Register a free account today to become a member! Once signed in, you'll be able to participate on this site by adding your own topics and posts, as well as connect with other members through your own private inbox!
There was a time, before the Lost-Imperials, and their later Confederate successors, where the regions of now Imperial space were occupied by an army of crusaders who believed in the tenets of Ashla. These Jedi, and their cohorts, have long left these territories found in the Outer Rim systems but their legacy remains epitomized through their work in the rebuilding and revitalization of the Great Jedi Library found on Ossus.
The Force has always been strong on this world but today there is something more sinister about it. As the Ufo closes behind them, Her lifts their gaze to look up at the sky to be met with a view of something dark, and abhorrent. Rain assaults the great pyramid that she stands upon, and nearby, a contingent of Stormtroopers led by an Imperial officer are on approach. No doubt they were here to find out why the Warden Primus is so far away from New Aldera and to discover why she is here on this sacred site.
As Her is about to turn away to greet them something catches her eye in the clouds, and inexplicably, it looks like a face is starring down at them from above in those dark, torrential clouds. The Dark Side has often surrounded the fallen Jedi but this feels different. Something abhorrent is brewing above her, and while it does not make sense, she feels the need to expedite her purpose here, as if something terrible is about to happen to this entire world...
Stalking through the corridors, lurching from one shadow to the next, another wound was felt ripping through the station nearby. More than a physical tremor, it was a sensation prickling along the currents that swirled along the edges of his consciousness. In his mind's eye he could see shifts in durasteel walls, the groan of bulkheads from sudden stress. And in the distance, a screech echoed. While it did not unsettle him, he knew it did not belong. A keen ear would continue to listen.
The rebreather greedily devoured air, trapping it before returning it with an earthy note, a taste that clung to the back of his throat, a reminder of what he'd carried with him out of hyperspace.
Each breath was a mechanical rhythm. Inhale, hollow. Exhale, low.
Then, the heavy thud of boots. A familiar cadence to be sure.. unmistakable to any who'd ever been around Imperial patrols. Stormtroopers were already responding. Not a surprise, really, being on an orbital station that housed hundreds of thousands of crews. Whatever caused the disturbance in a nearby hangar would be impossible to go unnoticed.
There were five, from what he could make out. Two forward, others flanking, and one trailing behind. Emergency lights flickered off their armor, a dance of red and white. But these were no apex predators to fear, no, these were little more than mindless drones following procedure..
..But procedure was enough to spell death for any survivors of the crash.
Slinking deeper into the inky abyss of his surroundings, his gauntleted fingers flexed under the decision that was now forming. Within the Ukatian didn't churn a ravenous hunger for death, but something sharp nonetheless, a serrated knife's edge, willing to slice through any obstacle in his way.
Final judgement was ready to be delivered.
The first trooper never had time to cry out, mouth gaping in silence as a hand fell over the helm, wrenching him back into the dark. A crimson blade hissed to life, punching through armor and flesh alike, so that the smell of scorched armor and seared meat filled the corridor.
Rifles snapped up, blasterfire erupting, igniting the hall of flashes like dancing demons. He moved with a deadly economy. One bolt ricocheted off his phrik-plated vambrace, another caught the edge of his saber, only to be redirected into the chest of the trooper who had foolishly fired it. A third was cut down mid motion, the blade carving through his chestplate with a cruel hiss.
Two more strides followed; the blade swept low to take the rifle first, then came up high to end the trooper himself.
Only one remained, having stumbled back, as a bolt caught him in the side during retreat, the result of another deflection. But he wasn’t dead.. not yet. His lightsaber dimmed, helm tilting, rebreather hissing, simply watching the figure writhe in agony.
There was no triumph from the scene. Killing brought no joy. It was a function.
Finally, he saw the presence of another, staggering close.
A Jedi who bled too easily. They always did. That was why Imperials ran the Core now.
Lysander just lingered in the aftermath of death, willing to give ground should she choose.. or perhaps it was to allow her to witness the space now littered with bodies.
A final blow demanded to be delivered. The stormtrooper lay against the wall with a broken vocoder. If he hadn’t already called for reinforcements, he would soon.
A witness was always a risk.
One hand lifted, gesturing toward the dying figure.
“Compassion?” The word was low. “Or the kill?”
He knew what she was, the way Light clung to her; yet it wasn’t enough for him. Better to force her to reveal her true alignment in this damned place, to see if there was something festering in her blue skin.
Even as he dared to test her, something else pressed in.. suffocating, deeper from in the Death Star, where so many Sith were gathering. The darkness was like another cloak shaping him, influencing him.
