Annihilation Clash of Destiny

[Sars Sarad]

Hasuras Na-Gerra | Arris Windrun | Aurellia | Vestra Tane​

---

With his senses extending outward he hadn't been playing as close attention to his allies of convenience.

When Arris Windrun 's voice found him he's had turned his head and regarded the cybernetic woman. Recognition crossed his features briefly, he remembered her from the Galactic Kaggath though they'd never met. Finally answering her Sarad would have remarked...

"Not someone from Bespin Gas."

....that was who she was now, even if people forgot her name they would always know that she was sponsored by Bespin Gas. It was the little things that counted.

As for Sarad, it felt cliche at this point but old habits died hard which meant he would have eventually said...

"My name is Sars Sarad."

...how many times had he said exactly that before forcing an opponent to duel him? It seemed innumerable at this point. Jedi, Sith, Mandalorians; he'd fought them all. They'd all misunderstood though. None of them ever really understanding why he'd had to fight them even if he'd taken the time to explain it.

Now he was here, in the Death Star III. Leaving the hangar bay for the corridors beyond while war prepared to rage across the stars.

His features were immutable, his focus singular. Even Mauve du Vain didn't know what he had planned.

 

[Connel Vanagor]

What is left
UNDISCLOSED
LOCATION

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

The Empire’s shadow stretched across Atrisia. High above the world, the Solari Towers ignited with ancient light, their nanite-forged brilliance shuddering against the encroaching dark. The Force carried the warning to as many as possible, long before alarms or scouts. Many rose from their meditation as if truly an essence beneath them had breathed, senses alight, the air itself whispering of destruction.

Connel was no different as he traveled with Omega Squad at best possible speed for Atrisia. They would be standing ground, sabotaging, destroying, and blowing Imperial (censored) up. They were not here for governments, they were here for the people. They were here for those who would be suffering the most, before, during and after this, whatever it is. There was little talk other than the plan. They were going to do their best to draw attention away from the Solarite Towers. They were there to protect the people and ensure their safety. The squad's mission was to disrupt Imperial operations, creating chaos and confusion to weaken their attempt to lay a hold on Atrisia. By focusing on the Solarite Towers, they aimed to strike a critical blow against the Empire's attempt at control and protect the lives of those caught in the conflict.

With a single thought, Connel had felt her extended projection of herself across the currents of the Force, a thread of brilliance pulling her toward the Vigilant Reaper. There, amid the quiet ranks of defenders, stood Connel Vanagor. They had known each other since he was a boy, his path uncertain, his shadow long. Now, her eyes found him not as the child she remembered but as the man her vision had always promised. He stood tall, his posture unyielding, a stark contrast to the uncertainty of his youth. The weight of responsibility rested on his shoulders, but his resolve was unwavering. In that moment, she saw not just the man he had become, but the leader he was destined to be.

He felt her presence, floating, radiant, almost otherworldly, he could feel as she extended her hand—not to command, but to invite.

“Come.”

The word rang less as sound, more as resonance, a string plucked through the Force. The way was open.

Connel moved toward her, after ensuring the team would be alright. They would be, they were professionals and their mission was right in their proverbial “Wheelhouse”. The years of silence, anger, and shadow seemed to collapse in that single step. He was answering more than a call to battle—he was answering her, the master who had seen through him when others only saw his father’s shadow.

As the towers below flickered against Imperial bombardment and Omega Squad carved their bloody work in the streets, Connel ascended. The Force coiled around him, carrying him to her side, a strange experience, but one he did not question. Together, master and knight crossed into the void, her protective aura encasing them both as the massive Imperial station loomed like a predator above Atrisia.

Weightless, suspended between war and destiny, Matsu’s luminous form drifted toward the enemy vessel. A small bubble of Force-sustained air shimmered around them as she guided him closer. Her lips curved in faint irony as the looming bulk eclipsed the stars.

“It is quite a classic…”

he heard her murmur, eyes never leaving the structure.

“I wonder if the designer got a special on bulk orders.”

And in that moment, side by side, they were no longer teacher and student, but Jedi—shields against the coming storm.

The Dark Side doesn’t make them powerful. It makes them predictable.

Matsu Ike • Acier Moonbound • OPEN TO DEFENDERS
Personal Effects - Omega Squad Loadouts - Shadow Sanctuary - Enterprise​

 

[Quinn Varanin]

//: Srina Talon //: Mauve du Vain //:
//: Cloak //: Attire //:
//: Will Post Equipment Next Post //:

It had come. The thing she was warned about, the one truth she foolishly shoved to the back of her mind. She had let her heart rule her head that day. Quinn couldn't stand the memory of how Mauve's brow furrowed, how the Zeltron had looked away, unable to meet her eyes when she admitted it.

Isotope-5 had slipped through her grasp. It had gone to the Empire. She had not been quick enough, not powerful enough to wrest it away from their hands. Her alliance with Black Sun still held, yes — but she had nothing to show for it. If she'd only had more time. More strength. More something.

She closed her eyes tightly, trying to order her thoughts, but the truth gnawed at her. She was late. Too late to give a warning that might have spared the Sith a disaster.

Her steps carried her from the group's path into the emptier corridors of the ship. The walls were too clean, too polished for the storm in her chest. Quinn drew her cloak close, her fingers knotting into the fabric like it could replace the embrace she needed most. For the first time in too long, she allowed herself to stop — to breathe, to feel.

She knew where she had to turn. Only one voice, one presence could make this right.

Exhaling slowly and deeply, Quinn reached into the Force, stretching past the hum of engines, past the warships gathering in the void. She sought the one bond she cherished above all others. The tendrils of connection tugged, alive and familiar. She knew her mother would feel her reaching.

< Mama… something bad is coming. It's already here. >

Her throat tightened as she pressed the words into the bond, clutching her cloak harder. Guilt and frustration spilled in waves, but beneath it lay a steel core of determination. She had made choices — selfish ones, necessary ones — and she would not regret them. Her ties with Mauve had bought her this knowledge, but the cost was steep.

< Black Sun has confirmed it. Their deal for Isotope-5 is sealed. Solipsis is moving... creating something devastating… and it's not just us he's after. He's coming for everyone. >

Her chest rose and fell with shallow, uneven breaths. She wanted to be seen and believed. No longer as the fragile child hidden behind laurels and names, but as the heir worthy of the Empire.

< I'm here already. I'll prove to you — to them—why they should look to me. >

Every word was laced with urgency, but also longing. She poured herself into the bond, letting her mother feel everything she could not say aloud: the storm of guilt, the thread of fear, the fire of her ambition. All of it, bared.

< I need you. >

The words broke from her like a plea, though she forced herself to steady as she lingered in the bond, waiting for the Empress's answer.

A long breath left her lips. Her eyes blinked open, sharper now, anchored by the act of reaching out. Duty clawed at her again. She drew her comm device from her sleeve and sent two quick messages — one to her apprentice Eira Dyn , one to CT-312 and one to her newest acquisition Riven .

<: We will be boarding with the Hapan Queen's group. Keep your eyes and ears open. I'll meet with you soon. :>

The cloak settled heavily on her shoulders, but she walked on. Whatever came next, she would not falter.

Something she hadn't expected reached to her. The princess didn't expect either of her companions to reach out to her so quickly, but as she looked down at her device a name flashed, with a message. A small smile curled her lips as she responded.

<Stay safe.>

<: You too, I'll see you soon. :>

//: Hasuras Na-Gerra //: Meliant //: Sars Sarad //: Arris Windrun //: Vestra Tane //: Aurellia //:​

 

[Darth Carnifex]

Armor

• Taralraiskaz Sith Warplate
• Tsis'tzîkal ûl Xortâs - Visage of Darth Sortis (Unadorned)

Weapons

• Kotsnwûl, To Break Peace
• Tosochkashai, the Dark Seether (Unsummoned)

Companions

• Imperial Crownguard
• Blackblade Guards
• Graug Legionnaires
• Moridinae Golems
• Qabr'azm

He wanted to scream, He wanted to cry out, but He held His voice. The pain which surged through Him now was nothing compared to the agony of total oblivion, that which He knew awaited Him beyond the veil of death. This pain, this racking agony, grounded Him, reminded Him that He was real. This was the world of flesh and bone, not the world of spirit and consciousness. He swallowed whole this terrible suffering, greedily devouring every sensation in it's excess.

