Dominion [Black Sun] Dark Harvest || BSS Dominion of Kashyyyk

[St. Thomas Barran]

TAGS
Tuchanka Maestus Remus Adair

BLOODHOUND - PART 3​

Mawsworn Camp, Ruins of Sector 7 HQ,
The Shadowlands, Kashyyyk (902 ABY)

'Ooooo! Would ya look at that, my friends!'
​

'Much obliged for the gift, Vice-Admiral.... Not only is this an incredibly-rare find, but there's an intriguing history to these darlings.'

Looking to the 2nd Lieutenant who presented the rare cigar-crate, Barran smirked his way through a searching gaze, only to mutter,'Eh, he doesn't know. Not know-know - not like the latter-Ninth.', though loud enough for the small Naval delegation to hear. What appeared as mystic whimsy at the surface, may have appeared all the more damning in the eyes of those who knew how deep his gaze was searching, only relenting when the case of cigars caught his eye once more, and then the expression on his face became more-receptive to normalcy. Switching back from something jester-like and devious, to a state of mild-smirking, conventional rest, reassuring,'Its probably for the best, Lieutenant. Think nothing of it.', before turning his head to cast an appreciative nod in the Vice-Admiral's direction.

'I should probably give an equivalent gift, right? But first, Vice-Admiral, let us involve you in the first round of beverages.... An' ya know what, you might as well bring those cigars over, an' take one out for yourself.'

​

With a click of his fingers, the guards by the tent-flap entrance stepped toward the bar in the corner, acting at the Khan's beck-and-call whilst everyone else found their desired seats for the encounter, and all without one pause of insulted reservation. First to come out of the cooler unit were the drinking glasses, followed by scoops of iceblocks that went into a polished, deep-filling bowl, all sent on and placed on all the side-tables within moments; and with each glass receiving a few blocks of ice before the guard-serving returned to the bar, the guard-pouring wheeled his tray of bottles over in his place, completing the requests of guests and Mawsworn commanders alike before the conversation found it's cadence again.

'Now, as for conspiracies.... Mine is only to form the eagle's other head - faith and state, married an' merged. A completed system of two-fold affiliation, two layers of loyalty-assurance, forging legitimacy in the eyes of compatriots and allies alike.'

 

[Eryndor Thorne]

Meliant | Antar | The Madclaw
​

He watched the exchange between Meliant and Madclaw and was mostly wondering when the fighting would start. Between the four of them they could probably handle anything short of a small army. Yet so far there was hardly any action to speak of. A few angry critters on the way here. The hint of berserk shadow-touched Wookiees in the badlands.

And that was it.

One of them, Antar, decided to speak to him.

"Watch what?" Eyebrows up and he got his answer soon enough. It started as a snort and a bit of a rumble, but soon enough Eryndor was laughing out loud. "Oh, boy, that's great."

Meliant seemed to have a stick up his arse as big and thick as one of these forsaken trees. So that was some needed levity.

"You fought on Kashyyyk before?" Posing Antar the question as they continued the walk. It reminded him a little of Ossus. The dark forests primarily, but then again Ossus didn't have trees like these.

 

[Hakar Scaleback]

"You mussst be the big game hunter my contactsss on Nar Shaddaa warned me about."

Hakar hissed at Rhys Swynol baring rows of sharklike teeth in the kind of vaguely menacing introduction that trandoshans were known for. Despite a modest hunting vest the Black Sun vigo could not resist wearing his necklace of bone charms and other grisly trophies as a primal symbol of his authority over this place.

"If the jungle doesssn't eat you I will pay cold hard creditsss for living ssspecimensss," he snarled at the zeltron, "Watch your ssstep. It'sss a long way down."

Kashyyyk's untamed wilderness emerged from the mists as Hakar led their new arrival to the edge of his floating Black Sun outpost. Massive wroshyr trees dominated the horizon but there were moments like this one when the sky cleared enough to track creatures far below. The trandoshan looked through a pair of macrobinoculars and spotted something big enough to disturb the jungle canopy.

"Picking up activity in your sssector," Hakar sent the transmission over comlink to his kinfolk Tuchanka and Hraavusst , "Sssomething hasss your sssscent."

He turned back to Rhys and gestured to a motor pool of skiffs parked on the same landing pad as the zeltron pirate's ship.

"Firssst sssafari on Kashyyyk?" Hakar asked Rhys, "Should you wish to tessst your prowesss on foot, I can drop you off in the pressserve with trandoshan guidesss I trussst."

 

[Zahran Khaldun]

O B J E C T I V E - 2
T O O T H - A N D - C L A W

The descent was slow, graceful, almost regal.

