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Allied: Galactic Empire Opposition:Corazona von Ascania
| x3 Jedi Location: Death Star III | Nondescript Corridor Objective: III
Contact. A simultaneous clashing of energies impacted upon each other with magnificent blooms of distorted light and color. Luaven had managed a swift defense against either Jedi striking upon him, though nearly at the cost of losing his right foot. He'd swatted away either of the blades, retreating back slightly and regaining a more confident stance; however, he found himself stuck in place.
Resistance against everything, against every inch of movement he could muster. His arms denied him, and his legs did not heed the signals from his brain. Anger began to boil within Luvaen as his eyes shifted between the trio, his unfamiliarity with the current practice being used upon him created a feeling he'd not recognized prior. Fear of failure.
Fear of being defeated.
The faceless shadow attempted to will himself through the binding of the Force, staring daggers into the Rodian among the group as he himself tried for invading the smaller Jedi's mind, ripping into thoughts and memories, imparting the feeling of pain itself in order to destabilize their concentration. Though unafraid of the possibility of death itself, the young Sith was disgusted by the idea of destruction by the hands of Jedi. For all the information he'd been fed and absorbed over his short time alive in the galaxy, he'd placed his disgust and thoughts of animosity upon them.
Like a least favorite insect, he longed for their demise. He'd learned his hatred, and no other form of recognition would alter that now. His wish to dismantle them was permanent, like concrete after it'd set.
If they were to succeed in taking him out of this existence, they'd do so without even the slightest whimper. Only his eternal, forever silent disapproval.
It was rather anticlimactic, to see Darth Ayra
turn around in vanish just as easily as she had appeared, a moment which was so confusing and filled with a strange feeling of discomfort and disappointment, that the Lord of Hunger even momentarily seemed to pauze his drain upon the accumulated, festering darkness within the force which seemed to drench every inch of the battlestation. Still, as he was confounded by this sudden change, the monstrous abomination within the force turned towards the entity known as Onrai
.
"It doesn't matter... for those who cling to the phalacies of scripture and the oppression wrought by rules," His hand, enveloped by the large gauntlet set with several green kyberstones lifted upwards once more. "Without distraction, without constraint... without rules or codes to restrain oneselves from their true potential..."
A deep shudder would resonate through the area in which the armored man stood, sparks of electricity flying through the air, the corpses of the earlier interlopers turning to ash, ripples running through the gleaming floor and walls of the passageway they stood in, with pieces of those walls bending, shattering, and warping.
"Such a feast....such unfiltered hatred and pain," This was not the work of just some random gnat or mosquito no more, it was no more a leech or tick, it was a drain unlike any other, enforced by innate ability, by sith sorcery and strange magicks, a cold and unnatural feeling spreading far and wide from the man's position, rippling through the very force itself to such an extent that She should've been able to feel it, to connect with said voraciousness. Revna Marr
would no doubt understand it, she would understand that she would not be the only one overcome by the desire, the hunger in this battlestation. Darth Caedes
would know that death was near, for his senses to this phenomenon had shown to be strong in their last encounter. And Onrai
would have in this action, this display of raw, unabided hunger a straight line to the very ritual itself...one she could as such poison with their own immeasurable darkness. "Only fools would believe themselves to be gods, only those with the desire to evolve can see beyond such immature ideology."
Deonis and his three companions arrive before Darth Caedes
and Revna Marr
, blocking their path
Deonis and Magister Vhol begin draining power out of The Lord of Hunger
's drain, redirecting it back to the ritual
--------------------------
Though he had sensed his dark master's will from halfway across the galaxy as a child, Deonis had been blessed to stand in the presence of Darth Solipsis
only once - here, aboard the Death Star, as he aided in channeling the energy of the ritual toward the Emperor. To be so close to His power and majesty had been... overwhelming. The church magistrate had dared not look directly upon Him in the Force; trying to do so had been like staring at the sun. But like a sun, he had felt the enveloping warmth of His presence, the radiation of power flowing over him.
Yet today was also a day for other revelations... for it was also the first day Deonis had felt the presence of other Sith so close. The rivals of his master were swarming the station like angry fever wasps, buzzing and stinging. And though they were tiny little specks compared to the vastness of the battle station, they were a danger. Fever wasps laid eggs with their sting, eggs that hatched into larvae that fed on brain cells. In the same way, these intruders could be dangerous if their intrusion reached areas of importance. Deonis knew he must prevent that.
Yet the power he felt radiating from these intruders made fear creep along his spine... and a warhost of doubts assail the faith-built fortress in his mind. Compared to an ordinary man, Deonis was made powerful by the Force. He could choke the life from a sentient being without ever laying a finger on them, could drain a creature's vitality to heal his own wounds, could lift and throw a storm of heavy debris with invisible hands... but that was child's play compared to what was being unleashed here. Teleportation, flattened hallways, instantly annihilated squads...
These invaders were more akin to gods than to mortals. They were in a class far beyond Deonis.
In practical terms, that meant he was striding into terrible danger as he made his way to the station's edge. But in philosophical terms, didn't it prove his master's point? For all this power, the power to kill dozens with a flick of a wrist and hardly even a thought, these beings were content to be subordinates. They hid behind their Blackwall and ruled their petty feudal fiefdoms, giving praise to their Emperor or Empress. They had lost the Sith way - struggle, ambition, the will to dominate the entire galaxy. Solipsis, by contrast, stood alone. He challenged all and accepted no equal, let alone a superior.
And now that he had created this ritual, feeding on the suffering of an entire planet...
... these beings who ought to be gods had slunk out of the shadows like jackals to feed on his scraps.
No ambition to achieve anything themselves. They were not destiny-makers, but destiny-followers. Weak. Unworthy.
