Annihilation Clash of Destiny

[Kyrothian Ravoch]

Wrath of God

Acier Moonbound ​

Finally. The shuttle swooshed into the hangar bay while the two fighters peeled off to return to Whisper. As the ship's landing gear slid onto the floor plates with a gnarly screech, the Lord rose from his seat. An arm wearing an armoured sleeve shot up to hold on to the railing that ran along the ceiling whilst the other, unarmoured and bare, arm rested by his back, close to the belt where his lightsaber hung.

The guards inside the hangar bay weren't numerous - but they were prepared to defend their position nonetheless. When the landing ramp lowered, a few bolts were fired immediately. Before any of the bolts even came close, Ravoch's lightsaber snapped to life with a sharp hiss. As if preplanned, yellow bolts seemed to arrive just as the spot where he happened to point his blade. As the Lord worked to deflect the bolts that sailed towards him, troops disembarked on both of his flanks.

"Anyone who yields will be brought into the fold." his voice, calm as ever, still boomed over the incoming blasterfire. In the meantime, his own troops merely seemed to be taking cover and lining up shots. The Lord's rusty Soresu - mostly drawn from the Niman that he was more familiar with - was starting to lag behind as the unrelenting stream of yellow bolts kept upping the pressure. All he had to do was to make a final statement: "Until then, fire at will." A sudden burst of red laser bolts errupted from the Lord's disciplined formation, quickly dealing with anyone close.

Importantly, the sudden erruption of violence from his own side eased the pressure on the Lord himself. While his saber kept weaving and spinning to protect himself and the troops in his immediate vicinity, his free armoured arm soon shot up in the direction of the catwalk that provided the defenders with a good vantage point. Slowly, his fist started to close, causing the metalic structure to whine and groan as metal twisted whilst being squeezed tight. Entertained yellowish eyes watched his handywork until he eventually yanked his arm - and by extension the catwalk down.

The structure came crashing down violently, catching some underneath it while those who had been standing on it quickly found themselves targeted by Ravoch's troops. As the defenders grew fewer, the Lord eventually raised his armoured arm and gestured for the fighting to stop at the same time as he extinguished his own blade. And sure enough, the firefight soon came to a stop. One side well aware of the impending doom if they persisted, the other wholly dedicated to the wishes of their Lord.

"Sergeant, secure my new subjects." Sure enough, the Sergeant instructed her colleagues to execute the task. Ravoch would not stay to see it to its completion, however. For suddenly, he seemed to pick up on something. His gaze darted over to the main doorway like a kath hound who had just found its pray. After a deep breath, his brows lowered as an inquisitive expression formed across his features. "Change of plans, Sergeant. Ravoch's gaze shifted to the woman with a vicious glint in his eyes. The lord let the breath out "Someone powerful in the force is nearby. I can smell them."

Wordlessly, Ravoch moved towards the doorway in silence. He was tracking the person now - but it was hardly necessary. The presence was coming closer to him as well. It wouldn't be long until the obvious conclusion was that they were approaching each other from opposite ends of a T-shaped corridor. When the Lord arrived at the middle point of the T, he stopped. Silent steps were accompanied by observant eyes as he slowly approached the door where he expected the other Force Adept to appear.

He clasped his hands behind his back again and stood tall, only a few centimeters from the closed door. Although he refrained from tilting his head, his gaze fell lower in anticipation of the presence that was coming his way. Whenever that person opened the doors, they wouldn't be more than a couple of decimeters apart. His immensely powerful frame, tall stature, piercing eyes and mennacing presence against whoever would emerge on the other side.

 

[Lirka Ka]

ALLIES: TSO and Affiliates - Phaelissia Helix Darth Nefaron
ENEMIES: GE and Affiliates - Da'Razel Dark Forces

Faith was a funny thing. Some held it in abundance, others looked upon it as little more than a joke. The Sith were only faithful to themselves, surrounding themselves with sycophants that elevated those cosmic egos to even greater heights. Some perhaps even deserved it - the Great Enablers of evil was a pantheon worthy of appreciation, but they were not worthy of faith: not truly. Only the Darkness was. The uncaring force from which all things came, and which all things would return. Who the worthy stood in defiance against in each moment they still drew breath. Yet it was the enablers who lifted up the worthy from the muck - exactly why her lax form brought no ire down upon Phaelissia for her venerations. It was not long ago Lirka wore a similar veneer, and she had the brand upon her pale flesh to show for it.

Of course, on the other end of the spectrum laid her War Marshal Helix - an utterly faithless thing. A creature of otherspace rebuilt by the void, faith meant nothing to his lot. But nobody was perfect, so she gave him no ire as well. They were kindred, links within the same cosmic chain. Force Dead abominations within the domain of the Sith, and had reaped a bloody tally through said domain with nothing but their own two claws.