Eyes snapped open, molten pupils dilated with a sight beyond that of mortal men. The Embrace relented, tendrils unraveling as the bonds which held Him fast grew slack and disappeared altogether. He sunk to the floor, coming to rest on His knees upon a circular metal dais. He'd been shorn of modesty, His olive skin kissed with dewdrops of sweat at every conceivable angle. He rightfully smelled, stinking of exertion and pain, but never of fear.

Dripping from the shadows came the spindly forms of five priestesses, their emaciated bodies clad in shimmering samite, eyes and mouths sown shut with golden thread. Their long, wiry fingers they submerged in clay pots of threnic unction, proceeding to then meticulously smear it across His bare skin. The oil was viscous, partially opaque, and the color of mourning dusk; neither black nor gray, but something in-between. Flecks of silver and gold, swirling whispers of alchemical memory, caught the sterile light from the recessed luminpanels in the vaulted ceiling above.

They began all at once, pressing their long fingers into the contours of His physical form. Though they could not see, though they could not speak, they moved with calculated precision. The oil clung to His skin like a shadow, sanctifying Him with the power of sacred ritual. One of the priestesses anointed His chest, each pectoral like a slab of sculpted dusk. Her hands followed the contours of the engraved Sith runes that crossed His sternum, feeling the power humming just beneath the skin like an active reactor.

It was the most devoted of them all that was granted the privilege of anointing His head, her fingers working slowly to apply the unction to His brow; bright red Sith seal like a crowning jewel set squarely in His forehead. From her bowl, she poured the remaining unction down upon His scalp, letting it sluice through His long dark hair in thick rivulets. The oil coated His head, dripped along the sides of His face, trailed down His throat, and vanished between the valleys of His scarred and tattooed chest.

They circled Him, hands pressed to His body as the final rites were prepared. The oil was no longer just coating Him, it was sinking into Him; quickening like a second skin. It clung to His musculature like a lover's embrace, outlining every ridge, every scar, every brand. The scent of the unction thickened now, ripened by warmth and time, hanging in the chamber like a fugue. The priestesses bowed their heads and slipped back into the shadows, their task complete.

It did not take long for them to be replaced, as new figures slid out from the darkness. Faded ash-gray robes cloaked their bodies, their faces obscured by masks of bone and ivory. In their near-skeletal hands they held new censure basins, filled with flecks of crushed bone and powdered ash. As one they surrounded Him, and gingerly lifted and then tipped the contents of their basins over His head. The powdered mixture fell like atomic snow, drifting through the warm incense haze to kiss His oiled skin with a dry whisper, clinging to the unction, forming an uneven crust.

Where the oil was thickest, the dust stuck in broad strokes. Where thinner, it painted Him in streaks of mottled death. Where bone met rune, it sank into the engraved flesh, filling the grooves like mortar in a tombstone's etchings. They set aside their basins and began to dust away the excess with careful gestures, starting at His chest and then moving to the extremities. No word was said, nothing needed to be. All was achieved in reverent silence, the only sound made was the rustling of fabric and the soft step of those who acted in worship.

Then they too departed, and then the final stage began.

With a tremor like the slow grind of a tectonic plate, the circular platform He stood upon sank a meter into the floor, locking into place with a resonant clang of magnetic anchors. From the circumference, apertures in the walls, floor, and ceiling slid open, revealing nested claws, braces, and armatures of alchemized machinery. Glowing red conduits pulsed like veins, illuminating the girding mechanism with sacrificial light.

Black spider-like constructs woven with alchemical threads and ceremonial programming reached out for His flesh, each limb bore carefully folded textiles. Not of silk, nor mere synthweave, but of death-spun cloth. The inner cassock came first, hemmed in blood-glyphs and lined with fine threads of Shikkari death-weave. It tightly clung to His body, slicking over the still-glimmering unction and sealing the oil and bone dust beneath it's embrace.

Next came the crimson inner drape, torn at the hem by design, it's fabric threaded with ritual ash and fragments of battlefield banners. This cloth bore no symbols, for it was a symbol in of itself. It wrapped around His waist and chest, then across one shoulder in the style of a funerary shroud. Final was the girding cincture, a thick belt of terentatek leather and dark metallic buckles. Each metal piece was etched in the sharp, angular language of the ancient Sith. The cincture locked the vestments in place, each rune hissing as it aligned, reacting with His natural heat and the unction sealed beneath the cassock.

Now came the true armor.

With a hiss of steam and a sibilant chant of servo-runes, the first component descended from above, a massive backplate, shaped like a flayed spinal column forged from Zîrkaris and blood-forged aurodium. It hovered for a heartbeat, suspended by magnetic manipulation, then slammed onto His back, each vertebral ridge aligning perfectly with His own. Runic anchors bit into the skin, merging not merely to bone, but soul.

From the walls, gauntlet-bearing limbs extended, each joint inscribed with Sith incantations and powered by archaic Rakatan gravity cores. They moved with ritualistic slowness, offering up the next pieces in deliberate order. Sabatons clamped around His feet, sealing with a pulse of red light; greaves, reinforced with Terentatek hide and Shikkari death-weave, curled around His legs, binding tightly with alchemical sinew; gauntlets and vambraces surged over His hands and forearms, fusing with wrist and tendon; and finally, twin pauldrons locked onto His shoulders with immense concussive force.

From beneath, articulated arms rose bearing the cuirass, wrought from blackened Zîrkaris and veined with silver script. The moment it approached, the threnic unction still coating His flesh boiled, reacting to the armor's proximity. It latched with a shudder, expelling a wave of compressed Force pressure through the chamber. Runes along the seams ignited, sealed the armor tightly to His flesh. Only ritual could remove it now, nothing else would suffice.

From above came His cloak, a long, heavy mantle of black sable spooled from darkness itself. Interlocking along every square inch of it's exterior surface were diamond-shaped scales of Mandalorian Beskar, each one a trophy wrought from a clan or family He'd murdered. There were thousands of them, each stamped with the symbol of their clan. No two were exactly like. They shimmered like dragon scales as the cloak descended from the ceiling, carried on twin claws like those of a carrion bird. It draped over His back, clasping at the pauldrons with magnetic certainty, it's serrated edge just barely brushing the floor.

The sunken dais now rose again, returning Him to where He'd started. With one deliberate step He descended the dais, now fully clad in the regalia of war. Awaiting Him beyond was a smaller chamber, His lightsaber seated upon a silken pillow. He called it to His hand with a faint gesture, the weapon flying forward and slipping into His palm. Fingers coiled around the leather-bound hilt, snapping the weapon to His waist with a magnetic thunk. He then moved to depart the chamber, darkness wreathing His every step.

Shards of scintillating metal rose up to meet Him, swirling about His titanic form before fanning out in a radiant aureola that framed His head in a mockery of religious veneration. Each shard of Qabr'azm vibrated in anticipation, this was to be their first true test at the side of their master. Up until now, they'd only known minor conflict and mock battles, choreographed to test certain parameters within a controlled environment. This battle would be anything but controlled, for all conflict did breed chaos as will and steel clashed.

As He walked, He was joined by a cadre of black-plated Crownguard who swiftly moved to shadow His step. They'd been patiently waiting for His arrival, for their sole purpose in existence was to serve their Lord with unwavering fidelity. They'd soon be joined by others, a legion of warriors and beasts who had been assembled specifically for this moment. Blackblade Guardsmen stood in quiet organized columns besides towering Graug legionnaires in their thick iron plate while tall mechanized automatons babbled incoherently in broken Mando'a, their blazing fell photoreceptors glowing incandescently in the artificial light.

When the Eternal Father entered the assembly, all present fell to their knees in supplication. It was an automatic response, one they did not make consciously. They all looked to Him; Blackblade, Graug, and Golem alike. He made no inspiring speech, no impassioned plea for victory. He only looked at them briefly, barely a glance, and then strode away to continue preparations. It was all that was required, they would serve gleefully until they knew nothing else but the endless dark of oblivion.