And Deonis was among the Emperor's elect, the ones blessed and empowered by Him, standing in His place of power. Perhaps that would be enough for him to survive a little while against these sharp-toothed scavengers - so much more powerful than he was, but so much more limited in vision. Stepping off the tram, Deonis and his trio of saint-sent allies made their way up the hall toward the spot where Darth Caedes
and Revna Marr
were slaughtering their way deeper into the station. Breathing deep of the dark energy, the magistrate banished all doubt.
He would live or die by the Emperor's will. So mote it be.
"Do you tire of pointless slaughter of those who cannot possibly resist you?" Deonis asked the pair of enemy Sith, stepping casually around a corner and into their view. "I would invite you to continue venting your childish pique upon the unworthy, for each death strengthens the ritual of my master, the Sith'ari... but I sense that you will soon seek to sup from a banquet which you have not earned, and I will not suffer you to steal from His table." Beside him, Magister Vhol - a wizened elder of Dathomir - stepped forward.
Vhol and Deonis raised their hands as one, stretching out in the Force. They could feel The Lord of Hunger
latching onto the ritual's pool of power, greedily lapping at it like a stray dog scarfs down spilled food. Near the center of the ritual, they could also sense Voldran Molf
detecting this same gluttonous intrusion. They brushed against Voldran's mind, inviting him to join in their counterattack. Then they gathered their strength and began their assault, reaching out to surround the stream of power being siphoned away from the ritual site.
A Jedi would have used a Force Barrier, no doubt - a defense solution to blunt this aggressive attack. But Deonis was a disciple of Sith teachings, immersed in the Dark Side, and defense was not the Sith way; aggression was. The magistrate and his ally Vhol instead unleashed a Force Drain, draining the drainage, siphoning off power from The Lord of Hunger
's feast and redirecting it back to the ritual. Vhol was a powerful conduit in the Force, and the energy flowed easily through him. It was like making a hole in a drinking straw, letting the liquid pour back out before it reached the waiting mouth.
With Voldran to further bolster their draining attack, the effects would grow even greater.
In the meantime, Deonis's other companions blocked the hallway before Darth Caedes
and Revna Marr
. Zharrek's blazing electro-whip and Brother Vaan's crossguard saber blazed in the darkness of the hall, which had lost direct power as a result of so many of the surrounding hallways being crushed and mangled. "We are few," Deonis told the intruding Sith, "and the Emperor's challengers are many... But is this not the way of true Sith? True Sith do not serve, or cower at the galaxy's edge. They accept all challengers... and conquer them."
"This is His place of power. You are nothing here. And I am but the least of His servants."
Onrai's shade, now fully opaque, did something utterly remarkable as her wayward apprentice simply disappeared. It was as though she had been nothing more than a wraith, a ghost that had for a mere moment manifested itself in a way the former mortal could hardly fathom.
Which was why Onrai blinked.
Indeed, she yet returned to her further siphoning of the ritual even as Credius yet spoke to her.
"It doesn't matter... for those who cling to the phalacies of scripture and the oppression wrought by rules," His hand, enveloped by the large gauntlet set with several green kyberstones lifted upwards once more. "Without distraction, without constraint... without rules or codes to restrain oneselves from their true potential..."
"There are more things in heaven and earth than can be dreamt of by mere philosophy." The shade said even as she further supped from the wellspring of dark power. With every passing second., what she had expended at the hand of Ashin Cardé Varanin
's former apprentice was further regained, consumed to repair her damaged form. Cracks and crevices in the shadow healed, and her risk of an unexpected apotheosis to another stage of existence was yet averted.
"Gods have obligations to fulfill. The delineation between one worthy of worship and worthy of scorn is how those that venerate them are treated." She said, the faintest trace of a smile visible on her lips. "Should you ever achieve a degree of apotheosis, remember this - the dead gods will never awaken if their followers refuse to rouse them from their slumber." Of course, then it wasn't that easy, but nothing here would be. A Sith, one of the supplicants of Solipsis, was yet seeking to intrude on their feast. She gave a thoughtful murmur - the use of Force Drain, a technique of the Dark Side to draw energy away from Credius's consumption of the ritual. An expected response.
"Allow me." She said. A focus struck Onrai as she sought to intrude, to intervene in Deonis' manipulation of Force energies by intruding on them with her own Anti-Force energies, seeking to mingle the two and directly consume the residue of the resulting reaction. The power of the clash would, in theory, be hers and hers alone to control - her hope and expectation was that the lack of familiarity he had with her powers, themselves of a different breed from his target, would render it difficult for him to adapt to her assault on his own redirection of the ritual - and hopefully remove him as an annoyance to the duo as they further disrupted Solipsis's schema.
The sound of torn metal hadn't even faded before Ravoch moved.
The Lord's hand shot out, fast and precise, catching Ace's dominant arm mid-swing. The grip was like iron, fingers closing around his forearm before the blade could fully arc. The shove that followed threatened to throw him off balance but Ace didn't fight it. He used it.
He surged upward, boots leaving the deck as his body twisted with the pull. His head snapped forward, a blur of motion and fury. Bone met bone with a sharp crack, the kind that rang in both skulls. Pain flashed white behind his eyes, maybe it had an effect, maybe it didn't. But it would serve as a reminder that he wasn't dealing with an average 'Padawan'.
Before gravity could claim him, Ace planted both boots squarely against the Sith's chest and kicked off with everything he had. The move sent him flipping backward through the haze, the Force coiling through his core as he righted himself mid-air. He landed low a few meters away, knees bending to absorb the impact, blue light cutting through the smoke between them.
He came up in a defensive stance, chest heaving, the ache in his forehead flaring sharp. Ravoch's armor smoked where the chunk of metal had hit earlier, but the man himself… he looked unfazed. Composed. The picture of control. Like always.
Their lightsabers met again, the clash lighting up the foundry in flickers of molten color. Ravoch's Makashi form was maddeningly tight, every motion efficient, deliberate, and calculated. Ace pressed harder, letting wide Shii-Cho sweeps bleed into heavier Djem So strikes, hammering from new angles, pushing him back toward the warped skeleton of the catwalk above. Every movement had weight. Every clash burned through what little energy he had left.
