Annihilation Clash of Destiny

[Darth Solipsis]

Aboard the Death Star III, the Emperor prepares to coordinate his ritual, feeding on the terror and death from the planet below in order to bolster his invasion and smash aside his foes. Heroes and dark champions from the Empire's rival powers will no doubt board the battle station, seeking to strike down Solipsis and his dark acolytes before they can complete their vile work. The Church of the Dark Side, and Solipsis's Dark Side Elite, will fight back, turning every hall and hangar into a battleground as they protect their wicked cathedral.​

 

[Lilianna L'lerim]

Information

Crown Princess of Aaven, Priestess of Ashla​

"Galactic Common" | <"High Nelvaanian"> | ["Essonian"] | ~ telepathic communication ~ | << comm. channel >> ​

Objective: Survive
Location: Aboard the Death Star III
Equipment: Noble Attire | Ashlan Rosary || Empyrean gland | OPBC-01m

Tags
Open for medical RP or if someone wants to try to rescue her.​

Someone once told me never to trust in miracles, for they would never come; yet I still believe in them. Perhaps I am naïve, perhaps merely a dreamer, but I have always believed that there is good in people. In everyone, somewhere, waiting to be reached. Because of that, I assumed, even believed, that Cesare Demici would let me go, would allow me to remain at home... but he did not. I do not know if he realises that, through my family alone, I am connected to the Lightsworn, and perhaps that is why he refused to let me stay behind.

So I remained a prisoner, this time aboard some vast ship. If I could not escape Cesare’s smaller vessel, then this one made the very thought impossible. I lacked the skill with computers to even try, and the systems were so well protected that even the AI of my biochip could not prevail. As for moving between compartments, I had no code cylinder to open the doors. Even if I had found the courage to escape, there would have been no chance.

I spent most of my time in my quarters, my days filled with prayer; for only Ashla could grant me strength. My prayers gave me strength, and it was all I had left. When we reached the planet, the system to which the Galactic Empire was bound, I recognised it through the viewport. Though I had never been here, I knew from history books and from HPI’s data how advanced the Atrisian Commonwealth was, thanks in large part to Sasori.

Yet I had never imagined it would be this advanced nor that I would witness such marvels from the windows of a flying fortress. Though I was the captive of the Galactic Empire, my betrothal to Cesare binding me to the Empire - or soon it would - my heart still longed for the Lightsworn below, for the forces of the Light Side, to triumph this day, not the Empire. I trusted that Ashla would be with them, that she would guide the defenders to victory. I prayed silently, fervently, that it would be so.

Yet I am also a doctor, and to me every patient is the same; it does not matter whom they serve or what ideology they hold. Life is what matters. They must have known this, for when the fighting began stormtroopers came for me, escorting me to one of the medical wings to aid in treating the wounded. They even threatened me, warning of what would happen should I harm any Imperial soldier. I looked at them sorrowfully... Did they truly believe I would ever harm anyone?

Ashla, please help me. Of course I would have helped without their threats. They did not even give me proper attire; I went with them in my noble gown, with only a white medical coat and basic equipment. Anyone could see that I did not belong, that I was no Imperial. But my thoughts clung to the patients; nothing else mattered. It did not matter that I was a prisoner. What mattered was that I might help them, that I might heal, that I might fulfil my calling.

And yet… the thought struck me: did my sister know where I was? Could she be here too? Or perhaps someone among my allies, my family’s allies, knew of my captivity, and even now was planning my rescue? So many thoughts, so many hopes; but no. I shook my head. I had to focus on the patients. That was what mattered now.

 

[Eina L'lerim-Vandiir]

Information

The Light of Ashla, Champion and Avatar of Ashla ​

"Galactic Common" | <"High Nelvaanian"> | ["Essonian"] | ~ telepathic communication ~ | << comm. channel >> ​

Objective: Stop the ritual
Location: Death Star III
Equipment: Sverð Fyrstr (weapons) | Ljósspjót (spear) | Skrúð Engill Fyrstr (armour) || Empyrean gland | OPBC-01m

Writing With
Darth Vinaze | Closed
Tags
Heinrich Faust | Darth Solipsis | Ibaris Varanin | Deonis Laythar | Kann | Cesare Demici | Aphon | Open​

Eina, as so often, was once more in the Netherworld, tending to her many duties and those duties stretched wide indeed. Healing the wounded, shielding the lost, battling demons, training the new, standing defiant against the Dark Three… the list of what she carried upon her shoulders could have gone on without end. And, of course, there was also her family; her husband and their two children, now young adults in their own right. The woman never truly had an idle moment, for every heartbeat was already claimed by one calling or another.

Her obligations as Ashla's Champion and Avatar bound her not only to protect, but to heed the Oversoul’s will, to act where guidance pointed and to fulfil what was asked of her. The irony lingered still she remained no believer, refusing to deify Ashla, seeing her only as what she was: an Oversoul, no different in essence from the Mandalorians' Manda. Yet despite her lack of worship, she had nevertheless answered the pleas of countless Ashlan faithful.

For a long, long time she had lived this way... hearing the whispered prayers, and answering them. The first had been Geiseric himself, whose voice had reached her when the Maw was still only rising. That was long ago now, and the Maw was no more… but the memory lingered. Since then she had often answered such calls, and whenever Ashla judged the moment and place to be right, Eina would step forth to aid, answering the prayers with her own presence.

So it was again on this day. In the Sanctuary, within the Valkyrja city, she was lecturing new initiates upon the healing of souls, when she heard them; several prayers rising together. They came from one region, one corner of Realspace: Atrisia. Such a plea and beseech could not be denied. Not by her. Not even if Ashla had remained silent. She left at once, departing the Sanctuary to gather her arms before crossing the veil to Atrisia, where the voices were strongest.

Yet she did not linger there long, for here in Realspace she could thread herself easily into the streams of news and network. Swiftly, she understood; it was not Atrisia itself but a great station in orbit that posed the true danger. Even from this distance, she could feel the auras gathered within, like embers she had known before. Among them: the Emperor himself, Darth Vinaze. She had clashed already with Eldritch on Tython and once again thereafter. And the Emperor; how she would gladly return his soul to its rightful place in the Netherworld.

