her shoulders, their fingers entwined. It was not affection displayed for the sake of others, rather a quietly marveling possession claimed mutually between them, subtle yet unashamed.
Abruptly, he felt it.
It began like the vibration of a struck chord running through his sternum, deep in the hollow of his chest and up into his throat. A wrongness threaded into the Force, like the smell of mold, subtle at first. His scouring eyes narrowed, serpentine in their faint, ember-lit glow.
"Something is wrong," uttered the Lady Talon.
Caedes was already leaning forward, already listening to something far off, something beyond the hum of the CIC's consoles and the clipped reports of the Eidolon's officers.
Without a word, he rose, uncoiling, a serpent who'd been content to rest until provoked. He straightened, black and gold robes catching the bridge's low light. He advanced toward the viewport, staring out past the immediate display of naval theater. From the shadows stirred the Jen'koshū wraiths, hooded figures with faces swallowed in darkness, hands folded within their sleeves. They slipped into step at either flank of their King, heads bowed. He crossed the space and came to stand beside Srina, his height and angular, scaled features catching the faint gleam of the flashing Blackwall beyond. He did not look at her. His gaze fixed instead on the yawning expanse of space, on the oil-dark scar of the Blackwall, and beyond it, to where the faint sense of a fledgling ritual's power clawed across the expanse of stars.
"What is this?" he asked at last, rhetorically, voice seething and rich with judgment.
"Something festers in the core."
Caedes unfolded his hands from behind his back and flexed his fingers, joints cracking, his chin lifting slightly.
"Ready the fleet," he commanded the first Dreadlord.
He glanced at Srina briefly, studying her face.
"And inform Elmindra Xitaar
of my absence from the system. I move for Atrisia."
The Dreadlord bowed and stepped away, fading back into the shadows to carry forth his command. Caedes turned his head slightly, addressing the second wraith.
Srina raised one hand and extended her fingers toward the Blackwall, and power bled from her like the first tremor before an earthquake. Around them, the void darkened, the strength in the wall stirring as if in response to her call. Veins of light, violet, cold, and ancient, crawled across the chasm, bending and coalescing...But it wasn't enough.
With a languid precision, he lifted two sharp-clawed fingers, and the Force surged at his command. His eyes flared like molten fire, joining in on Srina's working, adding the weight of his will to her own, to that of Lina Ovmar
and Madrona A’Mia
too, nearby. Together they wrenched at the fabrics of space and time, causing the Blackwall to warp and quiver, folding in on itself and churning like a whirlpool.
Naamino Zuukamano had been overseeing Kor'ethyr troops running drill when word came of his summons. The call was sudden, unexpected, and carried little fanfare. With a distinct lack of military activity in other regards, paired with little to no information forthcoming about the nature of his summons, the zabrak reasoned this was likely in relation to his work as a Hand of the King.
Passing off command of drill to his second, the young man excused himself and made haste to the hangar to which he'd been called, stopping only to retrieve his full set of armor an a small tote of personal effects that he'd started keeping packed for moments such as this. To his immense surprise, Haro Aven
was amongst those gathered.
"Oi, know what this's all about?"
Ice blue eyes cast about as he shouldered up beside his buddy and rumbled the inquiry. Naami straightened up, helmet beneath one arm while the other formed a stiff salute as the source of their call to arms became clear.
Present
Details were sparse, all that was known was there was a disturbance creating ripples in the Force and war between various enemies of the Order might soon press against their borders. Naami stole a brief moment after boarding the shuttle to send a message to his girlfriend Leshanna Dromar
, diligently providing her what little context he could for his sudden disappearance from normal duty on Korriban.
Lesh,
There wasn't time to find you, y'le. I ask that you forgive my sudden absence. I serve the Order gladly of course, but curse our foes for pulling me away so often. I'll channel my wrath into their destruction, wherever I meet them in the conflict to come, and do all that I can to return to you swiftly. Take care, know that my hearts are with you, and if you have time, fly with Zafira a bit while I'm away? She always pouts when the two of us are too busy.
Yours always,
Naamino
Not a single moment was wasted in coordinating their hasty arrival to the summons of the King. Armored boots thudded against durasteel flooring as Naami and Haro jogged where ordered to go. Years of conditioning and training meant that he moved in the armor as if it were a second skin, and that his breathing remained steady even as he rounded that last turn before reaching the bridge.
His pace slowed only enough for the decorum necessary to greet his betters, though it was clear his priority was taking in the scene and getting to work. Proverbial hackles raised a bit at the presence of Mandalorians, and his breath caught in his chest ever so slightly upon realizing just how many potent Sith were gathered there, but the young man's deep voice showed no sign of wavering.