Location– Atrisian Orbit Objectives– Find a way off the Death Star . . . Tags– Matsu Ike Paraphernalia– Lightsaber, Bodysuit, Outfit
The ache of hand and mind thrummed together, a soft whisper in the background of the discordant song of the Force. While nowhere as dominating as the chanting from the station's core, it continued its assault on her senses, leaving her weak. And still she prayed that this was its apex, that it would not proceed to besiege her husk of a body. Though the more she traversed the endless corridors, the more that prayer fell apart. When this was over--if it ever would--she deserved a long vacation to some forgotten corner of the Outer Rim, far from battles, war councils, and this accursed fortress. Let others fight and die for glory...
But that dream was, indeed, a dream. Reality was shaped by the maze of corridors in the Death Star III, every wall identical, every intersection a replica of the last. Had she been walking in circles? It was impossible to tell. Her armoured boots tapped on the durasteel plating as she continued her quest, until they were met by the distant noises of their kind patrolling... Malora froze, her heart dropping as her hand moved instinctively to her lightsaber. The wide blade spilled out akin to a golden sword, its glow bouncing off the walls and floors and she rolled it once across her palm, relearning its weight in preparation for combat. Once more a prayer left her, that the crystal would choose to see the light within her, rather than be consumed by the nearby dark.
She stepped forward with caution, unable to sense the targets amid the torment of her wounds and the distant ritual. Then, when she turned the corner, the scene altered into something far from what she may have anticipated. A short woman fought with an Imperial trooper, her movements consisting of unorthodox strikes and steps, almost unnatural, that disarmed and overwhelmed the soldier with ease. Malora instinctively stumbled back a bit, for a moment all she could do was watch the scene. The edges of her vision losing their battle against exhaustion. Then the fight ended in an instant. The Imperial crumpled to the floor, lifeless or unconscious, and the short figure straightened, offering her a casual greeting as though what she did was ordinary.
Malora's mouth opened, yet no words escaped.
After a moment, a confused: "Hello..?" left her, hesitant, as her brow knitted in something closer to bafflement than judgment. She pressed on, taking a few steps closer. "Well...er-…youwouldn'thappentoknowawayoffthisspacestation,wouldyou?" The Jedi Knight had lost her bite, for bleeding as she was, she felt no urge to make others bleed along with her.
The shuttle rattled as it broke from hyperspace, the looming shape of the battle station filling the viewport. Even from this distance, Valery could feel it pressing against her senses. She stood at the front of the troop bay, her hands clasped loosely behind her back, eyes fixed on the Death Star.
Behind her, Padawan Fa-Olan Warren
stood ready to join her. Valery glanced back at him once, offering the faintest of smiles. "Stay close to me," she said, her voice calm despite the storm she felt through the Force. "This will not be like anything you have faced before, but you are ready."
The shuttle rocked again as it entered the hangar, the shriek of engines echoing before the landing struts slammed against the deck. The ramp hissed open, forcing them to face the enemy forces already stirring to meet them. Valery stepped forward first, her hand resting against the hilt at her hip.
For the first time, the Hidden Path had come into the open.
Valery's gaze swept across the bay as she descended the ramp. She drew in a breath, igniting her saber in a flash of light, then lifted it in a single gesture to the Jedi and allies at her back.
Oh, how touching it was, to be missed, to be offered a Hapan bride. But Meliant resented the shadow of his family so much that he had fled from it twice over. To go creeping back into it now would be to admit… No! No! No!
"You don't know the first thing about what I desire," Meliant snapped, and realized too late how petulant, how hollow the words sounded, even echoing in his own mind.
The wayward Hasuras could never help but be himself: fickle, irresolute, and grasping. An Emperor like Solipsis, corpse or not, always left crumbs behind. Plenty to feast on, plenty to gather for oneself. Was there a more lucrative path? Why bother looking for one? For all the bluster of outer Sith, there was only one man who had toppled the core and broken the Jedi, body and spirit.
Only one real Empire.
He sneered, being that it was all he really knew how to do. "Approach all you like, o brother mine. We'll see how far you get."
Back in reality, Meliant turned away from the viewport - the looming naval engagement suddenly felt inconsequential.
The Overbridge was well-ensconced within the Death Star III. Gerra's projections could reach it easily enough, but he and his hirelings might find more difficulty… If that was even their goal.
He looked over to the command table, where Admiral Adair - that quivering slob - was holding court with various eggheads and officers. Meliant considered warning him and decided against it. This was a big day for Remus. No reason to sour the mood. Jedi pilots would do that already.