But Ravoch's precision was relentless. He redirected, parried, letting Ace's momentum work against him. The Sith wasn't just enduring; he was dictating the fight, forcing Ace to move where he wanted.
Then the counter came. Ravoch's lightsaber locked his downward strike mid-motion, sparks spitting in the space between, and in the same instant, three quick thrusts followed. The first grazed his side; the second drove him back; the third nearly found flesh before Ace pivoted, catching it at the last second.
Then the insults returned, the critiques. Ace didn't answer. His jaw clenched, expression flat but eyes burning, it was the same defiance that had carried him through his whole life.
Ravoch circled, blade poised. Talking. Again. Then he said something that struck the rebel. That he had fallen too far.
For the first time, Ace hesitated. Just for a heartbeat. He could feel the truth in it, not in the words, but in the weight. That same imbalance, that same darkness pressed beneath his skin.
The thought burned hot, then died just as fast when the crushing pressure came. The Force clamped around him, invisible hands squeezing the air from his lungs, dragging at his limbs. The world constricted: pipes groaning, metal bending, air thickening.
Ace's boots slid back, muscles straining. The air rippled around him as he pushed back through sheer will but the next flick of Ravoch's wrist sent him flying.
He twisted mid-flight, using the momentum like a slingshot. The grating and railing behind him exploded as he crashed through a support beam, sparks showering through the air. The impact didn't stop him.
Ace hit the next wall shoulder-first, metal folding under the force, and tore straight through into the adjoining corridor. He skidded across the deck, until he caught himself against a half-collapsed console. He dragged in a breath through his teeth, tasting blood. His lungs burned, but his grip stayed tight on the hilt of his blade.
Red emergency lights strobed overhead, cutting the corridor into flashes of color and shadow. Pipes lined both walls, some cracked and hissing. He was in an auxiliary maintenance wing now, tighter than the foundry
Ace straightened, rolling his shoulder once. Pain flared, dull but manageable. His boots hammered the surface as he moved forward, keeping low. He could feel Ravoch's presence closing in. Every step the man took seemed to hum through the durasteel itself.
He wasn't running. He was regrouping. Reclaiming the rhythm.
Ace stopped at a junction, listening. The hum of his lightsaber grew louder in the narrow corridor, blue light cutting through the haze. Ace turned, jaw set, eyes locked on the faint silhouette stepping through the steam-choked breach.
The man continued chanting, reinforcing the rune and drawing new ones. Naturally, Voldran could sense that someone was trying to siphon off the power of the ritual. This was the kind of situation in which he would, of course, have been glad that someone had done so, yet at the same time, it was something he could not allow to happen. It only took moments for him to realise that others among those assisting in the ritual, or those protecting them, had sensed the same thing. Deonis was among them. Voldran could almost immediately feel that the man, too, was trying to counter it.
For the time being, however, the Sithspawn did not concern himself with this. He continued the chant as he rose to his feet, drawing runes on the walls and the floor. These were defensive runes meant to weaken the strength of the attacks directed against them. They would not last long, for he had arranged them so that the ritual itself and the swirling Force energies within the chamber would feed them. Of course, with so little time spent on their creation, they would be weaker than if he had spent minutes or even hours carefully building them. But now, time was a luxury they did not possess.
Meanwhile, he also sensed - and heard - that @Corazona von Ascaria had answered him. But in this situation, he had no time for a lengthy reply; only a brief response reached the girl.
~ I shall strive to resist and defy, as I always have. ~ It was both an answer and a promise to her; his voice carried the longing that he wished he could do more.
After that, he slowly finished drawing the runes around the chamber they were in. He would have liked to make them perfect, but he simply did not have the strength to resist his mother’s control; and her presence could already be felt aboard the ship. The man grimaced… and then…
He smiled bitterly, feeling the disturbance in the Force, then the easing of the pressure and the near-complete cessation of the ritual’s energy. He could feel the alien power causing this. His knowledge of the Anti-Force told him it neutralised the Force. If that was true, then their opponent, Onrai
, could now neutralise the entire enemy effort. He wondered for a moment; why? Out of ignorance or carelessness? It didn’t matter to Voldran or to the ritual. What mattered was that the attack was nowhere near strong enough, and with Deonis Laythar
and himself trying to absorb any remaining energy, they might just neutralise the effect completely.
As far as Voldran knew, it worked like simple physics: if there was a force and an opposing counter-force, they cancelled each other out, leaving nothing behind. This was what he had been taught about the connection between the Force and the Anti-Force, when his father had drilled Sith knowledge into his mind.
But then his thoughts returned to the present. He continued chanting, aiding Vinaze and the others in their ritual. Reaching out into the Force, he attempted to use Force Drain against the Force Drain attacking them. If he succeeded in stealing something back, he would channel it straight into the ritual. He found it entirely possible that, due to the combined effect of the Force and Anti-Force attack, his and Deonis’ countermeasure might fully neutralise the impact; just as he had thought earlier. Amid the relentless struggle that the ritual demanded of him, Voldran could only hope that it would not come to pass.
"Nuri mus, nuri mus wodichu tutsatsa dzis ri Sith'ari an dari jiso waria!" he continued the chant.
None could claim that Mercy was without patience and mercy—lowercase.
She had been faintly amused by the harem and wife remark. Oh, if only Meliant knew a little more. For a while she'd assumed his needling was born of ignorance; not everyone recognized the company they kept. Ignorance could be forgiven. Corrected, even.
But then he called her little miss champion.
Mercy's eyes narrowed on Meliant's back. Her patience was not endless.
When the group came to a halt before the great doors of the throne room, she reached out to tap him on the head. From anyone else, it might have been nothing more than a reprimand—a warning flick meant to sting his pride, a reminder that Mercy thought nothing of bruising an ego that had gone too far.