Like a floating palace, Zahran Khaldun's sail barge glided down through the emerald veil of Kashyyyk's lower skies. It parted the upper canopy like silk, its hull sheened in dark bronze and trimmed in polished silver. Engraved onto its flanks were the sigils of House Khaldun and the crescent dagger of the Dark Crescent, stylized into the crest of a hunting lodge.

As the landing struts extended with a hiss, the moss-covered plateau trembled beneath the vessel's weight. Mist coiled through the tree roots. Far below, invisible beasts murmured in the deep.

The ramp hissed down.

Out stepped Zahran Khaldun, gentleman rogue, corsair lord, and now of course, sport hunter. He was dressed in a cream-colored field coat tailored to Core-world standards, with a high collar and gilded epaulets. A cravat of dark scarlet peeked from his throat, and his trousers were pressed to razor folds. On one gloved hand, he wore a chrono with Wroonian gemstone inlay; on the other, he carried an antique dueling cane capped in beskar.

Following behind him came his officers and companions, a striking entourage of hand-picked hunters, former naval marksmen, private surgeons, and parasitic nobles from half-fallen houses. Each wore their own variation of the cream uniform: coats with ivory buttons, pressed trousers tucked into polished boots, and holsters that carried custom-forged hunting blasters, tranquilizer darts, and vibro-knives inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

They looked less like warriors and more like an opera troupe lost in the jungle.

"Set the tables," Zahran said without raising his voice. "I will not dine like a beast simply because I walk among them."

The camp unfurled in an explosion of excess.

Silken tents were raised within minutes and large domed pavilions in burgundy and bone-white, lined with cooling units and chandeliers. Vornskyr-fur rugs were laid over the moss. A folding field organ played soft Alderaanian sonatas. A portable kitchen hissed to life, and soon the air was thick with the scent of fire-roasted nerf, spiced meiloorun glaze, and fresh-baked shipboard flatbread.

Zahran stood before the central tent, watching as silver tables were dressed with decanters of Chandrilan brandy and trays of roasted grainfruit stuffed with slow-cooked shimmerscale. In the distance, droids erected a game display wall, already bearing the skulls of lesser jungle beasts taken during the landing perimeter sweep.

"Tion swine," one of the younger officers said under his breath, half-laughing as he sipped from a crystal goblet. "We'll be mounting vines next."

"Let the vines tremble," Zahran replied smoothly, never looking away. "They've forgotten what it means to be measured. We are here to remind them."

At that, laughter rose among the cream-clad hunters.

Lanterns glowed. Music played. Jungle heat was staved off by atmospheric filters and chilled citrus steam.

Zahran retired to his observation couch, a high-backed chair carved from the rib of a Mon Cala warbeast, upholstered in velvet. From there, he sipped his drink and gazed out across the dark tangle of the southern jungle, untouched for thousands of years.

He was not nervous. He was not rushed.

This was not a war. This was a gentleman's sport.

The Anakkona, his prize, would not be baited like common prey. It could take days to track. But that didn't matter.

The kill would come.

And when it did, it would be glorious.

Hakar Scaleback

 

[Jerec Asyr]

O B J E C T I V E - 2
T O O T H - A N D - C L A W

Ithorians.

Ithorians!

Here in a Black Sun poaching expedition. O tempora, o mores.

And what's this they're lugging now, on hover-pallets, in a shipping crate of soil, fanned out around it like troopers guarding and guarded by an E-Web? What's this E-Web in the soil? Why it's a syren plant six meters long, all petaled and tentacular and kept from eating them by strange Ithorian botany. It hungers! It's been cooped up in the Trandoshan raider ship Gizka Inferno, which is for sale.


Hraavusst Hakar Scaleback Zahran Khaldun Rhys Swynol

 

[Maestus]

Kashyyyk
Shadowlands
Mawsworn Canmp
St. Thomas Barran Remus Adair

As Barran preened and prepared himself for the tedious but necessary politics inherent with vision, the Lethan Twi'lek shifted her focus. She knew damn good and well, every being on the surface had their own unspoken motivations for being on Kashyyyk for this little coup and hunt. Hunt and coup. If she tried, she was sure she remembered more than one revolution beginning that way.

Tonight though, revolution was not her unspoken motivation. She slid a few paces from Barran and the boys, just to expand her "personal bubble", so to speak. Bending down on one knee, she leaned forwards, fingers splayed and quickly dug her fingers into the dirt, thick and heavy from the oppressive, unceasing humidity in the Shadowlands. One Lekku wound itself round the shoulder of her outstretched arm, snaking its way to her mid forearm. The other slithered to the ground, lazily flipping dirt, small sticks and pebbles around randomly. Maestus tipped her head back and to one side while closing her eyes.