Remus could see the armored elite staring at him for a long moment before he wordlessly left the overbridge.
CT-312 recognized a few faces. Arris WindrunArris Windrun
, the Bespin Gas sponsored participant from the Kaggath tournament. The one that offered TK-710 and her drugs. Vestra TaneVestra Tane
, a name on the bounty listing wanted for stealing. The Scout’s visor continued to sweep, now looking at the Princess.
The titanic form of the Vahlan warlord stomped through the gathering as a hurricane, pulling lesser storms in his wake.
“All who would board and take the battle station, with me. Glory awaits us. Lives end, but fame will make you immortal. Come warriors.”
With that he headed for the shuttle bearing imperial decals and an imperial IFF which they would use to slip aboard the Death Star.
The battle dragon and the Vahlan fleets would remain behind, nominally part of the Syndicate’s crimson fleet hired to protect the Death Star and do battle with the Alliance. The Syndicate knew nothing of the Vahlan pirate’s schemes.
Ace felt it, the shift, when Matsu Ike
let go of them. It was like a current receding, leaving him back in the pull of his own weight. Ace lingered for a beat. He watched Matsu's figure dissolve into the walls, into wires and molecules and shadows, until she was gone. Connel Vanagor
was already moving with purpose, too.
Meanwhile, Ace lingered, the Death Star stretched in every direction. Endless corridors buzzed with Imperial footsteps and ritual whispers that felt like they were crawling through the bulkheads themselves.
It wasn't long before he felt it, the darkness pressing down on to him and in him. Darth Solipsis
's ritual bled through the station, sinking into the steel and into the air. It found the cracks in his darkest thoughts and pulled them wide - jagged, suffocating.
Finally, he unclipped his lightsaber from his belt, refusing to show how it gnawed at his very spirit. But there was no plan. No map, no mission beyond the vague directive that had carried him here. The ashen haired rebel had nothing but forward momentum.
So he walked. Boots steady, lightsaber igniting its blue flame with a snap-hiss. His eyes locked on the corridor ahead. Because stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant feeling the guilt and grief.
The flight through hyperspace had been tense. Fa-Olan had worked on keeping calm - or as calm as he could - but had only been somewhat successful. It helped that he had the reassurance of his fellow fighters and Master Noble, and he tried to push through the chill on his spine, for the sake of doing his part; he didn't want to be responsible for a mistake that cost a friend their life.
Then there was a lurch, the transport reverted to realspace, and they were headed toward the Death Star III.
A Death Star... I can't believe I'd even see something like that!
It also looked like the Hidden Path wasn't alone. Others were felt through the Force, ripples of presences amid the chaos, and it was clear things were going to get hectic. Fa-Olan's thoughts were brought back when Master Valery spoke, to which the youth nodded.
"I will, yes, Master Noble," He said, feeling that doing anything else would be highly dangerous. But he wouldn't cower from the threat. "I've learned a lot in a short time, I'll do my best. Thank you for the confidence!"
When the transport landed and the rampway opened, Fa-Olan was quick behind Master Noble, with his lightsaber in hand, and shouted to help rouse the companions about to charge into a deadly battle...
Michael, Gabriel, Azrael,Sariel,Raphael,Jeremiel,Connel, Raguel
[Any text in brackets signifies comm-link usage and not face to face conversation]
Inside the enemy station, Master Matsu Ike allowed Connel and Acier to scout ahead while she investigated alone, following the faint ripples of a Sith ritual. Connel wasted no time, Acier was Jedi-Like, and Mandalorian. He could handle himself alone, or he could follow, his choice. Right now, Connel was feeling the shift. He was feeling the darkness of the plans, rituals and effects Darth Solipsis
influenced yet it did not slow him down at all…
… it only ticked him off.
There was a patrol of four that was coming their way. That was Connel’s cue to drop into a side corridor and crouch. The stormtroopers were a group of five, one in the lead and followed by the other four in two-by-two formation. He had a decision. Take them out, or let them pass.
Which do you think he chose?
Jumping out of the shadows, the Shadow attacked them brutally, granted he was “not very Jedi-Like” but he was a Shadow with the training of a Special Forces Operator. He took one down with a choke, two turned and fired, only to hit their compatriot, killing him, or her, who could tell with their armor. Pulling two Throwing Lightknives and throwing them out into the open, one hit and cut through the weapon of one trooper, and the other hit the lead trooper in the chest dropping him. That was his chance to pull “Night” (Of his Shortsabers (Night and Day)) and went to work.
The others didn’t stand a chance.