But Mercy's hand carried a whisper of the abyss. The air shuddered as the Force bent inward around her palm, compressed into a single, perfect point. If her touch met his helm, that quiet ripple would become a shockwave; the space between them snapped taut with invisible weight.
The sound was dull, almost soft, but the result was anything but.
Meliant would be hurled sideways like a ragdoll, armor screeching as he hit the wall hard enough to crater it. Dust drifted from the ceiling, the echo rolling through the corridor before dying away.
"He was rude to his Sith'ari," Mercy explained mildly, brushing her hands clean as if finishing a mundane task. Her tone was almost bored. "If any of you have further lessons in civility to impart to dear Meliant, now's the time. I'd like to get to the main part of the show."
Gerra seemed to command his brother's compliance for now. The small party followed their verbose... erm, captive? Arris wasn't really sure. However, the man seemed less than enthusiastic about the situation, despite a lack of hostility. The Talusian knew better than to chime in with questions and trusted her companions' motives as they all moved towards the Emperor's throne room.
Okay - she allowed herself one. "So is this what we're all about, Merce? Gotta settle that score with the Core-Emperor?"
She sighed. "I thought we were content since he abandoned your fight and fled Desevro with his lackeys."
The nature of Kaggath eluded her, as did Mercy's insistence, but her remarks were less a complaint and more fishing for context she anxiously lacked. Thankfully, a combination of cyberware and street smarts allowed her to remain cool and nonchalant about it. Not a lick of that anxiety leaked through her voice or body language.
"Ugh, this may be the worstharem I've ever seen," Meliant said, scoffing. "What your wife must think... Oh, what am I saying? She's probably relieved."
Her amusement drained at the sight of the dead. There was more fighting throughout the station, and she recognized dead Jedi anywhere since Kattada.
"I guess we aren't the only ones. You think the Emperor has other guests?"
The advance must have been tedious. Meliant was thankful to have been absent for it. "Looks like you're not the only one with an axe to grind, little miss champion." He said to Mercy, gesturing at the carnage and snickering.
She followed with a low whistle and looked at Mercy. Too late to gauge the Titan's reaction. All it took was a moment for her to assault the Dark Jedi with a trick she hadn't seen before, and the cyborg reckoned she had gone longer in a fight with the Galactic Champion than most.
"He was rude to his Sith'ari," Mercy explained mildly, brushing her hands clean as if finishing a mundane task. Her tone was almost bored. "If any of you have further lessons in civility to impart to dear Meliant, now's the time. I'd like to get to the main part of the show."
Arris shrugged, drew her revolver, and let roar the dragon - krayt's breath - a sticky, burning substance that would cling to any material and grow hotter until it burned consistently for a long, long time. If it hit him, he would feel the temperature within his armor rise to hostile degrees, turning the suit's internal environment into one mirroring a molten world. Of course, she had no idea what kind of being lay within.
If Mercy had a bone to pick, then Arris would pick it with her.
She'd broken through the Sith's guard. For a fleeting moment, Kito wanted to smile — to savor that small victory — but it died the instant the dark warrior steadied herself. The air thickened with danger as the retaliation came faster than Kito could breathe.
From the corner of her eye, the Shaper caught the flash of the Jedi Master's movement, but there was no time to check if she was all right. If Ashina had fallen, Kito would have to finish this alone.
The Padawan's eyes widened as the enemy blurred forward, body burning with the Force in a way Kito recognized all too well. Speed, strength — the same trick she'd used to overwhelm others. Her chest tightened. This one was no arrogant Sith, no fool to underestimate her.
The downward strike came hard and fast. For a heartbeat, panic fluttered in her ribs — and then her training, her instincts, and the echo of Master Ashina's words. All of it, steadied the padawan.
Kito shifted her weight, feet sliding into stance. The lower hand on her odachi's hilt drove forward, the upper guiding the blade upward into the descending blow. The two strikes met in a shower of sparks as blessed steel met ion, the impact shuddering down her arms as she held steady. Her jaw tightened at the pain that echoed in her bones. The strike was heavier than anticipated, but Kito held on through the pain.
Instead of retreating, Kito stepped in, twisting her hips to force their weapons off-line and jam the Sith's momentum. Her goal wasn't just to block — it was to bind. If she could hold the Sith here, even for a breath, it would give her Master the opening she needed. They just needed one opening to end this, to end the threat on Atrisia.
Close now, she saw her own reflection in the polished black of the Sith's mask. The sight stirred something reckless inside her. Kito drew her head back, then drove it forward with the full weight of the Force behind it. At this point, Kito did her best to ignore the consequences of her attacks. She had willingly put herself into the focus of the Sith.
For a brief moment, she didn't care if she died — they just had to stop the inevitable destruction.
Just as her head swung forward, Kito thought quietly of her quiet promises in the dark. She had promised someone she wouldn't take needless risks. But in this moment, with her Master behind the Sith and the enemy before her, there was no room for hesitation.
I looked up, flustered, when the man spoke to me so firmly; I was so startled by his military tone that I think I even forgot to blush. I knew I hadn’t caused those wounds, yet I still felt empathy for him. I suppose; or rather, I know that my empathy was far too high in cases like this. I didn’t know what to say; I was a medic, after all, and I think it’s natural to worry about someone who has suffered so much, or carries such scars. Perhaps it was because I had spent almost my entire life confined to my sterile room while sick. And I knew what that was like.
"Thank you!" I whispered, barely audible, in response to the reassurance that I was safe now.
Truthfully… I mostly felt this because I sensed Tancred nearby. I didn’t know this man, I didn’t know what he was capable of. Of course, I had no doubt about his goodwill, yet he remained unknown to me. True safety could only be felt beside someone you knew, someone with whom you shared a bond. I continued tending to the wounded; more had arrived now. My white attire was already soaked with bloodstains from the injuries, but I didn’t mind. Meanwhile, the man spoke with someone else, requesting an escape route.
