Annihilation Clash of Destiny

[Domina Prime]

​

I HEAR THIS VOICE KEEP ASKING ME
IS THIS MY BLOOD OR IS IT BLASHEMY?

Aether Verd | Renn Vizsla | Aselia Verd | Haro Aven | Korda Veydran | Siv Kryze
Darth Caedes | Revna Marr | Elmindra Xitaar | Madrona A’Mia | Taeli Raaf | Gerwald Lechner | Lina Ovmar | Naamino Zuukamano

Lysander von Ascania ​

L O C A T I O N: Death Star III
G E A R: Starfang | Warpriest Beskar'gam

The corridors of the Death Star burned blue.

Azure fire danced along the walls as Starfang screamed its song, carving molten gashes through durasteel bulkheads and bodies alike. The air was thick with the smell of blood, scorched plastoid, and something almost holy, like incense carried on the heat of ruin. The Warpriest moved with the fluidity of a storm given flesh, her four arms a blur of metal and sinew. Every swing of the crystal blade birthed a nova of light, cutting blast doors, walls, and men into one seamless ruin.

Stormtroopers broke before her like waves against a cliff.

Her laughter carried over the chaos, sharp and musical. "Heard and felt, as is the way~" she purred through the reverb of her helmet's vox. Every motion was a psalm, every strike a stanza in a hymn to Ha'rangir. Yet, despite the carnage, few truly died. Those who fell and lived found themselves seized by wrists or throats, dragged screaming through the corridors of their own steel citadel as if ripped from the soil by a divine gardener uprooting weeds.

Each breath came heavy through her modulator, her armor hissing with exertion. Starfang hummed in her grip, a thin spectral whine like a choir trapped in glass. When it bit bone or found flesh, it sang, but the unworthy made its voice dull, their blood an impurity that spoiled the melody.

"I have to know...we must know~" she whispered, gazing into the mirrored starlight of her blade as blaster fire danced down the hallway.

Bolts struck her, once, twice, thrice. Sparking off her beskar with angry red bursts. She flinched only in reflex, but her advance never faltered. Instead, she snatched a trooper mid-step, her claws curling around his wrist, and spun. The movement was almost graceful, a dancer's twirl made monstrous. With one mighty heave she threw him down the corridor, his armored body crashing into the squad ahead with the sound of collapsing pins.

The hallway fell silent save for the hiss of melted walls. The surviving troopers staggered to their knees, fumbling for weapons, then hesitating. Dima's shadow filled the hall, four-armed and massive, the azure flame of her blade painting her helm in ghostlight.

"What is this melody?" she crooned, not to them, but to the sword.

One of the soldiers twitched toward a fallen blaster. Dima's boot sent it skittering back to his feet. "Pick it up..." she murmured, voice low and almost tender. "Go on. Pick it up."

They froze. Fear overtook duty. No training prepared them for this—this thing that moved like scripture written in violence. One by one, they lifted their hands instead. Dima watched. She judged. She sighed.

"Ahh, figures," she groaned, rolling her shoulders and removing her mask with a hiss of escaping air. "You had a chance to be immortal. Now you're just boring."

With that, she turned away, her disappointment more dangerous than her rage. The spared troopers scattered as she pried open the next sealed blast door with her bare claws, metal shrieking like a dying animal as she forced it apart. Beyond, a new squad waited, wide-eyed as the survivors squeezed past them, shouting warnings of the thing in the halls.

The thing arrived.

She stood framed in the torn doorway, breathing heavy, her armor blackened and slick with drink and blood. From her belt she drew the Gjallerhorn, its carved Mythosaur tusk glinting faintly in the light. With a deep tilt of her head she drank, dark ale spilling over her lips and down her chin in a sacred act of overindulgence. The Warpriest of Mandalore roared between gulps:

"By the gods, this place is dry!"

She wiped her mouth with the back of her gauntlet, tossed her head, and dragged Starfang once more across the deck, carving a luminous trench of molten azure in her wake.

A stormtrooper, a brave fool, charged her with a shock-baton.

"Kark off," she snarled, catching him mid-swing. His face met her gauntlet. "MOVE IT OR GET MOVED ON!"

She crushed him to the floor, then smashed the back of his helmet with the Gjallerhorn, using the sacred chalice as a club. "Divine instrument, meet divine idiot," she muttered, before taking another long, ecstatic drink.

More troops gathered at the corridor's far end. But now they knew. The last squad's panicked words had spread-

Don't shoot.
Don't run.
Just...don't.

They stood frozen, weapons trembling. Dima exhaled, long and disappointed. "You could at least make this glorious for both of us~"

Then, with a casual shrug, she rolled her neck, and stepped forward into the blue haze, muttering to her sword as if to a lover:

"Come on then, Starfang. Let's find someone worthy."

The azure fire swallowed her silhouette as she vanished deeper into the Death Star's heart.

Seeking her next hymn, her next victim, her next melody.

 

[Arris Windrun]

Allies: Mercy | Hasuras Na-Gerra | Quinn Varanin | CT-312 | Vestra Tane
Opp: Dark Forces | Deonis Laythar | Meliant

The technobeasts were unable to keep up.

Great!

Great until Mercy ripped the smoke from her fingers. "Hey!" She complained.