Once they were down, Connel took the lead trooper’s comm-link and hooked it up to his own to “listen in” on the enemy chatter. Maybe he would hear something important? Maybe he would hear little more than patrol movements, either way, every little bit helped.
As Connel pushed forward, his senses sharpened by the Force. The station's oppressive atmosphere seemed to weigh heavily on him, yet Connel remained undeterred. He was determined to uncover the truth behind the Sith's plans, no matter the cost.
Elsewhere on the station, Matsu notices a mysterious blue-skinned woman—not overtly Sith, but clearly searching for something. Matsu emerged from the wall, amused and smiling, even after neutralizing the soldier, and directed her attention toward this stranger. How did Connel know this? He moved up as she uttered the words
Then the woman was asking how to get off, as if she was doing something. What was she doing? What was she planning? She did not feel “dark” but she clearly was “Not Very Jedi Like”...
The Death Star is 160km across. It's big. It's maze-like.
If you're boarding the Death Star, please account for its size and crew numbers.
If you don't have player opposition, we're happy to find you some! Reach out.
--------------------------
To the Jedi and Sith invading the Death Star, ordinary defenses were no barrier. They quickly demonstrated that mystic powers beyond the comprehension of ordinary people elevated them far beyond any soldier the Galactic Empire could throw at them. Entire squads of stormtroopers perished at the hands of individuals, ripped apart by sword or lightsaber or dark ritual before they could inflict so much as a scratch upon the boarders. These demigods of the Force were breakers of armies, death and destruction embodied. What mortal could stand against them?
But the Emperor had anticipated the intervention of such foes.
And so Darth Solipsis
, in his dark wisdom, had granted the Death Star other defenses...
... defenses that could not be hacked apart with a lightsaber, or fried to a crisp by lightning, or mutilated by ritual.
Foremost among these defenses was distance. The Death Star III was a sphere 160 kilometers in diameter. To reach the central reactor core from the hangars at the edge, one would have to walk the station's full 80-kilometer radius. If there were a single unbroken hallway that could take an invader there from the station's edge, the walk would take somewhere between twelve and sixteen hours. But of course, there was no such hallway. There was a vast network of much shorter passages: decks, sealed bulkheads, airlocks, turbolifts, vacuum zones, and security checkpoints.
There were trams, of course, to help move personnel without forcing them to spend a full day walking... but these were closely watched, for the entirety of the Death Star was carefully surveilled through cameras and sensors. The moment that a fast means of transportation looked poised to fall to the enemy, it was simply de-powered and locked down. The security operators of the Death Star could not possibly fight a Jedi or Sith and expect to survive more than an instant, but they could certainly make sure every door was barred, every airlock sealed, every turbolift locked down.
There would be no easy passage through this titanic military installation.
Second among these defenses was information. Unlike the ancient Imperial weapon upon which the Death Star III was based, this battle station's plans had not been leaked to outside forces. There was no map of its moon-sized labyrinth of decks for boarders to reference. Might the main bridge of the station be closer than the reactor at its heart? Certainly, from some hangars... but how would one determine which? To land at a random hangar bay and hope to be within a dozen kilometers of the command bridge was to take a great gamble, a leap into the darkness.
The ritual chamber, of course, could not be concealed. The darkness that brewed within it was easily sensed through the Force - it was a rite too vast and terrible to be hidden. Actually navigating to it would be more challenging - finding the correct sequence of locked-down halls and sealed turbolifts to pry open and navigate without any kind of map would take time. Perhaps enough time for the Dark Side Elite, those who - unlike the continuously butchered garrison troopers - might stand some chance against the nigh-almighty invaders, to find the boarders and engage them.
The entire galaxy was arrayed against the Empire. Buying time might be their only recourse.
The third and last un-slayable defense was redundancy. Though Admiral Remus Adair
commanded from the central bridge, it was not as though he waggled a joystick to make the station move and fire. His orders were filtered down through thousands of personnel. Every thruster adjustment, every percentage of power allocated to the superlaser, every target a defensive turret fired at, was handled by different Imperial technicians. It was less that Adair was the brain and the station was the body; on the contrary, the Death Star breathed and moved and fought without him.
One point two million crew operated a battle station of this size. There were hundreds of different control rooms - firing control, tractor beam control, power allocation. There was a reason the Empire had beggared its civilian population to build it, had dealt with Black Sun for slave labor and the Trade Federation for vast infusions of needed capital - it was a dark wonder of the galaxy, something of this scale. History had proven that such wonders could be and were defeated, of course. The station could be prevented from firing. The ritual in its dark cathedral could be stopped.