Inhale.

Truthfully, her own motivation for being here had naught to do with any political or spiritual reasons or machinations. She was hunting something rare and elusive. An end to the malaise and apathy with which she observed the galaxy for far, far too long. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, after all. How many light years has the Praedo seen now? The odometer has rolled multiple times, with the light years travelled criss-crossing the galaxy always searching. An insatiable hunger that has yet to be truly sated.

Balance.

A vague reference from the very early years of her apprenticeship to Darth Solipsis that clung in her psyche, roots spreading deep, thick and strong. Her hunt began and became all consuming, fueled by the fluidity and urgency of galactic events. To say she has been richly rewarded in her hunt for balance and knowledge would be a gross misrepresentation of her gains. Her personal collection of artifacts and recorded data on Force Traditions could draw the envy of many, and it's simply impossible to put a finite measurement on the leaps and bounds made in her personal knowledge and wisdom. All that brain-work, while a balm to the soul, leaves the body neglected. Muscles tighten and weaken from lack of use. Her heart needed the excitement and exertion of an honest to the gods hunt. Senses had become dull, unfocused. That was Maestus unspoken motivation here. To hunt and remember what it is yo be fully alive.

Exhale.

It had become matter of course to dampen her Force signature. She'd learned it to be the better advantage when it was best she remain as unknown as possible. Turns out, there are few times and places in the galaxy where it's proven to be to her to advantage not to suppress herself. She's become so used to walking hidden, she can't remember how long it's been since she stretched her wings. That thought was pure, insulting gas on the already burning fires within.

She stopped hiding as she exhaled. There wasn't any dramatic woosh or even a sparkle. But the air down in the Shadow lands began to heat up noticeably. Poor Remus Adair , already miserable, was only going to queen more, faster, as he arrived at the Mawsworn camp. Speaking of...

Righting herself and rejoining Barran, her body moved with the confidence, surety and swagger found in one category of animals: Apex Predators. The stagnation and fog was clearing itself from her eyes and mind. Her skin shone with a slick layer of sweat as her internal body temp cranked up once more. She felt Mustafar, once more.

The datapad was retrieved, and she paused to add one final FYI to the"Shopping List". She is to be alerted if any creature shows signs of Force Sensitivity. Wookies, in particular. His request to BCC the list to all involved didn't need a response, she had already done that. Her addendum, however, she did send to Mawsworn groups only, before passing the datapad to her 2nd, who turned silently and went to tend the preparations.

Vice-Admiral, to be expected. Imperials have their uses, same as everyone.

She couldn't hide the smirk, fact is she didn't even try. Greed and ambition are universal traits not restricted by specie or culture. Imperials have it down to a science. His praise of the cages elicited a bow of her head in gratitude, though her humility did nothing to dim the smirk.

I like to know what's mine stays where I put it. Speaking of, four cargo holds have been specially reinforced and modified for anything stronger than you. Capable of holding a Terentatek.

She paused.

Theoretically. At any rate, unless you want to bring home a fully mature tree, we have storage for it.

Her words ended as the Imperial envoy arrived. Vice-Admiral Remus Adair strode belly first through the dense and unforgiving thickness surrounding them all. She did give Barran and his wardrobe a haphazard once-over. What deck the Khan played with was a constant question in her mind, fueled each time he did something random or different. Which was always. She understood the utility found in much of what he did andd said. Others, well, the line between genius and madness is often blurry.

Satisfied, the full weight of her attention settles squarely on Remus as he approaches Barran and herself formally. Not being in the spotlight has advantages she found. Such as being able to fully appreciate witnessing an Imperial officer initiate a salute to the Mawite Khan. Those familiar with military peotocol would know it is the junior in rank that initiate the salutes, and it is at the senior's discretion when the salute ends. She could still hear the derision and insults that had been hurled at the Brotherhood of the Maw in the beginning. Mocked as nothing but a ragtag band of pirates, bandits, tribes and wayward Sith. The scathing condescension with which the Maw was referred to in Imperial communiques.

And then the Maw opened wide. Wide enough to swallow planets and thrust the entire galaxy into fear and chaos. Devouring all before it with the refrain of War, Death, Rebirth burning in their souls. No longer did anyone dare to mock the Mae. Respect was never given or earned. It was taken by power and will.