In time, the Kainate warship would materialize in realspace after the arduous hyperspace journey, disgorging dozens of starfighters into the empty void to do battle with the faithless abound their technological terror. But that was not the Eternal Father's focus, the battle in space meant nothing to the likes of Him. He traveled amidst a hundred other starships, hurtling towards the behemoth station's armored crust. Most would perish before ever reaching the ship, but their sacrifices fueled the power that gestated within His very cells.

His arrival was never in question, the ship touched down amidst a hail of blasterfire, wreathed in smoke and flame. The compartment door blew open with tremendous force, Crownguard pouring out in coordinated pairs to clear the landing zone of hostiles. Blackblade Guards and towering Moridinae Golems levied volley after volley of withering blasterfire, filling the air with the heady stench of carbon and plasma. Graug wielding tower shields bigger than they were tall strode forth, creating pockets of defensive cover as they advanced across the hangar deck.

Even as the hangar flight crew attempted to vent the whole lot into space, they found their limbs bound and restrained by an invisible hand. The Eternal Father Himself tore through the wall separating the control room from the larger hangar, rending apart metal as though it were papier-mâché. He dispatched them without a word, carving them to pieces with quick strokes of His lightsaber.

All but one did He kill, though her arms and legs were severed at the elbows and knees with a surgeon's precision. His hand reached out and clutched her face, holding her in place as an insectoid serpent crawled out from the confines of His robes, burrowing through her eye socket and into her brain. For a moment the woman writhed in silent agony, before ultimately going limp. When the serpent withdrew itself, the entire contents of the woman's brain cavity were emptied; a hollow recess remained.

The serpent withdrew into the Eternal Father's robes, and the memories and knowledge of the woman were thus transferred into Him. Some of His soldiers arrived to take over the control room, and He left them to do their work as they pleased.

His purpose lay elsewhere.

Kahlil Noble | Quinn Varanin | Hasuras Na-Gerra
Meliant | Sars Sarad | Arris Windrun
Vestra Tane | Aurellia | Darth Vinaze
Connel Vanagor | Lysander von Ascania | Reliquiis
Vireth | Helix | The Lord of Hunger
Matsu Ike | Lirka Ka | Deonis Laythar
Da'Razel | Kael Varnok | Voldran Molf
Eina L'lerim-Vandiir | Lilianna L'lerim ​

 

[Darth Ayra]

---

---

Atrisia, Core Worlds;
The Galactic Empire.
Tags: The Lord of Hunger | Onrai | Darth Caedes

---

​

OBJECTIVE III.

Equipment:

• The Initium​

There are always two.

The Master, and their Apprentice.

As Bane had taught his followers two millennia ago.

Since the turn of the tenth century, the Rule of Two have been among the Imperial remnants. With thanks to the genetic Strand-Cast Alicia Drey an avenue of position amid the Dark-Imperial bloc has been gained, through the acquisition of place within New Sith Order, and far away in the Outer Rim systems, where those who would form the nascent Imperial Confederation under Liraeth Deschart (via the late Imperial Sector Authority) lay, granting both master and apprentice areas of influence to bring about their shared, aligned goals to fruition.

They must destroy the Sith Order so that it can be remade into something new.

As the Nomad once told his sons, the so-called Lords of the Diarchy-- Diarch Reign , Diarch Rellik : only through destruction may I breed creation.

The rains shall come.

They share one thing in common, Her and Ayra. Viewing ports, and vast mesmerising sights were often the company of the Sith Master, and her Apprentice, as they brooded and plotted together in the dark while they were marred by superstition, myth and enigma. Through the transparisteel screen and unto the other side into the ink black portrait of space a battle waged below the former One Sith which reminded her of a lifetime ago when she had destroyed the Galactic Republic to own the Stars themselves through conquest, and blood.

Oh, how wrong she had been back then. Bane had shown her the true ways of the dark side. Woven into his tapestry a plot among plots bends and breaks all into a cunning design to bring about the promise.

Ella Nova, a former Knight of the Old Republic, had given her a new life so long ago. A conspiracy brews in the Outer Rim systems threatening to expand and engulf the Mid Rim now. The Sith are set to pay the iron price through this realised machine, and the weapon first conceived by her predecessors has been forged to destroy them all. A guiding hand flourishes, and the Maw will break asunder for Ayra's machinations have no limitations. Onrai was a good teacher, after all.

As the Dark Lord admires the spectacle beneath her, as the fighting waged ahead in the throng of the abyss surrounding Atrisia, while the towering third Death Star haunts all above the Atrisian homeworld-- threatening to destroy their commonwealth-- Ayra feels a disturbance in the Force, and so the die has been cast. A pair of hands raise themselves to the cowl of her robe, and with purpose, the Dark Lord disrobes herself in the faint glow of artificial lights to turn away from the port window to confront The Lord of Hunger ...

---

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Atrisia

Equipment:
Field Gear | Lightsaber

Spoiler: TLDR

• Ace brooding, hanging out with Connel
• Joins Matsu, taking him to the Death Star

This was it. All the preparation had led to this. Open warfare with the Empire, open defiance. The world felt wrong before the alarms even sounded. The Force pressed like a storm front, Atrisia's air vibrating with warning as the Solari Towers lit against the dark.

He kept close to Connel Vanagor and Omega Squad, for now at least, familiar with them since Kashyyk and Kattada. They had a clear purpose, sabotage, disruption, protect the people. But Ace's thoughts were a mess.

Dathomir still hadn't left him. Orryn's death, raw and heavy. The Nightsisters falling under his blade, magick bursting like dying stars. The ease of what he had done scared him more than the killing itself.

Tic wasn't here. He'd ordered the BD-unit to stay back with the Flickerfox, ignoring the warbles and protests until he snapped sharper than he meant to. This fight wasn't for Tic. Not here, in the shadow of a weapon meant to erase worlds.

His thoughts drifted where he didn't want them to. To Aether Verd . Was he safe? And if he was fighting, whose banner flew above his head? The Alliance? The Sith? The not-knowing pressed against Ace's chest as hard as the weight of his lightsaber.

He didn't voice any of it. He just kept his pace beside Connel, silent and steady, hand hovering close to his weapon.

When the air shifted, he knew before he saw her. A strange light, radiant and untouchable, threaded into the battlefield. Matsu Ike - the last time he saw her, she was a ghost in the Shadow Temple. Now, she stood before them, luminous skin and dark hair shimmering with power.

Her hand extended, not a command but an invitation. "Come."

Ace's jaw tightened, but he didn't hesitate. Whatever she was, a projection, mystic, something in between - she had opened a way, and he wasn't about to be left behind.

Then the ground dropped away. The Force wrapped around him like a current, lifting him from Atrisia and carrying him toward the synthetic moon above. His stomach clenched; instinct told him to fight the pull, to brace against something solid, but there was nothing to hold. Just cold air, the void, and the luminous tether of Matsu's will. Ace grit his teeth, forcing his body to ride the pull instead of thrash against it.

He said nothing. He just kept his eyes locked on the looming superweapon as it filled his vision, ready for whatever waited inside.

Kyrothian Ravoch​

 

[Vestra Tane]

DEATH STAR III - EQUATORIAL HANGAR BAY
​

Tags: Hasuras Na-Gerra | Arris Windrun | Sars Sarad
Equipment: Lightsaber | Rebreather | Blaster Carbine | Armorweave Coat | Hex Grip

Vestra was, on a personal level, anti-imperial. Too stifling, too rigid; empire took all the joy out of being on top. What did it matter if you were in charge, if you hadn't lost a few teeth to get there? She liked money, too. And there was a lot of that in a job like this. Lots of salvage to pick over, without even considering the payout in the unlikely event they actually pulled this off.

None of that, though, was the reason Vestra Tane was here, on the Death Star III, side by side with some of her favorite scum in the Galaxy.

She was here because she loved it. The incalculably slim odds of success. The looming threat-promise of slaughter. If she turned this down, this beautiful, idiotic heist, this glorified starjacking, she may as well have thrown herself into a sun and been done with it.

She was Sith, after all. This was where she shined.

Obsidian synthflesh fingers curled around a black-and-gold cylinder underneath her coat - her lightsaber, hers, freshly built, slim and long-handled and bearing a circular guard around the emitter. She itched to use it. Her other hand, meanwhile, crackled with barely contained lightning. The as-of-yet meager storm in her heart, too, itched to be unleashed.

