Dominion [Black Sun] Just What the Doctor Ordered || BSS Dominion of Manaan Super Hex

[Velzari Tharn]

BLACK SUN SYNDICATE
JUST WHAT THE DOCTOR ORDERED

​

On Attahox, the Torgaigne Syndicate believed they were untouchable within Alliance borders, where they hoarded the acquisition of phosovane salts, an important ingredient to producing potent—and highly addictive—painkillers. But now, the Galactic Alliance has collapsed in a spectacular battle that also stunned the Empire, leaving swaths of the Inner Rim vulnerable. The Underlord thinks it's time to show the Torgaigne what a real syndicate is like and take their little operation to the galactic stage.

Of course, other systems are vulnerable as well. On Manaan, kolto remains a dirt cheap alternative to bacta. Less effective, but clinically indistinguishable from the effects of bacta other than potency. Our "doctors" back on Nar Shaddaa have long claimed one could cut bacta with kolto and save a few credits along the way; few would know the difference. Perhaps it's time to put that theory to the test.

There are also the worlds of Mimban and Gyndine with tidy economies of their own, and no shortage of ways to exploit them. Really, for Black Sun, it seems Life Day has come early.

Now get to work.

OBJECTIVE 1:
THIS TOWN AIN'T BIG ENOUGH

​

The Torgaigne Syndicate is deeply entrenched on the impoverished garbage world of Attahox, where decades of complacency allowed it to thrive unchecked. Their operations center around refining phosovane salts, which fetch incredible prices from pharmaceutical companies and the black market. In fact, their primacy source of income has revolved around the stuff—a grave mistake in the eyes of a diversified crime syndicate such a Black Sun. They must be shown their true potential... or have it taken from them.

Black Sun contacts in the Hellhoop have uncovered the heart of the Torgaigne's operation: a long-abandoned CIS droid foundry. It's an unassuming structure from the outside, rusted shut and surrounded by mountains of scrap metal and debris. But on the inside, it's a fully functional phosovane refinery. With the Alliance in shambles and the Empire embroiled in a three-front war, nothings stands between the Black Sun Syndicate and Torgaigne's lucrative salt racket.

Fold Torgaigne enforcers into our ranks or punish them for defiance. Do whatever it takes to secure the refinery.

OBJECTIVE 2:
LIQUID COURAGE

​

Deep below the rolling waves of Manaan, a precious liquid flows along underwater currents. Known as kolto, it has healing properties comparable to bacta, albeit less potent. Since the age of the Old Republic centuries ago, it has been used by militaries, Force users, and common folk alike to treat injuries. Its use waned greatly, however, as the galaxy's favorite blue gel became universally accessible. But in times of war and strife, when bacta reserves are depleted by dying soldiers on the battlefield, it is kolto that many governments look to—and Manaan's people, the Selkath, are happy to provide it.

Now free from Alliance trade restrictions, though, the Selkarth are empowered to wield their kolto however they please. Between the Empire, Mandalorians, Republic, and Sith, there's no shortage of customers across the galaxy. Turns out that Black Sun was the first to come knocking.

Officially, Manaan's kolto processing is a state-controlled industry, but there are certain shadowy elements who maintain a prominent place in its refinement and distribution. Elements like the Order of Shasa, a cult of Force-sensitive Selkath eager to break bread with Black Sun. On Hrakert Station, hidden from the light of day, the Vigos work to secure a deal... or scheme a way to smuggle the kolto without Manaan or the cult being any wiser.

OBJECTIVE 3:
BYOO

Black Sun's efforts are focused on Attahox and Manaan, but that does not stop independent agents and their cohorts from exacting the Underlord's will across the sector. A list of assignments lights up mission boards across the Outer Rim, graced by Black Sun's crest and issued with the promise of credits and prestige:

• Advanced shipyards over Gyndine house damaged Alliance ships in need of repairs following the Battle of Atrisia. Black Sun is interested in acquiring these vessels, but a strong Pyke Syndicate presence makes such an operation tedious.
• The Bando Gora Assassins demand suitable resources for the construction of lightsabers, and the precious dolovite veins on Mimban beg to be mined. Satisfy both needs by accessing an illegal Imperial mining operation via ancient Thrella wells and ensure that all the ill-gotten dolovite winds up in Hutt Space.
• Ancient relics line the halls of the long-forgotten Truuine Jedi Praxeum, prizes of a bygone era just waiting to be looted. If the Bando Gora lack a purpose for them, they will certainly fetch a fine price on the black market.
• On T'surr, the Crimson Fleet has caused quite a commotion. The native species, also called T'surr, are notorious slavers and pirates, though they've been kept beneath the GA's thumb. Without the SIA watching over them, however, their lust for domination can run rampant—perhaps Black Sun's pirate lords can recruit the four-eyed, two-armed mongrels?

 

[Morné Karn]

OBJECTIVE 1:
THIS TOWN AIN'T BIG ENOUGH

Open


Morné’s boots crunched over the broken glass and rust flakes the factory space near the old CIS foundry floor. The air tasted of metal and chemical rot.

He walked past his armed strike team. They watched the shadows for any Torgaigne stragglers. But their focus kept sliding back to the center of the room. Morné rarely got his hands dirty these days. He had bounty hunters and enforcers to spill blood on his behalf.

In the middle of the room was a man. He sat upon a simple wooden chair, his wrists bound behind his back, shoulders shaking with each labored breath.

"I am told you haven't been all that forthcoming," Morné growled. He took off his jacket and passed it to one of his men. He removed his cufflinks and placed them in his pockets.

He very slowly rolled up his shirt sleeves. Up to his elbows they went, revealing old scars.

Morné circled him once, silent, the way a predator measured prey. Then he struck.

His fist slammed into the lieutenant’s cheek, snapping the man’s head sideways with a wet crack. Morné didn’t rush. He hit him again with deliberate rhythm of a man reacquainting himself with an old language. Another punch. A third. Knuckles splitting, skin scraping, blood spattering across the durasteel floor.