Others she felt as well Pietro’s son, Cesare Demici, and her own distant kin, Lilianna and Ellayina L’lerim. And her adopted brother, Heinrich Faust . To him she sent a thought, a thread of certainty:

~ Hei, I am here as well. Call upon me, and I shall come at once. ~

There were so many familiar sparks in the Force, countless more she could have named; but there was no time to dwell upon them. She felt it, the swelling tides of the Dark Side rising from that station. And so she cast herself forward, teleporting straight onto the deck of the Death Star itself. There, the sensation deepened, stormclouds of shadow gathering thick, oppressive, trembling with malice. And she, an incarnate Light Side Vergence, had stepped deliberately into their heart. For only light, only peace, could break such a storm.

She allowed herself the smallest of smiles, for she knew what her husband, Lord Geiseric , would have said in such a moment…

Ashla wills it!​

 

[Voldran Molf]

Information

Shadow Lord, Prince of Nightmare, Dream Lord​

"Galactic Basic" | <"Mandalorian"> | ["Úr-kittat"] | ~"Telepathic" communication ~ | << comm. channel >>​

Objective: Perform the ritual.
Location: Death Star III
Equipment: Armour | Sword || OPBC-01m

Allies
Darth Solipsis | Darth Vinaze | Ibaris Varanin | Deonis Laythar | Kann | Cesare Demici | Aphon | Open
Enemies
Open for a story, not for duel​

Voldran had seen countless wars and battles in his life and had fought in them, yet he had never taken part in an invasion of such scale. In truth, this was only possible because, during the age of the Maw, he had still been asleep within his prison in the Netherworld. And in the time that was truly his own, the years in which he had been born and lived most of his life, there had been no conflicts of this magnitude. As always, he had little choice in whether he wished to fight or to take part in the ritual.

He had encountered many people throughout his life who had committed dreadful war crimes, and who, when brought to trial, swore that they had acted only out of fear; that had they disobeyed orders, they and their families would have been killed. Voldran knew that such claims were foolish in most cases, for war criminals all too often acted with willingness, even eagerness. Rarely were such words true, unless, for example, a Sith manipulated the weak-minded or bent their will through the Force.

And then there were those like Voldran; whose very soul had been branded with a Sith rune, compelling them to commit acts they never desired. He had always tried to resist, but when he did, the rune would flare to life, seizing control of him entirely. It was his own mother who had marked him thus, and there was nothing he could do to resist. There had been some measure of aid, Corazona von Ascania , a kind-hearted young Jedi Lady. Yet her help had backfired, the runes had doubled in strength… and he had almost killed her.

As though the runes were not curse enough, there was still more. He was Sithspawn, thanks to the choices of his parents; half smoke demon, half Arkanian. It was a cycle from which he could see no escape, yet the hope of release had never abandoned him. Still, for all the disadvantages forced upon him, his loyalty to the Emperor and to the Galactic Empire was beyond question. Even if he had desired it, he could never betray them.

During the journey he meditated, as he always did. When the time came, he walked to the chamber where the others were already gathered for the ritual. He had worked alongside many of the Dark Side Elite before, as well as some members of the Church of the Dark Side, but this time he found himself in illustrious company. The Emperor was present, as were Darth Vinaze, Ibaris Varanin, and many others. Voldran let out a weary sigh within himself; though he despised the Empire and all it stood for, he had never lost his sense of courtesy.

"My Lords, my Ladies!" he told them and greeted them, bowing with formal politeness.

Then he took the place assigned to him. As the ritual began, he too focused upon the Force, chanting with the others…

… all the while hoping that the enemy would arrive swiftly enough to prevent its completion.

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

In the blackness of space around the Death Star III hung too many shapes to count, among them numbered a compliment of the Crimson Fleet - an armada of mercenaries and pirates from the Syndicate with ships of all sizes and shape. Among their number counted the Wrath of Vahl, raiders from that nomad cult manning a flotilla of Saboath destroyers. There to protect the Death Star. Nominally.

The leader of the Wrath, Hasuras na-Gerra, Warlord of the Vahlans and Consort to the Hapan Queen Mother Aurellia , embarked on an imperial flagged shuttle bound for the Death Star as his own Vahlan ships pulled further back from the frontlines, unwilling to sacrifice them to the meat grinder for the Empire unless a prize horse presented itself.

Pirates did not play guard dog well, nor lap dog.

In a few moments his shuttle touched down in a utility hangar bay and he stepped off the boarding ramp, footfalls heavy upon the durasteel. A confused group of maintenance workers and a handful of imperial troopers looked up from their work. Gerra waved a dismissive hand and the killing began with sword and blaster alike. Around him hovered a cadre of mercenaries and grim warriors.

Gerra’s eyes swept the now cleared hangar bay, then he reached out with his mind toward one who had been in exile far too long.

“Brøther.”

Meliant Sars Sarad Arris Windrun Vestra Tane​

 

[Kael Varnok]

The corridors of the Death Star felt endless, every turn the same, every shadow heavy with the weight of ritual and death. Kael Varnok's boots echoed quietly as he moved, sabers silent at his hips, his senses stretched thin through the Force. The stench of fear bled through durasteel bulkheads like smoke, guiding him. Somewhere within this steel tomb, he felt it—one voice among the countless cries. A prayer. Fragile but unwavering.

He followed it.

By the time he found the medbay, his jaw was tight, breath slow. He pushed the door aside and stepped through, cloak brushing against the frame. For a heartbeat, the scene froze—stormtroopers bristling, patients groaning, the captive doctor still in her noble gown beneath a medic's coat.

Kael stood there, scarred face lit by the harsh white glowpanels above, a faint trace of Corellian ale still clinging to his breath. He raised his hands, empty, voice rough but steady.

"I'm not here to fight you," he said, eyes passing over the Imperials and landing on the woman who prayed. "I came for her voice."

His gaze shifted to the injured laid out on cots, blood seeping through plastifiber bandages. He let out a quiet breath, almost a scoff at the irony.

"Doesn't matter who they serve. Life's still life. I'll help."