"Lieutenant Zuukamano reporting. Your will, sir?"
The zabrak stood tall, helmeted gaze fixed upon Darth Caedes
. Though his curiosity was immense regarding the company his King currently shared, Naamino remained focused on what mattered most in that moment: his orders.
V1-L8 observed the pair of scum gambling. Yellow photorecptors honing in on a specific advantage that Nero Drake
opted to use. The YVH could of said something to Tohu
, but that was not realistic. Life is unfair. As he watched, his upper appendages moved in a almost rehearsed motion. Back and forth. Up and down. Adding exterior modifications to a T-7 ion disruptor rifle's chassis. A scope and shock bayonet.
" According to my probability module. Our chances of success rank at approximately 0.00045%." His motions slowed slightly to ensure a careful handling of the volatile power cell of the disruptor rifle. " With the appropriate modifiers, assuming your meatsuits are in peak condition, 0.00045% boosts to a whole karking 3.63%" He assembled the rifle and cradled it like a baby in his cold arms. Stepping away from work bench he joined the others staring at their target growing larger than life.
" Unless I'm piloting..." He added and tilted his visage head down to mimic a sadistic grin.
Domina's ears flickered like banners in the wind, each twitch betraying what her mask concealed. Once, she had been the terror-child of Mandalorian kind. Too wild for jetpacks, too stubborn for gadgets, too bloodthirsty for anything but her claws and the whisper of war. Now, matured and sharpened, she was more than a warrior. She was a missionary. A woman of god. The Executioner of Ha'rangir. Anyone who doubted as much had not watched the countless battlefields she carved with fang and flame in her god's name.
And yet...as Aether Verd
's voice rolled like storm and steel, something unfamiliar pressed in at the edges of her chest. Her breath caught, heat welled against the inside of her mask, and her talons flexed against the holy book in her grip. Emotion. She never thought she would live long enough to see it before The Manda claimed her. A Mandalorian Empire not fractured by politics, not rotting in posturing, but united in fire and purpose. It was...good. The only good there was: the work of Ha'rangir made manifest.
Her Mand'alor turned his command upon her, and Dima dipped her head, dragging a claw across the leather of her book, savoring the gesture like a blade across stone. Renn Vizsla
'sudden motion forward drew her glance, and though the Warpriest cared little for sentimentality, she let him speak. If Aether was thunder and Renn was steel, she would be fire. Purifying, merciless, divine.
A young ember of Ha'rangir's flame stepped forth and spoke. Korda Veydran
, His words carried sincerity, and that was enough. Dima's laughter rumbled like coals stirred by a forge-bellows. She slung a great fur-draped arm over his shoulder, rattling him with affectionate vigor.
"Hail Ha'rangir, little ember. His work is never done, child. And that is why we breathe. So GLAD you made it to service!"
The Warpriest grinned impishly in delight as chants came to a pause.
Her cloak flared as she strode forward, shoulders squared beneath the weight of expectation. She gazed at her kin, at their Sith-borne allies, and at the vast machinery of war waiting to be unleashed. She raised her upper claws to the air as if cradling the cosmos itself, and her voice lowered to a sacred chitter, intimate and terrible.
"Cursed be the stars...for our sake." The runes carved into her beskar'gam flared, azure fire kindling across her frame until sparks rose like embers caught in unseen winds. "Both ash and embers they shall rain forth for us-" She clutched her book tighter as the Talisman of Calling flared, and from that flame a weapon was born. The Starfang tore into existence. A jagged greatsword of crystal and starlight, taller than its mistress, searing the very air with the cold brilliance of dying suns. "For from the dust of stars we were taken, for the embers that we are..." She twisted it once, then drove the blade's edge into the durasteel floor with a ringing finality. "And to Ha'rangir's flame we shall return~"
That was enough. No more words were needed. Her god had been invoked, the rite fulfilled.
That was all that needed to be said. For in the age of the warrior-poets, fate was forged in steel & flames. The ancient sagas speak of the sword not as a weapon, but as a symbol. Ethereal in their significance. They were power, honor, wealth, status...everything. Because they held within them the power to reduce something to nothing. The book often spoke of the stronghold of Ha'rangir, how burning blades illuminated it's halls...To Kith & Kin, these were not just a simple slab of metal. Easy enough to understand from a people whose method of entering paradise is through the end of a blade. To die well, was to die battle-slain and holy. Manda made it so~
Steel. Flame. Scripture.
She lifted her helm skyward as her tail rattled in ecstasy.