Morné took a few steps back. That animal that he kept dormant had started to move. It took him several breaths to unclench his fists. His people watched, because they rarely got to see Morné when he lost his temper. For all of his smooth talking, the man held power based on his old reputation. It was important to let them see it every now and again but he had to be careful.

The violence was like a drug to him.

"That was so that you know I mean business. I'm not fucking around," Morné said.

The lieutenant spat red at his boots. “We don’t answer to you.”

Morné’s expression didn’t change, but something darkened behind his eyes. He grabbed the man by the jaw, thumb grinding into a bruise he’d just made, and forced him to look up.

“You do now.”

He drove a knee into the lieutenant’s ribs. Bone cracked. The man wheezed and collapsed sideways. Morné didn’t stop. He crouched, seized a fistful of hair, and hauled the man upright again.

“This refinery belongs to Black Sun. You know it. I know it.” His tone stayed calm, even conversational, but each word cut like a blade.

“So I’m going to ask you once. I need a route into the refinery. The best route. After that you'll talk about your off world contracts and distribution routes. By the end of tonight you'll work for me. Or you'll be in a shallow grave. Eventually. Your defiance earns you nothing."

The lieutenant trembled, teeth pink with blood. For a moment there was defiance. Then Morné struck him again. It left the man sagging like a rag doll.

“Torgaigne doesn’t survive this night unless someone talks,” Morné murmured. His voice was like gravel being tipped from a cart.

“Decide if it’s going to be you.”

Behind him, his strike team watched in silence. They had all heard the stories about Denon, about the rise of Morné Karn. The trail of bodies and violence. The ambition that led to his rise paid in blood. But watching him now with bare hands dripping red, they understood those stories hadn’t been exaggerated.

Morné straightened, shaking out his bruised knuckles, and waited for the lieutenant to choke out whatever truth might save him.

---

In the end, it only took another fifteen minutes. You catch flies better with honey better than with vinegar. Morné had never trusted the saying, but he found offering the kindness of a painkiller, a smoke and a job offer was the lifeline a man on the edge needed.

He took two things from his people: a rag to wipe his knuckles clean and an armoured vest.

"We've got a way in," he declared. "Minimum casualties."

 

[Ralk Nay'kos]

OBJECTIVE 3:
BYOO​

OOC: I'm not sure who to tag, so anyone who's joining Objective 3 just tag me, I guess.

Weapon: https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/"Renegade"_heavy_blaster_pistol/Legends

Gyndine System, Expansion Region
Gyndine Shipyards in planetary orbit
1156 Local Time

The bribe had actually worked, in spite of the Bothan's extreme doubts in her newfound allies' insistences that it would.

Just ahead of her, a massive, burn-scarred purple Gamorrean of immense girth and only sporting a single orange eye - one of Ralk Nay'kos' accomplices for this mission - turned to flash the demure little Bothan a hideous smile - she didn't think they were capable of smiling - before he cracked those broken, chipped and gray tusks of his together, the effect made all-the-more disturbing due to the fact that this particular monster was missing his lips, and a worn brown eyepatch over one eye probably assured that the bastard wouldn't be dating anytime soon. The Gamorrean motioned with an immense wave of a burn-scarred arm, and, with a snort, he, a pale yellow, trembling Blood Carver and a scowling, single horned pink Advozse with a humorless demeanor made their way forward, while the lone Bothan made her way up behind the trio.

The Bothan was a strange and rare sight, and such was why she held back a little bit. Demure and slim, the youth - probably barely out of her teens, or a few years past - was covered in pure white, snowy fur along her entire body, and even her hair matched! Clearly the poor girl was an albino; even the dark covering of her form-fitting leather armor that she had adopted for the mission, coupled with a hood and cloak, couldn't hide that fact away. The girl hefted a SoroSuub "Renegade" heavy blaster in one hand, the sight almost comical as she followed the three battle-hardened criminals as casually as one might take an afternoon stroll.

With a shift of her free hand, the wraith-like Bothan tossed back the hood that had been obscuring her pale visage, her thin lips pulling back into a snarl that revealed perfectly straight and equally white teeth. Ahead of her, the lipless Gamorrean squealed as he drove a vibrodagger into the neck of an unsuspecting pale human guard. Apparently, that would be one less bribe to pay off. How dark of him. The Bothan raised her Renegade, delivering a shot of blue energy that struck a panicked and aged (Near-human) Bimm on one of his pointed ears as he attempted to run past, towards an alarm on the far side of the docking bay. When the bolt struck, it burned away the surrounding flesh, exposing charred skull, an empty space where the ear should have been, and filling the air with the scent of ozone (blasterfire effect) and charred meat.

As casually as if she had been walking, the lithe and petite Bothan made her way past the fallen man, stopping only for a moment to remove credits (276) from his pocket and a second pistol (SC-4 variety) from his belt. The girl tossed the SC-4 to the Blood Carver, whose lazy eye twitched as he nodded his thanks. The four made their way around a stack of durasteel crates, piled high above their heads, slipping past that cover and into another section of the docking bay, with the Bothan medic taking up the rear of their little assault party. She hoped more backup was due to arrive - at least another squad. There should be another arriving at any moment...

After all, who knew how much more resistance lay ahead of them?

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Objective: 3, Jedi Praxeum
Wearing: Armatura | The Forgemaster's Ring | Ring of Stasis | The Sofitor
Wielding: 8 Nozhi Blades | 2 Whimsy Knifes | 2 Nastirci Combat Knives | Fire and Smoke | Combat Gauntlets | Tessen | 2 TOTT-001 Arc Light Blaster | 2 Dissuader KD-30 Pistols with Glitter Bullets
Tags: Braze + Open

---

The job board lighting up across the sector had plenty of tempting targets, but only one of them was the one to get Scherezade out of her chair. Ancient relics in an abandoned Praxeum? Normally, that was just boring stuff she left for others. But in this moment, her heart felt like it re-started its beating. Stupid Force, sending her vague signals instead of just sending her something written down like "Hey listen, this place at this time, you'll find this very specific thing". That would make life so much more comfortable.