The troopers looked uncertain, but Kael did not reach for his sabers. Instead he crossed the room, kneeling beside the nearest wounded man, his scarred hands already moving with a healer's precision. Despite the shadows clinging to his name, despite the smell of drink on him, the truth was plain: Kael Varnok valued every breath, every soul, even here, in the heart of darkness.

Lilianna L'lerim

 

[Darth Vinaze]

858 ABY, the Great Citadel of Ziost​

The frigid air bit at them like a rabid dog guarding its territory, the very world itself and the Dark Side of the Force telling the cabal of rebel Sith that this ancient citadel was a place of death. Winds howled through historic hallways, screaming like the ghosts of this place.
The sharpness of the blade gliding through pale skin was worsened by the cold numbness of Derleth's hand. Hot blood cooled in an instant as it trickled from the wound. The blood of the covenant. The dagger rose from his hand, guided by the Force to the next Sith in the circle. The blood trickled into the air, suspended in a stream that flowed to join the swirling sphere of blood gathered from all in attendance, as it hovered over the ancient Sith sigil carved into the stone floor. The sigil itself was circled with the words of the Sith code, kept in stone for all time, just as it was kept in the hearts of those who stood around it. In blood, they swore an oath.

"Reformation, Revolution, Resurrection. For the Sith, for our future, and for you, my lord." he gave a nod of affirmation to their arch-heresiarch, Darth Voyance, the one who had led them here to defy the Sith Empire.

Derleth had been so young then, eager to prove himself worthy of being a Sith, eager to be a part of something... greater. Little had any of them known what they had created, the legacy of that binding oath as Keepers of the Sith Code. They had meant to be a spark to relight a torch that never should have been quenched, but had found themselves harbingers of a great schism that engulfed the Sith across the galaxy for so many years.

Derleth Par had left Ziost that day on a path that he could never have foreseen. On that day, the Sith had begun a long and brutal war among themselves, and he would be left holding a flame that would guide him towards the One. The One who would lead them through to a more perfect world, not just a Sith, but a Sith'ari, the One who would destroy them and rebuild them anew, as Darth Bane had done when the poisoned philosophy of the Brotherhood of Darkness had allowed the Jedi to reach great strengths unfitting of them.

The old order had to be torn down, such was all he had been certain of at that time, in his youthful rebelliousness, and though the many twisting paths of fate had changed him, he had returned to that certainty over Atrisia...

902 ABY, aboard the Death Star III

Marching to the war drums of the dead... the Masters of It All​

The drums beat in time deep inside the station, setting a rhythm over which a symphony of voices chanted in the tongue of the ancient Sith, Ur-Kittat. Thick incense smoke choked the room, deepening the connection to the Dark Side of those who inhaled it in rhythmic time, and bringing a creeping feeling of fear to those who did not embrace it fully. Its scent would be recognized by those who had been to the old holy worlds, the scent of wood from deep inside the most ancient trees of Dromund Kaas, said to be able to channel the Dark Side of the Force itself, and its most dangerous, electric manifestations.

Vinaze inhaled a deep breath of the smoke. The day had come when his path, his prophecy, led him to the precipice. On this day, a deathblow of great magnitude would be delivered unto the Jedi, and with the war machine fueled by their destruction the New Sith Order and their Galactic Empire would lay waste to enemies far and wide. Though the Empire ran on Tibanna, Rhydonium, and now, for their great superweapon, Kyber Crystal, the true fuel of the Empire was Fear.

Fear was the primal of emotions, the catalyst of the Dark Side. Fear of loss, of harm, of the darkness itself. All of these led down the path of the Sith. But even Sith feared. They feared to lose their empires, their dynasties, and the respect of their underlings. The Sith Order had already lost these things, but the faithful of Darth Solipsis had learned to conquer fear. Vinaze had learned many years ago that the most powerful Sith Lords were those who gazed deep into the abyss and did not run nor hide when the terrible things lurking in the abyss gazed back.

He supposed that day on Ziost had been the first test in conquering fear. None of the Keepers had been certain their revolution against the Sith Empire would succeed, much less so after the New Imperial Order had thinned their ranks so drastically in their betrayal at Bastion. Despite the fear, they had continued and been rewarded for their diligence when Solipsis appeared to them.

Now after years of training himself to not only conquer fear, but to draw power from those who could not, Vinaze and Solipsis had devised the ritual based on the writings of Darth Sidious, a shared language between the two. From The Book of Anger they had come to believe that with enough passionate emotion channeled through the Force, they could once again rend time and space, as they had nearly done at Tython. This time they would need no shatterpoint, only the screams of the dying and the dead. There was no simpler emotion than fear, and no simpler way to elicit fear than to destroy all that Atrisia held dear, most importantly, their Jedi protectors. Atrisia would lose all hope when the Ashinas and their Lightsworn were dead at the hands of the Emperor's Chosen. When hope turned to dread, the galaxy would know that the Empire had been victorious, when their Force storms wracked the Blackwall. Vinaze, against his usual judgement, had to put faith in the power of the Empire to deliver death and destruction on the surface of the planet.

All those who were present at the ritual, be they Church members, cultists, or full fledged Sith, would be called to chant along, to harness their power for a greater purpose. Breathe deeply the incense, feel the flow of the Dark Side, and do not let yourself fear. Fear is for the weak to suffer, for the strong to bend to their will...

TAGS
Writing opposite Eina L'lerim-Vandiir
Darth Solipsis / Voldran Molf / Da'Razel / Ibaris Varanin
and probably way too many more that I'm sure I'll get next time around​

 

[Da'Razel]

Objective 3
DEATH STAR III - HAD ABBADON

Indirect Tag: Talon Draven | Shannic Wulf | Veodora Kadnessi | Derix Tirall
Direct Tag: Darth Vinaze | Vireth | Janus Vipsanius | Deonis Laythar | @Church of the Dark Side
Equipment: The Furnance | The Kotjontû
NPCs: 8x Karsta Raka | 2x Green Warden

TAGS OPEN FOR ALL
​

Golden greaves strike polished iron. Each step of the menacing figure leaves a darkened imprint, as marble sheen sears red-hot, and wisps of steam hiss with every pace.

The Saint of Flame stalks these halls.