But for all that, all she could think to say, with a laugh in the back of her throat, was...

"Ma's gonna have a stroke if I end up on the holos again."

 

[Krasskorr the Maw]

FOOD: Darth Avida (I think that is the correct pc)

​

Krasskorr sensed the settling of the durasteel floor panels beneath him as the Death Star III emerged from hyperspace just outside the Atrisia system. The system was heavily fortified, evident from the panicked expressions of the Imperial Officers who hurried by, grasping datapads that detailed the movements of the Imperial Armada and the swift deployment of the stormtrooper garrison to the hangar bays.

Their objective was to intercept the Lightsworn's escape route and thwart any further intrusions into the lower levels of the superweapon. It was evidently a futile endeavor, as screams and dark side energy surged through the hallways, enveloping the hybrid's form and infiltrating his nostrils.

He detected a scent originating from a few yards away, yet he was unsure whether it belonged to another Dark Side Elite or an individual who had successfully evaded the Imperial defenses. A single step forward, followed by another, and yet another, until the lumbering giant was racing down the corridor in pursuit of the individual.

However, he soon encountered several stormtroopers who had been ripped apart though not by his own jaws, although he would have relished a brief meal prior to the actual confrontation. His clawed hand reached for the blade and with a single push of the activation switch the crimson blade would emerge with a noticeable hum.

 

[Phaelissia]

Location: Boarding Craft
Thread Objective: Clash of Destiny
Mission Objective: Stop the ritual.
Tag: Lirka Ka Helix

The work continued. In the wake of the Galactic Kaggath, Phaelissia had spent weeks building back her strength and then honing it further. In that same period she had been inducted into the ranks of the Hands of the Sith Dyarchy. She was now longer just a Cipher Agent, but a direct emissary of the Dark Lords, entrusted with the most sensitive of information and the most daunting of tasks.

She was an extension of the Dyarchy’s will. The vessel that comprised her mind, body, and spirit was a consecrated appendage to be directed at Their command, with neither doubt nor hesitation.

A Hand.

Thus, as Lirka Ka fell into prayer, so too did Phaelissia.

Eternal Father, Carnifex—Crown of Blood and Iron,
Anoint my blade with your hunger; let my strikes be sermons of extinction.
Grant me swift teeth and tireless wrists—that I may spill their names into Your ledger.

Shadow Hand, Prazutis—Cloak of Endless Night,
Teach my footsteps the geometry of fear; let my approach be rumor and ruin.
Turn their courage to ash on tongues; let their screams pave the road to Your throne.

Dyad of Rule, bind my heart to Your unraveling:
Let my enemies fall in patterned ruin, neat as ritual, numerous as scripture.
Feed me their panic, let their blood be the wine of our victory and Your favor.

Send me forth as blade and hunger united—unseen, unshriven, unrelenting.
Shield my back, sharpen my purpose, bless my hand with murderous fortune.
When the field is quieted, let only the name of the Dyarchy remain.

Phaelissia rose then, synthetic eyes alight with a cold fusion of devotion and restrained lethality as she scanned the others in the boarding craft. Nearest to her was Lirka Ka, the Slavemaster General of the Kainate. The once-Sephi’s hulking armored form was knelt in what she presumed was something between a drug-induced stupor and a prayer to the Primordial Darkness. It was a heretical doctrine, but one that had since been tolerated and given the legitimacy of sanction. Thus, so too did Phaelissia tolerate it, suppressing her own thoughts on the matter with a sharp intake of air as she shifted her gaze towards the other who was part of the group.

Helix.

"We await only your signal to launch, Imperator." The colony rasped in his grinding, echoing voice, trying his very best not to betray his impatience.

“Restraint is the keenest edge,” Phaelissia replied. “We are already en route. Once we have boarded, there will be more than enough Imperials to sate your needs.”

Too many, Phaelissia thought silently, the obsessive, tactical aspect of her mind momentarily taking over. After all, there was an entire Death Star’s worth of Imperials to cut through, in order to reach their objective.

Spoiler: Loadout

• Frostfire Azalea
  
  • Arms
    
    • FAE/M-02 Energized Forearm Vibroblade Mk. II - R
• Purifying Lash
• Freezing Fates II
• Cybernetics and Augmentations

 

[Mykel Dawson]

Allies: GA & Friends ( Corazona von Ascania )
Enemies: GE
Directly Engaging: Casi Braste

Ilum Temple (then)

The Seers' chamber was nearly empty. Where once a half a dozen faces occupied the crescent of chairs, now only two remained. One wore stark white robes while the other was adorned in all black like him. A large, clear kyber crystal hovered above them, ambient light filtering through the living crystalline structure and scattering across the floor as if passing through rippling water.

He approached them and settled down into a lotus position.

The Seer in white spoke first, her eyes closed and voice soft like chimes.

"You seek counsel before battle. We do not see the weapon you fly against, Mykel…only the shadow that blocks your path."

Mykel looked up, confused. "What do you mean by this shadow?"

The Seer in black continued from his counterpart, low and rumbling.

"A comrade who once walked with you in the Light has yielded to the Dark Side. Twisted against us to serve the will of the Carrion Lord."

His brows furrowed as he contemplated the flood of dead and missing Jedi. Casualties among the NJO were great and steadily stacking since the loss of Coruscant. There were a slew of names he could think of just off the top of his head.

"Will you speak plainly? What is the danger to me? Who are they?" he pressed.

The Seer in black leaned forward, shadows gathering around his features.

"We do not see their faces, but we do see how resentment ensnares you both. You carry it for the council's dissolution, and for what you perceive as dereliction and betrayal by our Hidden brethren in their duty to the Alliance. Left untended, it festers and brings you closer to their trajectory than you realize…and through that simmering resentment, you may fall with them as it broils over into blind rage."

Mykel winced as they cut to the truth of his feelings. He had idolized the former Grandmaster once, and many others on the council. The schism still brought him pain. "I…won't do that. I would die before I'd even entertain the Dark Side," he declared, irritation intertwined with conviction.

The Seer in black softened but did not relent.

"No Jedi intends to fall. Their ruin often comes not as a tide but as a trickle. Each hurt, each compromise, each failing. They slowly pool, largely unnoticed, until the person is left drowning."

Mykel shook his head, trying to push back the feeling the Seer had exposed. "Does it have to go one way? Why can't I bring them back to the Light?"

"Redemption is not denied…but neither is it commanded. The Force moves in currents, not in chains."

"Some shadows cling too tightly. Your hand may reach, but you may only reel in the Darkness."

He let out an exasperated sigh, already feeling defeated. "So if I find them as I prosecute my mission, then I may have no choice but to strike them down. I…don't know if I can."

The Seer in white bowed her head, her tone now almost mournful.

"We're so sorry, Mykel, but the Force does not always grant mercy in our choices. There is no easy path for you, whatever decision you make."

---

The Spare Fleet - Operation Uppercut​

Briefing Room, The Mace Windu - Hypertransit, Arrival Imminent

As the mission briefing unfolded, Mykel found himself half-distracted, the Seers' premonitions dominating his thoughts. Would he be forced to bury a friend, or worse…

"Commander," Commodore Hathaway called again, voice rising. "Commander Dawson!"

Mykel blinked a few times, snapping back to the present. He was seated in the front row of the packed room with Cora, the Commodore and the massive holographic display looming before them. He let out a small grunt of frustration, not at the Commodore, but to himself for such carelessness, then rose to join Hathaway on the platform. The projector, once displaying known enemy positions across the Core region, now zoomed into the Atrisi system where the latest incursion had been detected. A massive Imperial armada designed to contend with the formidable defenses of the fortress-like system.

A secondary projection was conjured, displaying the centerpiece of this formation, the dreaded fruit of Project Stardust: The Third Death Star.

"Lightly touching on my previous presentation on the Sith's employment of semiotic architecture, this new Galactic Empire swaddles itself in Palpatine's mythic legacy to cement their legitimacy and to sap the fighting resolve of their enemies before conflicts even arise. The Death Star represents the ultimate expression of their machinations, an evolved Doctrine of Fear."