To be fair though, she had an idea of what the re-beating was about this time. Fragments of her schematics had shown up in stranger places before. A shard hidden in a cult vault. Another buried under layers of dust in an Outer Rim archive. Whoever scattered the pieces had enjoyed playing stupid time-wasting games. If the next clue was anywhere, it would be in a forgotten school full of dead masters who loved puzzles.

She sent a short message to Braze before departure. Nothing fancy, nothing poetic. Just an offer and a time to meet. She needed another set of hands and he needed something interesting that was not a disappointment. He showed up on time, which told her he was as bored as she was.

The two of them landed on Truuine just after dawn. Fog clung to the ground like a living thing. The Praxeum's stone façade loomed ahead, cracked but still proud, worn smooth by storms and centuries. Vines crawled up the towers. The old Jedi crest at the entrance had faded into a faint outline, barely visible unless you already knew where to look.

For a moment, Scherezade considered jumping up there just to graffiti crude phallus objects. For some unfathomable reason, she decided to act like an adult instead, and not do it.

"It's here," she mumbled, "or at least, if not my schematics, something is here."

With a sigh, she released a bag of cheese cubes from her belt and tossed a few into her mouth before offering the bag to Braze. Searching for ancient cryptic stuff was always better on a slightly fuller stomach.

"Good luck to us," Scherezade added after swallowing.

 

[Braze]

Tags: Scherezade deWinter

Braze was making tomb raiding his hobby more and more, though he liked to think of himself as an archivist searching for relics worth preserving. The job boards were rarely interesting, but when Scherezade called him out here he figured there had to be something better than the usual disappointment waiting for them. Keeping an eye on her was just a bonus. He wanted to keep tabs on her, especially when she followed odd signals from the Force that made her restless.

The fog on Truuine clung to his boots as he padded after her, his breath misting in the cold air. The Praxeum rose ahead like a half-forgotten monument, stones cracked and worn smooth by centuries of storms. The old Jedi crest at the entrance was barely visible, but Braze saw the outline anyway. It made the whole place feel like it was holding its breath.

He watched Scherezade toss cheese cubes into her mouth and then offer him the bag. Braze took one, chewing thoughtfully while his gaze drifted over the walls and the dark gaps where windows had once been.

"How many pieces do you currently have?" he asked curiously as he followed her steps. His voice came out softer than usual in the quiet ruin. He watched what she was doing with a cautious glance, tugging his cloak tighter around himself as a cold gust cut through the fabric. He was already regretting not bringing thicker layers, but it was too late for that now.

She said something was here, and Braze believed her. Places like this never stayed empty for long.

"Feels like the kind of spot someone would enjoy hiding clues in," he murmured, looking up at the old towers. "Let's hope they liked making things obvious."

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Objective: 3, Jedi Praxeum
Wearing: Armatura | The Forgemaster's Ring | Ring of Stasis | The Sofitor
Wielding: 8 Nozhi Blades | 2 Whimsy Knifes | 2 Nastirci Combat Knives | Fire and Smoke | Combat Gauntlets | Tessen | 2 TOTT-001 Arc Light Blaster | 2 Dissuader KD-30 Pistols with Glitter Bullets
Tags: Braze + Open

---

Scherezade wiped cheese dust on her coat and gave Braze a look that sat somewhere between pride and irritation.

"Twelve pieces. Maybe thirteen if you count the half fragment that looks like someone sneezed while carving it," she waved a hand dismissively, "whoever hid this stuff had too much free time and a very annoying sense of humour."

She stepped through the cracked entrance arch, boots crunching over broken tiles. The air inside smelled old and stuffy. Every time she passed one of the faded wall reliefs, she felt a tiny tug in her chest. Not guidance. Just nuisance.

"The pieces do not even fit together yet. Not physically, not conceptually, not any way that I've been able to figure out. Each of them's from different eras entirely," she ran her fingers along a carved line in the wall and watched dust fall from the indentation, "but they hum when they are close to each other. Kinda like they recognize the bigger shape?"

She shrugged, then looked back at him.

"So naturally, I am going to chase the rest until I figure out who thought scattering them across the galaxy was funny. Or until something more important demands my attention. Or until I get bored."

The corridor split ahead into three paths. The one on the left had collapsed, the one in the centre flickered with dying lights, and the one on the right breathed a slow pulse of stale but active energy.

She tilted her head at it.

"That one," she pointed, and then popper another cheese cube into her mouth, "with any luck there'll be some ancient security there that needs a fight. Sithspit, I'm itching for a good fight. Drunk cantina patrons don't cut it anymore."

 

[Thayne Tameron]

JUST WHAT THE DOCTOR ORDERED
BYOO (TRUUINE)

​

The Nomad cut through Truuine’s atmosphere, revealing beneath the clouds a frigid polar cap. Snowy mountains stood high above jagged glaciers to create a sharp, powder-white vista. Thayne knew from time spent studying the site that the Jedi who built the Praxeum were likely obscuring its location from the Sith, but he saw no reason why they couldn’t have picked a nice grotto in the equatorial island chain. Even with cabin comfort systems keeping the Nomad warm, there was a nip in the air; he’d have to break out a parka and hope the old temple still had boilers.

Thayne groaned as her brought the ship around in a lazy circle over the temple. Looks like he was the only one here from Ruusan, and to make matters worse, the trek from the landing… pad? It was more like an open space on a smoothed cliff—it was father from the Praxeum than he was eager to walk. But with snow flurries picked up and the iron-grey sky looming overhead, Thayne wasted little time bundling up and grabbing his weapons. His lightsaber hung at his hip, and on the other side, her wore his blaster pistol, “Arabella”, in her holster. He shouldn’t need more than that.

Jedi bones don’t usually fight back.