The Exarch sat in his command chair, fingers absently massaging the stump where his leg had once been, his advanced prosthesis leaning against the chair. The pain was sharp tonight; perhaps because this was the first time in years he had set foot on the bridge of the ship that had taken it from him. Or perhaps because his last taste of battle had ended in fire, blood, and loss. He reached for the glass balanced on the chair's armrest. The brandy was nearly gone, but its warmth still clung to the crystal. One final swallow, a slow burn, smooth enough to dull the edge of memory. He exhaled through his nose, set the glass aside, and keyed the control stud on his chair.
"THEMIS, how goes the integration?"
Without hesitation, a clear, feminine voice resonated through the bridge speakers, calm but alive with precision. <<Integration proceeds at peak efficiency, Karl. The Aeternus, though an older design, remains a marvel of engineering. With ATHENA assisting, I've optimized multiple subsystems beyond their original tolerances. Full synchronization will be achieved by the time we exit hyperspace.>>
"Good, I'm glad you like the ship. I know it's not the Belligerent, but it was made during that same era."
<<I don't mind it at all, Karl. Thank you.>>
He let the words hang in the air a moment, then tapped the stud again. Karl stewed in the silence for a long while, the aftertaste of brandy lingering on his tongue. His hand drifted again to the scarred stump beneath his uniform. He reached to the side and pulled his Ersteel leg towards him. He locked the mechanism into place with a hiss of pneumatics. The pain dulled to a phantom echo as the symbiotic link came back online. Karl braced against the chair and rose slowly, his steps deliberate.
He walked forward to the main viewport, but stopped halfway. His eyes fell upon a small imperfection in the Ersteel flooring, a burn mark, no larger than his hand. It was preserved after all these years; it had been cleaned and polished, but he had specifically asked for it to remain. The smudge was not random; it was another scar of that last battle. It was the place where C1RC3 had died for the first time; it was a place where a fragment of his wife's code had been lost forever. Karl lingered there only for a moment before bowing his head slightly, then continued on.
At the viewport, the darkness of hyperspace rippled and tore away. Stars snapped into focus, brilliant against the void. Before him loomed Atrisia, its world-wound skies bracing for the storm to come. And behind him, cascading out of hyperspace in disciplined formation, came the ships of his command, their hulls cutting against the starlight like blades of judgment.
Karl stood tall, hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed on the world ahead. The pain in his leg remained, as did the ghost of loss, but both were tempered now, hardened into resolve. The Exarch had returned to war. And this time, he would not yield. He turned from the viewport, his boots echoing off the deck.
"Sound battlestations." He ordered, his voice carrying without strain.
A chorus of acknowledgments rose from the bridge. Officer bent to their consoles, techs flicked switches, and the calm hum of the Aeternus shifted into the steady drumbeat of a warship readying for battle. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted an Ensign walking toward him, clutching a headset, he stopped just short of the Exarch and held it out with both hands.
"Fleet-link headset, sir."
Karl took it without hesitation, slipping it around his head; it rested perfectly. The link chimed as it synced him to the commanders of each of his combat lines. He gave the ensign an appreciative nod, "Thank you, ensign."
The young man's eyes widened; he saluted quickly before scurrying back to his communications console. Still walking back towards his seat, he raised a hand in the air, which prompted the solid state hologram to shimmer to life before him. A three-dimensional projection of his fleet hung just before his command chair, each vessel rendered in crisp blue light. The hologram has mass, a faint resistance when touched, it made it almost seem like it wasn't an illusion. His weathered hand extended as he began to move pieces into position.
"Attack line, forward." He dragged the wedge-shaped icons into a spearhead. Next, he grabbed smaller wedges and placed them behind the attack line. "Screen, you'll be behind them. Lohengrin, you will be the floater. If one side is receiving heavier resistance, you'll move to assist." Their firing angles overlapped into the attack line, giving them a much-needed protective crossfire.
"Core line, we'll be just behind the screen." He moved a piece that resembled the Aeternus into formation and followed it with a few larger ships. "And the support line, rearward, at a distance. But not idle. Raindrop, you'll need to intercept anything that comes close to the barges." He said as he moved the last pieces behind his own.
He used both of his hands to shift the image, showing vertical variance. Ships rose above the horizontal axis or dipped below it, creating a lattice of coverage. No vessel's guns were obstructed, every field of fire had depth, and overlapping arcs ensured that any ship targeted would be shielded by another. Karl stepped back, his hands clasped behind him.
"Not a single hull stands exposed. Not a single cannon is wasted. This is not a wall, gentlemen, it is a net. And we will close it on the throat of the Galactic Empire." He said, walking through the image to sit down.
A technician at comms nodded sharply. "Exarch, fleet captains report acknowledgment. Formation is being adopted now."