Eerie-colored lightning slithers and spring like coiling vipers around the massive shrine-structure behind him. The air thrums with a palpable frenzied humm, a hundred voices, a thousand voices, a galaxy of voices echoing in prayer. The Galactic Empire folds its hands in manifold, eagerly awaiting that which what would be unleashed.

The Death Star, a titanic, silent moon, hung still in the void: a dark omen amidst endless darkness. Threads of fate, once thought woven, now spin wild, one strand thrashing loose, ensnaring others, twisting them into a great snarled mass. An abstraction of destiny. Man-made cosmic error.

"More…" he rasped from his lipless mouth beneath the veil of gold. "Soon..."

He was forced to leave the congregation behind, yet a second flock followed in his wake. Not priests, but warriors, his most cherished children, his most zealous believers. Men and women who loved their God-Emperor as he did. Men and women who hated the heathens who would surely come, nearly as much as himself. They were his chosen. They were the Brandmarked. The Karsta Raka.

He would not kneel in prayer among his peers. His destiny was another. Reborn by the mercy of his God-Emperor, he would stand sentinel. He would be the first line of defence: the immovable object, the unstoppable force.

As the first metallic clang of his greaves rang into the vast hallway, the gateway to the shrine, the last of the holy men slipped past his procession. Their place was consecrated behind the great arch. His was before it.

Within those blessed halls he now guarded, laid bare the holy icons of his Church, saints, magistrates and deacons of his order, bent their heads in worship. He held them all in his silent devotion.

Vireth his long-standing ally, whose serene but empty gaze steadied the faithful.

Darth Vinaze the lordship who had elevated him to the heights he now governed, the grandmaster of this ritual, the prophet who would act as conduit to their God-Emperor's will.

Brothers in faith, fellow risen saints, the honorable Deonis Laythar and even the eminence grand master their holy lord over church and state, Janus Vipsanius who had shaped this path.

And more. So many more. They had been called from every corner, every crevice of the Empire to attend this ceremony today.

He sought strength to protect all that those that he cherished. And he carried each one of them in prayer. He whispered wordless blessings, deep breaths drawn into his sarcophagus of Dallorian alloy and Ultrachrome, his will tempered into an equally unyielding metal as that in which he was encased.

The warhammer's head struck the ground with a dull, thunderous note, its burning core flaring like an unattended forge.

Monstrous golden gauntlets wrapped around its massive hilt, Da'Razel stood tall as a living icon of fire and faith.

The gigantic gateway finally sealed behind him, its surface etched with the sigil of the Galactic Empire, the locking mechanisms groaning into place.

Without a word, his followers readied their arms. Weapons ignited in flame. Red robes cascaded over grafted limbs of steel. Armour burned with holy brands, ritual scars seared awake into ominous glowing wounds etched into their flesh.

The air grew heavy. The temperature rose. His hatred boiled. His hammer stoked for slaughter. This conflict was foretold, its outcome to be etched into the guts of the galaxy.

"Let them come."

​

 

[Meliant]

DEATH STAR III
COMMAND CENTER - OVERBRIDGE

Attn: Hasuras Na-Gerra

Meliant watched from the grand viewport of the overbridge as great formations of starships dropped out of hyperspace and began their clash. Technicians worked busily at their stations, uniformed officers and engineers stalked back and forth as they guided the process: a slow-building but abrupt death sentence to be handed down to many billions of witless atrisians. Meliant was here to ensure none of the gunners faltered in that task.​

​

Even a moment's hesitation, and the whole thing...​

​

...Something shifted. Heat and fire at his back. Someone was standing behind him, but there was no reflection in the viewport glass.​

​

"Brøther."​

​

In his mind, Meliant turned to the source of the voice and found his brother's specter projected before him. Look at him in his gilded raiment, redolent with power and prestige. Two things that had still eluded Meliant even as he attached himself to the service of Darth Solipsis. How hard he had tried to ignore the misadventures of his kin. It only made him angry.​

​

"You're on board," Meliant observed, with bitter tone that suggested he was not too pleased with that fact. "Let me guess. You've tired of the married life already. Come to pledge yourself to the true Sith'ari?"​

​

The true Sith'ari, yes. Just don't bring up the kaggath. Just don't bring up the Star-Arm or whatever that feral harlot called herself.​

​

"Don't worry. I'll put in a good word for you. We'll make you a Dark Side Elite in no time."​

 

[Deonis Laythar]

Location: Death Star III, Atrisi System

Allies: Da'Razel | Darth Vinaze | Vireth
Janus Vipsanius | Voldran Molf

Opponents: Darth Caedes | Revna Marr
The Lord of Hunger
​

Spoiler: TL;DR

---

Smoke and chanting, flames and icons - the trappings of dark faith filled the vaulted chamber deep within the Death Star III, leaving it shrouded and sweltering despite the best efforts of the station's atmospheric controls. It was an unpleasant environment for the average being to endure... but not for Deonis Laythar. The Magistrate embraced the discomfort, let the suffering fuel his devotion. He was in the presence of true greatness - saints and high priests and true Sith, united beneath the banners of the Church of the Dark Side. He was exactly where he was meant to be.

Inhaling deeply, Deonis drew the drifting incense into his lungs, feeling the burn. Pain was good. Pain focused the mind and the body, giving the sufferer the drive he needed to access the Dark Side of the Force - the only way to break free of the current of destiny that swept along the ordinary trillions to their ignominious fates. Fear, too, was fuel for the darkness. The Magistrate closed his eyes and reached out through the Force, sensing the anxiety that drifted up from the worlds of the Atrisian Commonwealth. Their defenses might be strong, but they could not help but feel trepidation.

Soon, the Empire's fleets and soldiers would turn that trepidation to terror and blood.

Exhaling a breath heavy with sacred smoke, Deonis began to speak the words to the chant that Darth Vinaze had helped the Emperor to devise - words that dated back to Darth Sidious's Book of Anger, and to even more ancient Sith texts. The magistrate was certain that the fulfillment of the Sith'ari prophecy was at hand - the culmination of all the struggles of the ancient Dark Lords across thirty millennia, brought to pass by the hand of Darth Solipsis . And he would have a part to play. Truly he was blessed to be among the chosen, the elect in this age of dark ascension.