Tags
Nearby: Scherezade deWinter | Braze​

 

[Braze]

Tags: Scherezade deWinter Thayne Tameron ​

Braze visibly cringed, looking discomforted and a little distressed as he watched her wipe cheese dust on the fur of her coat. He reached under his cloak and produced a black hankerchief with little rose brocade patterns in the cloth. Je then proceeded to offer it over to Scherezade deWinter . " Here... Try using this. " he offered gently. "Don't ruin the nice fur. " He added hesitantly.

“Do you have any idea what origin your fragments are from? Maybe who made them?” he asked, stepping closer. “If it was a Jedi, it could very well have been torn apart on purpose. Some masters loved sending students on wild goose chases to teach patience and perseverance.”

He considered her pile of mismatched relics for a moment. “Honestly, it sounds similar to an Ossus Codex Key.” His tone softened. “Maybe it is part of something larger. If the pieces really are from different eras, it might be an evolving project. Something that changed hands many times before someone scattered it.”

He reached beneath his scarf and pulled out one such key. The crystal carried a faint glow, “I believe this one belongs somewhere in here. Likely an artifact vault tucked deeper inside.”

He walked along side her quietly staying off to her flank slightly seemingly content to let her lead the way. "Remember that box you gave back to me? One of these little keys was the awnser to opening it. " he informed her with a devious little smile gracing his features.

"Some times there's automotoms left behind. They do not enjoy thieves. " he offered simply. " We're more likely to find remnants of old outdated saber parts or old dark side artifacts locked away. It was supposed to be my job to try and take care of places like this... " He offered as he gaze up at the towering arch ways following the woman through the frigid halls. He hadn't entierly shared what all happened after the fact of when those jedi came looking for him back on Ossus. That was okay... She didn't need to know about that whole mess.

The temple's old corridors carried sound strangely. When Thayne's ship broke through the clouds and descended over the mountains, Braze felt more than heard the shift. A low, distant vibration shivered through the stone under his boots. Dust slid down from a cracked ceiling arch in a thin curtain of powder.

Braze paused and looked up studying the structure overhead. He then glanced behind them peereing down teh darkened hallway they had come throug,

"Someone else is here," he murmured with a smirk. "What's that saying? Finder's keepers?" He then sprung forwards drting a head down the corridor!

 

[Koda Fett]

OBJ 1

Between the piling mounds of endless scrap, rusted red and groaning with violent creaks after each step, Fett tread what best amounted to a woven path. Skies blazed red and thick with smog, choking if not for the helmet's systems. The whir of machinery rung out from one wreck to the next, all alongside the dying cries of droids. Hardly a resort world.

Though the collapse of the Alliance and the spread of the Empire, few worlds made for paradise. Then again, Fett was a bounty hunter. A bounty hunter lived in the low. There were few worlds lower than Attahox.

He climbed up a pile, seeing over the wasteland of waste and looking to the old droid foundry. Folding the rangefinder over his visor, he took a closer look. It wouldn't be much longer until he reached it.

 

[Ralk Nay'kos]

Weapon: https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/"Renegade"_heavy_blaster_pistol/Legends

Objective: Gyndine Shipyards

Gyndine System, Expansion Region
Gyndine Shipyards in planetary orbit
1200 Local Time

The Blood Carver's lazy eye, in the end, is what did him in.

He had been peering out into a door to search for shipyard personnel and his malformed eye hadn't properly glimpsed the outline of the Zabrak who had gotten wind of the attack, just inside of his personal quarters.

The Blood Carver's body had twitched at the far end of the narrow hallway, to topple forwards and fall into the room he had just opened with only so much as a faint crashing noise. The poor sap hadn't even had time to cry out or be shocked - all because of one bad eye!

Stepping over the body even as the burn-scarred and lipless Gamorrean squealed out a sharp, demanding warning, bringing his fat-chocked arm before the Bothan's path to shield her, the Gamorrean gurgled at her, hefting an archaic blunt mace in his fat, skin-stretched hand. The Zabrak was a massive example of that species, roughly two-hundred and fifty or more pounds of raw, well-kept and exercised stopping power. He stepped out casually, his skin as dark and blue as a Chiss' beneath his uniform, and his horns a strange shade of orange, though whether this effect was natural or some sort of cosmetic style was uncertain; they glowed almost neon in the shipyard's lights. The Zabrak advanced towards Ralk's Gamorrean accomplice with a guttural sneer, a vibroax still dripping with the Blood Carver's life essence clanging harshly against the Gamorrean's mace, which he braced further with two hands at the top and bottom of the weapon's haft, squealing for aid from his companions, yellow eyes narrowing as the two charged one another.

The purple-eyed albino behind him tilted her head forward in a defiant leer of her own towards the oddly colored Zabrak, tapered ears folding backwards as her bearded visage huffed, a hand smoothly raising her Renegade with one sinuous and thin, snow-pale arm.

A sapphire bolt leapt forth, striking the defiant Pyke Syndicate Zabrak on one cheek, causing the Bothan to curse her being startled by the man's attack on her piggish friend. The ashen hole burnt into the Zabrak's face contorted into a pained scream over freshly charred, cracked teeth; his scream was soon silenced as the second shot a moment or two later burned out one of his eye sockets, cutting him off mid shriek, even as the Gamorrean's momentum pushed the freshly killed body backwards to the floor.

Behind the Gamorrean, Ralk and the pink Advozse each breathed a sigh of relief...

 

[Ralk Vos'arr]

(Republished from old account to new version.)

OOC: I'm not sure who to tag, so anyone who's joining Objective 3 just tag me, I guess.

Weapon: https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/"Renegade"_heavy_blaster_pistol/Legends

Gyndine System, Expansion Region
Gyndine Shipyards in planetary orbit
1156 Local Time

The bribe had actually worked, in spite of the Bothan's extreme doubts in her newfound allies' insistences that it would.