"How do you propose that? We are deep within the space station, and this place is vast." I asked, a little worried, imagining we might be several kilometres, or even tens of kilometres deep… or perhaps even further.
I didn’t know what he would say, nor did I know what might have happened to my twin, but I did know he was approaching. A few heartbeats later, I heard his voice in my mind. My whole body and soul were flooded with warmth and joy, hearing his voice again after such a long time. It was different, deeper. He was still only a preteen, just like I had been the last time I heard him. Tears welled up in my eyes involuntarily, burning as they gathered.
~ You’ve grown… your voice has become so manly… Tancred, I’ve missed you so terribly! ~ By the end of my words, I was truly crying. ~ I think there’s a Jedi here… and someone has requested an evacuation route… ~
I pulled off my medical gloves and tossed them aside, then wiped my eyes and reached for a fresh sterile pair.
"My brother will likely arrive here soon with reinforcements. We must wait for them; they will help as well." I said hurriedly to the man, my voice trembling slightly from crying.
Meanwhile, I kept trying to stabilise the patient lying before me, and silently, I beseeched… I prayed to Ashla for my brother and his team to arrive safely. I clung to Tancred’s voice, to the feelings it stirred in me, just to hold on until they came. Now, in the waiting, every single second felt like hours…
…until I could finally see him again.
//OOC: My idea was that Lilia is almost near the centre of DS III based on the earlier storyline in consultation with the writer of Cesare who brought her here. That puts the characters at least 75-80km deep from everything (and that's how we discussed it with Tancred's writer), so that's why I'm not reacting to what was in the hangar, because there's no way she'd hear it from 70+ km away.//
Kael crouched beside another wounded patient, hands moving with precise, efficient motions. His tattoos glimmered in the medbay's harsh lighting, battle scars intersecting the swirling tribal script. He glanced at Lilianna, noting the tremor in her hands, the tightness around her eyes.
"Listen… I know this place feels like the end of the line," he said quietly, voice low but clipped with military cadence. "I've been where the fire never quits. Where every decision is life or death, and mistakes get printed on your skin." His fingers pressed firmly, checking pulse, adjusting bandages. "I was barely thirteen when I saw my first ambush back home, on Drosk-7. Learned the hard way that hesitation kills, and mercy… mercy's a luxury you can't afford. We ran raids, defended villages, and counted the dead afterward, always counting, always moving."
His blue eyes flicked back to her, and a shadow passed over them. The cadence of his words began to darken, a tone not meant for others, one shaped by the memory of friends and innocents lost. "I've held men in my arms as they bled out. Watched their last breath slip past… and sometimes I wanted—" His hands froze, the words caught in his throat. He clenched his jaw, forcing the darkness down.
Kael shook his head slightly, and the sharp edge of his military tone softened. "Sorry… didn't mean to—talk like that. Can't let the shadows take hold here, not now. Not while you're watching." His lips curved faintly, a grim acknowledgment of the burden he carried.
He returned to the wounded, voice firm but calmer. "We focus. One patient at a time. Stabilize. Prep for transport. I'll make sure no one else gets hurt under my watch—not by your hand, mine, or anyone else's. You and I… we keep moving. Keep breathing. Keep saving lives."
Kael's hands worked tirelessly, each motion measured, each touch careful. He spared her a glance from the corner of his eye. "I've survived the fire of my world, Lilianna. And I'll make damn sure you survive this one."
The echo of Romi's words faded into the dark like stones sinking in deep water. The cold, the feeling, that was his presence basking in the death like a parasite. His foul permanence penetrated the very walls and steel beneath her feet, and in the backdrop of chaos, in the finality of battle that waged outside the throne room in the open space, only twin orbs of sulfur gaze back at her from his dark silhouette. The Sith’ari stood unmoving before the duo, the starlight from the viewport burning cold along the edges of his form, black upon black, a shape.. no a wound carved into reality.
The Emperor began his slow descent from the dais, the hem of his robe whispering across the jet black durasteel, the heavy air thick with power drawn taut. Clouds of fire bloomed behind him, Atrisia burning across the horizon, each one a flower in the his dark garden. Each death, fuel for the ritual below, and for its master above.
"You see my end…" he echoed her words, ember eyes flaring with mockery. "I am the end."
The floor trembled faintly beneath their boots. The Death Star's hum grew louder, a pulse synchronizing with the breath of the galaxy itself. The Emperor extended a single hand, not toward Romi, nor toward Ashina, but toward the sealed blast doors behind them. The very doors opening wide once more in anticipation.
A ripple of violet-black energy coursed through the chamber.
"Let them bear witness." he murmured, the faintest curl of a smile breaking his corpse-still face.
The doors shuddered, screamed, and peeled open as if torn apart by invisible claws. The gust of recycled air brought with it the smell of ozone, blood, and ritual incense, and through the widening breach, others would come into full view. Interlopers who had landed in a hanger bearing the markings of another, bypassing all defense measures, anti air craft weaponry, and Imperial Navy. A feat, few other could attest too, especially with no prior coordination into the station or its defenders. This party had valiantly bypassed over a million strong, from the mid section of the trench to the north side of the Death Star. Traversing an entire moon in no short than maybe an hour or more, ignoring defenses and Imperial defenders alike. He pondered what they hoped to achieve here, where so many others of their ilk had failed, but he would not underestimate their resolve.
He sensed Meliant
, one of his Dark Side Elite, outmatched in the corridor. The dull thunder of a body striking durasteel reverberated through the corridor beyond, Mercy's hand still lowered, dust still settling. The air was charged, pregnant with violence and the scent of ozone.
He turned, his cloak trailing smoke, as though gravity itself bent beneath his will. Back to those who had bravely arrived prior to the assault, stowaways of the Lightsworn. He threw his hand outward, sending bolts of crimson light arcing across the chamber toward Inosuke Ashina
and Romi Jade
.