Outside the viewport, the stars filled with motion. One by one, ships slid into their designated places, shifting not only laterally but vertically. A destroyer rose high above the main line, its silhouette stark against the void. Below, a cruiser dropped beneath the plane, forming a layer of crossfire. The entire fleet began to settle into its unorthodox pattern, not the flat, predictable lines of lesser admirals, but a living formation that breathed, interlocked, and covered itself.
Another officer called out from tactical. "Exarch, outer line reports weapons charged and shields synchronized. Inner line confirms crossfire channels established."
A different comms tech yelled out, "Exarch, the Supreme Commander is asking us to report in."
"Connect me to him and the rest of our naval vessels." He said, pressing a button on his headset. "This is Exarch Von Strauss reporting in. The Fourteenth is almost set in formation. Shields and weapons at the ready."
The fleet arrives and gets into its unorthodox hydra formation.
Location: Atrisia System Thread Objective: Across the Stars Mission Objective: The Wounded Beast
Engage force reconnaissance on Galactic Imperial fleet forces.
Conduct surgical strikes on Galactic Imperial star destroyers targeting engines, major anti-capital battery emplacements, sensor masts, and bridge towers.
In time, the Kainate warship would materialize in realspace after the arduous hyperspace journey, disgorging dozens of starfighters into the empty void to do battle with the faithless abound their technological terror.
Seela’s heavy starfighter was among the first to leave the hangar, racing into the vacuum propelled by engines of searing crimson as the warship shrank to a speck in her wake. This time, its defense was not her mission. Instead, she had been assigned to a small contingent tasked with tying up the Imperial fleet, with the aim of clearing the way for the Sith Order to enact their objectives, of which she was not privy to.
For now, she danced in the shadows.
Nevertheless, all parts in a ballet needed to be in sync for the greater act to flourish, even if some of the dancers wore blindfolds, unaware of the movements of the greater ensemble. In that, Seela knew only that she was dispatched as part of an advance force, tasked with reconnaissance and surgical strikes on select Imperial targets. Thus, the Twi’lek’s deft fingers danced across the controls as she brought power to the Voidflare ion engines. Her starfighter accelerated to blistering speed then, burning through the void with twin jets of ionized plasma trailing in its wake as the surge drive roared to life.
“This is Fragile Dancer. Vectoring towards target waypoint.”
Seela closed her eyes, features softening into a serene mask as her pilot-mind touched the symbiotic awareness of the Vrahlgeist Node. For a brief moment, the craft’s sensors melded into her organic senses. Its engines became her legs, its weapons her fists, and its wings her outstretched arms.
Already, she could smell the fleets of two distinct and opposing Empires looming ahead.
The Direwolfwas no hammer like the Iron Eidolon—it was the knife in the dark. The hum of the Direwolf's cloaking field was a quiet predator's song, low and steady, just beneath the rhythm of his respirator. Siv stood at the forward viewport of the auxiliary bridge, watching the Mandalorian fleet assemble beyond the shroud of his vessel. The massive warships bore the sigils of clans old and new, their lines sharp against the void. Mandalore was not fielding raiders today—it was fielding an empire's worth of fire and steel.
He'd spent the last few hours in silence, observing. Watching the flow of formations, cataloguing the strengths and weaknesses of this new armada. The Mand'alor's banner was enough to rally thousands, but Siv knew banners alone did not win wars. Precision did. Timing did. Flanking when the enemy least expected it—that was what kept warriors alive and ensured battles ended quickly.
When the order finally came across his secure channel, Siv's posture shifted. No more detached observer—he was a blade unsheathed. The Mand'alor's voice carried command, not request, and Siv bowed his helmeted head before responding.
"Understood, Mand'alor. The Direwolf will shadow the main line. I will join Death Watch once everything is settled here. "
His hand ghosted over the tactical display, plotting routes and fallback vectors. The Direwolf wasn't a warhammer—it was a scalpel. And Siv knew his place was to strike where the enemy was blind, to make them bleed from shadows while the fleet crushed them head-on.
Aether's presence nearby was an anchor; the warrior's readiness for close combat matched Siv's own resolve for calculated strikes. Together, they were teeth on different sides of the same jaw.
For a moment, Siv allowed himself a glance at the fleet again. Mandalore had tried the olive branch once, and the galaxy had mistaken it for weakness. Now came the sword.
“Commencing deceleration. Estimated time of arrival… Three hundred seconds.” The Navigation Quadrant reported. Admiral Remus Adair took a sharp inhale and nodded his approval. This was it. He could feel the inevitability of it. A sort of intense tension which festered aboard the overbridge as their arrival turned imminent. This weapon was the Emperors vindictiveness made manifest. A weapon whose shear size was only outmatched by the ambition of the Sith. But it was ambition which often led to folly.