Though not for long, when Mercy passed it right back. Arris was ready to put it back to her lips when the whole tram suddenly stopped in an instant. It was an unwelcome and superbly dangerous physics lesson. Inertia carried the cyborg forward, catapulting her from the tram and into Mercy's arm. She grunted and groaned, and stared at Ashin Cardé Varanin with wide eyes.

A profound fear pulsed violently inside her chest. It was as if the Force had abandoned her, crawled into every crevice to avoid the challenger, and Arris felt it - an oppressive presence.

She fell to one knee when Mercy let her go and looked up at Quinn Varanin . The former's words stole the Dark Horse's attention away from the princess, however.

"Sorry, whose mother?!"

It was enough of a distraction to shake the feeling, if only a little, though Arris did an excellent job at hiding her fear as she witnessed Quinn and Ashin's exchange. Lack of context was glaring, except for one thing: she knew a showdown when she saw it. Besides, if Mercy believed the princess could handle this, then that was that.

The cyborg took a few steps towards the Echani. "Listen - Mauve will dock my pay if you don't make it out of this, yeah?"

Too little familiarity to get personal with it, but in her heart, Arris was rooting for Quinn. If only for a moment, she saw what the woman was capable of, and that was after Arris shot her.

Her attention latched onto Vestra Tane , who either didn't get the memo or didn't care. A cyber hand gripped hard on the woman's sword arm.

"Time to go!" She intended to yank Vestra off the wreck of a tram with her and towards Gerra.

"So what's the plan?"

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

ABOARD THE DEATH STAR...
TRAMWAY​

A high speed tram met an immovable object.

Metal shrieked and tore, objects not bolted down went flying. The tram ripped apart, pieces shivering off in a hundred directions. The collision ejected Gerra from the tram's forward viewport. He slammed down onto the tramrail forty meters away, blood streaming from his face in a half-dozen cuts, clothes shredded. The Sith alchemized armor beneath and the layer of cushioning armorweave and gel inserts beneath cushioned his impact and deflected blows that might otherwise prove grievous.

The bodies of his pirate crew lay scattered. They had not fared so well and their forms lay dead and crumpled like so many fallen leaves.

Grunting, the huge Vahlan got to his feet and shook himself like a dog, fiery mane flailing about, shards of glass shaking loose to fall upon the ground with soft tinkling.

He looked around, getting his bearings, and saw that the others had weathered the impact considerably better.

The Force helped with that, too, dispersing her inertia such that she managed to make a desperate leap to safety look trained, cool, and confident, three-point pose and all.

He scowled at that, then the scowl deepened at the sight of who stood in their way.

"My motives are not what you assume, Quinn," she said, "but you owe me no trust. So carve away."

The lightsaber that hissed to life was a new one, very simple, with a natural burnt-orange Sarlacc's Eye crystal at its heart.

Ashin Varanin, a known name.

Reaching out a hand, Gerra tugged in the Force and his sith sword came wrenching free of the ground to smack into his palm. He ground his teeth, glaring at the Princess of the Sith, then Mercy in turn.

"Can you rip open a gate to your contact? We can walk, but I'd rather not waste the time."

"No."

Too much chaotic energy here, prepared by the Dark Side ritual. Too much could go wrong.

"So what's the plan?"

Shrugging aside their questions, the Vahlan warlord focused, closing his eyes for a moment.

He did not have whatever skills they possessed to shrug aside such destruction done to the tram without damage. His talents lay elsewhere. His eyes flared open and he saw realities unfolding before him with the Sight. Wielding his sword, he smote the wall hard and true in a single blow. The wall exploded inward, burst apart by shatterpoint.

"We walk," Gerra grunted.

They were not distant. The tram had carried them far enough.

He could sense him, not far beyond.

Turning before he left, looked over the lit lightsabers and the readiness for battle. Mother against daughter. Past against future. Old against young. He grunted with approval.

"Rejoin us when this is over, princess."

Gerra stepped through the forced entry amid tendrils of electrical smoke. As his form disappeared, his fading voice boomed out one last time.

"Or die well."

* * *

ABOARD THE DEATH STAR...
HALLWAY OUTSIDE THE OVERBRIDGE...
​

The blast door leading into the hallway outside overbridge shattered into ten thousand pieces beneath a single blow.

The metal shards levitated into the air, then hurtled down the hallway as the squad of Death Troopers opened fire, unfazed and unrelenting. The corridor was soon choked by the sound of blasters, the staccato blindingly brilliant red flash of their discharge, and the zipping noises of a storm of metal shrapnel carving through plastoid, meat, and bone alike to paint the walls red.

"Brother."

Mercy Quinn Varanin Vestra Tane Arris Windrun Aurellia

ATTN: Darth Solipsis Dark Forces Meliant Ashin Cardé Varanin

 

[Sars Sarad]

NPC Opps: Dark Forces​

---

The Comms Room was in his rear.

He never looked back after leaving. It was an assumption that once his transmission was discovered to be a deception that Troopers would report to the location it had disseminated.

No matter, Sarad had plenty of cards to play now.

If he ran afoul of an enemy that could slow him than so be it but until then he was free to sow chaos throughout the sector.

In such a large Battle Station it might amount to nothing but eventually it would all add up.

By now reports must have been filtering in that members of the Black Sun, or at least those affiliated with them had turned against the Galactic Empire. Not everyone would know but information would have begun filtering throughout the different sectors of the Death Star III. Nothing stayed a secret forever.