There was no atom or molecule in Maestus' body that didn't remember. And so it was every atom and molecule that bask in the moment she had been blessed to witness. An Imperial Vice-Admiral displaying clearly that the Mawite Khan is his superior. One corner of her mouth curled into a deep, delicious smirk and soft snicker. Out of nowhere, a pang hit her mind. Something about this moment was incomplete, missing. Then it came to her, there was a man missing from witnessing this with her. Only one man in the entire galaxy who would appreciate the scene for all its unstated complexities. The Mongrel deserves to see the fruits of his labors. That, however, was a problem for another day.

Barran led the group inwards, she taking a position behind Barran and Remus. Thus far maintaining a policy of silence, for reasons unknown. Much and more could be learned simply by listening and watching in silence. As the cigar-crate was offered to Barran, even Maestus had to nod in appreciation. Imperials weren't all bad all the time. Maybe. Once they were more secluded within the tent and Barean pronounced drinks, she laughed and shook her head.

Don't waste the top shelf. Can't say I've found anyrhing as potent in an Imperial commissary. Think of the optics if we "lose" a drunken Imperial officer.

Complete with finger quotes when she says Lose. Finger quotes and a hint of challenge to Remus. Friendly challenge, to be sure. Maestus had a suspicion his chubby belly wasn't due solely to fine Imperial dining, and that his flask may have some "spicy" caf from time to time. She let her eyes linger on Remus a moment before shifting them to the cigar-crate, its treasures on full display. One hearty looking stogie rose from its spot on top, slicing through the air to her waiting palm. Lifting the cigar to her flaring nostrils, she drew the aroma within. She had few vices, favoring a more natural and sober approach to life. She was a sucker for a nice cigar, though. The burn as the smoke rolled over her tongue and down her throat. Another way she could experience heat. She bit down on it as she slid it between her teeth, unlit.

The fat lady hadn't sang yet.


​

 

[Meliant]

Kashyyykk - Ruins of the Shadow Temple​

Objective: Delightful Picnic with Friends

Ping! The flat rock struck Meliant's helmet at the precise correct angle to produce an immaculate acoustic resonance - like a tuning fork whose tone was pure, white hot rage. The Dark Side Elite immediately stopped dead in his tracks, shoulders rising tense with fury.​

​

The staff he'd been dragging dropped from his hand and into the dirt. That unholy instrument of sorcerous artifice, rescued from the reliquary vaults of Cademimu V for particular purpose in this green hell, was released into the custody of the dirt as if it were little better than a soiled gym towel.​

​

"Who threw that?" Meliant demanded and wheeled around, "Who do you think you are?"​

​

It was largely rhetorical - the wookiee was too close. And of the two humans, he only had to observe which one was looking pleased with themselves and which one was laughing.​

​

He stomped right up to Antar and went to seize him with both hands by the collar.​

​

"Do you have any idea who I am? Who I work for? You oaf! You degenerate!"​

​

Meliant was yelling. He attempted to further emphasize his frustrations by shaking Antar violently.​

The Madclaw Antar Eryndor Thorne​

 

[The Madclaw]

Kashyyykk - Ruins of the Shadow Temple

​

“Enough,” rumbled the Madclaw, a look of disgust twisting his features.

They squabbled like carrion. It was beneath them. There was work to be done. Fools. They only bared fang at each other because they knew who was strongest among them. Challenging each other for primacy beneath the alpha.

He let out a chuff of derision.

Reaching out, he summoned the staff from the dirt and it smacked into his hand.

The Silverback began trudging toward the spaceport that Meliant indicated, eyes roving over the echoes of destruction all around them.

These foolish Jedi. They had subverted his people under the guise of protection. They had failed utterly and left the Wookiees weaker than ever before. Now would come the reign of the Shadowland tribes. And it would make them hard again.

Antar Eryndor Thorne

 

[Tuchanka]

O B J E C T I V E - 2
T O O T H - A N D - C L A W​

​

Tuchanka scoffed at first, but she relented rather quickly. Her kin wasn't wrong, much to her disdain; there were larger quarry than what she sought initially.

"Wallugasss eat leavesss," she hissed observantly. "No desssire to eat our flesh, but perhapsss they are as deadly as you sssay."

Overhead, the wailing decibels of Black Sun's disk jockey droid, U40a , sent packs of floaters flying away. She hoped that it would not likewise frighten the Wallguas. Before she could share that concern aloud to Hraavusst, their comms were raised. The voice belonged to another Trandoshan, one of Black Sun's Vigos - Hakar Scaleback - who delivered a warning.

"Picking up activity in your sssector. Sssomething hasss your sssscent."

Tuchanka glanced sideways to Hraavusst and the pink one. Her sharp teeth flashed like daggers as she grinned. The Scorekeeper loved to issue challenges, and Tuchanka loved to kill things. It was a veritable win-win. With a smooth motion, she checked her blaster rifle and made sure her dagger was secured to her belt before tossing a nod to her partners. "The Ssscorekeeper does not like to wait," she said.

