Private Chapel of Blades

[Warpriest Prime]

​

O B J E C T I V E | Maintenance of Divine Armaments
L O C A T I O N | The Ark
G E A R | Gjallerhorn | Celestial Crown

Nøva​

The great chapel of The Ark breathed incense and heat, lit by braziers stoked with the blue-white flame of sanctified plasma. Shadows danced across carved statues of Ha'rangir,
the Destroyer, the Forger, the God of Sacred Ruin. Beneath His looming form, Dima worked with monastic precision.

Warpriest Prime knelt before an array of blades laid out like sleeping serpents. Each was an artifact of divine purpose. Some ancient, some freshly forged by her hand. Her long, taloned fingers moved with delicate reverence as she lifted the first.

She whispered scripture into its metal: old words, hungry words, words that wrapped around the weapon like a lover's breath.

Her Force essence poured into the blade in a slow, glowing stream. crimson, gold, and white curling through the steel until the weapon hummed with renewed hunger for battle. When the ritual was complete, she lowered the blade and set it upon a velvet-draped altar. Immediately, two armored clergymen stepped forward, heads bowed. They lifted the weapon as if carrying a newborn and placed it upon its rightful alcove along the chapel wall.

Dima had hundreds to tend. And she loved each one with a devotion most beings reserved for family. One blade after another she raised, blessed, awakened.

The chapel echoed with her quiet hymns, each syllable a note of worship to the craft she alone perfected. Her arms moved with rhythmic purpose, one blade lifted, another anointed, another infused with the breath of the Force. Her silhouette radiated power in the dim light, a holy figure painting benedictions across iron.

This was her missionary work.
This was her priesthood.
This was her small slice of peace in a galaxy of endless war.

When the final blade was lifted and carried away, she remained kneeling in the warmth of the braziers, her hands glowing faintly with lingering divine energy.

War was coming.
It always came.

But her children, her armaments...would meet it prepared. Thus was the work of Prime.

 

[Nøva]

TAG: Warpriest Prime GhostKey


Primary Objective: Breach the Mainframe. Stay unseen.

⸻

SPACE — DROPPING INTO THE BLIND SPOT

The Ark erupted out of hyperspace in front of her like a metal religion having a superiority crisis.

Nøva's tiny infiltration craft — a stubby, ugly little dart of a ship — snapped out of lightspeed in its shadow. Her cockpit rattled violently as inertials caught up.

She squinted at the Citadel.

"Who the hell — builds a floating cube… with a god complex? Seriously."

Escort ships swept the star-lanes, but she dipped straight under their sensor cones — the dark belly where the Ark's own emissions scrambled everything that wasn't Mando tech.

Her ship's warning klaxons screamed:

WARNING: YOU SHOULD NOT BE HERE.

She muted it with one tap.

"No shit. Try having a little faith."

She angled her ship toward a tubular structure: a maintenance retractor conduit the size of a cargo hauler — a dead zone where even Mandalorian scanners got fuzzy.

A perfect front door.

If you were insane.

Which… She was, but she preferred the word different.

THE INSERTION — THROUGH THE HOLY GUTTER

Nøva matched rotation with the Ark.

The conduit's iris shutters spun open for a half-second to vent heat.

That was her window.

She slammed her thrusters and shot forward.

The ship barely squeezed in — metal screaming on metal as she threaded a living, moving tunnel with centimeters to spare. Sparks erupted behind her.

"Shhh… scars build character."

The shutters closed.

She was inside.
No sensors.
No alarms.

Just humming conduits and the faint metallic groan of a mega‑fortress digesting starfire.

She grinned.

"Told you, sweetheart. Mama always hits her mark."

The ship drifted to a stop in the dark— wedged neatly against the maintenance cradle where drones normally docked.

THE HACK

Nøva stood, rolled her neck, and slapped her wrist-bracer open — A long cable snapped out like a tail.

She jammed it into a coffin-sized service panel beside her ship.

The panel hissed awake in ancient, cranky, sanctified Mando'a code.

UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS.
DENIED.
NO ACCESS.

….

She smirked.

"Aww. Look at you. A security system with boundaries."

Her implant flared.
Code cascaded.