He rounded a corner, a squad of Troopers marching in his direction.

His left hand raised, eyes flashing briefly and a wave of concussive force spread from his palm. Troopers were thrown into the air, hurled against one another as they were flung away. When they came crashing down most were incapacitated from the impact but some stirred.

As Sarad moved closer he barely gave the Troopers his attention.

A swish of the lightsaber caused sparks to erupt across a plastoid breastplate, another caught a Trooper across his helm and swung him around before he collapsed on his chest.

Sarad crossed through the unmoving bodies until he reached the other side of the corridor.

Travel through the corridors of the Death Star was much the same as it already had been, when he could Sarad stayed hidden around a corner allowing squads of Troopers to pass but occasionally he needed to engage.

Finally he came to a hall that ended in a blast door. Signage designated it as 'Tractor Beam Control', either for one of the thousand that the Death Star came equipped with or several but definitely not all.

Either way he'd find out.

When he came within reach of the Blast Door Sarad thrust his lightsaber into its center and began to drill through its core to the other side so that he could gain access.

 

[Henna Ashina]

Equatorial Trench Circumferential Surface Decks | Aboard the Death Star III
Reliquiis | Kito

The knife of danger cut through focus just as the floorboard began to quiver. With the brandish of her hand, the dark sider had ripped the pane from beneath Henna, sending her flying upwards with the momentum of the metal beneath pinning her in place. Muscles tensed, bracing for impact. Only at the last moment did the force wrap her in a bubble, barely expanding beyond her form, strong enough to keep her in a single piece but not so strong to absorb the shockwave that sent golden shards raining downward. It reverberated down the length of Henna's spine, setting every bone and joint aching. Then, just as quickly, the panel began its descent - and the master lunged forward off of it before the fall could worsen the injury.

It was a clunky roll, accompanied by a gasp of pain, but the master landed in a crouch to observe the scene. If - no, when, Henna corrected the thought - they made it out of this, Kito deserved a gold star for that slash in the woman's helmet. Little time for that now, though. The woman was on the padawan, forceful and unyielding, and Henna rose to even the scales.

"It'll take more than that." Henna pushed out between gritted teeth.

Through the force, the seer reached out for Kito, meeting her mind and merging them a single. Coordination would make the difference.

We need to deal with her quickly if we're going to stop this station.

Reliquiis had wrapped herself in a cloak of rage, fixated on the other Lightsworn, and Henna used that distraction to get behind her, attempting to draw her ire away from Kito once more. A flurry of probing strikes gave way to a single stroke that slashed at her legs. Pure malice was palpable this close, but the master clung to thoughts of home, steeling herself against the darkness.

 

[Heinrich Faust]

Engaging: Kann

Tags: Eina L'lerim-Vandiir , @Veynos Qey

Defeat The Darkness

The halls were infinite, the ways to progress to his objective, unknowable. Yet, through Ashla, all was possible. Given enough time, Heinrich would be able to find his way through the labyrinthine passages of the gargantuan battle station. That is... if he had enough time.

Keep pushing, he would think to himself. Keep pushing just a bit further. Just enough to make it. Just enough to save the others. He knew there was a chance he might not have strength enough to return, but in the end, as long as he succeeded, it would be worth it.

He turned a corner, only to come face to face with a stranger. One steeped to the depths in the dark energy of the Bogan. Heinrich's brow furrowed as he planted himself firmly in the middle of the corridor, his eyes locked onto his target.

"I will give you one chance, stranger. Only one. Let me pass, and I will not have to bring the Light's judgement upon you."

He highly doubted his foe would listen, but he had to give him the chance to walk away. Perhaps if he did, he too one find peace as Heinrich once did.

But... this was a follower of the Sith'ari himself, and Heinrich knew better than most that this encounter would likely come to blows. Perhaps there would be only one way out, and that way would be through. Just one more fight... just one last push...

Just a bit further...

​

 

[Xashe Tistya]

Lord Creuat | Bernard
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯​

Our destinies will be determined today, my old apprentice.

Some wisdom prevailed in a fall. Rhis was right. They had both cheated their fates on that space station, but Xashe would sooner die than see him slip away from her grasp once more. It was a cruel limbo they had set themselves in, at odds, locked in this prolonged battle, doomed to repeat the encounter. It needed to end. Xashe's trajectory altered, following the response, until she rounded a corridor to come face to face with him.

From either end of the hall, the pair stared at each other, sizing one another up. He looked as he did when she had last left him - a hollow shell of the nautolan she knew. She, too, was the same - but to an observant eye, he might have noticed the definition that had been carved into her face, the way her jacket stretched across her shoulders, growing tight. Every moment spared from the hunt had been spent training. This time, her strength would not fail her.

"How severely did your master scold you when you let me get away last time?" Xashe called across the hall.

The Mirialan began to shuffle forward, playing it uncharacteristically safe. Assailing him mercilessly had been a mistake in their previous encounters. It wore her down before the fight had even begun. This time, she'd provoke him into the first move. Conviction still buzzed at her side, throwing golden sparks, eager for the promised moment.

"Did he think it was purposeful? Or did you admit you were too weak to best the warrior you trained?"

Now, they were close enough to really see each other, with only a few feet separating them. Xashe's jaw set with tension and fear. This would certainly be the end, but the posture did not match the confidence displayed in speech.