But her musings brought forth by the volatile concoctions of spice and stims flowing through her veins were cut short. One of the warriors within her boarding craft quickly moved to the Once-Sephi's side. Relaying what they could from the front.

"Imperator. The interloper's world-killer has arrived - they say the Butcher King has already engaged the foe."

Her power suit to almost ripple in anticipation. The time had come. It would be good to have an audience let bear witness to the beast he had helped so much in creating. The pitiful creature lifted up from obscurity and risen to this new monstrous form. For a brief moment, silence. Then, her voice thundered. A bellowing command over the Third Legion's comms, to the myriad of vessels preparing to fling themselves at the orb that loomed in the void.

"Launch!"

They'd come as a swarm, a metaphorical meteor shower of craft. A vainglorious charge of an Imperator looking to prove herself to an Empire that scorned her time and time again . Yet…was it truly? Lirka Ka did not care what happened on Atrisa. She did not care if the Blackwall collapsed and the Empire laid bare - today was a herald of change. And in the days to come, she intended to hold a winning hand. The Third Legion was a legion that represented all but a microcosm of the Empire it served, the many disparate peoples brought under one banner. A legion built from tithe. A chance for lords to embed spies, warriors loyal to their homes, not their legion.

That simply would not do.

Not even Helix had been allowed to know the depths of Lirka's schemes. After today, the Third Legion would be a legion purged - for who had stayed behind the blackwall but the worst of them, the cruelest, those wretched sort that understood the proper way of things. How many of those warriors in the brooding crafts would die? How many would fly astray, lost in the chaos of void war? How many had been sent in the belly of the labyrinthine beast to die in darkness?

And aboard her craft, with those worthy few? Lirka Ka merely smiled to herself, silently. Feeling the rumble of the craft as it made way for the growing form of the DSIII.

As they flew, the words of Darth Nefaron reached her ears. What a quaint gathering this was to be. Neither of her co-conspirators had been allowed to know her plans, but when the dust settled and the time to rebuild came. They would see the depths of Lirka Ka's malice.

“The legion shall take point. Worry not for your beasts.”

But for now, it was this Galactic Empire that would come to taste the cruelty of the third Imperator. For her vessel slammed into the dark plates of the world engine, boring its way through the metal. Other craft did much the same, or landers flew in that wild horde running for the nearest hangar bays before they’d be reduced to fiery rubble.

Rumbling and rumbling, till it eventually let the light within the halls shined into their craft's troop-chamber as the doors screeched open. Thankfully it seemed they hadn't ended up in some bottomless chasm.

Taking point, with blade alight with crackling Electro-Plasma Filament Lirka stepped onto the metal floors of the Death Star with a thud. Of course, she hadn't much of any clue where they actually were - but it didn't matter. They would simply carve a path of hyper-violence till they found something of value. Looking back to her fellows, body writhing and twitching with a chemically-fueled lust for blood - indeed, it seemed she wasn't even of the right mind for a proper speech.

"Forward, warriors. To the strong, glory!"

 

[Malora Varis]

CLASH OF DESTINY​

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

​

Pain had leashed her, making her silently toil to its iron fist. A battle veiled with unsteady shifting upon her feet, before it halted, as another figure drew into sight. An armoured hulk, its or his echo in the Force unmistakable, though the song was harsh, almost punishing to witness. Especially compared to the practical song surrounding his female companion, which presented itself as short, precise notes that spared little room for harmonies. A decisive hand in conflict, rather than a pensive mind. Gradually, her hand lifted to the wound atop her head, weaving Ashla's chorus to align with her own, seeking to mend the damages before they may fester. All the while, the presumably Atrisian lady began to sketch out the known details of the battlestation into the metal plating, illustrating a precision with a technique that was utterly foreign to her. Once the main details were etched into the surface and her wound had begun to close, the path ahead slowly took shape. Much still remained unknown, among them the extent of the dark side cursing the station's core. "Then reaching the core shall be a battle in and of itself, hm.."

Upon the mention of a strike team, the Jedi Knight shook her head. "No… I was seeking to assist the pilots in their struggle. But when cornered by a swarm of ships, my course was forcibly altered, and I crashed into a nearby hangar. The ship… is wrecked, unfortunately." She defended her allegiance, insisting she had acted for her allies and not for the enemy, declaring the crash as an example of her misfortune. Still, their plan remained sound, but too challenging for her injured body and frayed mind to accompany them with, but any opportunity to disrupt the station's systems was not one she would refuse on her way out. So, as the metal groaned and vanished, along with the pair of Jedi, Malora called after them with quiet formality. "May the Moon shine upon you through this darkness." A subtle prayer for their safety, for lives may end up depending on it. And then she pressed on, moving deeper into the labyrinth. The golden blade of her weapon retracted, awaiting its next usage with wariness. Her steps were controlled and poised, her only act of control amid the Chaos. It was the sole act keeping her grounded while all else went up in ash.