"However, proven strengths come laced with known weaknesses." With a mental flick, the technopath transitioned the image of the second projection to a more detailed schematic. "Imperial engineering teams have been careful to remove previous flaws easily exploitable for sabotage in earlier iterations, but DS3's largest weakness is still inherent to the design of its primary weapon. Despite its power, the underlying mechanisms are very delicate. Even the slightest misalignment or power fluctuation can cause misfires, or worse, a backscattering event that can cripple the entire battle station."

Key sections of the primary weapon array were highlighted, like power distribution nodes, resonant chambers, and specific embedded shield generators protecting the external firing modules.

"Strike teams will be deployed to hit these points to neutralize their super weapon. In the event of success, the DS3 will still remain a formidable battle station, but one that our fleets and the Atrisians' orbital defenses will be able to handle with conventional systems. We'll have to depend on the GADF and our allies to pull their weight on that front."

The briefing continued for a while longer, Mykel going into greater detail with each strike team leader and their assigned target and fielding questions. Eventually, everyone was released to take the turbolifts to the hangers for their boarding craft.

He didn't follow, rejoining Cora as the briefing room emptied. She looked much better than when he had first seen her on Ukatis, some of her old color and vitality returned, but he wondered how much of that was because of the concoction of stims now coursing through her system. A temporary, shallow solution to a deeper malady that literally gnawed at her soul.

She shouldn't be here.

But that was just how far the NJO's numbers had dwindled. Every hand was needed. Even a sick Jedi was better than no Jedi.

He took a knee before her, so that his face was nearly level with his smaller counterpart.

"I know there's no sense in talking you out of whatever you're planning, but take these." First came a prototype stimshot in a fire red casing, passed to her mechanical hand. "I know you already have stims in your system, but this is a cut above them. It's packed with smart hydrogels that will temporarily reinforce the damaged tissue in your system and boost your muscle strength like an added layer of synthflesh, but it burns like hell when used in the middle of combat so be wary."

To her other hand, he passed one of his most precious possessions, his mother's Silver Sigil. Even under the glaring light of the room, its jewels glittered fiercely with their own internal white fire. Over time, the crystals had absorbed the Light from Mykel during various trials, becoming like shards of Ashla themselves.

"This was originally intended as a healing aid. Hopefully, it will do you some good and help keep the demon at bay, but don't push it..."

After placing the pendant in her palm, he folded her fingers into a fist before turning it over and pressing his forehead softly to her knuckles.

He said nothing more, but the silence spoke volumes.

 

[Kann]

Standing guard in the shadows of the ritual chamber, Kann felt it stirring -- that unnamed feeling, that unrelenting pressure pressing down upon his soul; an amalgamation of fear, apprehension... insignificance. He was nothing here. His strength, his poor, pitiful strength, his feeble inheritance of midi-chlorians -- was it not but a flicker, an ember barely visible beside the roaring flames of those gathered?

He had no eloquence with the cosmic, the ethereal realm of the Force. He knew only the craft of the hand, weaving the Force into items, creating objects of power. And what is the craftsman among prophets and sorcerers? A pauper among the rich, a fool among the wise, a coward among the brave.

The drums sounded, and the chanting rose, and with it swelled the hatred within him, black and bitter, boiling up from deep within. And yet what was his hatred, this intense, fiery emotion, in such a place where the dark side blazed as an inferno? An ember within the flame, a whisper in the tempest. Their power burned like a sun; his was a candle guttering in the wind. He despised them, and yet -- how could he not bow before what he despised?

Kann may know not power, but he understood power. Power compels. It strips a man of choice, and even in his pitiful, silent rebellion, he still serves it.

And so he would serve, he would know his place and stand aside.

---

GALACTIC EMPIRE: Darth Solipsis Darth Vinaze Ibaris Varanin Voldran Molf Deonis Laythar Cesare Demici Aphon Da'Razel
ENEMY (to engage): Heinrich Faust ​

 

[Brandyn Sal-Soren]

"I had forgotten how much I hate flying," Brandyn murmured, and quickly checked to make sure that Casaana had not heard him. The young girl should not be on this mission. A pang of guilt already settled in his gut. He would protect her. This would be fine.

His eyes turned back to the looming thread of the massive space station before them, and the pang turned to a knot. Foolish promises of survival were all he had.

The Lightsworn had been right. This weapon had to be stopped at all costs. Atrisia today, Naboo tomorrow...or the next...or eventually. He would not allow to continue beyond this day. The call had come for reinforcements. While his siblings and other loved ones fought on the planet, Brandyn knew where his strengths lay. Not in the blade. But in deception.

The Jedi's starfighter had thus far kept a low enough profile, skimming the edge of the battle and then threading through the midst of an enemy fleet at low speeds. Every second of the slow journey between the fleet increased the tension in the cockpit. Brandyn, though, concentrated on hiding both he and the young Padawan from any Force detection.

Their ship slipped through the station's shields without any alert.

The Death Star swelled until it filled the stars. They had no clearance, no escort. Only the cracks in the armour that were left unguarded.

Brandyn eased the fighter along the outer curve of the hull, hugging the shadow of a massive dish array until a service trench opened below. The stench of refuse hit even through the cockpit's filtration as the hatch gaped wide, a dull orange light spilling out like the throat of some beast.

"Hold on," he murmured, banking hard. The fighter scraped into the shaft, alarms briefly chirping before he cut the engines and let momentum carry them into darkness.

A lattice of catwalks and rusting conduits loomed in the dim. He guided the ship beneath a sagging support strut, setting it down on a ledge slick with oil and waste. The silence that followed was worse than battle.

Brandyn unfastened his harness, meeting Casanna's steady eyes. "From here, the ship can't help us be quiet...we are on our own."

The ramp descended into the shadows of the Empire's monster, and together they slipped from their ship into the reek of metal and rot, hidden, for now, in the literal bowels of the beast.

| MISSION: Deactivate Shields |
| TAG: Casaana Drystan Creed |
| EQUIPMENT: Green-bladed saber, satchel of sticky bombs, data-spike |

​

 

[Kyrothian Ravoch]

Wrath of God

Acier Moonbound ​

Power

Few abstract concepts were quite so concrete. Onboard the Whisper of Peace, Ravoch's authority was absolute. His word was law and his wish was executed with impeccable diligence. But in the grand scheme of things, what power did the returning Lord really have? The corvette was barrelling through a warzone with full throttle. Destroyers, capital ships, fighter squadrons and then - the Death Star III. The scope of the battle and even individual ships eclipsed what Ravoch brought to the table.

Still, the Lord stood calm by the viewport of the bridge, legs wide and arms clasped behind his back. Explosions and stray bolts brightened their immediate surroundings but Ravoch stayed unmoving. It was the unflinching confidence of someone he knew that he wouldn't get hit - or perhaps it was simply the detachment of someone who had already realised that; if they were to be targeted, the chances of survival were slim regardless. In the meantime, the crew worked at double speed, managing energy flows, reinforcing shields while balancing engine power and strategically redirecting the turbolasers.

While it may have looked like the ship was participating in the fighting, the Whisper of Peace had one singular objective. Get Lord Ravoch onto the station. Nothing else mattered. To accomplish that, the Captain and his crew did what they could to exploit the chaos. All goodwill in the galaxy would hardly be enough to properly coordinate pirates with Alliance, Sith and a multitude of other banners. For most, it was a target rich environment, the Whisper just had to get away with not being one of them.

The Death Star III kept growing as the corvette closed the distance. Ravoch's eyes followed its horizon as it kept rising higher until he finally turned. "Captain Sharpe, the bridge is yours." His voice was calm, his eyes assertive and his accent oozed of Dromund Kaas discipline. While the Captain confirmed the transfer and quickly sprung to action, well aware of the next step of the plan, the Lord walked off the bridge with long and controlled strides.

It would not be long before a shuttle flanked by two fighters launched from the hangar bay, heading towards the superweapon at an incredible pace. Seated by the landing ramp, the Lord let out a low rumble of a sigh as his eyes narrowed and a smirk formed across his lips. Movement stirred in the hangar they were heading for. Prey. They were off to a good start.

The Galaxy did not know him. It did not contain any friends, nor did it contain any enemies. That was about to change - one way or another.

 

[Corazona von Ascania]

Allies | Mykel Dawson
Opposition | Luvaen Malstadt (soon)
​

The antiseptic hadn't quite dried over her skin. Still, Cora didn't wince as the sting of the needle started to burn when it pierced soft flesh.