​

 

[Aphon]

Tags: Talin Treicolt , Morrow

Theme

Oh how the lambs liked to bleat...

Aphon cocked his head to the side, a widening, obsidian grin stretching across his face. It had been some time since he had found an opponent that was so... spirited. So full of life. So eager to be the hero.

So ready to die.

As the blaster bolt flew his way, Aphon simply swung his shoulder back, allowing it to pass by him. The warmth of the plasma rushed across the side of his head, and as he repositioned himself, he chuckled.

"You know nothing, whelp. But do not worry, I will certainly teach you all there is to know about my culture."

Being of both Echani and Dathomirian descent certainly made for a rather deadly combination, even without his years of training as an assassin. To the Echani, combat was their language, and for the Nightsisters, the darkness was but a conduit for their ever-palpable magick.

His body shifted once again, moving with a sort of vicious elegance, almost as if he were a dancer that had just discovered the revelry to be found in murder. He spun around his opponent, throwing his free hand out, hoping to hit the Jedi square in the spine. With any luck, he would send her crashing against the wall, leaving him just enough time to run her through...

Lambs... that's all they were...

Lambs led to the slaughter.

 

[Siv Kryze]

.

​

ABOARD THE DIREWOLF | SHADOW OF THE IRON EIDOLON


The order came through Aether's voice — sharp, resolute, cutting through comms like tempered steel. Siv didn't need to ask twice what it meant.


"All Mandalorian elements: mark and execute."


He was already moving before the last word left the channel. The Direwolf stirred from its waiting stillness, systems awakening like a beast flexing its claws beneath its cloak. No lights, no signal, no sound — only the quiet pulse of readiness.


"Maintain cloak," Siv commanded through his internal line. "Power to thrusters only. Passive scans. Any ship that so much as looks our way — it dies before it speaks."


The bridge acknowledged in clipped tones, disciplined and sharp. Clan Kryze didn't fight for spectacle; they fought for precision. The Direwolf slipped beneath the Iron Eidolon's shadow, its hull a whisper against the void, masking itself in the distortions of the flagship's wake. Every metric, every angle — calculated to remain unseen until revelation mattered.


Aether's voice thundered again, a war cry dressed as an order. Death Watch would spearhead the assault; the Warclaws, their chariots. Siv's job was clear — ensure no one struck the host while they made their push.


He keyed into the fleet-wide Mandalorian channel, his tone low and steady. "Clan Kryze standing by under cloak. We shadow the Eidolon until contact is made. Death Watch will have our blades the moment the fighting starts — Kryze will strike from the dark to keep your flank clean."


He paused, gaze fixed on the holoprojection of the enemy station — the so-called Death Star, glimmering like arrogance given shape. "Once the breach opens, Clan Kryze will uncloak and join the Death Watch assault. Until then, we stay silent. Unseen. Deadly."


His gloved hand hovered above the command rune for the cloak release. For now, it stayed untouched.


"Let them believe the storm is only what they can see," Siv murmured to himself, eyes narrowing behind the visor. "The rest of it — that's us."


The Direwolf prowled in the void, unseen and patient, the teeth behind Mandalore's advancing blade — waiting for the signal to strike.

Tag: Aether Verd Renn Vizsla Aselia Verd Korda Veydran Domina Prime​

 

[Luvaen Malstadt]

​

Allied: Galactic Empire
Opposition: Corazona von Ascania | x3 Jedi
Location: Death Star III | Nondescript Corridor
Objective: III

He stepped into the moment, the open hallway where the echoes of nearby battles raged on. Raised voices, the repetition of blasters exchanged between all aboard the behemoth. Death filled the Force, the ritual itself adding weight to the very oxygen breathed in. Luvaen's each step was confident, driven with purpose as he drew in the pain and agony of those fighting or nearly dying. Like a warm embrace, the faceless shadow likened this profound euphoria to the presence of something almost tangible.

Never knowing a proper family, never knowing the teachings of a true guardian figure, the Force guided him with an invisible hand and showed him a path that only compounded his twisted view on life itself. Only his way mattered, only the essence of others forcefully taken and used upon his misguided, blank canvas would show him a clearer image of his idealized future.

Never-ending death to feed the machine he'd sworn the rest of his life to. Suffering would build upon itself, to create purpose for all that endured, to give reason to what many would view as madness. There was a method to it all. The Force whispered its intended design to Luvaen, its blueprints for him solely to follow and make true among the stars and beyond.

Flesh to rend, bones to break. His footfalls were the movements of the divine, his muscles operated and pushed his body towards truth. His own truth.

His will would be done.

There he sensed them, and there he would make his intent clear. In each hand he held twin hilts, both jagged and crudely pieced together as they were ignited. Like nails against durasteel, unstable crimson blades screeched into existence as three Jedi stopped in their tracks, taking in the young Sith that stood before them.

Luvaen's visor reflected their startled expressions back at them. He could feel their uncertainty, their defiance towards his very existence before them. Where he would bring about their absolute demise, they would too. He understood that there was little difference in their goals, yet Luvaen didn't shield himself with any excuses. His honesty was worn plainly, and theirs veiled by a selfish righteousness.

They would learn.

While a young man himself, he would impart upon them the wisdom of freedom. Freedom to die knowing they are all cowards.

Freedom from this trouble, their charades.