She overwhelmed it like she was pushing a grudge into a shredder.

The panel clicked.

The conduit hatch unlocked with a defeated groan.

"Good boy."

She cracked it open, peering into the Ark's underbelly — a vertical maintenance shaft that stretched up and down like the throat of a sleeping titan.

Coolant pipes snaked along the walls. Support rails vanished into the dark. The air smelled like iron and prayer. Her boots magnetized with a soft chk.

"Alright, Nova," she whispered to herself, stepping into the shaft.

"Time to violate a religion."

She dropped into the shadows.


THE MISSION BEGINS

Her HUD pinged the route she'd built from stolen schematics:

PRIMARY TARGET: CENTRAL MAINFRAME — 1.1 KM BELOW
STATUS: UNBREACHABLE (THEORETICALLY)
RISK: HIGH
PROBABILITY OF DEATH: DON'T ASK.

She smirked.

"Baby, if I wanted realistic odds… I'd stay home."

She descended into the Ark's interior.

Silent.
Unseen.

Exactly how she wanted it.

​

 

[GhostKey]

After getting the signal
Tag: Nøva | Warpriest Prime

Echelon
Rogue Null.
Batch's Bar.

"How do you know she's even in trouble? It's not been 72 hours." Sickle questioned, voice carrying that familiar I don't trust timer's cynicism.
"I'm going…" Typical Amadis. Typically headstrong.
"Nobody's back yet," Sickle added, tapping her boot against the floor, a boot reinforced with a durasteel anarchist toecap that had kicked one too many metal jaws. The broken foot was still locked in a bacta cage, filled with a faint pink glow.

Lips popped. Visor on. A purple hoverchair purred its way into view.
"So..your friend's in trouble?" Glade asked, tone soft, like she was already planning the rescue.
"He doesn't know that." Sickle put her hands on her hips, leaning into the attitude.
Glade shrugged with an easy smirk.
"Fine. Lemme grab my jacket," Sickle grumbled, recognizing that look all too well. Muttering to herself, "Gotta stop you lot from getting yourselves ventilated…"

One disabled hoverchair pilot, one limping green-haired anarchist, and a kid with more guts than sense drifted out of the bar. They'd have looked a sight, if not for the Atrisian bartender chasing after them, shouting about a bar tab. They picked up speed real quick.

The Rogue's stealth shuttle was top-tier, sleek, predatory, upgraded by Diarchy techs through their fixer. Glade's hoverchair docked into the pilot's area with a magnetic click; Sickle took the back seat near the fastest neural-jack ports; and Ghostkey browsed the equipment stash, full of trinkets, hacks, and illegal or unregistered surprises.

"We set and cozy?" Glade asked, flicking systems online, her chair syncing to the flight systems.
"Spired up here." Ghostkey pocketed a jackknife sonic blaster, a few charges, and some tricks. His armor was patchwork half durastreet, half custom, but the tech he picked up varied wildly in quality.
"Ready to burn." Sickle said, slicer deck open, fingers already beginning a dance.

"Uh.. guys? What exactly have we got on this… ark fortress… nomadic… y'know?" Glade asked, scrunching her face in her trademark unfolding confusion.
"We're gonna find out." Sickle slid into the undernet, jacking in deep. Holonet feeds, undernet channels, blackstar pings. You used the undernet, or it ate pieces of you. Her neural jack warmed, glowing faintly. She doubted the Mando's even knew the undernet existed.

"Do me a favor, kid," Sickle added, voice edging through the comm link. "Get in, get out. Don't stay for a holophoto. Stop chasing the name." Everyone had been telling him that lately.

"Alright, alright. Mum." He chided. Concern could go too far.
Ghost sighed.
Sickle glared… until Ghost apologized, hands up.
Glade sighed, and flicked on a small holo of Siobhan, memories.

Ghost slumped into a chair and lit a polyplast stick, letting it hang and burn down between his knuckles like it was an old friend. He'd only met NØVA once, but she had good energy. Good vibes. Arm resting on his knee, he stared at the discarded jump pack. Last time he used one, Trix died. Maybe this time he'd bring someone back.

Besides.
Nobody else was getting her glasses.