Yet even he, steeped in devotion to the Dark Side, looked upon Da'Razel with awe. The flame-wreathed saint in his golden armor stood sentinel above those chanting, his hammer ready to meet any threat to the mighty ritual that their shared master had begun. And there would be threats - Deonis could sense them. Some, such as Voldran Molf , had already been tamed, their wills subdued by the power of the Sith. But many more of those who gathered around the Death Star were yet unbroken, and they could not be permitted to interrupt the Emperor's moment of triumph.

There were many voices chanting. The magistrate was needed elsewhere, to defend them.

Deonis rose to his feet and strode toward Da'Razel. "Saint Peterius," he said, his voice reverent as he bowed low, "embodiment of the Emperor's cleansing flame... I sense dangers that threaten His will. By your hammer and the power that He grants me, let us crush them, that their pain may fuel His ritual as hydrogen fuels the stars." The magistrate drew forth his staff - a simple length of durasteel, topped with the Imperial crest - and stood beside the burning saint. He was small by comparison, hardly imposing, and yet a wind of darkness gathered around him.

He would fight to the last against those who sought to siphon this ritual for themselves.

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

Death Star - Equatorial Hangar Bay
​

"You're on board," Meliant observed, with bitter tone that suggested he was not too pleased with that fact. "Let me guess. You've tired of the married life already. Come to pledge yourself to the true Sith'ari?"The true Sith'ari, yes. Just don't bring up the kaggath. Just don't bring up the Star-Arm or whatever that feral harlot called herself."Don't worry. I'll put in a good word for you. We'll make you a Dark Side Elite in no time."

The warlord snorted in amusement, a wide grin lighting up his features as he looked upon the armor ensconced form of his wayward kin.

“Ah. I have missed your bitter barbs. Would that you had shared in the glory of Hapes, Kattada, and all the other raids besides. Perhaps I should find a fitting Hapan bride for you. It has been far too long since last we stood side by side.”

As the specter spoke to Meliant, Gerra walked through an access corridor out of the hangar, the assembled mercenaries and pirates flowing with him as a school of sharks.

“Come now, the fire of Hasuras dwells in you still, body or no. It is in your heart. In your spirit. These Elite would have you lick the boots of a corpse emperor. Is that your desire, brother mine? Or will you join me and reap glory and fame in our family’s name? Lo, I approach swiftly.”

Meliant Sars Sarad Aurellia Vestra Tane Arris Windrun

 

[Lirka Ka]

ALLIES: TSO and Affiliates
ENEMIES: GE and Affiliates
TAGS: Phaelissia Helix (Open for allies or opps!)

Lirka Ka had once mused that suffering of gigantic proportions was the herald of change. It was misery that gave way to the transient form of life - indeed, such was the Dark Path that her visions into the Primordial Darkness beyond had allowed her to grasp.

The interlopers had paved the way for misery once more, just as they had when a younger, far more foolish Lirka had placed her metal boots onto the snows of long-departed Csilla. The Emperor had left them, disappeared into the esoteric machinations of a dead god. The mighty orb of the Death Star loomed, beckoning forth a ritual of immense darkness that would see their Blackwall sundered. A time of change was upon them, and it would be heralded by the agony of this newest of war brought to Artrisa.

For their part, the Sith had mobilized in great force for this transgression against the Blackwall. For all the backstabbing, plotting, scheming, and general self-interested narcissism that embedded Sith existence so thoroughly. The Empire that Empyrean and his lot had built up operated much like a metaphorical hornet's nest - and this Galactic Empire had certainly kicked the nest rather hard. Every Lord and fledgling knew that there was glory to be claimed: for Lirka's own part, today was to be a statement.

Her supposed-fellows had scorned her claims of Sith-hood, suffocated by tradition, and blinded by their meager darkness, they demanded she "prove herself" - so prove herself she would. They demand deed, and deed they would receive.

Many would mobilize their forces in their own way, great landing craft, or esoteric portals summoned by the dark magics of Sith power. Not Lirka. The Third Imperator of the Empire had her own plans, for her tenure as Slavemaster General of the Kainate had taught her a most pertinent lesson. Meat was a commodity to be expended. So, she would expend meat. Warriors of the Third would be crammed into boarding craft, the mechanical warriors of Helix alongside her own marauders and the various peoples of the Empire that had been put beneath the banner of the Storm Riders

Simply, through sheer weight of craft, this gaggle would board the world-killer in a wave of craft that would exit from hyperspace in a swarm. Among them, the Imperator and her entourage ready to slam into the hull of the Empire's great war engine. She would take spearpoint and show the rabble back home that Lirka Ka was more than she had ever seemed. But for now…she relaxed.

It was a strange thing perhaps, to indulge before battle. To lean back into her seat, central of the gathered assembly in her boarding craft - waiting for the moment they would be hurled through the void like a missile. Needles dug into the flesh beneath her dark armored plate, for some time Lirka had sworn off combat-stimulants. But…well, this was a special occasion. When mixed with the batches of neutron-pixie she enjoyed oh-so-much, it was a euphoric indulgence before the killing fields would erupt aboard the DSIII. Senses elevated, color glimmering before her eyes, and the swirling insanity that allowed one to glimpse deeper than mortal minds ever should: oh it was wonderful.

She spoke to no one in particular. A prayer perhaps, a declaration of challenge, or merely the idle prattling of a madwoman pumping herself with a wretched concoction of chemicals to mix within her foulblood.

"Darkness beyond, heed my words. Glance to your paragon, in vision unending. Gaze upon the butchery of this day, and test the mortal coil. Let the worthy rise mighty, and the meager be washed away in the storm."

And now, came time to wait. To let fleets engage and the void to burn brightly with turbolaser fire - then they would fly. The horde unleashed, the ravenous killers of the Sith let loose to death or to glory. Till then - she'd simply have to lean back, enjoy the chemicals that burned through her veins like acid, and listen to the guttural language of the Sith that bellowed out through the shoddy comms aboard their craft.