"Let usss hunt!"

Tags: Hraavusst | Rhys Swynol | OPEN
​

 

[Serrano of Denon]

O B J E C T I V E - 2
T O O T H - A N D - C L A W

He was about to voice his distaste for the Black Sun's disc droid U40a grating on his auditory sensors, when the voice of Vigo Hakar Scaleback coming over the communication line to deliver an important message to the both of them.

Hraavusst tilted his head slightly, his golden eyes narrowing. There was something in the air that carried a formidable scent, bringing a hint of enjoyment to this otherwise dull hunt.

Tuchanka appeared eager to dive into the Hunt like many Trandoshans, but that wasn't the wisest choice, as the Shadowlands were rife with peril. He had no desire to meet an early demise because of a hatchling's blunder.

"Patience, hatchling," Hraavusst rasped, his voice a low growl that held no humor. He took a moment, his senses evaluating the air, the subtle shifts in the jungle's ambient noise. The Wookiee exiles were close enough to be a persistent annoyance, but this "something" was different.

He lifted his heavy blaster carbine, checking its power cell with a practiced hand. "This is not a joyride, Tuchanka," he snarled, a warning in his tone. "The Ssssssssssscorekeeper rewards skill, not eagerness. If something has our scent, it means it is a challenge. Or a trap." He scanned the dense canopy around them, his eyes piercing through the shadows.

"We proceed with caution. This foressssst hidessss more than just game. And I have no intention of becoming another trophy for some local brute."

 

[Fenn Stag]

Allura Kahli
​

He walked along, thinking how to answer her. His hands traced along the walls as he walked still, deep breaths juxtaposing the turmoil inside of him. He walked along the corridor, guided by the memorization of the map and perhaps, instinct.

"He left some things here. I would like to have them."

He said quietly, earnestly. He turned back towards her, curiosity flaring across his face. "What was he like?" He asked, the brutality and ferociousness gone. He was a child without a mother, without a father underneath it all. All the armor, the muscles, the training and the trauma- some part of him would simply have liked to know who his father was.

 

[Zahran Khaldun]

O B J E C T I V E - 2
T O O T H - A N D - C L A W

The jungle did not recede. It waited.

For hours, the camp on the plateau had burned bright like a foreign sun lanterns strung between the moss-blanketed pylons, music drifting above the ferns, laughter echoing into the dark. At night, the glowing eyes of beasts sometimes lingered beyond the light's reach… but none dared approach. The scent of flame and steel kept even the boldest predators at bay.

But Zahran Khaldun had not come to be adored by silence.

He sat beneath the striped canopy of his command tent, tapping the rim of his goblet as the steam from his morning tea curled into the warm air. Beside him, maps were unfurled across a long carved ivory table, ancient Wookiee charts, half-rotted, stitched with warnings in old dialects that translated roughly to "leave the roots of the world undisturbed."

Zahran smiled at that. He dipped a finger in the ink and drew a lazy curve across one of the southern gorges.

"There," he murmured. "Where the root rivers meet the dead basin. That's where it coils."

A murmur of agreement came from his senior aide, Captain Renzo Varn, a hard-eyed duelist with a razor-thin mustache and an aristocrat's patience. He stood at attention, clad in the same cream hunting uniform but stained slightly from days of camp logistics. He inclined his head.

"We've calibrated the skiff's hoverlift for jungle clearance, my lord. Two days' rations loaded. Tri-dart harpoons with paralytics. Tracking spores. Motion field sensors. All tested."

Zahran rose.

"I do not need paralytics, Renzo. I am not here to take it alive. I am here to end it beautifully."

The officer bowed. "Of course, my lord."

By midday, the air was thick and sweet, heavy with the scent of wet orchids and unseen decay. The jungle canopy above glowed emerald, and shadows moved with lives of their own.

The repulsor skiff floated at the edge of the plateau, its hull shaped like a narrow crescent dagger, forged from matte-black durasteel and lined in bone trim. It was not a war machine, but it was no mere pleasure craft either. It bore the mark of the hunt: hooks, clamps, spotlight lenses, and a forward-mounted harpoon chamber flanked by two swiveling dartcasters.

Zahran boarded first, followed by four of his officers, each impeccably dressed despite the climate, their cream coats now tucked into travel harnesses, dust cloaks fluttering, goggles resting around their necks. One carried a monocular. Another, a flask of chilled spiced rum. All had sidearms.

None spoke loudly. The laughter of the camp had faded.