But the sheer labyrinthine scale of it was as good a defense as any army of stormtroopers.
The boarders would see this for themselves within moments of entry.
Sars Sarad?Name didn't ring a bell, but she smirked at his mention of Bespin Gas.
Windrun was content to allow the others to clear the path - after all, she was accompanied by a small band of Sith Lords, capable soldiers, and seasoned mercenaries.
She used the opportunity to meditate as she walked, savoring the fear and hate that bathed this battle station and fueling herself.
"What you have just touched is the Dark Side of the Force. You are right to fear it. If you do not master it, it will assuredly master you, and you will become little better than a ravening beast."
It was a familiar power that clawed its way deep down past synthflesh and into the beating artificial heart at her core. It stirred awake familiar instincts and the scars of past battles. It invoked every sensation she felt on Ruusan, defeating Sith Lords and Jedi Knights, and only falling short of its ultimate champion.
Arris had a job to do. They approached one of the station's many trams; they meant to ride it all the way to their destination. Or at least close enough where a walk wouldn't take hours.
Cyber eyes closed, and she reached out through the Force. A vulnerable moment where she had to place all her trust in the others. Darth Adekos - her master - was highly regarded as the greatest living technopath, and it was time to put that training to good use. She could hear the hum of energy, the chittering of machinery embedded deep within the walls. She felt the watchful sensors and cameras. They were to be seized. Their connections tampered with, frozen on false signals, offering benign information instead of truths.
Next, she reached out to the tram itself and weaseled her way into its systems.
Be selfish, she told it. Allow me to guide you, and I will quench your need.
It was a feeling, not words. Her will projected onto the machine, like she had the sensors. A will that could override and defy all logic, including failsafes and security measures.
When her eyes finally opened again, Arris was already standing on the tram and awaited the others, with empty hands at her sides.
She looked at the woman asking her and shrugged for a moment as she hovered there. "Ehhh I kind of just flew here with two other jedi. I was planning to walk off when the time came." She said it with a small grin on her face though while she remained there and could feel the ritual in the air... her senses radiating from deeper and deeper within when she looked there. It was a large distance and she debated the best way to get there... well she could think of the best way but it wasn't exactly the easiest... the unbeing needed knowledge and she didn't know the area so she couldn't make the travel instant for them.
"But if you need to get off, I can help with that. Where would you want to go?" She said it and shrugged. "I would have thought you were among the jedi strike teams coming in to try and make it. Delay or destroy." Her form moved and went over to the wall as she focused on it seeing Connel getting closer and she made a circle with her finger on the metal. It flecking away to form a circle as she looked it over. "We are here and we want to get here." She tapped the edge of the circle and then the center. "Fastest way would be to charge down and go for it or look for the hanger. You'd be surprised what can happen when you drive a speeder through the halls and how many doors open if you blast them."
She said it and made some more lines... squiggles and lines around the center. "These are the darkside juju waves from the ritual that they are projecting to try and mess with the jedi who have come here... strong but resistible. They will get stronger the closer one gets to the center of the station." She made more lines and a game plan. "Now this is the main gun which is the main danger, too many people on a station like this even if they slaved and automated many of the systems to be able to function automatically. So taking out control center by control center wouldn't be good, unless you could hit the critical ones that regulate all systems like the shields to disable them."
She tapped the metal again and each tap she focused the force through the molecules and atoms... focusing art of the small down tot he lowest level of it. Vibrations coming as it was mapping it out slowly like a sonic mapper in her mind. She pointed to Connel. "Now we have a plan in a way. We disrupt and engage where needed. I wonder if the copy of the codex I got from Rave would work in here?" She said it to herself while tapping her chin and floating a little bit down the hallway. "It would be quite a sight to unleash an ancient force god in the rooms here... Rave was meticulous with her notes on how to summon it."
She looked at the two there and tapped the wall as it crumbled with the structure of the metal severing at the molecular level. The dust showing there as it continued to disintegrate down to atoms and then nothing. "Now no one can capture our attack plans. Come Connel we fly."
Allied: Galactic Empire Opposition:Corazona von Ascania Location: Death Star III | Undisclosed Sector Objective: III
The sterile, nondescript nature of the room he sat inside reminded him of home; white walls, polished floors that reflected the white lights above like an untarnished mirror. He could feel them, all of them. Those that boarded the Death Star III, their determination to bring an end to the perceived wrongs of the Galactic Empire and their machinations. Even those that placed upon themselves the moniker of Sith. Those that Luvaen would've been inclined to call kin of some sort, but not in this moment. They were a bane to him, a thorn that must be plucked and discarded.