Adair did not believe the weapon was of course ready or fit. It was hard to believe so in his mind. The Sith and their machinations had rushed the device, likely to try and keep it secret. And it was this hurried development cycle that Remus believed buried the key. There was no meaningful way that that some ragtag remnant who had only just clung to Coruscant and routed the Alliance from Arkansas was in a position to develop such a prize. The Empire could have devoted the resources of this project to a thousand other endeavours. Some of which might have genuinely improved the lives of its denizens. Raised some moral and legitimacy. Alas they had devoted trillions presumably, for gaudy monument to violence. “You seem perturbed, Admiral.” A silky smooth voice called.
Adair’s gaze was drawn from the display to the man beside him. Captain-Doctor Filus Gallroy, one of the architect of the weapon was present aboard the Overbridge. Remus thought him a callous zealot like most in the Emperor’s good graces, but could not deny he appreciate the expertise. Such knowledge was invaluable to a crew who had only ever operated this weapon in theory. “This is a great day for the Empire. We today hold the privilege of heralding the Alliance to its doom.” The scientist mused with a smirk. "And yet you seem.... Dour."
Remus only managed an indifferent scowl. It was the enthusiasm he put into his work which disturbed the Admiral. The architect had even organised catered beverages for the command crew, served via obsidian protocol droids. Such was Gallroy’s confidence in the weapon. It had only been by Remus’ forceful intervention that the provision of alcoholic beverages was prohibited by the Firsr Order veteran. He felt unease at what was to come, which slipped from his tongue through forked barbs. “Only time will tell if your prognostications and premonitions bear fruit, Captain.” Remus pointedly retorted. “I prefer to see results before I declare victory.”
Gallroy offered nothing but a scowl of his own before returning to his station, commanding the engineering crew. The Admiral’s gaze transferred over to the Sith who was skulking on his command deck. A Darth Meliant. He had taken an errant interest in the proceedings about are the Overbridge. Remus would ordinarily have removed him, but as he was one of the supposed elite in the Emperor’s dark side cadre, he refused to do so.
“Reversion from light speed in sixty seconds.” The navigation officer barked for all the bridge to hear. Remus’ gaze once more returned to the large data read out, providing estimated times of arrival, speed and other technical data Remus struggled to decipher. He watched as the Death Star, at least according to this readout, was reaching the end of its projected journey. Hopefully the forward advance group had done their work of disabling the traps Atrisia held. It would be a slog for the Death Star to have to fight its way through to Atrisia.
“Minister on deck!” A voice called. Remus straightened his posture and stood to attention as Reiner last name entered the Overbridge, flanked by two Death Troopers. Adair approached the man, his boots clocking against the deck playing as he moved to meet them. He was of course followed obediently by Captain-Doctor Gallroy.
“Minister,” Remus began with a salute which deepened into a bow, “I see you’ve come to enjoy the festivities.” The admirably drily mused, “Apologies, but I made some additions of my own to your new toy.” He offered a small smile and gestured to the newest fixture to the Overbridge, a large holographic command table. “I felt it necessary, I feel we are about to be players in a pivotal moment in history.” Perhaps he had the same hubris was Gallroy, but unlike the scientist Remus was not one to put all his eggs in one basket. Success or failure irregardless, this was history.
The Third Death Star lurched out of lightspeed and came to eclipse the void. What had once been empty nothingness was now captured by the gargantuan structure of the super weapon. It’s round shape calming. A child could have easily drawn it. But the simplicity of its shape undercut the lethality of firepower it carried. Immediately following the Death Star’s reversion came Task Force Cerberus, Remus’ own command. From aboard the battle station, Adair watched the holographic display begin to light up as his task force came into view. Along with others of the imperial navy.
Cerberus’ larger vessels the Vexation, Prefsbelt and Reprisal began to spread out. Creating wide, but overarching killzones with their batteries. In between the behemoth battlecruisers star destroyers shored up the line, aided by escort frigates and cruisers. The stratagem was to force any attackers to funnel through heavy turbolaser fire into the maw of the hungry battle fleet.
“Excuse me Minister,” Remus approached the holographic display and began to broadcast himself to the imperial fleet. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Adair began with haughty authority, “We today stand at the precipice of a new era. The demonstration of a weapon which will cement our mandate as the rulers of the Galaxy.” Adair continued. “But, we must all play our role in this endeavour. I am more than certain that the Alliance will muster a force to counter us. To ruin the Emperor’s triumph. In fact,” he looked at the display. As sensor feedback came to light up the display, the Tython came into view, “It appears they are already here to greet us.”