Just ahead of her, a massive, burn-scarred purple Gamorrean of immense girth and only sporting a single orange eye - one of Ralk Nay'kos' accomplices for this mission - turned to flash the demure little Bothan a hideous smile - she didn't think they were capable of smiling - before he cracked those broken, chipped and gray tusks of his together, the effect made all-the-more disturbing due to the fact that this particular monster was missing his lips, and a worn brown eyepatch over one eye probably assured that the bastard wouldn't be dating anytime soon. The Gamorrean motioned with an immense wave of a burn-scarred arm, and, with a snort, he, a pale yellow, trembling Blood Carver and a scowling, single horned pink Advozse with a humorless demeanor made their way forward, while the lone Bothan made her way up behind the trio.

The Bothan was a strange and rare sight, and such was why she held back a little bit. Demure and slim, the youth - probably barely out of her teens, or a few years past - was covered in pure white, snowy fur along her entire body, and even her hair matched! Clearly the poor girl was an albino; even the dark covering of her form-fitting leather armor that she had adopted for the mission, coupled with a hood and cloak, couldn't hide that fact away. The girl hefted a SoroSuub "Renegade" heavy blaster in one hand, the sight almost comical as she followed the three battle-hardened criminals as casually as one might take an afternoon stroll.

With a shift of her free hand, the wraith-like Bothan tossed back the hood that had been obscuring her pale visage, her thin lips pulling back into a snarl that revealed perfectly straight and equally white teeth. Ahead of her, the lipless Gamorrean squealed as he drove a vibrodagger into the neck of an unsuspecting pale human guard. Apparently, that would be one less bribe to pay off. How dark of him. The Bothan raised her Renegade, delivering a shot of blue energy that struck a panicked and aged (Near-human) Bimm on one of his pointed ears as he attempted to run past, towards an alarm on the far side of the docking bay. When the bolt struck, it burned away the surrounding flesh, exposing charred skull, an empty space where the ear should have been, and filling the air with the scent of ozone (blasterfire effect) and charred meat.

As casually as if she had been walking, the lithe and petite Bothan made her way past the fallen man, stopping only for a moment to remove credits (276) from his pocket and a second pistol (SC-4 variety) from his belt. The girl tossed the SC-4 to the Blood Carver, whose lazy eye twitched as he nodded his thanks. The four made their way around a stack of durasteel crates, piled high above their heads, slipping past that cover and into another section of the docking bay, with the Bothan medic taking up the rear of their little assault party. She hoped more backup was due to arrive - at least another squad. There should be another arriving at any moment...

After all, who knew how much more resistance lay ahead of them?

 

[Ralk Vos'arr]

(Republished from old account to new version. Posting will carry on normally from here. Sorry about that - one time mess up on my end!)

Weapon: https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/"Renegade"_heavy_blaster_pistol/Legends

Objective: Gyndine Shipyards

Gyndine System, Expansion Region
Gyndine Shipyards in planetary orbit
1200 Local Time

The Blood Carver's lazy eye, in the end, is what did him in.

He had been peering out into a door to search for shipyard personnel and his malformed eye hadn't properly glimpsed the outline of the Zabrak who had gotten wind of the attack, just inside of his personal quarters.

The Blood Carver's body had twitched at the far end of the narrow hallway, to topple forwards and fall into the room he had just opened with only so much as a faint crashing noise. The poor sap hadn't even had time to cry out or be shocked - all because of one bad eye!

Stepping over the body even as the burn-scarred and lipless Gamorrean squealed out a sharp, demanding warning, bringing his fat-chocked arm before the Bothan's path to shield her, the Gamorrean gurgled at her, hefting an archaic blunt mace in his fat, skin-stretched hand. The Zabrak was a massive example of that species, roughly two-hundred and fifty or more pounds of raw, well-kept and exercised stopping power. He stepped out casually, his skin as dark and blue as a Chiss' beneath his uniform, and his horns a strange shade of orange, though whether this effect was natural or some sort of cosmetic style was uncertain; they glowed almost neon in the shipyard's lights. The Zabrak advanced towards Ralk's Gamorrean accomplice with a guttural sneer, a vibroax still dripping with the Blood Carver's life essence clanging harshly against the Gamorrean's mace, which he braced further with two hands at the top and bottom of the weapon's haft, squealing for aid from his companions, yellow eyes narrowing as the two charged one another.

The purple-eyed albino behind him tilted her head forward in a defiant leer of her own towards the oddly colored Zabrak, tapered ears folding backwards as her bearded visage huffed, a hand smoothly raising her Renegade with one sinuous and thin, snow-pale arm.

A sapphire bolt leapt forth, striking the defiant Pyke Syndicate Zabrak on one cheek, causing the Bothan to curse her being startled by the man's attack on her piggish friend. The ashen hole burnt into the Zabrak's face contorted into a pained scream over freshly charred, cracked teeth; his scream was soon silenced as the second shot a moment or two later burned out one of his eye sockets, cutting him off mid shriek, even as the Gamorrean's momentum pushed the freshly killed body backwards to the floor.

Behind the Gamorrean, Ralk and the pink Advozse each breathed a sigh of relief...

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Objective: 3, Jedi Praxeum
Wearing: Armatura | The Forgemaster's Ring | Ring of Stasis | The Sofitor
Wielding: 8 Nozhi Blades | 2 Whimsy Knifes | 2 Nastirci Combat Knives | Fire and Smoke | Combat Gauntlets | Tessen | 2 TOTT-001 Arc Light Blaster | 2 Dissuader KD-30 Pistols with Glitter Bullets
Tags: Braze Thayne Tameron + Open

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Scherezade giggled as Braze handed her the handkerchief. She wiped it against the fur, utterly unconcerned by his obvious distress. It was just gear. If she needed more, she could always hunt more Wampas. Still, it was another strange facet of Braze, and she tucked it away to examine later. Assuming she remembered.

Did she know where the fragments had come from or who had created them? Not a clue. She shook her head. The Ossus Codex Key meant nothing to her either, though the name suggested enough. Her focus had already begun to wander when his next words landed.