Like wheat from chaff they would be made to understand the difference between progress and the wasted repetitions of tired and used up ideology. Luvaen would force them all to acknowledge the way forward, the true path to enlightenment that would usher in a new time for the Sith and the way to prosper. A vision of the future that could not be obtained without cleansing the old ways from the galaxy.
In his meditation, Luvaen would radiate his own influence and thoughts throughout the sector he resided in. Damnation to the weak, cleansing of the stagnation that had been made known to him by his mentors and droids that educated him; those in defiance were of lesser humanity, lesser status and must be eradicated at any cost. He was born to be the future, the way forward in times of trivial politics that were to die whimpering in the dark.
Sharpened rage coursed through his bones, undiluted resolve tensed in his muscles, unwavering conviction crowned upon his head like an invisible crown. His mind was sound, his purpose was crystalline.
The chamber flashed to the color of deep crimson, his head slowly raised up and his eyes opened. His silence eternal, but his eagerness to prove himself was too.
Michael, Gabriel, Azrael,Sariel,Raphael,Jeremiel,Connel, Raguel
[Any text in brackets signifies comm-link usage and not face to face conversation]
The sound of the wall flaking under Master Ike’s finger was small, almost nothing. But to Connel, it was thunder. A cue.
He slid the shield onto his forearm, felt the tetherite hum against his bones. It wasn’t a weapon so much as a promise—one that only he could keep. The permafrost saber stayed low on Connel’s hip. Not yet. Not until it mattered.
The ducts were tight, shadows pressing close, the kind of place where you either vanished or died loud. He chose the first. A camera blinked red; He lifted the shield to swallow it whole. Let them stare into nothing. Nothing is worse than something.
The knife was next—small, black, the kind of tool that didn’t belong to a Jedi. A twist, a cut, wires dead. No alarms. Just silence.
Patrol coming. Boots, breathing, the nervous click of a blaster safety. They never saw him. One was pulled into the vent, his body limp before his friends even noticed the space was emptier. Another found Connel’s saber against his throat for half a heartbeat—enough to make him freeze, enough to make his last thought terror. Then the blade vanished again.
He left no bodies in the open. No noise. Only gaps.
That’s what he is becoming now: a gap. A hole in the pattern. A place where sound goes to die.
Master Ike floats like light. Connel moves like absence. She unsettles the mind with riddles; He carves fear with silence. And the Sith feel it. He knows that they do. Not hatred. Not anger. Something worse. The inevitability that one by one, they will disappear.
He tapped the shield, low and quiet, letting the vibration thread back through the Force. A path for her to follow. A warning for anyone else.
On me, Connel whispered. Two words, all he needed.
And then he was gone again, into the ducts, where the shadows breathe.
Aboard the Hapan battleship Riven found herself feeling somewhat out of place. She was no stranger to being a passenger aboard a variety of vessels but it was the people around her that gave her concern. The only one she recognized, and the only reason she was there at all, was Quinn who had requested her presence. It also wasn't the typical sort of mission the pale elf took on; space stations, even ones as large as the one they were heading to typically didn't make a great theatre for her signature rifle, and so she had come along without it.
The assassin was garbed in her full field gear, including a large cloak of black feathers that wrapped all the way around her, a hood, and a mask that covered her mouth and nose. All that was visible of the woman were sharp crimson eyes that gleamed beneath the shadow of her hood. Around her neck were two mechanical claws painted yellow, the arms of her personal droid PNCR (Or Pincer) that locked together in a clasp as from over her shoulder peeked its mechanical tail with a large optical scanner at the end of it. The scanner shifted about; observing with the occasional beeps and whirrs sounding from behind its master as Pincer clung to her like a backpack.
The strangest thing about Riven was her lack of presence in the Force that'd be noticeable by any Force User, though it wasn't just a lack of presence; it was a void. It was like the Force itself wanted nothing to do with her, actively avoiding the pale elf like something was so very wrong with her presence. As a result she was impossible to detect through the Force unless one was specifically looking for the void she left within it, she was truly Force Dead.
She only briefly glanced over the people she didn't know, namely 312 and Eira. She didn't know what to make of them just yet, except for that she noted 312 carried the same model of pistol that she did in the LO-22S. At that she turned to examine her own; checking it over to ensure it was in working order. She felt naked without her Horizon Killer but it'd serve her little use on a mission such as this.