Remus allowed a small smile to pass across his features. It was something of a facade, he was terrified. Not that he would allow the crew or scum like Gallroy know. “Present a perimeter ladies and gentlemen. A barrier of steel. Defend this Battlestation while we position ourselves.” He looked at the commanders, “Failure has never been an option. But today of all days it will not be tolerated.” Remus allowed a pause, “Happy hunting.” The communique ended, and Adair moved to the gunnery crew.
Several technicians sat at their stations, operating the supposedly planet killing weapon. “Status report.” Remus commanded, boots clicking at the edge of the . “How long until we are able to fire?”
The Petty Officer Enemika Vael turned from her console and stood to attention. “The main battery reactors are beginning energising procedures now.” The gunnery officer reported. “We will be ready for targeting solutions in approximately ten to fifteen minutes.”
Remus did not scoff audibly, but the same withering disdain was transferred through but his gaze. Vael’s expression wilted beneath it. “Admiral,” the Captain-Doctor spoke up, “The Officer is correct. The weapon requires sometime before we can destroy our enemies.”
Remus suppressed the primal urge to berate a junior officer or humble the Captain-Doctor. It was of course unbecoming and gross to do so. “I suppose pre-warming the reactors is beyond the limits of science?” The officer mused.
The Captain-Doctor was scandalised. I seemed that the Gullroy required a few seconds to properly process the question , “I-Sir… With all due respect,” his face was contorted with confusion, “The power this weapon wields… It… It is not like just turning a light switch on. There are precau-“
“Theoretically wields.” Remus tautly intetjected, as a smile pursed his lips. “I am of course tooling with you, Captain.” It was the first time he felt he had gotten the better of the psychopath. And the first time he had properly smiled since getting on board. “Alert me when the weapon is primed and ready.” With that Adair turned on his heels and returned to his station at the holotable. Already, the hundreds of opposing vessels began to line up on the display. Adair could see if
“We will see if the Emperors wants have been satisfied.”
// Padawan Lowe //
// ANS-Tython
// Objective // Protect //
// Focus //
/// Allies /// Alexandra Feanor
// Tiber Septimus
// Marek Bancroft
// Caelus Vire // NIHIL
// Gavin Vel
// Ryu Jung
//
/// Enemies /// V1-L8
// Koda Fett
// Razmir Tezhyn
// TohuCATCH THESE HANDS // Velis Arden
// IG-44
// Mauve du Vain
// Nero Drake
// There's a couple of y'all huh...
A nervousness tightened the stomach of the Echani padawan, standing to the side of the negotiations between the Diarchy and the Galactic Alliance. War had a tendency to make strange bedfellows, but the Jedi code Ayra was raised on taught little of dealing with Sith as allies instead of enemies. She supposed it was probably why senators would be leading the negotiations instead of the Jedi, lacking a proper leader as they were.
But all the ideas of negotiating felt strange to the padawan as she looked across the room towards the delegation of the Diarchy. The Diarch Reign stood regal at the lead, flanked by what could only be assumed to be his retainers. The first was a woman, long dark hair and clinical in her appearance. The second held a noble bearing similar to their leader, administrative in appearance Ayra supposed. The three of them intrigued Ayra, but were not necessarily the ones that caught her eye.
Because a fething brute of a man stood near them, almost shocking the way he was differentiated by his colleagues. Everything about him stood out, his size, his scars, the sheer fact that the grimace on his face could tell even the inexperienced girl the man was one second away from violence. Every bit the Sith she had been warned about.
Her face remained focused on him, clearly concerned about what he was capable of as much as the battle ahead.
She only hoped the Diarchy had come in good faith, because the confidence she could fight back against such creatures grew slim.
The negotiations grew more urgent as the alarms began to blare, the Echani's attention finally pulled away from the behemoth across the room to turn to the view port in sync with the rest of those present. Her heart fell in her chest as she witnessed the full power of the encroaching Empire. It failed imagination the sheer number of star destroyers that crept forward above Atrisia, but hope threatened to shatter as the pale light shone of the battle station that now loomed in front of them.
Unconsciously, the Padawan took a step back, the cowardice that she fought so fiercely to move past with the help of her Jedi allies clawed its way against the back of her mind. Yet it was with their help that the girl managed to steel her heart, ready for the battle ahead.
"The safety of the Senators and the delegation of the Diarchy remains our priority, ensure no harm comes to them if they come to us. Prepare escape pods if we need them."
The commands came quickly, attempting to get ahead of whatever fate came for them. The Senators were the core of the Alliance, and no harm could come to them. Ayra held little knowledge of the Diarchy, but those they had brought seemed warriors. Whether they chose to flee or fight, the Alliance security would need to assist them in good faith.