The skiff hummed to life, rising silently over the jungle's edge and beginning its slow, sweeping descent toward the basin below a land not touched by Republic surveyors in generations. Beneath them, the trees grew strange. The air took on a purple hue. The moss began to bloom with pale, bioluminescent veins.

It was a place that felt dreamed of, rather than walked.

And still, Zahran stood at the prow of the skiff like a prince on a procession, one gloved hand resting on the rail, the other holding a polished macro-binocular.

He swept the treetops with it once. Twice. Then stopped.

Far ahead, across the basin, the trees moved, not with the wind, but in rhythm.

Something large. Something aware. Something waiting.

Zahran smiled.

"Steady us. No fire. Let it wonder if we're fools."

Renzo stepped forward. "What are your orders, my lord?"

Zahran never took his eyes from the shifting trees.

"We find where it sleeps," he said. "We wake it. And then I kill it."

The skiff vanished beneath the canopy, swallowed whole by the green.

 

[Tuchanka]

O B J E C T I V E - 2
T O O T H - A N D - C L A W​

​

A low growl rumbled in her throat. “Too much patience givesss the others time to run. To hide.”

She was disappointed, but Tuchanka followed her comrade’s advice and stepped more cautiously through the underbrush of the Shadowlands. The Scorekeeper did not appreciate failed hunts, and she loathed bickering egg-kin even more. The stronger the pack, the bigger the kill.

The disco bot’s music echoed through the wilderness, but it seemed to fade as they moved deeper into the wroshyr trees. Their immense trunks were thick and hardy. They easily absorbed the noise made by Euphortia. Perhaps that would allow the wallugas to calm and relax. Let their guard down.

Tuchanka slowed her pace to a halt, turning her large head upward to sniff the air with her forked tongue. “The beast is not far,” she reported.

She could almost taste it.

Tags: Hraavusst | Rhys Swynol | OPEN
​

 

[St. Thomas Barran]

TAGS
Tuchanka Maestus Remus Adair

BLOODHOUND - PART 4​

Mawsworn Camp, Ruins of Sector 7 HQ,
The Shadowlands, Kashyyyk (902 ABY)

'Quite right, Sister Maestus. Though I daresay the Vice-Admiral here is also cut from meritous clot-'
​

The meeting was going well with the Vice-Admiral, though the relaxation from their usual obligations would work to their sensory advantage before long, as it meant having minds clear enough to know there had been no mistaking what they felt emanating from deeper within the Shadowlands. A distinct pulse of rage, that which was known to the Bloodhound already, as he had felt it emanate often from his two oldest Darkhans, and he was sensing it from an entirely different race again. Prompting the one-eyed Woad to cast a sidelong glance into the two-eyed, burning gaze of his friend, an with eyebrows raised the Khan inquired,'Was that- was that a rogue.... Wookie?', though the answer to that question would be answered before anyone had time to ponder the implications.

'Ohohohoho.... His presence would be welcome among us, I know it.'

Briefly turning back to Adair, Barran made to be quick and concise with his explanation, continuing,'My apologies, Vice-Admiral. Jus' a little something of note we caught jus' there, Force-Wielder stuff.', trailing off to point back and forth between Maestus and himself for played-down, dismissive effect. Likely believing already that the matter could be resolved without too much of an upset to proceedings, the Bloodhound was right to give the sudden development it's due attention, though it would require the tact of a shrewd coordinator to ask it of his subordinates, as even in the 10th Century ABY, none were stupid enough to forget the strength and ferocity of the Wookies.

'I jus' know he would get on well with the others.... Ghoul, send a camera-droid into the southern sectors, we need t'locate our wrathful Wookie.'

'Yes, Great Khan. But here's the prob-', Ghoul shot back in the spirit of quick action, and though he was briefly distracted when he reached down into the nearest storage crate, it would be obvious before long that the Darkhan's mind was still fully on the task at hand. Lifting up a holo-plinth for all to see, the wild-haired Atrisian was noting the need to track the progress of locating and tracking the Wookie's position, and when he finally queried,'Where can I set this up?', hosts and guests alike would become all the more aware of all the other holoplinths in the room.

'You can set that one up between myself an' Sister Maestus here.... Good, now set projection-mode to,"Mirrored.", please. Perhaps that way I can get this meeting back on track. My apologies for that, by the way.'

With enough time to wait for the camera-droid to find the mysterious Wookie, there was enough room in the mind to consider a fitting gift to exchange with Vice-Admiral Adair, though this would not take long, as there was a crate of similar contraband-level intrigue nearby. Still untouched at the time, as the Khan had only just recently started cutting back from his usual drinking-habits, coming in handy for particular occasions like the meeting on Kashyyyk, lesser in comparison though it was to the Goidelic Whiskey supply that had ran out years before the Maw pitched camp in the Shadowlands.