"You didn't think to mention opening the box before now?!" she almost screamed, eyes wide, "well?!" she demanded, not even giving him a chance to respond, "What was in that box! Was it one of my fragments? If so I want it."

Her concern for the other piece somewhere in the temple vanished on the spot. She moved toward him, restless, circling, hungry for answers. His job, her assignment, all of it faded into irrelevance. Compared to this, it was nothing.

The entire project sometimes felt too big. The hunt had been going on for nearly a year, and the goal still felt impossibly distant. Sometimes it seemed she was no closer than the day she had begun.

He started to mention another presence and she almost missed it. Then she stilled, senses sharpening, head tilting slightly as if testing the air. "Human. Male," her tone shifted, cool and strange, nothing like her earlier excitement.

A question surfaced, something she had picked up from a recently acquired frenemy.

"Friend or foe?"

 

[Arris Windrun]

SECRET LAB (BYOO)
Tag: Mercy

["Matching interior pressure..."]

The airlock began to drain the water through a grate in the floor, while a pair of wall vents hissed, releasing oxygen and other gases to establish equilibrium with the rest of the underwater lab.

Arris was trapped inside her pressurized envirosuit, quite unhappily too, given it was nearly a size too small for her to wear. When the red light flicked over to green, the cyborg finally let out a sigh and removed her helmet, before sliding out of the rest in a struggler's fashion.

"You know," she grunted while removing the bodyglove, "when you mentioned a secret lab, this is not what I had in..."

She grumbled and cursed under her breath as it got stuck around her thighs. "... in mind!"

Finally, it was over. She glanced down at the ID chit in her palm - their way in and out of this place unscathed. The truth was, this facility didn't exist in any official records. No, it was apparently some kind of secret partnership between a handful of biomedical firms and the government of Manaan, with funding from the Galactic Alliance. Now that the latter was gone, the lab's oversight office had virtually no accountability.

She and Mercy were here under less than honest pretenses... Invited as would-be investors to fill the void of missing GA credits.

Their actual intentions?

"So how do you wanna play this?" She asked Mercy.

 

[Mercy]

Arris Windrun

Unlike Arris Mercy wasn't wearing a pressurized suit. She had a mask to supply her with additional oxygen, but otherwise was using the Force to sustain her body as they had descended into the pits of the sea.

In turn it meant that as depressurization mechanisms came into play Mercy didn't have to bother with undoing an ill-fitting suit.

On the other hand it also meant she was drenched and the water was slooshing off of her like a canal.

"You know," she grunted while removing the bodyglove, "when you mentioned a secret lab, this is not what I had in..."

She grumbled and cursed under her breath as it got stuck around her thighs. "... in mind!"

"Didn't you?" Mercy asked quietly as she looked around the room as it began to drain away the rest of the water and began decont procedures. "I am sure I mentioned it..." She grabbed for the Force, drawing the Dark Side inside of her... until her body began to burn up, super-heating... and drying up her armor and herself in one swoop.

Her hands settled behind her back as Mercy glanced to Arris.

"This is your show, darling, I am hardly one for diplomacy. Lead the way and I will play along... as long as they don't push me too hard."

The doors slid open and out came a Selkath representative, already wringing his hands.

"I so apologize, we would have send a shuttle, but... budget cuts, you understand. This is why we require the additional funds." The Selkath said apologetically. "My name is Duula. And you two...?" He looked rather confused at the mountain looming over him and then to the woman who seemed more machine than woman.

 

[Arris Windrun]

"You know, being all wet like that is sure to raise some quest--"

Somehow, the Warlord began to dry herself as if it were a matter of will alone. Arris should have expected that, given how often Mercy had a supernatural trick up her sleeve.

This is your show, darling, I am hardly one for diplomacy. Lead the way and I will play along... as long as they don't push me too hard."

She was half-inclined to laugh at that. Arris and diplomacy? Weren't exactly two things that went well together. She could negotiate, sure, in a way... and it was probably true that between the two of them, she was the least psychotic. Their plan made sense, but now that Arris was thinking about it, it was rather nuts that either of them thought this approach would work and hadn't had any doubts until now, when it was too late.

The door slid open and revealed a rather formal Selkath named Duula.

"Apologies aren't necessary," she replied. "Impressed if anything - security's never been easier with an underwater lab, yeah?"

The cyborg looked at Mercy, then back at Duula. "I'm Mertil Korde, and this is my associate, Hina Han."

At least that's what their stolen identities said, anyway. Poor Mertil and Miss Han had died in an accident just a few days earlier. A well-placed bribe meant their employment remained active within the investment firm they worked for, and no Alliance meant no central system to confirm their deaths. It would likely be a while before anyone had to find out the truth.

The Selkath remained quite skeptical given their appearances, but he wasn't one to look a gift rancor in the mouth.

Duula nodded. "Right this way."

He led them both deeper within the facility, which seemed divided between a handful of facilities, with an almost excessive number of bulkheads and blast doors to prevent catastrophic water damage, or, as Arris expected, intrusions. Cameras followed their every move until they eventually arrived at a sealed blast door guarded by a pair of droids.

One of the droids stepped forward. "Submit to a Retinal and Voice scan."

It was possible this droid, unlike the Selkath, was linked into a database. Which meant it was possible that either one of them would be flagged. Thankfully, that's why you brought a technopath to a job like this. Arris stepped forward and let the droid do its thing.

"Mertil Korde," she gave her voice sample while subtly manipulating it through the Force.

No matter what, it would receive them as if they were who they said they were.