Luvaen took another step forward. They responded with ignited blades of their own.

Another step taken, crimson at the ready.

 

[Drystan Creed]

DEATH STAR III

"Let's hope so."

Drystan's response came sharp and flat, devoid of ceremony. He watched as the sticky charge bounced with a light toss, his gaze steady, unreadable. Brandyn Sal-Soren 's swing would have seemed to miss by chance—but to the trained eye, Drystan had moved only by the barest margin, retreating a breath's width beyond the blade's reach. Each shift of his frame was the embodiment of efficiency: minimal motion, maximal precision.

He employed that same discipline against Casaana 's stun bolts, evading each with an almost mechanical calm, every movement refined to perfection through years of conditioning.

A second before the charge detonated, Drystan lifted his boot and pressed down, grinding it into the floor. The resulting explosion was smaller than intended—less of a thunderous boom and more of a compact, bone-deep tremor. Then, silence.

That silence didn't last. The doors shuddered, groaned, then exploded off their hinges with a violent roar. Through the haze of flame and steam, the Shadow emerged—his coat scorched, his silhouette haloed by fire.

"The shields, eh?" Drystan called, his tone half amusement, half challenge. Despite the burn marks and torn fabric, he moved with unbroken fluidity. Either discipline, adrenaline, or sheer willpower kept him upright—likely all three.

"How about this," he said, rolling his shoulders, voice carrying over the crackle of fire, "you try to survive me for five minutes. Do that, and I'll let you both walk away."

No deceit laced his words. There was a rare, almost noble sincerity to the offer.

"I promise—on my honor as a warrior."

To punctuate his vow, Drystan seized one of the blasted door panels in a single hand, lifting the heavy durasteel slab with ease. The Force coiled around it as he spun and hurled it forward—a massive discus of molten metal whistling through the air. The throw was as powerful as it was precise, the kind of destructive artistry that could crush bone or cleave through bulkheads.

Even if it missed its mark, the panel embedded itself deep into the flooring beyond, gouging through ferrocrete and leaving behind a jagged obstacle. The message of it more than clear.

Casaana Brandyn Sal-Soren

 

[Connel Vanagor]

What is left
UNDISCLOSED
LOCATION - Death Star III

Michael, Gabriel, Azrael, Sariel, Raphael, Jeremiel, Connel, Raguel
[Any text in brackets signifies comm-link usage and not face to face conversation]

The Sovereign Protector’s sneer was intense. However he made a mistake that he could not have predicted possible.


Connel recognized these particular Wookiees. They were of the Shyyyo's Heart Tribe, the very clan his father, and be proxy he were unofficial “family” of. He grew up around them and while Connel was not happy at all about what happened to his/their brethren, this gave him all of the inspiration he needed to put his idea into play.


Turning to face them (and away from the Houk) momentarily, Connel pulled up his mask revealing his face. Each of them knew and recognized him immediately. Their chatter was not loud, but there was a mixture of relief and rallying cries. Still with his blaster pointed at the Sovereign Protector, Connel simply said.


He’s all yours.

Opening up and firing on the Sith, not anything direct, but more than enough to keep him (hopefully) busy, Connel let the Wookiees do their thing. He may have been able to slaughter one Wookiee easily enough, but all of them? Especially as he slipped one of his flashbangs into the hands of one of the leaders subtly.


The Sith made an error, they were not here to escape, not anymore, once they saw that there were those fighting for them? The warrior spirit rose and they would fight back, regardless of the outcome. Connel had somewhere he could be after this, he had heard Matsu Ike and could reconnect, but he would not leave his brothers high and dry for the moment. This was their fight now, and he would make sure it was fair. If the Houk wanted the Emperor to collect deaths, he could start with his own.

Matsu Ike • Dark Forces
Personal Effects - Omega Squad Loadouts - Shadow Sanctuary - Enterprise​

 

[Meliant]

DEATH STAR III
HALLWAY OUTSIDE THE OVERBRIDGE

Attn: Hasuras Na-Gerra Mercy Vestra Tane Arris Windrun
CC: Dark Forces

​

Meliant sat there and waited, arms folded. It was very quiet in the hallway. He tapped his foot restlessly to fill the silence and was sure everyone present really enjoyed that. Tap tap tap tap tap… Tap… Tap… Tap… Coming to a slow halt as Gerra's presence arrived at the hallway's terminus, just beyond the security doors.​

​

"Oh. They're here."​

​

Unsteadily, his officer-friend drew his sidearm from its holster.​

​

"Well, I wouldn't bother with that."​

​

The blastdoors shattered with a shriek, and the thousands of discrete pieces came flying down the hallway. Meliant watched the ensuing battle unfold, a din of blasters and twirling lightsabers and the awful report of a high-caliber slugthrower.​

​

No alarms went off and, later on, Meliant would find out that the security cameras had long since ceased recording. All those vital security measures had been slagged to in response to Typhojem's probing - a firebreak to keep it from spreading into the Overbridge. The door behind him probably hadn't even locked.​

​

That's life for you.​

​

By the time the dust and blood had settled, Meliant was still sitting at the end of the hallway. He briefly unfolded his arms to remove - with thumb and forefinger - a pencil-sized shard of triple-reinforced durasteel that had lanced through his helmet, approximately where an eye should have been.​

​

"Brother dearest," Meliant said, flicking away the shard, "My warmest welcome to you and your latest hirelings."​