'Ghoul, when you're done here - go grab me that crate of Calavaran Gin.'

[Time for Tommy's party to observe the planet's many happenings at the time]

 

[Hakar Scaleback]

Tuchanka Hraavusst Zahran Khaldun

"Too much interference for me to isssolate bio-ssssignsss."

Hakar drifted over the jungle treeline in a skiff while peering through macrobinoculars. Marker lights from the floating trandoshan hover platform high above pierced thick clouds and helped him navigate. Rhys Swynol and his crew were offered a selection of local Black Sun guides and he wondered about the odds of ever seeing the zeltron again. Kashyyyk was not a kind world to those who came unprepared but perhaps Swynol's reputation as a hunter had been properly earned.

"I will attempt to flush your quarry out."

Before the team of trandoshan hunters could object Hakar raised his traditional hunting rifle and blasted a random hole in the canopy. It produced the desired effect just not with the katarn they were hunting. Instead a herd of panicked bolotaurs stampeded towards their position and Khaldun beyond. Hakar's long blaster echoed strangely off wroshyr trees alerting the jungle to his presence.

"Sssstill no sssign of the beassst?" Hakar asked any Black Sun poachers down there who might still be alive. If none answered he could always send another team.

 

[Serrano of Denon]

O B J E C T I V E - 2
T O O T H - A N D - C L A W

The sudden thunder of hooves and snapping underbrush made Hraavusst drop to a knee, his claws steadying his carbine against the side of a thick root as bolotaurs tore through the clearing ahead in a panicked rush. The force of their movement rippled through the moss and soil, a natural stampede born from more than just Hakar Scaleback reckless shot.

He hissed under his breath, low and guttural, eyes slitting further as he scanned beyond the chaos. "Ssssomething elssse is out there," he muttered to Tuchanka . The scent on the air had changed. It wasn't Katarn musk. It wasn't the loamy stink of bolotaurs either. It was something older fouler. Metallic, yet organic.

"Something ancient." he growled. He stood slowly, letting the jungle sounds settle for a moment.

And from the shadow, something stepped forward low to the ground at first, but rising on hind limbs with muscle-corded grace. Tusks glistened from beneath its thick, scaled hide. Its hide was packed with tribal blades, carbon scarring, and bone charms hanging from its thick forelimbs like trophies. Eyes glowed not with hunger, but malice pure, calculating, and deliberate.

"Terentatek," Hraavusst rasped, his tail going rigid, every muscle bristling with ancestral memory.

The beast was Force-resistant. Lightsaber killers, bred in the darkest eras of Sith alchemy. They were the reason Jedi avoided this place. It didn't care for territory. It didn't care for hunger. It hunted those who dared call themselves apex predators.

 

[Antar]

Meliant || The Madclaw || Eryndor Thorne​

---

"Oh," Antar throws his hands up in surrender as he is whipped to-and-fro by Meliant, "Oh, Abeloth's tits! Meliant-" Antar's speech is broken as the Dark Jedi Knight jerks him by his collar, "-Meliant! Please! Don't hurt me! Don't..."

Antar's hands grasp both sides of Meliant's helmet. He steadies himself from being shook and blow's into Meliant's hollow helmet through its eye socket.

It makes a harmonic, resonating whistle throughout the entirety of his armor.

 

[Vireth]

---

---

Kashyyyk, Mid Rim;
Kachirho.
Tags: [OPEN]

---

OBJECTIVE III.

Vireth preferred the Core. Sleek, elegant, sophisticated buildings which stood up against the test of time were the antitheist of this place. Moss covered furnishings made of wood and bone made her skin itch. The Wookiees were a greater eyesore-- disgusting creatures, she summarized. By the growing minute she was learning to despise this place. But the time to return home, and see her beloved Kuat once more would have to wait, she feared.

It remained to be seen what would happen next. The designs and machinations of the Emperor were beyond her scope and imagination. Vireth knew this much. There had been a time, not too long ago, when despair had settled in place of clarity. Not even the sermons and tribulations of the Church could have dissuaded that dark time. An adolescence of preparation and training to serve the cause looked to have died at the end of the first Core Wars.

Only the messengers had given this devout one some form of salvation from herself.

While the agents of the Dark Empire did their worse, the ARCHITECT settled her golden gaze upon the coast out near Kachirho in the solace company of only a gun, a canvas and her tools. The gun itself was a deception-- the girl could not shoot, even with the enhancements awarded to her over the years while she trained and served the Church. However, Vireth knew how quickly ones resolve could die when pointed with the face of their annihilation. She paid it no mind while she drew her work.