He felt each twinge of death rejuvenate him and with each spark of scarlet hate, he felt his power grow bolder, his body more potent. The air lit up with static, a brilliant struggle had just begun.
Ahh, all the harrowing obstacles they’d endured to reach this point: the stormtrooper platoons in the entry corridors from the hangar; the junk golems corrupted from their remains; the mechu deru hijacking of a high speed tram; and of course its ruin by Ashin; the Death Trooper squad outside the Overbridge; and now his own brother.
Gerra had lost all the Vahlan corsairs who came with him. Sars split off from him. Then CT-312 on her mission. Then Quinn to face her mother. Much had been sacrificed to reach this point, for those who paid them heed. But now he sensed a terminus to this tale.
It seemed Meliant’s barbs had an effect on the women. Gerra shook his head and watched impassively. Meliant would either stand and show his words were backed by strength, or fall and in so falling learn a lesson.
Nevermind. The way is open, join us if you choose.
Similarly he reached out and brushed the mind of Quinn Varannin, letting her know where they were.
“Mercy, Meliant. Enough. The way is open.”
A trail of corpses led the path in, how interesting. It seemed they were not the only ones to carve a path to the throne room. Someone had came before and - as a trail blazer in a jungle - cleared the path.
The hiss of a cloak catching the crimson blade rang in his ears. Something about it was wrong and unnatural. Lysander’s teeth clenched behind the vocoder, hating the way her theatrics answered to his own, like he were stumbling right into someone else's script.
Eyes darted, lenses cutting through the haze. He felt the air shift long before he saw her, the Force itself trying to warn him. Left.
Venomous and gleeful, the words hit him just like the knee that followed. Lysander had angled his body just enough, shoulders twisting, core braced as though forming a brick wall. The impact still reverberated through the armor, and pain flared, stealing his breath. Reflexively, he spat saliva and copper against the inside of his vocoder grille.
“Filthy wretch,” he snarled, voice distorted through the helm.
Servos whined as her strength tested his grip, feeling the intense pressure clamping down. With a sharp twist, he rolled the saber in a counter, claws scraping across armor.
Then the tail came. A low sweep, fast and vicious. He caught the motion in the corner of his eye, boots already shifting. He hopped back half a step, but the lash still clipped his shin guard, rattling his stance. His ankle screamed protest.
He began to move like a duelist, rather than a simple-minded brawler, though the timing would be a bit late. Weight shifting, shoulders rolling, the ankle jarred him, pain traveling up his leg. With a sharp pivot the next strike caught his outer thigh, still thudding deep. From the corner of his eye, he caught the tail, boots shifting, hopping back half a step, yet still clipping his shin. His stance rattled, and the ankle screamed.
Anger surged, hot and electric, flooding his veins. He let it. He welcomed it.
Dipping at the knees, muscles straining under darker currents, a leap tore him free of her reach. When he came down, it was not with a crash, but boots kissing the deck as lightly as a whisper. From that landing, Lysander breathed deeply, helm tilting slightly as his stance narrowed, every part of his body recalibrating for the fight ahead.
The distance between them was his once more.
“I thought I was staring down another Imperial.. same noise, same arrogance. Then I remembered, they usually bore me. You just irritate me.”
His next inhale would linger, as if all life slowed to match that breath. Then a gauntleted hand shifted, fingers splayed, palm angled toward the towering figure. An invisible pressure coiled, a low groan rippling through the deck playing. When he released the exhale, all the tension snapped, bucking outward in a violent rush. Smoke and sparks torn into wake. The sound was ugly, guttural, like lungs had been forced to cough.
The tram continued moving.. she could hear the people in the stations as they continued to arrive and some were fighting. Connel and Acier were busy... she knew Carnifex was here and she wondered about the blue skinned jedi who had run off.. she hadn't done a lot as the jedi masters attention was sifting around. Some amusement forming though as the tram was racing down towards the central areas more and more with an opening coming to show another with a squad of soldiers who were looking at her. "Hmmm, if I left the station in the Tarkin food court going at one hundred eighty five kilometers an hour and have only made it this far in to the Isard spa levels... Far fast would they have been having to go to catch up with me when they seem to have left the Fyre level?"
She tapped her chin while staying there for a moment as one of the trooper rushed to jump over with fire coming from the others. her body reacting when the blaster bolt struck the air and molecules sending the ripples. Her body moved to the side quickly as the blaster went past and she barely looked at him. Allowing the one that had jumped to land before the tram dropped down with a heavy clunk... then he fell back while she was moving to dodge with weaves. One hand pointing before she was lifting the tram cars off the track. Hers kept going as it changed tracks over to theirs.. the trams merging for a moment when she was vibrating the cars into one another.... then it was a displacement wave that sent them outwards and into the walls.
She looked at them while she was going deeper and deeper. The senses tingling before the tram stopped. Another robed figure standing there who turned to look at her and the jedi master spoke as they were coming at her. Blade drawn and snapping to life. "Wait... my turn." She said it and the figure paused... their body showing a stillness that was unnatural as she spoke. "Now stop hammer time." Her looks at them as she moved to the side for a moment and away down the rest of the way. The cloaked figure falling to their knees on the tram when she released their body in a moment. Her hand going to her throat as she couldn't speak but watched the figure going down the tunnel towards the crystal chambers. Matsu was moving and she floated through another wall as she was looking.
One moment Meliant was staring at the doors to the throne room, the next he was lodged in the wall. It all transpired so quickly he could hardly process what happened, much less even think to get angry about it. He smashed straight through the cheap exterior paneling, then the cheap innards, and was now tangled in a mess of cracked debris and torn wires (these were also cheap - no one ever built a Death Star this quickly without cutting corners).
Instinctively he struggled, jerking one way and another in a failed bid to free himself quickly. Small wisps of smoke rose from various tears in the armor. His temper caught up with him after processing Mercy's words, about a second after she had already moved to be on her way.