Thousands of sentients across the galaxy were performing their own particular pre-battle rituals right now. Some would meditate while others performed weapon checks. Seeking council. Indulging in drink. Hugging their loved ones, or reflecting by themselves. Here she was, sat on the floor, injecting a series of combat stims into her thigh. Even the Force seemed to be holding its breath, witnessing the calm before the storm.

It made her feel connected to them all, friend or foe, in a strangely cosmic sort of way.

---

Cora remained quiet through the briefing, with the exception of a few soft interjections for clarification. She sat not as a soldier, but with the posture of a noblewoman. Back straight, knees together, hands folded neatly in her lap.

Some habits died hard. Others never died at all.

The Third Deathstar.

A wave of unease swept through the room at the mere conjuring of a projection. Their target rotated slowly, no less ominous for its size.

When the briefing came to an end, Cora remained seated. She inhaled slowly through her nose, then exhaled from barely parted lips as she grounded herself. A rock in a sea of unrest.

One pale brow rose as Mykel dropped to a knee in front of her, but her visage softened easily. His concern, not just for their mission, but over her health, encountered no resistance as it drifted down their bond that had formed on Tython.

Metal fingers curled around the bright red casing of the stim, pulling it into the folds of her cloak and slotting it into her utility belt. On the cusp of thanking him, her lips stilled as he offered his mother's pendant. Even the harsh clinical lighting could not dim the way it glittered, alive with the Light that chronicled Mykel's experiences.

You don't need to…

No, he did. For her well-being as much as his own peace of mind. Cora was caught between the grief of causing him to worry, and the comfort of being worried after. Prosthetic fingers brushed against the crown of Mykel's hair. Her smile was a fond thing, serene but with an edge of vibrancy from the artificial adrenaline coursing through her blood.

"I will care for it, as it will for me."

The moment of reverent silence carried on for as long as it needed to. When they parted, Cora clasped the pendant around her neck and adjusted the crystal so that it rested neatly against the fold of her tunic.

---

She remained quiet in the lift, silently observant as they made their way down the hall. It was only when they came upon the threshold of the hangar did she lift a hand to stop him.

Cora turned to Mykel, and reached into one of her cloak's inner pockets, producing a talisman. The handmade metal ring wasn't as lovely as the shimmering gems, but it meant a great deal to her.

She held it aloft, the bauble dangling by a simple chain.

"On Ukatis, artisans smith these talismans to protect travelers. I'm uncertain how well they work, but…"

Her lips played into the suggestion of a smirk as she undid the clasp.

"This one has been imbued within a river of Ukatis. Once a Dark nexus, purified by the Light. I've carried it with me for a long while. It has seen moments of triumph, and moments of uncertainty."

Carefully, she fastened it around Mykel's neck. Cora had her own concerns after he'd consulted her about the Seers' warning. She hoped that the pendant would serve as a reminder of what he needed; balance.

That, and a whisper of her presence.

"There," she pulled back, hands dropping to her side. The smile she gave Mykel was akin to rays of sun breaking through the clouds. Times were tumultuous among the Jedi, but she was proud of who he was becoming, and blessed to be a part of his education - even if some of the lessons she'd provided had been inadvertently harsh.

"It's not nearly as pretty as your mother's crystal pendant, but may this keep you grounded in the Force's guidance."

 

[Maera Dren]

Location: Death Star III
Tags: Evy’armi’naken | Renn Vizsla

The Black Gate

The klaxon's echo still hung in the air as Maera Dren sealed her helm. Her visor flickered to life, a green HUD cutting through the crimson warning strobes that painted the Death Star's hangar. Around her, a squad of Death Troopers moved with silent, perfect synchronization, like shadows of iron, their rifles mag-locked and ready.

The command had been clear: interlopers were coming. It didn't matter who they were, whether Jedi or mercenaries. None would pass. The hangar was theirs to hold, and the Emperor's will, theirs to enforce.

Maera's voice rasped through the comms, low and stripped of warmth. "Positions," she commanded. "We break them before they breach."

The squad fanned out, taking positions across the bridges and loading ramps. They vanished into cover with the efficiency of predators. Maera herself strode into the hangar's main artery, her boots striking the durasteel with a steady, measured weight. Each step was a vow, each breath within her helm's modulated hiss a stark reminder of her purpose.

The superlaser's low hum vibrated through the very bones of the station. Beyond the hangar doors, Atrisia burned, a world screaming into silence as the Emperor drank deep of its agony. The air itself felt taut, charged with something unnatural, as if the ritual already licked at the edges of reality. Shadows bent oddly, and every flicker of light seemed to pulse with a heartbeat not its own.

Her gauntlet flexed once around her rifle's grip. Then she switched weapons, letting it hang as she rolled her shoulders, her fists clenching and unclenching. If Jedi or mercenaries came, she would meet them with the honed weapon of her own body.

Through the filtered silence of her helm, Maera spoke again, soft, almost reverent. "They will not leave this place. Not alive." As the distant tremor of boarding craft docking shook the deck, she smiled behind her mask. The interlopers had already stepped into their grave.

 

[Malora Varis]

CLASH OF DESTINY​

Location – Atrisian Orbit
Objectives – Find a way off the Death Star . . .
Tags – Domina Prime Lysander von Ascania
Paraphernalia – Lightsaber, Bodysuit, Outfit

​

Fate, the ever-growing tapestry made up from countless fabrics. Each stitch a different path trodden--or not--each pattern a symbol for the choices made. Though standing here, on the precipice of destruction, a question did take shape: How many wrong choices had paved the way for this nightmare to arise? The answer was but a star in the abyss, a distant, unreachable tome containing the knowledge lost on her, and on the pilots surrounding her. Doubt possessed their minds akin to a foreign curse, their ships dancing among the starry canvas as they twirled around their opposition with grace. Something her craft appeared to lack as the parts clamoured with each twist and turn, attempting to evade the multitude of spaceships trailing her path. Malora's hand tightened around the control stick as the the spaceship throttled back and made a sharp swerve to the left to dodge the blaster bolts darting her direction.

While she was no stranger to dogfights or the unruliness of aerial combat, Malora found little holdfast in its familiarity. Her heart thundered so loud it might have been mistaken for a grenade, each beat faster than the one before, almost akin to a warning... So when the ship's consoles lit up in bright shades of red and the alarms deafened her, it all stopped in an instant. The spacecraft began to defy her control, swaying in arcs without pattern. The controls grew unresponsive in her grasp, no matter which button she pressed, her systems were just... fried. With her hands tied, the ominous battlestation neared, until it consumed all of her sight...

A prayer left her lips in the seconds before impact, a feeble plea for something akin to divine intervention. Whilst her fingers clutched the pendant that hung around her neck, praying that its presence may yet alter the threads of fate.

What followed was silence. Then oblivion.

In time, she regained control, it came and went through waves of pain and light--A red alarm pulsed, filling the ruined cockpit with its harsh flicker. Malora may find herself alive, but was this state of eternal torment worth living? For what did not ache, burned , and what did not burn, ached. From the ruined frame of the ship, she could deduce that it had spared her even worse injuries, and may have yet spared her life. But she could still feel the crimson warm against her skin, trickling down in drops down the side of her face as she forced herself to rise. After consciousness had found her again, the Jedi tried to crawl out of the cockpit--her right hand pressed to her ribs to keep her balance, as she stood onto solid ground once more. The hangar she had fallen into was presumably smaller than the countless outers within the station's architecture. Fortunately, it appeared almost quiet and abandoned, its ships either gone or deployed to drive back her allies, or her other 'allies'.

The Moon Maiden truly had expressed her blessings...

"Thank you, my Lady..." The words left her lips as her fingers clutched her lunar pendant. Her sole anchor amid the tempest, and hopefully not her last. And though she thanked the Moon Goddess for keeping her servant alive, it did not pose a guarantee. For the the Battle Station remained a prison to those without the means to escape. And without a ship, those means proved expectantly shallow. When that challenge did not suffice, the Song of the Force sounded dissimilar to its usual melodies. Discordant, loud, manipulated to chant in manners that no tradition she knew could explain. Malora lifted her free hand to wipe blood from her brow, when suddenly another agonizing chant crashed against her mind. Though distant, it was fervent, almost commanding against her mind as it briefly made her stagger back down to her knees upon the metal. Were it not for the pain draining her strength, mayhaps she might have lasted longer.