A pale hand delicately moved to draw sprawling megastructures, adorned with the christened flags of a newly reconstituted GALACTIC EMPIRE, as Vireth anticipated the need for such design and scope, for the reach of the dark-side was long, and never ending. While her designs paled in comparison to the Emperor, Vireth knew that there would be need for her work, for industry, commerce and the subsequent propaganda designed to bring order to a fractured galaxy required such places, and while Kuat was still beautiful, beneath the veneer of decadent alliance, there would be need for great change, should she return home...

---

 

[Zahran Khaldun]

O B J E C T I V E - 2
T O O T H - A N D - C L A W

A ribcage, massive and warped, half-submerged in a stagnant pool. Whatever beast it had belonged to, Wookiee or predator, was now reduced to sun-bleached bones wrapped in torn sinew and fly-blown hide. The moss around it was dead. The water was still. Zahran stood before it in silence, the cream of his coat now stained in streaks of dark earth and leaf mold. His face was calm. Almost tender.

"It feeds with purpose," he said. "Kills to mark territory. Not hungry."

The others didn't reply. There was a tightness now, even among his officers, each one grim-faced, sweat-soaked, aware that they were moving through something more than jungle. Something old. Sanctified. They pressed on, deeper into the shadow basin, where the trees grew so thick their trunks had fused like cathedral columns. Light filtered down in shafts like ancient incense. The wind was a breath held too long.

They found a scale the size of a dinner plate caught between two stone roots, iridescent and blood-black.

Then came the sound.

It started low, a rumble, not in the air but beneath it. The ground shifted subtly, like the jungle exhaling. The skiff's stabilizers whined. Vines trembled. And then the Anakkona rose.

It did not burst from the foliage. It emerged, uncoiling from a hollow in the earth as if it had always been part of the landscape. A serpent thirty meters long, armored in mirrored scales that rippled between obsidian and violet, each breath it took fogged the air. Its eyes were twin suns—ancient, reptilian, slow.

The hunters froze.

Zahran stepped forward.

He said nothing. He bowed his head once, as though acknowledging a rival lord. And then he lifted his weapon... a single-shot disruptor, crafted by hand on Byss, inlaid with bone from a duelist's femur. The Anakkona hissed, low and guttural, not a threat, but a challenge. A ritual.

Zahran spoke at last.

"I am not here to tame you. I am not here to run. I came to end the myth."

The serpent struck.

Faster than expected. The skiff shattered. One officer died screaming beneath a coil. Another vanished into the canopy. The jungle exploded with movement, blades drawn, stun-darts fired, spotlights shattered.

Zahran remained still.

He waited.

As the Anakkona reared back for its final strike, jaws wide, tongue whipping like a flag, Zahran fired once. The bolt struck just beneath its left eye. Not a wound of luck, but of study. The blast bloomed white. The beast screamed an unholy, thunderous cry that shook the basin. It collapsed in a heap, its coils spasming, its body crashing through ancient trees like falling towers. Birds fled. The basin wept. Steam hissed from the broken soil.

Zahran stood alone amidst the ruin, hat gone, coat torn, eyes fixed on the still-twitching carcass. Blood, black and iridescent, seeped around his boots. Renzo emerged from the wreckage, bloodied but alive.

Zahran didn't look back.

"Have it cleaned. The head was removed with care. I want the skull preserved, the eyes intact, and the hide shipped to my estate on Nar Shadda."

He paused.

"Call for another Skiff. We are down here."

 

[Meliant]

Kashyyykk - Ruins of the Shadow Temple​

Objective: Delightful Picnic with Friends

"Oh, Abeloth's tits! Meliant-"​

​

Meliant ceased shaking Antar as if to better hear him but spoke over his hurried apologies anyway. "Abeloth's what?" Meliant hissed, ignorant of the Madclaw's goings, "What is wrong with you? I-"​

​

Antar's grapple came suddenly - too close, too fast to properly anticipate. A hand appeared on either side of Meliant's head, holding him steady, and then...​

​

Wind blew through the slats in his helmet. It was like blowing into a jug half-full with water and produced a deep, whistling sound. It doesn't travel far, but it is audible to everyone standing nearby. Meliant remained motionless for a time even after the musical performance stops. It is possible, however rare, for one person to suffer so much indignation that it becomes a paralyzing agent, arresting all movement and thought for a time.​

​

A short time, in Meliant's case. "You...!"​

​

The Dark Side welled within Meliant, which he channeled into an empowered headbutt directly into the offending face.​

​

The Madclaw Antar Eryndor Thorne​