 

[Ralk Vos'arr]

Weapon: https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/"Renegade"_heavy_blaster_pistol/Legends

Gyndine System, Expansion Region
Gyndine Shipyards in planetary orbit
1201 Local Time

While they didn't really expect their luck to hold out at this point, the strike team had a stroke of fortune in their favor as they were making their way past the nearest mess hall: large number of the Shipyards' personnel were making their way in for lunch, and, at the end of that party, the burn-scarred Gamorrean noticed an advancing strike team - following at a careful distance as they snuck along behind the lunch-bound workers. The Gamorrean, Bothan and Advozse each craned their necks, one above the other, as they peered out from behind a duranium crate loaded with (it was assumed) tools of some kind or another. Burn Scars motioned towards the advancing three Black Sun agents: a three-winged Geonosian male sporting a disruptor rifle, a scowling Givin sporting black light armor and a backpack full of technician's equipment - Ralk wasn't sure whether he was supposed to be a mechanic or perhaps some sort of slicer - and a trembling, oddly sickly-looking Ongree with splotched ghost-white flesh, though whether the being was an albino like Ralk herself was, or merely oddly colored, neither of them bothered to seek clarification regarding the matter, though each gave one another a rather quizzical look.

The Ongree shifted a moisture-laced hand towards the direction of the hall leading away from the messhall, where a first repair bay was located, short facial tendrils at the bottom of a bizarrely-"crafted" head twitching with even greater intensity then the rest of a rather pudgy body did, for whatever reason. Ralk's muzzle twisted into a slight grimace as she looked the strange being up and down, but she kept her mouth shut. Upon - her, apparently; Ralk could see the outline of immense mammaries beneath flowing, voluminous orange robes, so strange a garb given their current job - the Ongree's gesturing to the door, the Bothan and her fellows all nodded, taking steps away from the door even as Burn Scars calmly forced the door open.

All hell followed that moment in less than a few seconds.

Burn Scars snarled as each of his fat hands hurled two thermal detonators into the mess hall, with some of the chattering, laughing crew of Pyke Syndicate enforcers and the shipyard's primary workforce too caught up in eating, conversing and ordering their (GROSS!) rationed, cheap synthfood to noticed fully what was going on, even as the beeping detonators landed: one rolled beneath a table on inattentive Syndicate enforcers, all laughing at some form of erotic Givin female imagery, based on their barely perceptible conversation, while the other flew up and over the partition dividing the kitchen staff from the workers they were serving.

No one paid much attention to Burn Scars until the first detonator - beneath the Givin-oglers' table - went off, followed shortly by the other. The first explosion disintegrated the legs of each of the oglers at the table - a mud-brown, immensely fat Wookiee with emerald eyes and several bandoliers wrapped over his immense torso and his friend, a chuckling Snivvian whose hand was just starting to shift over to take the Wookiee's datapad away from him for a closer look; their burning, mangled bodies flew in opposite directions, while a Toydarian who had been hovering above one side of the Wookiee was knocked unconscious and sharply backwards into the crowd by half of the warped duranium table that flew into the air. Their respective pained screams were mingled with the startled shouts of a dozen or more different species as the second explosion rattled the room a moment after. The second explosion instantly killed and partially disintegrated the scowling blue Houk who had been carrying some sort of stew (or was it gravy?) in a large pot, the explosion occurring right beneath one of his immense feet as it was lowering atop the detonator by chance. The immense, overly-heated cooking pot fell to the floor, to spill its contents over a rather grumpy-looking white-furred Amaran boy who had been startled and fell to his side during the first explosion, which allowed the spilling, sizzling gravy to wash over him completely, leaving not a single hair untouched.

The poor adolescent's subsequent intense squalls and yowling threatened to melt away the startled shouts and cries of dismay, even amidst the aftermath of that initial attack. The poor Amaran boy couldn't have been more then fifteen or sixteen. Ralk's heart broke for him...

She gritted her teeth and lowered her tapered ears as, mercifully, the Amaran boy's screams were drowned out by harsher, louder roars of surprise as the confused shipyard crew began to react, properly. Some were too late, however.

The Bothan ducked behind one side of the doorway, hefting her pistol to be on the safe side as another of her associates leaned over as Burn Scars stepped over to the Bothan's opposite side; while the Advozse took his place to strike with his own weapons even as the crowded messhall was still reeling from the shock of the attack. The chattering of rapid laserfire from two burst-activated E-11s in either of the Advozse's hands highlighted his strange, sadistic grin with an otherworldly red glow of Death as he fired haphazardly into the mess hall, the cries of pain, grunts of shock and the steady thuds of falling shipyard crew, be they mechanics, pilots, enforcers or whatever else didn't matter, assailed the strikers' varied ears; the Advozse was simply enjoying the sport, at this point.

A shot whizzed past his head after he had emptied both clips in his weapons, and his strange smile grew wider still as he took a moment to adjust the shaded glasses over his as-yet unseen eyes. Sadist, as Ralk mentally decided to nickname him, ducked to the doorway's opposite side from her and Burn Scars; Sadist actually had the metaphorical stones to light a cheap cigarra from the sizzling, glowing tip of one E-11 as he used his other hand to toss away the spent ammo cartridge. Ralk rolled her violet eyes at him and scoffed, while Sadist nodded and tossed her the lit cigarra, before producing another of his own - apparently, some things were more important than the fight at hand!

To one side of the door, the barest beginnings of the resistance had formed as workers and enforcers started to draw and load their own weapons in response, a fresh yowl could be heard: one of the Fat Wookiee's dismembered, fiery limbs had lit aflame the pants of a Rodian pilot who had ventured to close to the still-burning limb. Her venturing past several others lit afire a Gran technician's pants, a Drovian's enforcer's nearly-floor length white hair and a Whipid's thick black leg fur. The three in question began to flail and yowl as well, stumbling and falling in succession. An unseen hand from the crowd shot the Rodian in the throat as she attempted to run towards the other side, her yellow eyes closing as she fell gurgling to the floor amidst the crowd. The Drovian and Gran quickly gained control over their fires, while several shots ventured to the outside of the doorway, in vain attempts to hit Sadist as he retreated into cover. The Whiphid (probably a technician) fell atop a second Wookiee of red-orange, and they both yowled as the fire spread over each of them, while their fellows worked to step away from the fiery pair as their screams overwhelmed a good majority of the doomed mess hall's other occupants.