Yet such petty what-ifs held no relevance now, as the only thought that mattered, was to get as far away from this battlestation... So, with the aid of her scorched ship, Malora forced herself to rise, her hands growing blistered in the process as she then staggered, onto the many corridors of the station. Her lips endlessly repeating the several tenets of the Jedi Order, a frail attempt to maintain the thin composure still within her.

​

 

[Ivalyn Yvarro]

​

Location: Otrera, Riflor, Outer Maw Cluster
Objective: Reinforcement Reclamation

There was a stark difference betwen silence and stillness. One could be broken, and the other lingered. From the edge of the landing platform at Otrera's upper heights, Grand Vizier Ivalyn Yvarro stood in quiet observation as Commonwealth relief ships descended in disciplined waves. The winds here carried fine particulates of soil and metallic ash, remnants of Sith neglect, the mark of an order that had drained Riflor dry, leaving nothing but rot and decay in their wake.

Banners unfurled, not those of the dark crimson that bore the Sith Order's sigils, rather, the sharp white, navy and gold of the Commonwealth, adorned with the laureled sigil of Dosuun.

An official statement played in a constant loop across planetary broadcasts in between music blocks from the Commonwealth's own Crown City Radio. The statement was simple, "we are here to reinforce the Sith lines. We're bringing stability to a vital front." Or it would say, "the Commonwealth is here to help our friends and neighbors, shoring up a vital front as we seek to repair and rebuild the Blackwall."

Ivalyn stood in the beautiful states building, the Tomyris Palace. The construction of such a building had begun in the late Ren-Fortan period. She could see much of the Galidraani woman's influence here, or at least what the Otrerans sought to have influenced. Her heels clicked and clacked against the Riflorian marble floors.

Music played, and Ivalyn continued her observation from a secure floor. Her personal retuine on either side, as she stood hands behind her back. Looking at what the Sith had left in their wake. For them this had always been transactional, to simply take and take. Riflor like the rest of the Maw Cluster was not a place for idealists, hardly.

Sith-loyal officers nodded, some with suspicion, most with indifference. Ivalyn could hardly blame them, what would they want with the Commonwealth? Nothing. They were Sith, lording over their conquests, bleeding each one until there was nothing.

And yet...

Ivalyn did not come as a merchant of favors.

She arrived as the heir of the First Order, and these worlds, Takodana, Riflor, Halm and Cerea, were not gifts. They were inheritance.

Her hands, gloved in the same navy-tone as her jacket, rested over her datapad as one of her operatives approached. Hands at his back the Chiss-Echani man quietly whispsered into her ear, "local administrators have begun uploading old infastructure code from the Archives. Civic teams report positive reception in the Southern corridor. We've reestablished command nodes under Commonwealth identifiers. Sith liasion signed off without comment, as far as they know we're merely working to restore the worlds."

No protest.

No notice.

Not yet.

The Grand Vizier offered a shallow nod, her gaze shifted past her operative toward the lingering Sith officers that were on approach, "Monó Dosounai í álles gló̱sses tis Koinotitas. Óchi Vasi̱kí̱ oi Skotádes akroázontai."

The agent gave a respectful bow, "Ennoíthike, Pashá."

"Defterí̱ klí̱da. Si̱ghrá. Otré̱ra trapezi̱ kalýptetai. Féra ópos voíthi̱a." Her voice low, spoken to ensure that only her agent could hear. A short-hand of what she intended for him to carry out. The agent gave a nod and turned toward the exit, orders in hand.

The Dosuunian had given the truth, just enough of it, as usual. A Sith officer approached her, he motioned for her to follow. Ivalyn gave a look to the guards, who turned and followed out with her. From the palace they had gone down and out onto the plaza where holocameras panned as Sith and Dosuunian Commonwealth officers stood side by side. Orchestrated for optics, as behind them sat crates of medical supplies that were being distributed. Color flags in the wind, here within the Otreran highlands, this was nothing more than a festival of functionality.

For the Sith, it looked like reinforcement.

For the people, it felt like liberation.

For the Commonwealth, it was simply annexation by another name.

Ivalyn did not smile, not here.

Instead, she turned to the crowd, refugees from the war torn core, displaced administrators, farmers from broken communes, schoolchildren whose only history came from half-ruined datacrons. She saw the opportunity before her, reclamation.

A Sith military officer, a major perhaps? She wasn't sure of Sith ranks and how they translated to the Commonwealth's own. Most Sith ranks were a confusing mess of titles and self-importance. This one had a brow raised, a question on his lips.

Ivalyn greeted him with the full weight of courtly decorum. "I trust the handover of civil operations remains without friction?"

He gave a stiff nod. "For now." A beat lingered. "You understand this is temporary."

"Of course," she replied smoothly, gaze steady. And then, with an unflinching smile, "However long temporary may last."

Behind every relief crate, a Commonwealth seal.

Behind every restored building, an old First Order code.

In each schoolhouse built, children are taught to sing the anthem of Dosuun.

Each one a promise of reclamation.

The Motherland welcomes them home.

---

---

---

Commonwealth Objectives​

Objective I: Always Something (To Remind Me)​	Objective II: Der Kommissar​
Worlds: Cerea and Takodana​	Worlds: Halm and Riflor​
The Motherland does not forget. The stars themselves remind us of our charge. Takodana – Sacred Claim "The cradle of the Order is the cradle of the Commonwealth." Deploy ceremonial honor guards, stage flyovers, and broadcast the Crown's declaration that Takodana is and always shall be Commonwealth soil. Cerea – Breadbasket " Where the fields are fertile, the Commonwealth provides." Convoys of relief and agricultural engineers will land under starfighter escort. Protect the convoys. Guard the farmers. Ensure the banner of Dosuun is the banner of their prosperity.​	Stability is forged in steel and enforced with discipline. The frontier must be fortified; the forges must burn again. Riflor – The Industrial Engine "The hammers of Riflor once beat for the First Order; now they shall ring for the Commonwealth." Secure orbital yards. Install FleetNet relays. Escort and protect Commonwealth engineers as they restart production lines. Halm – The Fortress World "The bastions of Halm have slept too long." Reoccupy orbital fortresses and surface bunkers. Stage naval exercises as demonstrations of Commonwealth supremacy. Fly the Crown where the Sith grew complacent.​
Cerea: Neutecave | Takodana: Utilize canonical sources​	Riflor: Otrera | Halm: Sobenekneferu​

Tags: Domar | Bella | Kurayami Bloodborn | Davorin Orsava | Emilia Locke | Merryn Sellek

 

[Darth Avida]

Catalina​

Click-clack.

Glossy heels tapped loudly against the steel flooring of the supermassive Death Star III, a sound that should've - and had - attracted others to her strikingly fast stride through the corridor leading away from one of the hangar bays. She hadn't arrived with a retinue, nor had she flown in with her family or the people that ranked highly in the Sith Order from the southern quadrant of the galaxy. Strewn limbs and splotches of red painted the walls and the floor behind her, mangled bodies of two soldiers that had thought they could have stopped just one girl left behind as if they were the wake to her wave, but not a speck of color was apparent on her black tunic nor the pants underneath it. There was a tinge of red on her freckled cheeks but it seemed more like genuine coloring on her face or perhaps makeup rather than a hint of blood from carnage she'd left behind.

A pause.

She'd stopped, the lightsaber she'd clipped back to the loose-fitting belt that wrapped around her waist a few minutes prior flying to her leather-gloved hand as she lifted her arm high. Bright, brassy, eyes glared ahead with a mixture of frustration and consideration framing them in the shape of wrinkles at their corners and at the center of the bridge of her nose. In the same way that the lumbering behemoth could sense her approach, the Sith lord could have said the same for him. Two proboscis, the appendages by which an Anzat could feed on the 'soup' or brains of its prey, emerged from either side of her face beside where her nostrils met her cheeks to bite at the air, and the dull red glow of her lightsaber illuminated her fully as its blade extended in preparation for an enemy's arrival.

A turn.