Ayra took her place in front of the doors to the negotiating tables, along with a few other Jedi and soldiers. They didn't know who and how many would be coming for them, but they would fight against the encroachment.
The voices of Death Watch ebbed away, a tide of steel and oath fading into the ship's arteries until only the silence of the hall remained. The faint hiss of the Starfang in the floor still hung in the air, its crystal edge bleeding sparks into the dark like a vein of starlight torn open.
Korda lingered. His helm tracked his kin until the last visor vanished, then he turned back toward Domina, the Executioner of Ha'rangir, who stood as though carved from the same fire she had invoked. Her runes still glowed faintly across her beskar, the brilliance of her invocation lingering in the air like incense.
He stepped forward—not with the stride of a soldier reporting for orders, but with the cadence of a penitent approaching an altar. When he stopped, he bowed his head, scarred gauntlets crossing his chest as smoke still curled faintly from their seams.
"Domina," his voice rolled low from the vocoder, slow as stone ground against stone. "Grant me a moment of your flame."
He paused, drawing in a breath that rattled the filters of his helm. "I hear His call. I feel His hand guiding my steps. But I do not understand why it is mine He took. You know who I was—what I've done. I leveled my own village. I turned my blade upon my blood. I forsook my people and wore exile like a second skin." His hands flexed, gloves scraping softly against the bracers at his knuckles. "By all rights, Ha'rangir should have left me to rot with the ruins I made."
His helm lifted then, visor locking onto the priestess, unflinching. The glow of his eyes behind it was not defiance, but hunger—hunger for meaning.
"So why me? Why drag a kinslayer from the ash and place him here, among warriors and prophets? Why give me back to the people I abandoned?" His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper, though it carried in the empty hall like a confession made to the gods. "What does He see in a butcher, Domina? And what does He ask of me now, if I am truly His ember?"
He stood rigid as iron, yet beneath the armor and the scars was the tremor of a soul daring to seek an answer to the one question that gnawed him hollow.
Odria's strike force moves to intercept Ronhar Tane
's fleet, between them and Atrisia.
Odria warns the TIC fleet to stop and fires a warning shot across their path.
The Exactor cruisers begin charging their heavy guns.
--------------------------
It is always better to play second in Pazaak, because of the information problem.
The player going first is at an information disadvantage. Playing first, they are likely to draw close to 20 first, while their opponent has drawn fewer cards and has a lower score. Unless they manage to draw to a perfect 20, which carries only about a 6% chance at best without side deck cards, they must make the difficult decision of where to stand. Wherever they stand becomes the second player's number to beat, a clear goal for them to attempt to get higher than. The first player never gets such clarity. It's impossible to know in advance whether stopping at 17 or 18 will be good enough.
Jumping into the Atrisi System, Governor Kaelthron had faced an information problem. Certainly she had read the briefings about the defenses of the Commonwealth; she was the one who had made the plan to breach them, after all, opening the way for the Imperial Navy to enter the system and for the Imperial Army to get troops on the ground. But the Empire was the initiating force of this battle - the first player, if you will. And now, every other major power in the galaxy was coming in as the second player - the player that already knew what cards the Empire had played, and could react accordingly.
It was a dangerous scenario, and Odria had already played half her figurative side deck.
The bridge crew of the Sovereign's Pride watched in subdued, anxious awe as enemy fleet after enemy fleet jumped into the Atrisi System, unimpeded by the Breakwater that the Empire had been forced to devise such unorthodox tactics to bypass. The officers standing beside Odria were accustomed to worlds under Imperial control, where the signs of the Empire's might were omnipresent and imposing. Yet now, in hostile territory and surrounded by overwhelming enemy forces, the shoe was on the other foot. The Empire seemed a small thing, a little storm-tossed boat on a sea of foes.
Yet a cheer went up from the crew when the Death Star appeared, and the words of Remus Adair
rang out.
That weapon was their only hope to survive long enough to punish the Emperor's enemies.
"Governor," an ensign called out, cutting through that moment's hope with his urgent tone. "We have an incoming Confederate fleet. They have cargo vessels with them and are making for the planet. It appears they're moving in reinforcements." Odria whirled to look at the sensor readings, then stared out the viewport. Sure enough, there were fifteen Imperial Confederation ships not lining up in their hydra formation to tangle with the broader Imperial Navy, but instead making their way toward Atrisia III. Odria sighed internally, though she kept her face entirely stoic.
She couldn't let the bastards land without a fight. Imperial ground forces were already outnumbered.
"Move us onto an intercept course and prepare targeting solutions,"the Governor commanded. This was going to be a difficult fight; if her strike force moved back too far in an attempt to intercept, they'd be hit by Atrisia's orbital defenses from behind, slagged from both directions. It would require careful maneuvering - and careful deployment of her forces. The enemy had four Star Destroyers of various types to her one. It had been work enough to convert the Sovereign's Pride to bypass the Breakwater so that it could be that one. But while she was short on capital ships...