312's voice snapped her attention as red eyes flicked up to regard the other woman. Riven's stare wouldn't hold for long though as her gaze would dip aside in nervous fashion as she introduced herself in a soft spoken tone. "... Ash..." she spoke as she made the conscious decision to use one of her aliases instead. She was already a particularly nervous and awkward girl so giving out her real name to a group of strangers struck at her nerves a little too much for comfort. She then gave a nod at the mention of final preparations.
The short elf stepped aside, turning around as her personal droid would be plainly visible clutching upon her back as she started to go over the rest of her own equipment. Typically she wouldn't have brought Pincer along with her on a mission that'd no doubt be in tight and close encounters, but she sorely needed someone she could trust to watch her flanks. In addition to her pistol and droid she had come prepared with a small strap of explosive knives, some smoke grenades, and of course a vibroknife just in case things got a little too close. She also packed some curious ammunition said to be particularly effective against force users.
As she confirmed the condition of her equipment she paused to glance over towards Quinn in silent consideration. She'd stay by her side during the mission unless asked otherwise. She wouldn't get paid if something happened to her, after all, and not that the elf would admit to any other reason besides that.
With a rather annoyed sigh escaping his mouth, the Lord of Hunger stared down the passageway he had been standing in for quite a few minutes now. While KRONOS seemed quite preoccupied with figuring out a way to crack the massive superweapon's internal cybersecurity in order to gain access to a better understanding of the ship's layout, it's topographical schematics, the abomination within the force just stood there, strangely silent, almost akin to the half a dozen tall, cloak-bearing droids flanking him.
"Either they have genuinely not yet figured out what KRONOS is doing...or it is as I feared, this damn thing is a real pain to traverse from one end to another...even for the very people serving aboard this...admittedly marvelous machine," He could not refrain from allowing both the aesthetic and the cold nature of the superweapon to enrapture him, ensnare his senses with a cold, logical design which seemed to eschew frivolities and unnecessary details. The passageway was clean, no rough edges, no softness either, just purely functional in design and purposefully designed to suit its function.
"The ritual must not yet have reached a point of no return," Calmly the man's head moved side to side in a somewhat discouraged nod. He could sense the energy, but it was weak, still too weak to be pinpointed properly. he could utilize his ability to create a portal, but there was too much interference, not only that... utilizing this technique earlier had been quite draining, it simply would not be efficient to utilize such a technique more than the number of times necessary to remain efficient and to avoid draining his own strength dry. It would not be worth the risk to haphazardly create a portal without any prior intelligence on the full layout of the ship, the protections and precautions made to most likely safeguard the area of the ritual...not that he hadn't done so before, but that 'before' had not been an easy experience either.
"Ah well...let's wait for a few more minutes...KRONOS, do continue your efforts...if necessary, start roughing up the security with a hammer rather than surgically peeling it away with a scalpel," The monstrous man's eyes turned to the other end of the passageway, he could hear commotion...the sounds of boots stomping on the pristine floors. Straightening his back and taking in a deep breath as once again the injectors inside the armor did their work, The Lord of Hunger wondered if someone had managed to locate the breach and retrace it back to KRONOS, or if he was simply unlucky to be right in this path...well, unlucky might be more the word to describe anyone's situation when encountering the monster while he was starving...and it did not take much for the Lord of Hunger to feel at the very least a little peckish."
Meliant stepped out into the hallway, where a team of death troopers and a sallow black-uniformed officer were waiting. The officer was speaking worryingly into a cylindrical comlink. His concerns magnified rather than diminished when Meliant entered the scene. The Dark Side Elite tended to have that effect on people.
"Is there a problem?"
"Boarders and infiltrators in several sectors, sir. Nowhere close. None of them seem to be approaching the overbridge."
He didn't sound convinced. Even someone dead to the Force could feel the malaise that came with a steadily approaching doom. The sensation of having a bad feeling transcended all mystical and scientific traditions. Meliant himself, being more sensitive to these matters, felt Gerra's steady advance without needing to concentrate. Crude, unstructured violence. So typical.
Foreign words smoldered at the back of his mind: "Chaff before my scythe, brother. Where are your iron eyed warriors? Your assailant champions?"
"Give me that," Meliant snatched the comlink out of the officer's hand. "It's a command center. Of course they're coming here!"
The officer shrunk away, standing offsides while Meliant cycled through comms channels. If he wished to be rid of his brother, then he would indeed need iron-eyed , assailant champions, whatever nonsense. And while Meliant did not have any friends to his name, there were a few among the Dark Side Elite he respected… In his own, limited way, certainly, but respected nonetheless.