​

Which apparently now included the cyborg from the kaggath tournament and the Star-Arm lunatic from both the kaggath tournament and the kaggath actual on Ruusan. Had she defeated the Sith'ari after all? Was she here to claim a prize?​

​

Say what you would about Gerra, say he knew how to poach talent. Something quivered and whimpered behind a pair of crates in an alcove to their left. The sallow officer. His fears had swallowed him whole. Alas.​

​

Meliant cocked his head to one side, sizing up his kinsman. "Don't tell me you're here to blow up the Death Star. I just signed a lease."​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

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

​

The Death Star's endless corridors heaved with a hollow breath, as if the entire station was nothing more than a massive mausoleum. Remnants of the stormtroopers that had scurried along moments before were now nothing but discarded meat and plastoid.. not even worth a thought from the Sith apprentice. With a detached gaze and unfeeling, he kept moving.

But as the death of enemies stained his soul, familiarity brushed against him.. Corazona von Ascania . Frayed though it was, the warmth radiated through him, in a way that only she could unsettle him. It made the slaughter behind him feel like betrayal. Only his sister could evoke such emotion. The fact that she was alive and breathing, was enough for now.

Other signatures registered. His Master, Revna Marr , steady as a flame, constant as death. Another, long absent, became sharp thorn in his psyche. Brandyn Sal-Soren . His former master. There was never hatred for the man, only the cold truth that the Light could do nothing for him, and his fall was inevitable.

Even so, he deserved better than Lysander's silent flight to the Outer Rim.

And there.. lost in the storm of darkness.. a flicker. A prayer whispered into the void. A candle struggling to stay lit ( Lilianna L'lerim ). Enough to catch his notice.

Larger prey were in sight, but that flicker would remain etched in his mind. Perhaps, if he finally allowed the Dark to possess him, he would be free of doubts, of fractures. To be replaced by certainty. He pushed these thoughts aside.

Along the way, there was evidence of chaos carved into the deck.

More broken bodies littering the ground, discarded like playthings, a few still twitching as life withered away. In the distance.. laughter. It wasn't from amusement.. or so he thought, but something sharper, almost musical. Euphoric? It echoed like a hymn, sung too loudly. It didn't take long for him to realize that he did not like this one bit. Whoever this figure was, they were erratic, perhaps more so than he, and that was saying something.
A challenge, then.

He calculated the distance. Both of them were being herded toward the heart of the Death Star, which meant the figure ahead was an obstacle.

Slipping into a side passage, shadows enveloped him like a cloak, brushing along the walls with a silent hiss. With the grace of a predatory cat, he moved. Leaning heavily on Force speed, it propelled him forward with unnatural speed, boots barely even grazing the floor. Lysander pushed himself harder, feeling the heat under his helm increase rapidly, sweat beading under the armor too.

But soon, he would land into a junction ahead of their path.

Blue light was bleeding into view, and the sound of their laughter echoed closer. He inhaled deeply, feeling his own heartbeat, then exhaled. His eyes narrowed as adrenaline began to work its wicked magic, fueling his body with the familiar and intoxicating rush.

So, he called out. “You sing too loud, a drunkard in the dark! A poser dressed in scripture, nothing more!”

With a hiss of malice, the crimson blade sprang to life, eager to test a worthy foe.

“Your song is empty! A fake poet clawing at war with a brittle tongue. I do not clap for lies!”

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

ABOARD THE DEATHSTAR…
HALLWAY OUTSIDE THE OVERBRIDGE…
​

"Don't tell me you're here to blow up the Death Star. I just signed a lease."

“Nothing so base. We come to take it as a prize and jump it far from here.”

Heavy boots thudded upon the hallway floor with every implacable step as Gerra advanced, so tall his head nearly brushed the ceiling.

Reaching out a hand, he beckoned and the Force wrapped around the sallow, quivering officer in an invisible hand that picked him, suspended mid air, then drug him forward with a horrifying inevitability toward Gerra’s hand.

His fingers wrapped around the throat of the officer, squeezing. Flailing limbs and grasping hands could not prevent the sudden crunch of a trachea. The whimpering turned to an airless gurgle. Gerra lowered his arm and continued to walk forward, dragging the body of the dying imperial by the neck, the man’s feet sliding along the ground, kicking intermittently.

“Too long I have fought without you by my side. I harbor no ill will for the past. What’s done is done.”

Gerra’s eyes like twin hot coals surveyed his brother.

“Come,” he dropped the corpse of the imperial with a thud, Sith sword in the other hand, and spread his arms wide, “Embrace me.”

Then the eight foot Vahlan warlord wrapped his arms around the armored figure in a crushing hug.

Meliant Mercy Arris Windrun Vestra Tane Aurellia

Dark Forces

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Wearing: Armatura | The Forgemaster's Ring | Ring of Stasis | The Sofitor
Wielding: 8 Nozhi Blades | 2 Whimsy Knifes | 2 Nastirci Combat Knives | Clarion | Copero's Wail | Fire and Smoke | Combat Gauntlets | Tessen | 2 TOTT-001 Arc Light Blaster | 2 Dissuader KD-30 Pistols with Glitter Bullets
Tags: Darth Carnifex CT-312 Dynamis "Dynas" Ultra + open

---

Scherezade had to keep herself from giggling. Darth Carnifex had called her Lady, which was not an honorary title people often used with her. Her sister, sure, but Scherezade herself? A rare thing. But she accepted it for what it was. For the moment, it was mutually agreed on that they were not enemies set to immediately try to undo each other, at least until further notice.