"Confederation vessels," Odria broadcast to the incoming TIC fleet, her voice flat and harsh, "you are far beyond your legal borders and actively interfering in an Imperial peacekeeping operation. The planet below has offered sanctuary to the vicious Lightsworn terrorists, who are known murderers of Imperial citizens. Break off your approach or you will be fired upon." They wouldn't, of course. Their forces were already fighting Imperial forces on the ground, and the fleet battle would soon be joined. But there was a certain pageantry to these things that had to be respected.
"Ensign, fire a warning shot across their approach trajectory."
"All Exactors, begin charging your megacaliber guns. Target the Star Destroyers."
Several of the Pride's mass drivers shuddered as they fired heavy rounds across the Conqueror's Bane's bow...
Giju System Surface of Giju
Evacuation cruiser Hope
Reshmar looked out over the calm ocean toward the nearby Island. The 3rd Fleet had limped back to the world and begun regrouping following the loss of the core to the Empire. Throughout fighting withdrawal and series of running battles as the forces of the Alliance frantically retreat from the Core Worlds, the grievous losses suffered by the Alliance fleet left the combined fleet strength a shadow of what it had been before the push by the galactic Empire. The massive form of the Mon Mothma could be seen above the landing zone, constantly rotating shuttle craft as it ferried survivors to the world. Its hold serving as a sanctuary for thousands since the fleets egress from the core.
“Admiral, we are ready,” said an officer from behind him. Reshmar turned and walked away from the peace and familiarity of the ocean and the thoughts of home it brought. Reshmar turned and looked out at the massive from of Hope in the distance one last time. The evacuation cruiser had been active more in the last year than it had since he built it two decades ago. He thought about the people dislocated from their home. The thousands listless and without a rudder forging ahead and attempting to rebuild their community and their lives. So many did not get to join the evacuated survivors. So many unfortunate citizens now dead from the battles waged on a thousand world in the core. Men, women, children gone in a meaningless war. There was more than enough area in the Corsica Galaxy for everyone yet the factions sought to hold as much as they could. Resources were enough of a reason to fight it seemed. Here on the rocky islands of this world there were no resources, nothing to fight for. No enemy seeking the survivors' destruction. Only the hurried construction of homes to house the few who were saved from the war.
“Lets go,” said Reshmar as he turned and walked up the ramp of the shuttle. His mind set on thoughts of home Reshmar let the ride into orbit pass thoughtless as his desire to see home one last time carried him away to Dac and the loved ones still there.
“Admiral Aboard,” said one of the Alliance Marines standing at attention on the hangers deck. Two rows flanked the ramp snapping to attention in reaction to the command. Reshmar walked down the ramp and through the honor line towards a man standing near the back of the hanger. “Welcome back Admiral. The ship is yours” said the man as Reshmar walked up to stand before him. “Thank you captain, Is the ship ready?” asked Reshmar. The captain nodded an affirmative and spoke. “Yes sir, All repairs are complete and the ship is at ninety four percent effective condition. We are ready to take the fight to the Empire sir, just give the order.” replied the officer. Reshmad nodded once and rolled his eyes in a respective expression. “Not now Captain, I believe the time will come but for now the Alliance needs us to stay here in overwatch. These people have had their homes destroyed and been through something no one should ever have to experience.” Reshmar paused a moment to think about what he had said. This was the way of war, the repeat of every war, every battle he had ever seen. In his mind he thought of the people who served under him. The soldiers and sailors of his command. The innumerable of the military forces throughout the galaxy. In this moment he realized he never really considered the innocent. The nameless billions who are victims of battle. He looked up and thought about them. “Captain, we need to show these people that we will protect them. Be here until they can find a sliver of hope and peace. We will defend the refugees for now. Mon Mothma will be another day unloading the people aboard her. Hope and the reserve force will remain in low orbit to continue assistance to her. For now Captain we are protectors. For now we stay.”
Odria Kaelthron
had played her hand and the Breakwater had opened, a slice small enough to pass a Death Star through but wide enough to kill a fleet that trusted too easily. Mordane did not romanticize the gamble; he had seen men folded by worse odds, but he understood the arithmetic. The Emperor laid down the desire. Others matched the courage to the cost.
Shuklaar Kyrdol
|
Zethran Cott
|
Aldo Garrick
|
Remus Adair
ENEMY:
Karl Von Strauss
|
Ronhar Tane
|
Marlon Sularen
|
Solan Charr
|
ADM. Reshmar