 

[Matsu Ike]

OBJECTIVE 3
ALLIES: JEDI
Ordering Avar Class Battlecruiser into position

The news had been there before as Wandering Mountain spoke. "Hmm." The sound of stone on stone, the dust flying around as she looked up. Her senses flaring... the air practically telling her whaat was happening when she breathed in and outwards. One hand coming to her chair while she pushed herself up and into the air watching. Each molecule vibrated while she listened in the force and slowly went into her own thoughts for a moment. She was peering through the distance to the feeling of the solari towers activating... the force imbued nanites she had helped make were there like a beacon when a hand came out. The energies shimmering while she grasped the threads taking her towards it. Her eyes and body expanding.

She was at the hidden paths temple and looked at the ones there... her glowing skin, dark hair aand eyes for a moment as she saw the forms of Connel Vanagor and Acier Moonbound as well as some others. Her eyes were observing them at the longest time but then she spoke. "Come." She moved towards them and just grasped... the lightest touch but she offered it as a chance while she was floating in the air and moved to meet their size. They didn't have to go but the way was opened before she tugged lightly down the string of force energies.. allowing herself to feel Atrisia and what was above it. Mentally she spoke to her captains and would need them to be brought in as the trinity function.

'Bring the ships.' She said it as a whisper as before her she was hovering on the edge and looked at i. The massive station visible when she didn't need to speak just moving. Her form weightless and more ethereal until she was against the surface and heading towards an area to haave an airlock. A small bubble coming from her to the others so they could sustain themselves with the jedi master. 'Interesting.' She said it... slowly and with a purpose she was bringing them inside with her either by shoulder or thread of the force but the jedi master hovered there for a moment longer. "It is quite a classic, I wonder if the designer got a special on bulk orders?"

 

[Sars Sarad]

Hasuras Na-Gerra | Mauve du Vain | Arris Windrun | Vestra Tane | Aurellia​

---

Starships dotted the blackness of space, to many to count.

The Death Star III hung like a moon, suspended in the abyss impossible to ignore. It was a symbol of the Galactic Empire; the will of the Sith'ari to dominate and conquer. It was a destroyer of worlds.

The Hangar Bay was filled with numerous ships. TIE Fighters, an imperial mainstay ferried outwards on racks and in squadrons preparing for launch. Shuttles carrying Black Sun affiliates that were allied with the Galactic Empire, Darth Solipsis ; the Emperor of the Core Worlds and soon to be the galaxy.

He'd disembarked a shuttle.

The Hangar Bay was alive with activity.

Among others he'd fallen in line with Hasuras Na-Gerra , a Vahlan he had never met but whom Mauve du Vain had referred to him. The Force was tangible in him, Sarad could feel it like water sliding off a stone, leaving moisture lingering on all its sides.

A tilt of the head implied he could sense the force all around him. It flowed throughout the corridors of the Death Star all the way to a pinnacle where it would create an epicenter over the super structure, a ritual. Its purpose did not concern him, he could only feel the energy building, resonating at this moment as a subtle hum all around him.

His duster swayed around him as he moved. A Lightsaber concealed, clipped to a utility belt; Old Sin nestled against the curve of his back waiting to be called into service opposite the blade.

Sarad said nothing.

 

[The Lord of Hunger]

LOCATION: Aboard The Gluttoneria
OBJECTIVE: Interrupt the Ritual
IMPORTANT LINKS: Sword #1 | Sword #2 | Armor | Jewel | Ring | Necklace | Gauntlet | DIII Gluttoneria | The guards | KRONOS
TAG: Darth Caedes | Darth Ayra | Revna Marr | Deonis Laythar | Darth Vinaze | Da'Razel | @OPEN

The word had come, the voices within the aether were silenced...all his Voices, All his sleepers in the core, they had all confirmed it within their mind, they had seen it, the truth behind the whispers in the dark, the reality of what the Galactic Empire had been doing. In a way, the Lord of Hunger would've congratulated this ballsy empire's movement in the last few months, their aggressive expansion and their hunger for war and conquest. However, their current assault endangered his own plans, his own designs, and his future. He could not, nay he would not let such ignorance, such gal, such distinct insanity be the fall of his carefully created web.

"How long before we reach Atrisia," The cold, gravelly voice reverberated through the room in which he had been meditating.

PROCESSING... 12 MINUTES

"Good, send for my Sceleratii...I must get ready for this little excursion," Slowly standing up, waving his hand as bowls made out of various metals slid aside, The Lord of Hunger let out a hackling cough as he blinked his eyes when the dim, red light within the room began to shine ever more brightly when the droids who served as his bodyguards entered through the heavy sliding doors, each holding something as they carefully approached the man who as they approached him, removed most of his robes, most of his clothing in order to allow these machines to do their job.


Worn bones, weathered and dried skin, an emaciated being stood before these Sceleratii. A deep sigh, hollow in sound and feel escaped the being's lungs when the first of the droids approached and began to pull the thermal, insular clothing onto him. Another began to lift the man's feet one after the other, the metallic clanging and clicking of each part of his armor connecting to another seemed to fill the room, until finally, his mask was placed in front of his face, his cloak neatly attached to the clasps near his shoulders. A wirring could be heard from within the now-completed armor, air turning into vacuum, pressure stabilizing and liquids running through thin injectors until finally the gaunt eyes behind the mask began to regain some of their luster, their vibrance. With a deep breath, the Lord of Hunger seemed to raise himself to his full height, the multiple drugs and serums being pumped into his body seemingly allowing him to move a bit better than he had done before. Yet, the final part of this remarkable ritual still had to be fullfilled, as the last of the Sceleratii stepped into the room clasped between the droid's large, menacing hands, were the shoulders of a young woman, no older than twenty at most.

"Don't worry child...your sacrifice will serve a purpose most grand," Reaching towards the young woman, the Lord of Hunger's fingers suddenly clasped around the girl's face, his palm covering her mouth and preventing any sound from escaping it. Within seconds, her fair heair had turned gray and thinned till there was almost nothing left, her skin dried up and cracked, bones seemed to regress and shatter, until finally...she crumpled into a pile of ashes and dust upon the ground.

"We really need a better batch soon...I doubt this will be enough to last me more than a few hours at best," Letting out a long sigh, the monstrous abomination within the living force turned around and walked out of the room, flanked by his sceleratii. "The preparations are set, as soon as we enter the warzone...all bets are off."

A rumble could be heard, the massive battlecruiser shuddered throughout its hull, this moment in time was the sign, they had arrived.