Krasskorr may not have possessed a deep connection to the Force, yet he was quite capable of both hearing and smelling, which provided him with all the information he needed as he navigated a corridor, seemingly following the sound of heels tapping against the ground.
Two pairs of golden eyes observed Darth Avida
as they stood before him.
She was dressed for comfort rather than combat, which indicated two possibilities: either she was completely overconfident in her abilities, or this adversary was far more skilled than her current appearance would suggest which meant that he had to be careful even as a trained member of the Emperor's Dark Side Elite.
A wet snarl emerged from his mouths, exposing rows of dagger like teeth.
He adopted a more offensive posture as she beckoned him forward as if daring him to strike first and so he would with a step forward, his current stance affording him good stability to swing his blade downward in an overhead strike with the added benefit of using the long handle to deliver more inertia.
He did not think that the strike would inflict any damage; rather, he was merely assessing whether his opponent possessed body enhancement techniques. If she did, he would have to engage with a more strategic approach instead of relying on brute force to achieve a lethal blow.
Stormtroopers rounded the corner of the corridor they'd traveled down before he could reply to Arris Windrun
.
His lightsaber leapt from the confines of his duster into the palm of his right hand, igniting in a blazing phosphorescent blade simultaneously.
As blasterfire came at them Sarad flourished the blade in a practiced routine similar to a figure-eight which would both deflect and redirect the fire back at the Troopers. It was an agile maneuver, riding a fluid momentum that rolled over itself making the movement consistent and uninterrupted. Blaster bolts were soon downing several of the Stormtroopers that had fired them at him as well as others amongst their cadre.
"This may be where our paths diverge Warlord. At least for now."
...he spared a glance to some of the others between blasterfire then he stepped away from all of them.
Moving down an adjoining corridor that stretched out ahead of him Sarad's footsteps carried him in a new direction.
The Force lead him towards his next destination.
Deactivating his lightsaber he let it rest in his right hand. A commlink stowed on his person and near his ear would let him communicate with Gerra and the rest. It shared the same channel that they were on.
The Equatorial Trench of the Death Star III was massive, lined with Hangar Bays and all manner of other locales. Barracks, Detention Facilities, Mess Halls. Anything could be between him and what came next.
Sarad only knew where he was going not what lay between it and him.
Mauve du Vain
's words prickled in his ears, he only smiled faintly.
How pathetic it was. This weapon. This monument to oppression. The would-be God requires such a wasteful thing to enforce his will.
Terror is not a single weapon. Nor is it the death of worlds.
It's life. Nefaron would ensure life continued.
Only to drag it forever into sorrow.
A vast armada had come to strike down the false Sith'Ari and his weapon, from the forges of the Sith Empire to the desperate defenders of the Alliance, all had come to prevent the death of a world. But what did the Sith care for such a pathetic world that did not even fall within the bounds of the Blackwall?
It was simple. No upstart could resist their power, not even cloaked in the false ideals of a dead Empire.
But did Nefaron truly hold such philosophical grudges? Perhaps.
Or perhaps he desired new labor for the forges of Anoat?
The latter seemed more likely, considering the fleet that accompanied the Terror Lord. A horde of agile frigates rushed into battle, relying on their size and speed to bring them in close to warring giants and deploying horrid boarding tendrils the moment shields fell. The Corpse Lord would have his holds filled with slaves, technicians who would only strengthen his fleets and his legion once they had been broken. Naturally, many of his frigates would be lost to the intensity of the battle, but what did they matter? Anoat would only continue to produce more, and there would always be servants to crew them. Nefaron would sacrifice every single servant he brought to this battle if it meant his own power only grew, as was the way of the Sith.
For his part, the Dark Lord stood aboard his flagship, Hand of Darkness, watching the battle from afar. He would not be the first to board the vast battlestation, but he would come all the same if it meant reveling in slaughter and death. The fools aboard the station believed they were safe from the wrath of the truth Sith, and oh, how Nefaron would enjoy showing them how wrong they were. Yet there were other considerations, for a terrible alliance had been formed amongst those like-minded few who sought to bring about a shared fate for the innocent of this galaxy.
Slaves moved about the bridge while the Corpse Lord made his way to the ship's holoprojector, broadcasting to those who would be his most trusted allies in the coming battle. "My friends, we find ourselves on the precipice of something truly grand. Rest assured, once you breach the station, you will have the support of my legion. The first wave of boarding pods has been launched, though I do expect at least 40% casualties before they manage to board the weapon. I shall be in the second wave, but do attempt to save some of the more intelligent beings for capture. I can do great things with them on Anoat, but they do unfortunately need to be alive."
Allyson Locke