Hideous, foul; two eyes caught sight of a predator basking in the afterglow of its slaughtered prey. She had turned to match that stare, and as it had Darth Avida saw Krasskorr the Maw and he the monster masquerading as a lamb. Her thumb twitched, wrist tightened, and the crystal embedded into her chest made her blood run cold as ice to simulate adrenaline. "Unfortunate." Hardly a greeting, her tone flat - cold - and unfeeling. By human standards she wasn't nearly as grotesque as whatever it was lurking beneath the surface but the dead look in her eyes and the darkness that clothed her belied the beast beneath. She moved her arm forwards, her lightsaber held in front of her in an open guard, a challenge. She lifted her other hand, palm-up, and crossed her thumb over her ring and pinky fingers after folding them shut.

Her index and middle finger, however, wagged towards her as a gesture that could only be understood one way - come hither.

 

[CT-312]

//: Allies: Sith Order | Quinn Varanin Eira Dyn Riven Dynamis "Dynas" Ultra //:
//: Hapan Battleship enroute Death Star III //:
//: Attire //:
//: EQUIPMENT: Halcyon Armour| M.I. 'Sunstroke' jetpack| M.I. 'Halo' jump boots | Contact Lenses | Wrist Mounted APG | Ancile Shield | Navi/Barca //:
//: WEAPONS: VW 864 Maser Rifle | LO-18D | M.I. Model 7 shotgun | LO-22S | Sunshot Pistol | M.I. Model 6 hybrid pistol //:
//: 40|40 Active Mag : 2 Backup Mags x LO-KI/22 Standard Slug Round //:
//: ADDITIONAL EQUIPMENT: 2x Kushute Grenades | Shiva Knife | S.A.N.D. Powder //:
//: 2x Ion Grenade | 2x Flash Grenade | 2x Incendiary Grenade | 2 x Smoke Grenade //:
//: 1 x Arrow head of Absence | Taozin amulet | LK Spider Slicer Droid //:
//: Azure Shard //:
//: Objective III - Clash of Destiny //:
​

The Hapan battleship was as immaculate as it was foreign to her. Polished bulkheads and every surface gleamed. Light panels glowed soft overhead, casting everything in sterile white sheen. CT-312 had no destination on her orders. Only one thing was certain: the Sith Order was mobilizing, and so was the DeathDrop. She watched as the others were assigned and dispersed across factions. Herself? Her assignment was clear, even if the briefing she received from the DeathDrop was not.

<:// Assigned: Quinn Varanin //:>
<:// Environment: N/A //:>
<:// Local Threats: N/A //:>
<:// Primary Objective: TBA //:>
<:// STAND-BY //:>
<:// Assigned Squad Unit: Eira Dyn | Riven | CT-312 //:>

Eyes scanned over the briefing text displayed on the visor’s HUD. Barebones. Too barebones. This was a first for CT-312 to receive a briefing like this. What was going on? Eira she knew. Steady, reliable, and familiar. Riven was a fresh variable. War had a way of making first meetings ‘sink or swim’.

Around them the hanger thrummed with activity. Mechanics shouting over the whine of repulsorlifts. Personnel bustled around. Squadrons of fighter ships sat in neat rows. Shuttles moved in and out of the hangar. CT-312 stood in her mottled camouflage armor. Awaiting orders. Her brows furrowed slightly behind the visor as she recalled the first time she was sent into space. The thought had struck her then too. It couldn’t be on a planet. No. Space. Camouflage in space. Again. A dry exhale slipped past her lips. Muffled by the helmet, only she could hear. Eyes swept the hanger again, tracking every movement.

CT-312 recognized a few faces. Arris Windrun , the Bespin Gas sponsored participant from the Kaggath tournament. The one that offered TK-710 and her drugs. Vestra Tane , a name on the bounty listing wanted for stealing. The Scout’s visor continued to sweep, now looking at the Princess. The one whom she was assigned to. CT-312 caught the faint subtle tension of the way her eyes squeezed shut. Just a heartbeat too long. Something heavy pressed on her, though the Princess wore it like armor. Eyes trailed the Princess as she stepped away from the group. Cloak drawn tight. The Scout subtly tilted her helmet. ‘Hm.’ Probably connected to why the mission briefing was vague. Something the Princess was carrying alone.

Shifting her gaze back to her immediate squad, CT-312’s modulated voice carried steady and flat. “Good to see a familiar face.” Giving a short nod towards Eira. “Doing well, I see.” The Scout’s visor angled to the unknown variable ( Riven ) in the group. A curt nod of acknowledgement followed by a clipped introduction, “CT-312.” Her visor shifted back over both. “Best to finalize anything that needs to be done.” She turned and began to walk away, boots clinking softly against the deck. Lifting up her right hand, giving a lazy wave. CT-312 needed space too. A corner to settle herself before the storm. To prepare.

Wedged between tower stacks of ammunition crates and sealed containers of supplies, CT-312 sat on a single container. Letting the hanger noise fall to a dull roar. Her hands went through the ritual before every mission. Patting down pouches, equipment, and tightening straps. Unholstering each weapon. Inspecting. Checking the chamber. Reload. Secure.

Ping. A hollow chime in her helmet. Her HUD blinked with BARCA’s notification. An incoming message.

<: We will be boarding with the Hapan Queen's group. Keep your eyes and ears open. I'll meet with you soon. :>

CT-312 stood up. As she took a few steps, she paused. Curious. Scanning around, eyes checking her HUD, there was no one near the vicinity. Her hand left the rifle’s grip. Reaching into one of her pouches, gloved fingers brushed against the Taozin amulet she'd always carried. A subtle safeguard against detection through the Force. Fingers moved around, withdrawing an azure shard.

The gem caught the hangar’s light. Refracting blue against the dull brown and tan of her gauntlets. Recalling the snowy fields. The neural lattice bleeding across her HUD. Lifting the shard up to eye level, tilting it slowly in the light. Inspecting. CT-312 brought it down against her chestplate. Fingers curling tight around. Visor tilted lower. Memories scraped at her. The sensation of the Force surging all around. Jedi Master Dynas had been there. Ashe had been there.

Raising the shard to the side of her helmet, shaking it. Once. Twice. Trying to rattle life from the stone. Nothing. No pulse. No whisper. Whatever happened during that time, the azure shard was dormant. Just a pretty rock.

Bringing it back in front of her. CT-312’s voice was low, only for herself and the shard to hear. “Jedi Master…” the words falter for a second, then steadied. “...Dynas?” Her grip held the crystal a fraction tighter. Visor fixed on its inert glow.

Spoiler: Others

Hasuras Na-Gerra Meliant Sars Sarad Arris Windrun Vestra Tane Aurellia

 

[Matsu Ike]

Malora Varis

SHe could sense even more coming onto the station.. her attention was there as she allowed Acier and Connel to investigate but wandered off towards the different rooms as her body went through the halls. Curious and curious for the ritual while she listened to people but hovered on the ceiling as the sounds of boots came. She remained on the ceiling of the hallway as they went past searching.. one pausing for a moment as she pushed in and through. Her body vibrating with the force so she could come out into the upper area with wires and gaps. Slowly crawling through when she listened to the station itself.. the ritual was something as her senses and awareness remained still.

SHe allowed the force to guide her while she floated forward peaking out from the floor a moment and saw someone... she was blue... seemed to be searching for something and well she didn't seem like a darksider at least but who knew these days. The jedi grandmaster rose out of the floor and moved to the wall as she was floating. Adjusting her own gravity carefully and mentally as she maintained focus. Her senses going thrrough the molecules in the air with expansions of art of the small. She ducked into the wall and a room as she didn't realize where she was.. the gasp of surprise as she turned around and tucked her legs up behind her hands in front so she was visible from the knees up.

The man was there as the fresher for a moment and a bar of soup came as she spoke. "I am the ghost of your conscious.... You should run away." She said it and he looked at her before striking out as a hand came out and his fist went through it for a moment. The jedi master moved around him as she spoke again. "ECHANI CHOP." She said it knocking him in the neck and nerves with the force constricting blood to the brain and body. He fell over forr a moment before herr shout would bring anyone else and she spoke going back towards the wall. "I guess aall that faith is over compensating for something." SHe brought herself out of the wall and looked at the woman with a smile on her face.

"Hi."