The Bothan, meanwhile, nonetheless inserted the offered cigarra into the corner of her mouth as one hand idly rubbed at her pale muzzle, taking a slow, relaxing pull from the nicotine - she was trying to quit, but this weirdo had gotten her into quite the bad - if only occasional - habit.

The Ongree shifted her pudgy, more well-endowed (Ralk was only a little envious...) form into the passage of the door, bouncing and jiggling in places as her short arms maneuvered a Z-6 rotary blaster from beneath her strange orange robes. Her forehead-placed, freakish mouth yowled as an orange blaster shot whistled past her shoulder; followed an instant later by a second shot that burned into it, leaving a glowing, sizzling mark on her robe. However, what followed would end the fight before the resistance became too deadly for the Black Sun Agents...

Screams of dismay, moans of resignation and cries of abject terror, followed by a few shaky shots that came short of Endowed the Ongree and one that burned away one of the Sadist's pinkie fingers as he was offering a cigarra to the Givin nestled - too closely! - to Ralk's side across were all the team outside could hear, just before the immense chattering of Endowed's Z-6 began to echo in the strike team's ears, even as they watched her pudgy, jiggling arms swaying to and fro in a low, rhythmic manner as the cries inside were slowly and steadily being cut short...

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

BYOO

Corsairs, Pirates, and Buccaneers

T'Surr, Orbital Station - Formerly SIA
​

The Crimson Fleet and elements of the Blazing Chain sit amid the floating wreckage of an Alliance picket fleet. Once, this fleet had prowled the region seeking to keep a firm foothold over the native T'surr. They cracked down on the practice of slaving. Now, the Alliance was truly no more save small elements like this picket fleet, seeking to uphold order in a doomed Core.

Aboard a space station in orbit around T'surr, the warlord Gerra stood in a hangar bay. Across from him were ranged members of the T'surr who sought reignite the slave trade in the region. Gerra cared little. Though he did take slaves in battle, he would often offer them the chance to join his fleet first. It mattered not. The Sith Order had an appetite for "indentured servants" that needed sating. Others of the T'surr sought to merge their own vessels into one of the great pirate fleets assembled under the banner of the Crimson Fleet.

Gerra came as the head of the Blazing Chain, but Graspborn were also present, and others as well. A dozen different members from a dozen different pirate factions. Gerra had invited them all to T'surr, including elements of the remnant House of Marr, but not to discuss the species or their planet.

No.

The eight foot tall Vahlan surveyed the gathered faces, his arms crossed over a broad chest.

"The time has come to make war on the Core. Alliance. Imperial. It is all the same. They feast on riches, while the Outer Rim subsists on scraps. Their reckoning is nigh. I come from the Firefist. I have seen the splendor of their worlds. And they are as fatted calves awaiting slaughter. I sail upon the worlds of the Core, to ravage and sack until our ships overflow with the plunder of their ecumenopoli. Who will sail with me?" ​

Rylan Swok Kinley Pryse Varo Jhicaro Nero Drake Warpriest Prime Makar Clyne Scour Diodoros Isur Mondo Ohnaka Cord Starfall Aedan Miles Helix Mercy Arris Windrun Ansisa Revna Marr

 

[Vesper Thrace]

T'SURR ORBITAL STATION​

Fancy lad.

The words were neither spoken nor telepathed to her compatriot Tavi Corvask who was standing next to her. Close enough to speak, but there was always the danger of being overheard. As true here as it had been on ship in service to Savrix Xiralan. Their subtle sign language had been developed over years of working together. It had started with signs that could communicate quickly when they were on different ends of a problem, wearing protective gear so they couldn't speak directly. It had been perfected when they realized they could trash-talk people without them knowing.

Just say it, Vesper Thrace signed, subtle motions of her fingers doing the talking while her face remained impassive. It was unlikely anyone else would be able to pick up on it. Wanker. Well... except for maybe that movement. Everyone knew that one. She folded her arms across her slender middle and watched Hasuras Na-Gerra continue his pitch, her black eyes ever alert for movement from Tavi.

"Just like that?" she called dubiously when Gerra had finished. "The Empire is in the Core now. The Empire that recently fielded a superweapon and before that, appeared out of nowhere in the Galactic Alliance's borders. Maybe you think the odds are they don't have any more nasty little tricks up their sleeves." A shrug. "I wouldn't take those odds. Not now." She lifted her chin, not a challenge exactly, but a note that she wasn't going to be taken in by grandiose rhetoric, however tall the speaker. "Maybe you have more information. Something to even the odds, yes?"

She spread her hands. "Something you'd like to share with the group?"

He must have something, right? Or is he expecting us to act as human shields?

___________________________________________________________________

Engaging: Hasuras Na-Gerra | Tavi Corvask​

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

"Maybe you have more information. Something to even the odds, yes?"

Eyes like twin stars leveled upon the diminutive creature who dared challenge him before this gathering. Ahh, but she was a lively one, with fire in her words and in her heart. Approval flickered within the Vahlan's gaze and his head didst incline a half-inch in acknowledgement.

"They are as a beast of painted paper mache. Touted to be fearsome, but when fist meets face they crumble and fold like common parchment."

Turning, Gerra gestured out of the hangar and pointed to a lumbering Star Destroyer which had been refitted and painted. And jutting from the welded surface stood a spire that some might recognize.

"Behold, the throne room of the so-called Emperor. The lone remnant of his mighty weapon."

Haughty pride tinged every word with scorn and derision.

"It was I and the Graspborn who laid him low and stripped from him our prizes by right of conquest. What is an Empire without an Emperor?" He shook his head, "It is naught but rump state emboldened by a few victories against the Sick Man of the Core. And now that man is dead and the carcass rots. The carrion birds will flee before us. They will not withstand our scourge."

Vesper Thrace Tavi Corvask