As the doors to the bridge of the ship opened, the Lord of Hunger calmly glanced towards the one who'd have the honor of commanding the fine vessel to war. "Amalia...no, Mira Rhory, you are now in control of the Gluttoneria and the Armada... do not disappoint me."

The green crystals in his gauntlet started to shine, the monster could feel it, even if the ritual hadn't been completed yet, it seemed to call to him, it beckoned him, tempting him. For whatever these fools had in mind, they had brought the dark side of the force to bear and He...He was starving.

A black miasma began to swirl around his hand, energy crackling in the form of black sparks and streaks of electricity, the energy began to engorge itself, enlarging until it formed into a vortex of black miasma and radiated with cold, twisted energy, almost as if the living force had been torn asunder through this man's will alone. "Move."

With no more words, the Lord of Hunger stepped through this portal of his own making, his Sceleratii; six in total following him promptly through this strange gate, only to find themselves standing on one of the countless decks of the Deathstar III. It was both exhillerating and somewhat mystifying to find himself standing in such a cold, practical-looking machine, yet feeling it being filled up with the very scent of the force which he craved so much. Taking in a deep breath, the monstrous man slowly turned towards the first control panel he could find... his hands hovering over it, his fingers slowly moving a bit until he clenched his hand into a fist. "KRONOS, crack the security codes... I need access to this... weapon's systems."

Waiting for the AI's response, the Lord of Hunger breathed in deeply, attuning his senses and as he could feel the very vibrations in the air warning him of the impending results of the ritual, the monster's mask managed to veil it when his face contorted into a twisted and devious grin. The floor would seemingly start to shudder, the passageway in which he stood dropping several degrees in temperature, he was famished and he would have what he was craving for... Life itself.​

 

[Arris Windrun]

Death Star - Equatorial Hangar Bay

Arris stepped off in tow of Hasuras Na-Gerra and Sars Sarad into the hangar. She had just finished a lovely deathstick to get into the mood for such a high-stakes gambit.

She came prepared, too. A pair of gifted revolvers and a pair of her familiars. Each holstered along her hips and thighs, respectively. She also had a big 'fuck off' sniper rifle strapped to her back - a victory prize for netting the Galactic Kaggath's first kill.

From her perspective, Gerra appeared somewhat distracted. Her senses in the Force meant she was unprivy to his conversation with Meliant . Not that she would've understood the context anyway... Not to mention her attention was turned anxiously to their current situation. Until Gerra gave orders, Arris would stay put at his side.

Her attention turned to Sars.

"So who the hell are you?"

Vestra Tane Aurellia

 

[Helix]

Equipment: Himself
Tags: Lirka Ka Phaelissia ​

Unlike the Imperator, Helix was silent. The colony fidgeted in his seat, his surface rippling with irritation.

He couldn't wait to get there. To feel fresh blood on his nanites. He'd spent far, far too much time lately in meetings, committees, and other such tortures that came with his "lofty" station. It all paled next to the sheer joy of getting his own hands dirty.

As was often the case lately, Helix bore no weapons. As he'd grown and evolved, he hardly needed them anymore. His own essence was more than lethal enough, and he could form any weapon he liked from his own metal skin.

He didn't know what they'd face down there, but a large part of him no longer cared. They were things of limits, angles, fixed forms and dimensions. He was not.

Helix ran the numbers, taking a few micro-instants to do so. The chances of them getting shot down were slim, but not zero. He'd have to find his own way aboard if their craft was destroyed, or else wait for rescue.

He could imagine nothing worse. Stuck floating in the void while everyone else got to have their fun. No. One way or another, he was getting aboard. Even if he had to do it by himself.

"We await only your signal to launch, Imperator." The colony rasped in his grinding, echoing voice, trying his very best not to betray his impatience. For the first time in a long time, he wasn't saddled with patrol duty or performing the tedious but necessary task of testing out his own inventions. No such misfortunes existed to protect his enemies today. Just a moon-sized playground to hunt them in.

He could feel a fang-lined jaw-structure forming along his faceplate just thinking about it. Today, he'd eat his fill. Meat, blood, memories and souls. All ripe for the taking.

 

[Vireth]

---

---

Atrisia, Core Worlds;
The Galactic Empire.
Allies: Darth Vinaze | Darth Solipsis | Voldran Molf | Da'Razel | Ibaris Varanin | Janus Vipsanius | Deonis Laythar | Talon Draven | Shannic Wulf | Veodora Kadnessi | Derix Tirall
Enemies: Darth Caedes | Revna Marr | The Lord of Hunger

---

​

OBJECTIVE III.

Equipment:

• Auric-Iris Ocular Suite (Model V/UX-19)​

​

The sermon had just begun, and already, the walls quaked at the sound of Armageddon, for God's work had brought them to the precipice of true freedom-- to the end of chaos and strife-- in a galaxy divided through divisions of the weak, and curs who would tell you that they are right, and you are wrong.

May they look up upon our works, and let truth cleanse them, for Vireth has delivered the ultimate weapon in the known cosmos. God bless those of us who worked and toiled for Project Stardust!

Saint Peterius watches over us, and our enemies despair at what we will do to this world!

"I was born blind," Vireth said to her sermon.

As the chants of the Ur-Kittat bathed them in malevolence, the Architect stood in the throng of sorcerers and dark magick, enamoured by the moment. A life's work brought to this threshold to be stood in the presence of true Sith ruled by the God-Emperor himself. Arms parted, and headed raised to the ceiling, mad in acceptance, for the cosmos itself shook, and tremored just as these chamber walls shook, and wail from the ethereal, warped powers of the Dark Side of the Force manifested to cleanse the wretched, and the diseased from this broken galaxy to be remade whole again as PALPATINE had foreseen one millennia ago.

"Like you I was told that we would forever be kept to heel beneath the boots of the Jedi! But we have served God well, and delivered Him a weapon to cleanse this galaxy of decay, and famine! No longer do we starve in the darkness, where we were delivered the Sith ultimatum! They said God was among us all, in our hearts, where no light could reach his flock, and there we were delivered the truth: that we would see his wrath come to fruition in our lifetime so that we could all gaze upon our enemies as they were destroyed by his divine powers!"