"Fuck you!" He yelled after, "What lessons? As soon as I…"
The cyborg woman stepped forward and absently took aim at him with a rather large revolver.
This was sufficient incentive for Meliant to intensify his struggle, but he still only managed to tear one arm free. "Wait, wait, wait, wait…!"
A single shot of high-calber krayt's breath tore through his duraplast chestplate, plus the armorweave fabric underneath. Meliant vaguely sensed it pass through to the other side and travel just a bit deeper into the walls than he had.
And, of course, he was now on fire. The arcane smoke which made up his being was soon intermingled with real smoke as the krayt's breath ignited within and without him. Strictly speaking, this did not hurt, but it wasn't exactly comfortable or dignified either.
Meliant soon blossomed into a beautiful bonfire which hurled invectives (in the hissing language of the ancient Sith, no less) at the party as they proceeded to their final battle with one of the several Sith'ari.
Shoving away the shock of his circumstances, Haro did his best to absorb as much information as he could amidst the chaos. With a steadying breath, he resigned to the understanding that whatever was happening—whatever colossal conflict these mad Sith were bringing them into—would likely be explained or reveal itself in time. So he focused on the exchanges between those in charge instead, listening carefully and watching how they interacted with each other in an effort to glean intelligence. Each of them commanded the space, but not in a way that overshadowed one another as he might have expected of powerful Sith. Indeed, this particular group appeared to be dangerously collaborative, which was simultaneously reassuring and deeply unsettling to the young spy.
As Haro had predicted, answers were soon forthcoming. On their way to the warclaws, the King himself briefed them on where they were, what they were facing, why he and Naami had been summoned, and what each of their roles were to be. It took Haro a moment to orient where Atrisia was before a new wave of dread washed over him. They were in the Core Worlds, and the battlefield they found themselves in was most likely one between the remnants of the Galactic Alliance and the Galactic Empire. Though the King spoke cryptically of their ultimate goal, it became clear that the intention was to board the Empire’s planet-killing battlestation and cut out the darkness from within, much to Haro’s surprise. It seemed like a decidedly Jedi thing to do, Haro dared to wonder just as the King’s coal-bright gaze bore into him and he swallowed hard.
"You're to be my lock and key,"Darth Caedes
instructed. "Once we're inside, you will ensure that I have a clear path through to the station's heart. Take this.”
The code cylinder that was pressed into Haro’s hands felt heavier after he was told what it really was. Not because of the physical weight, but because of the power such an item would grant him. Such a device was a master key to anything and everything that could interface with the standardized technology of the galaxy, and the Typhojem Super-AI he’d been given access to made the possibilities for sabotage and information gathering essentially limitless.
“Understood, sir.” Haro affirmed absently as he stared down at the code cylinder in awe.
Even as he tucked the device away and climbed into the warclaw with the rest of the boarding party, his mind spun with the possibilities of what all he might be able to do with such unlimited access—more, what he might be able to get away with if he was somehow able to keep it after this was all over. Naamino Zuukamano
’s steadying hand on his shoulder grounded him in the moment and he met those icy blue eyes through their tinted vizors as the door sealed shut behind them. Gaze softening with the immense gratitude he felt for his Zabrak protector, he grabbed the side of Naami’s helmed head with one gloved hand and brought their foreheads together for a moment of camaraderie before battle.
“We’ve got this, buddy. Good luck out there,” he assured just loud enough for Naami to hear.
***
Once inside the Death Star, the Sith boarding party wasted no time delving deeper into the battlestation in pursuit of its destruction. A woman’s voice crackled over the comms—Haro recognized it belonged to one of the ones who had stayed on the Eidolon, Lina Ovmar
—explaining her interpretation of the anomaly that churned in space around the battlestation. The eerily cheerful and deeply unsettling presence of Professor Madrona A’Mia
slithered into his mind again in response and he cringed despite himself. Why couldn’t she just use the fething comm-link like everyone else?
With a casual swipe of her hand, the Srina Talon
shared the schematics of the Death Star with the team and Haro quickly pulled them up on his datapad. While he studied the information, the Empress and the King exchanged brief conversation about splitting up to cover more ground and what was most important to target.
Haro snapped to attention at the King’s command and he nodded in acquiescence, hesitating only briefly at the idea of leading this party when he was definitely the one most likely to die if he was shot, but he trusted Naami to keep him safe so he did as he was told. With their route to the main reactor already memorized, Haro tucked his datapad away and readied his blaster.
Team Korriban kept steady momentum through the maze of corridors while Haro—armed with the code cylinder—made short work of locked doors and automated security systems. He was even able to utilize the Eyes of Typhojem to detect incoming enemy signatures and intercept many of them them by locking down blast doors or turning their own security systems against them. Even with the tools at his disposal, slicing into the battlestation’s robust security network and interfacing with the complex Super-AI system required most of his focus, but his attention was pulled toward the incredible feats of his Force wielding team more than a few times. If it weren’t for his helmet, he would have embarrassed himself with a jaw-dropped expression as he witnessed the King crush an entire hallway and all the soldiers inside with the Force. He flinched despite himself as Revna Marr
’s brutal torrent of lightning tore through another wave of stormtroopers.
"Something approaches… You feel it too?" Haro overheard the King ask.
"I do, yes." Revna agreed.
"We are soon to have company.”
"Someone is coming to stand against us."
The foreboding exchange between the King and his Queen-to-be left Haro feeling uneasy and he glanced over his shoulder at Naami inquisitively. Before he could ask his buddy if he felt anything, Caedes barked his next command and Haro made to continue down the corridor but stopped abruptly as the snap-hiss of two enemy weapons flared to life before him—a saber and light whip, each casting a sinister glow in the darkened end of the corridor and revealing the figures of the opposition as predicted.