She didn't say anything as he explained the situation and what he wanted. Scherezade peeked behind his shoulder, noticing @CT-139 and very much not noticing Dynamis "Dynas" Ultra the shard. She gave CT a little wave, and brought her focus back to the Sith Lord. It was funny, one had to admit, to hear someone with the posture of Darth Carnifex speak of hubris in others. She was pretty sure he wouldn't appreciate the humor though.

Still… It was Atrisia he was speaking of. Scherezade remembered it well, from the time she, her sister, and the rest of the Agents of Chaos had come to the planet to save it from belonging to another empire, so long ago. They hadn't succeeded then, and it seemed the planet had been intent on continuing to allow itself to belong to others since. What a waste of resources.

"And you need delinquents for that?" she asked, not bothering to hide the surprise in her voice as she understood what the ask was. In her early days, she had always been warned away from Darth Carnifex and his folk, was constantly told they were so powerful and evil that to approach them would be suicide. That kind of power should've easily been able to deal with the threat at hand. Someone had been lying. Or trying to manipulate her younger self. No surprises there.

The Sithling crouched, dipping her fingers into one of the small shadows cast directly near her. Her fingers disappeared into it, almost like into a bowl of fluids, and she moved them around, trying to understand the connections of the shadow roads that would grant her passage. It wasn't looking easy. The shadows here weren't as fluid as in most places, which she supposed made sense. She'd be able to use them for the short distances only.

A second time she sighed, running over plans of what she knew inside her head, looking again at the chunk of metal around them, the feel of the Force that ebbed and flow through it all like a living and breathing heart.

"Let's combine our forces," she offered, her glowing green eyes now turning to the other two who were with them, "We use Darth Carnifex' version of teleportation to get to one of the cores before anyone else. Unscrew its bolts. Maybe haul it to somewhere surprising if we can carry it. Rinse and repeat at however many of these cores have been installed on this ship. Leave a few surprises behind for anyone who arrives after us in a vain attempt to undo it."

But even as she spoke the words, she knew that while they might probably be efficient, she would also find them boring. Thus was the curse of Scherezade, who at heart really just wanted to have a good time with a few people with whom she shared a mutual like.

"Can also just walk around the hallways and massacre whoever I come across," she shrugged, "but that won't actually help you to your goal."

 

[Helix]

Equipment: Himself
Tags: Lirka Ka Phaelissia Dark Forces​

Helix resolidified in the air vent, dropping out of it and landing on his feet with his usual unnerving grace.

It was apparent that his companions had gotten up to some fun while he was gone, as both were in combat with... something. Crude fusions of metal and meat, animated by he knew not what. If Helix had a nose at the time, he'd have wrinkled it in disgust. Such gauche creations.

His inhumanly-lanky figure strode through the chaos, taking note of what he saw for the after-action report. Though he appeared distracted, he was quick to dispatch these shambling obstructions when they got in his way.

One particularly-jarring eyesore, with an armored human torso propped up by six spidery limbs, leapt at him with predatory agility. He snatched it out of the air, dashed it against the floor with sufficient force to buckle the deck plating, and brought his heel down on it. The thing burst as if struck by a tank shell, scattering scrap and unidentifiable organic detritus in all directions.

Another was bisected from the left shoulder to the right hip by a suddenly-formed blade, its two halves sliding wetly to the floor and scattering yet more detritus on the deck.

After gruesomely quartering a third with a set of four arachnoid pincers that sprouted from his back, Helix was beginning to grow tired of these creatures.

"If I may, Imperator. This is a delaying tactic. We should ignore these ineffectual obstructions. The continued resistance does indicate that we are likely heading in the right direction."

Helix didn't find these husks nearly so fun to peel apart as their living counterparts, but they were instructive in their way. Every enemy, no matter how lowly, had something to teach, assuming one survived their onslaught.

Helix caught the next one intact, holding the struggling, snapping scrap golem at arm's length. This one had an integrated blaster, complete with a still-attached human hand, which it was using to put craters in his semi-liquescent flesh from point-blank range. The colony registered only minimal damage; it would take a much, much larger gun than this to matter.

After a brief few instants of study, Helix partly-dispersed, flowing over the creature like a swarm of insects. When he was done, there wasn't much left to reanimate a second time.

"Crude, but effective. We should press onward before they succeed in pinning us down."

 

[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
Yorunarr Ahan-Yan'Sharlim | Tancred L'lerim (as Yorunarr) | Kael Varnok | Open​

I looked at the man with sadness when his cloak slipped to the ground, revealing the countless wounds and scars left by past battles. I could hardly imagine how many fights he must have been through before and in that moment, I felt so young. Like someone who had seen nothing of the Galaxy’s horrors, only through holorecordings and holobooks. If Cesare Demici hadn’t brought me here, to this space station, I would have remained far away from such atrocities.

What could I possibly say to him at the sight of those wounds? Somehow, I felt that pity would not be the right response. The man didn’t seem like a victim, and I had already learnt that there are people who despise being looked upon as one, or being pitied. Yet I couldn’t help but feel sorrow, a quiet grief for the suffering others had endured. So I simply stood there, unsure what to say… and looked at him, flustered.