"GOD IS HERE NOW!"

SOLIPSIS!
SOLIPSIS!
SOLIPSIS!

Vireth's sermon chanted the name of the Galactic Emperor, the Sith'ari, the anointed Chosen One, Vinaze's Prophecy Manifest. Intertwined with the Ur-Kittat, the Architect joined in with her flock and screamed His name as the humified, artificial air around her became warped with the very power of the invisible, ethereal energy summoned by the Church of the Dark Side and the shadowy cabal of the New Sith Order as their ritual was built and consequentially set to dismantle all those who opposed them!

"But now I see!" Vireth shouted into the din of madmen, and darkness. "I can see what happens next! The cosmos shall be reorganized in God's image, and the Jedi threat will be forever extinguished!"

SOLIPSIS!
SOLIPSIS!
SOLIPSIS!

"WE SHALL ASSEMBLE AN EMPIRE!"

AN EMPIRE WILL BE ASSEMBLED!
AN EMPIRE WILL BE ASSEMBLED!
AN EMPIRE WILL BE ASSMEBLED!

Beneath Vireth, as the Architect led the Human chants of the Church's devout, screams and terrified yells echoed throughout the room as the ritual claimed the lives of those who carried the faith of the Dark Side-- sacrifices to bring about the Emperor's vision manifested and as foretold by his predecessor, and Darth Vinaze-- a lesser God in his own right, but divine nevertheless-- who led the ritual that was set to topple and dismantle the galactic hierarchy so that they could rule the cosmos instead.

"GOD BLESS US! GOD BLESS OUR GALACTIC EMPIRE!"

THE GALAXY SHALL ASSEMBLE AN EMPIRE!
THE GALAXY SHALL ASSEMBLE AN EMPIRE!
THE GALAXY SHALL ASSEMBLE AN EMPIRE!

---

 

[Reliquiis]

[Continuing from TEMPO OF WAR III]

​

Equatorial Trench Circumferential Surface Decks
Aboard the Death Star III

The strike of the sudden Force Blast punched into Reliquiis and delivered enough power to lift her up off the durasteel plated flooring. The eruption of violence pummelled into her and thrashed her through a wall. The Sith Hound was flung from the corridor where the battle with Kito had begun and out into another before smacking against another wall. This time the wall held and Reliquiis fell down onto her knees. The web of gnarled cybernetic implants connecting to her life-support systems disgorged a battery of preserving countermeasures into her Sith ensorcelled body. The rebreather fixed behind the t-shaped macrobinocular view face plate of her helmet whined a droning melody of hissing breaths. The reverberating pain tempered Reliquiis’ focus as she drew it to sharpen her grounding thoughts after the throw of the Force Blast. Her vision stabilized, the thrumming pounding of her blood subsided its high tempo and her senses narrowed back into a battle readiness once more.

Reliquiis arose slowly and reignited her black obsidian and durasteel curved-hilt saber. SNAP. HISS. VRUMMM. The crimson saber hummed its thirsting song for a vengeful counterattack. But, Reliquiis stayed her wielding hand. Instead, her Sith-gilt golden eyes gleamed at the internal HUD of her helmet as it focused on the gaping maw of peeled durasteel her trajectory had created. In the brief illuminations made by spark spitting broken cables and through the mists of billowing ventilation gases from sundered piping, the Sith Hound could see the newcomer ( Henna Ashina ) who had unleashed the Force Blast onto her. This one burned with the Lightside, brilliant and shimmering in the Force, it singed the edges of Reliquiis’ dark confluence; like a scouring dawn on lingering twilight.

“You,” said Reliquiis, her voice a roiling, synthesized dark snarl. She raised a hand, bathed in the powers of the ebbing Dark Side, surged from her being into her fingertips. Yet no energy of attack was released but remained stored in her hand as her fore finger rose to point at the newcomer. “Who are you?” asked Reliquiis.​

---

• TAGS:
  

  • CLAIMED RP OPPS: Kito | Henna Ashina

  ​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Leidimas Sith Plate | Disciple's Helm of Devotion | Bevelle-class Light Freighter
Malora Varis | Domina Prime

​

The shuttle had been a coffin of silence, its hull rattling as it slipped through the warring fleets. The Death Star rose before him, a messenger from the abyss come to deliver carnage upon an unsuspecting world. Lysander was certain Atrisia would soon be no more.

He hadn't expected his arrival to go unnoticed, but he had purposely chosen solitude all the same. Better to step into the maw alone than be bound by another’s rhythm. This was his dance, and he would sway to the beat of his own heart.

A more traditional route through the hangar would not serve as his point of entry; no, he had chosen a more fitting wound in the station's skin, left by a strike of another's making. With his shuttle clamped to the scar, he slipped through, a courtier turned wraith.

Patrols passed within meters, the sounds of boots pounding, their voices echoing down the hall. His lungs tightened, presence folding inward, a futile attempt in veiling his signature. It was not the clean severing of a Jedi’s meditation, nor the eruption of a Sith’s hunger.

He began to press forward, but in the stillness of his surroundings, every motion was amplified; the hiss of hydraulics, the roar of turbolasers, even the echo of his own breath trapped within the confines of his helmet. He wondered if it was meant to serve as a constant reminder of his fall from grace.. from the halls of Ukatis, now nothing more than a distant memory, to the darker corners where he lurked like a shadow.

Already he could feel the ominous presence of others from within the Order, one that permeated the very air, snakes waiting to strike or align themselves. There too was a tremor in his chest, one that did not shame him; it steadied him. Rather than shrink away from the current pulsing through his veins, he welcomed it; he allowed it to sharpen him, to remind him that he still had something worth fighting for.

Fire carried as fuel.

And amidst a tumult of corrupted minds, corrupted souls, he sensed her.. a single melody in a cacophony of death. His eldest sister, Corazona von Ascania .. proximate, and undeniable. Whether she glided among the armadas beyond or had already descended into the Death Star, he could not truly say. But the connection was unmistakable, woven into their very blood. Lysander would not speak her name, to betray his position, but the lantern of his essence flared all the same.

Just as quickly, he withdrew it.

Perhaps a reminder, that even in the depths of darkness, he had not forgotten her.