"We are few," a new voice intoned. Fortunately, whoever it was decided to monologue some cryptic Sith jargon before rushing them, so Haro retreated to a more defensive position behind Naami, glancing down one of the branching corridors that was still intact.
“If you can buy me some time, I might be able to find us another route to the main reactor,” Haro offered through the group comm channel and pulled out his datapad to begin pouring over the schematics.
A sudden flash strobed across the obsidian floor, red and white -- the bolts split the air with a shriek. She felt her lungs seize, and she didn't have half the second to grab her saber; she threw her arms out, but the bolts had the momentum. She made an animal noise that was a mix of irritation and pain as her right hand flailed under the assault -- she met the lightning mid-flight. Pain bit deep, her hand blistered, her teeth clenched; She jerked back with a massive effort.
Romi's body slammed against something hard -- but she held. She caught the torrent and it bent inward, forming a sphere of energy in her palms. The sound was unbearable. The energy in her palms began to flare white-hot, energy flooding her veins, nerves lit with pain, until the reservoir inside her howled.
Then it broke.
The backlash tore through the throne room; the shockwave pulsed outward in concentric rings, whatever wasn't attached was hurled around the room. There was a deafening shriek as the pressure imploded. The alarm klaxons rang true.
Pushed off balance from the implosion, she let herself fall to side side, shoulder digging into the what this surface was; a pillar? a console bank? Forearms burning, finger tips smoking, se pressed her free hand into it, and she wrenches her body forward as hard and as fast as she could.
She sucked air in, quick. She drew in her energy, shrugging it on like some sort of well-worn cloak, leaving her own current of power to fall around her like some sort of rippling wave.
Snap-hiss!
She whirred her blade.
The room was still shaking when Romi moved. Her saber snapped to life, scarlet blade with a white core flaring against the red strobes, and in some instances blending in. Momentum carried her, skidding to a halt, as she stroked her saber from ear to waist through the plum of smoke, slashing for Solipsis's dark frame as she came through the cloud on the other side to see his full figure. She intended for her blade to meet his and slide; the contact wasn't a clash but a lure, wanting to draw his guard high.
Mercy didn't pay any mind to Meliant's cursing. If she did, she'd have to admit that whatever lesson she and Arris tried to impart was in vain. He was still as rude as the moment they'd met. But he was only a sideshow. A furious, fiery sideshow, granted, but one nonetheless. Mercy didn't want to give him too much attention.
That would only be a reward.
The corridor's smoke peeled back as the mangled doors folded inward, spilling harsh light across the floor. The air shimmered faintly in front of Mercy, the way it sometimes did when her presence pressed against reality's seams. She blinked at the sight inside.
"How the fuck did she get here before we did?" she asked Arris, incredulous, as a wisened old Jedi launched herself at Solipsis. Proper form, quick and agile for her age. It would have been impressive—if Mercy weren't mildly irritated at being upstaged. "I told you we should've used one of your fancy arse gates, Gerra."
She sighed, exhaling through her nose. Normally, this would be the moment she'd let the fury in her blood bloom and consume the space around her. Normally.
But Mercy had no intention of attacking Solipsis. Not yet.
"Let us know when you're done playing with your food, Solipsis," she called out, her voice carrying easily through the charged air. "A Kaggath doesn't end because you get bored. I'm here to continue what I started at the Conclave."
The shadows near her boots seemed to pulse once, as if reacting to her words, before settling again. Her companions might have different plans, might wish to interfere, but even without respect for the old Sith Lord, Mercy had a line she wouldn't cross. She had standards. They were low, of course. But they were there.
One of them was that you didn't ally with a Lightside mongrel. Not even if it was convenient, not if you could help it.
If no one was immediately attacking her, Mercy would simply drift toward one of the side walls, the air thickening subtly in her wake. She began to inspect the interior cabinets—dust, relics, half-burnt datacrons—while the throne room echoed with the clash of titans. It was best to know what she'd be claiming when the noise finally stopped.
Location: Aboard the Eidolon
Objective: Oversight and Backup
Lina’s head tilted, watching her companion, her form spreading across the deck as she seemed to relax into the force, a small smile crossing her face at the beauty of it. If there was one thing that Lina would always find a moment to appreciate, it would be the beauty of the truth of people. So often they were forced to bear masks, to be granted the privilege to glance underneath? Her fingers idly trailed the runes on her staff as she followed the lines she created, gliding along the mental weave she knitted, allowing herself to slip from the moment and see what the Seer could.
<<If it is true and not another deception…the willing are not enough, but there are souls aplenty in this sector. Use the fuel of the Faithless... They may have created it…But they do not own it.>>
The Empress's voice cut through her admiration drawing her back to the here and now. To the magnitude of the issue that rested before them. Boots on the ground began to engage in combat meaning their help would be limited as their focus split between containment and destruction of their immediate foes. An idea formed, a smile curling her lips.
Perhaps we… We seek to reflect points of power back. Contain what we can, and misdirect the storm that slips through— so parts of the tempest might strike their own devices. Better yet, I might create lightning rods at key points along their own machine!
As she responded to A’Mia and the others mentally, she began to weave her own lines, thick tendrils of darkness slowly began to stretch over the Death Star’s surface, starting at its top and stretching down, Lina began to channel, pulling on the fear, the death the swelling manifestation of darkness to build her web.
They would need another set of hands, another whose power could turn the tide. Without words, another shadow manifested, pulling itself from the growing pool at her feet.
“Slanar at Lady Raaf, cuyir ner jorad."
The shadow vanished, and Lina reached with it, stretching her mind with the aid of the Seer’s Orchid Core.
The shadow would peel itself from the corner, its spindly figure shifting into Taeli’s line of site. It spoke without a mouth, Lina’s voice cutting through.
“The Empire is at Atrisia building a force storm to target the Blackwall. Your aid in its containment would be appreciated.”
No ceremony, no time for grace nor politeness. The shadow cocked its head waiting for a response.
Corazona von Ascania
| x3 Jedi