"I never thought for a moment that you would be afraid, since you came here… behind the frontlines." I told him softly, with an awkward little smile.

Luckily, I didn’t have to say anything about being sorry for his wounds, or for what he had gone through, because he went on. His words made me blush, if he had heard my prayer, then how many others might have done the same? I needed a few seconds before I could even speak, and even then, it didn’t come easily.

"I never meant to put anyone in danger… I only asked Ashla for strength and guidance." I answered shyly, perhaps even trembling a little.

As my gaze followed the movement of his hand, I noticed the lightsaber. I swallowed hard. The Imperial soldiers would not stop and the man would have to hurt them. There was no good solution. Yet I didn’t want anyone to suffer because of me. I nodded to his words; I wasn’t sure what else I could have done; I couldn’t fight.

"I… I… all right. But I don’t want anyone to get hurt because of me." I replied, my voice trembling, breaking by the end.

Meanwhile, I tried to tend to the wounded, though my chest felt like it was going to burst from the pounding of my heart. My stomach knotted with fear, and my throat felt as though an invisible hand was tightening around it. As I worked, I saw the man speaking with someone else, but I couldn’t focus on the words, no matter to whom he spoke. Eventually, however, he returned to me.

"Oh, I see. And did you thi-" my voice faltered.

A familiar feeling washed over me; for a moment, I felt peace, as if my other half had appeared beside me. It had been such a long, long time since I had felt that presence; not since the day he had left home…

"Tancred?!" I whispered so softly it was barely audible, and at the same time, I called out in my mind; hoping for an answer.

…Yet I feared it was only my mind playing tricks on me, that the feeling wasn’t real at all.

 

[Kael Varnok]

He stopped beside Lilianna, gaze sweeping briefly over the wounded before finding hers. "Hey," he said quietly, steady but firm. "This… all this, it isn't because of you. Don't carry that weight." His tone was rough, honest, a soldier's comfort offered from someone who'd already borne too much himself.

His hand came to rest gently on her shoulder, grounding her trembling frame. "Look at me. You're safe for now. I won't let anyone else get hurt. Not while I'm here."

Kael turned his focus to the wounded, kneeling beside a fallen trooper. Blood pooled under the man's armor, and Kael pressed two fingers to his neck until he felt a faint pulse. His voice dropped into his comm, low but firm. "Korda, it's Kael. I've got wounded—Imperials and civilians alike. I need a medevac route secured. Whatever you can clear, do it fast."


Static hissed back at him, faint laughter flickering through Korda's end of the line. Kael's jaw tightened, but he didn't let it shake him. "No more dying today," he murmured as he cut the channel, glancing back to Lilianna. "Now come on. Help me get them ready to move."

Lilianna L'lerim Korda Veydran

 

[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 | Da'Razel | Janus Vipsanius | Open
Enemies
Corazona von Ascania | Open for a story, not for duel​

Voldran could feel through the Force that more and more beings were arriving at the space station; among them were both Lightsiders and Darksiders. Ironically, he despised and loathed both sides equally, as deeply as one could without actually falling to the Dark Side. It wasn’t that he hated every person individually; his contempt was directed toward the Force itself. After all, he had allies, and perhaps even a few he could have called friends, on both sides. It was more that he despised everyone, with only a few exceptions who somehow slipped through that filter.

Perhaps this stemmed from the simple fact that he trusted no one. Because of his demonic half, the Lightsiders wanted to kill him on sight - save for a few exceptions - while the Darksiders generally sought to enslave or defeat him, as was common among their kind. Yet there was someone aboard this ship for whom he nonetheless felt concern. A Lightsider. The girl, Corazona, reminded him of one of his sisters; one he had once been forced to bury.

He had many siblings in the past, most of them half-siblings, and even now one of them still lived; but nearly all the others had perished long before they ever had the chance to build families of their own. Most of his brothers and sisters had received not only Sith training but also Mandalorian upbringing, for their mother had once been both the Mand'alor and the Alor of Clan Harert. But the woman had wanted to shape every one of her children into a Sith, and the final trial had been to kill her. She had slain every challenger. Some even earlier – among them the girl who had resembled Cora. That was why he wanted to protect her.

As the ritual went on, these memories surfaced within him, especially once Janus Vipsanius joined in and the rite deepened. Even so, he tried not to give the girl even a moment of his attention, especially since he had already received her response. Voldran only sighed inwardly and furrowed his brow at Cora’s words, though there was no outward sign of it; not even in the Force. Finally, he answered Corazona von Ascania .

~ Please, then try not to get yourself killed. All right? ~ his voice was unusually soft in that moment.

At least, within his thoughts; for as the ritual continued, he kept chanting, lowering himself onto one knee and tracing several Sith runes onto the floor with his gauntleted hand. The words he spoke in the Sith tongue sounded harsh and severe.

["Asimi sas asimi diâ nisosûti drazutis ir ri wadinti iw ri Sith'ari."] he chanted.

The ritual continued, and he could only hope that someone would arrive in time to put an end to it… otherwise, the consequences for the Galaxy would be beyond imagining. Voldran knew this all too well, but the Sith runes burned into his soul left him unable to stop it. On the contrary... they bound him to play a prominent role in fulfilling Darth Solipsis 's will…