Whilst there was clamour above and around, none had reached the Jedi in her travels. Had the Moon Goddess blessed her with safe passage amid a violent storm? Or were she just fortunate? Yet such delusions did not last, for the humming of a blade neared her with each step. Though not alone... Instead, accompanied by a polyphony, dual melodies playing at once, independent yet crossing. Were it so that there was more than one there? Malora could not yet place it, but her mind already unraveled the lightsaber's unlocking mechanism, and the wide golden blade sprang to life once more. The scene was a tapestry of scorched metal, fallen soldiers, and one whose song had already begun to lament even while he still drew breath. Above them stood a Sith, shorter than Malora and the conductor of this polyphony... Yet the second melody did not belong to the Imperial, peculiar...

Whilst her weapon remained in hand, her head did perk up at the query, at the challenge. A smirk drawing to her lips as she considered it aloud. "Had you the desire to kill, you would have done it already. And yet, you hesitate, as if not truly a Sith.."Her words were venomous, and nigh on coaxing him into reaffirming the widespread opinion on dark siders. Malora advanced, taking a step towards the figure, unwilling to yield her ground to a foe. "Compassion?"A pompous laugh escaped her indigo lips, as if it were some merry jest. "Well how noble, truly! Either your masters have failed you or you are quite unfamiliar with the Sith doctrine." She mused, her head tilting a bit as her grin remained plastered on her face. "Kill him, or spare him, his fate has already been sealed.." The grinned words left her a little too easily, as her hand waved dismissively, the Force not accompanying its motion.

Her golden eyes stared daggers into his mask, returning the challenge with equal measure. "So, what shall it be?"

​

 

[Da'Razel]

Objective 3
DEATH STAR III - HAD ABBADON

Indirect Tag: Talon Draven | Shannic Wulf | Veodora Kadnessi | Derix Tirall | Voldran Molf | The Lord of Hunger | Darth Carnifex | Lirka Ka | Darth Ayra | Kann | Darth Nefaron |
Direct Tag: Darth Vinaze | Vireth | Janus Vipsanius | Deonis Laythar | @Church of the Dark Side
Equipment: The Furnance | The Kotjontû
NPCs: 8x Karsta Raka | 2x Green Warden

TAGS OPEN FOR ALL
​

It stoked the furnace!

The muffled whispers had swelled into a choir of humming echoes, repeating, rising, breaking into a frenzied chant, an ode to the everlasting glory of the Empire and their God-Emperor.

Her screams made the fireburst in his chest swell further. It was Vireth that was conducting the chorus.

How he would cherish her composition, for ever more.

The harmony bellowed on and on from within the belly of the grand ceremonial hall behind them.

Even with the massive metallic gate of quadanium steel shut and sealed, the magnificent chorus spilled through.

It was the holiest of melancholies, shadows made flesh clawing their way from throats, birthing themselves upon lips, pouring into the halls.

It flooded corridors, streamed across decks, rolled through hangars, spilled from vents and airlocks alike.

It filled the moon-sized station as water fills a container, drowning all within.

Yet it was no water. It was ichor, black and lethal, a potion of vile emotions, siphoned from victims planet-side, synthesized by chanting mouths, induced into the minds of the faithless.

A drunken haze. A raging loathing. Startling fear. Overwhelming despair. A sickness that hollowed bellies and filled them again with hatred.

The excruciating serenity of the sound never gave way to silence. Never faltered, it pounded on, and on.

For some, this was madness, a waking nightmare.

The Saint of Fire embraced it. He let it seep beneath the layers of golden Ultrachrome. Drench wires, cables, bacta-gel membranes. It caressed the withered stumps of his limbs, soaked into burned and laid-bare tissue, coursed through artificial veins, and warmed the black pounding organ within his chest. His heart fell into pace with the oscillations emanating from the shrine.

His breath came easier; the tubes and grafted lungs in his chest softening their choking grip.

His robotic hand, a hand that was but was not his, curled into a fist at the speed of thought. He felt the formidable strength in his palm, and knew how much more formidable he grew with every note sung, every verse resonating through his being.

The fire smoldering within the hammer's core crackled like a great bonfire at his feet. Its tongues rose taller, stoked upward like serpents, driven by hypnotic tones, the music of a snake-charmer.

He exhaled, a huff, a gasp, and a stream of steam hissed into the stale air around his helmet. Power. Pure, unadulterated power. It hung in the air. In their song. In their prayer.

He was lost in the trance when his helmet snapped aside, another had approached.

The magistrate's Deonis Laythar bravado in joining the ranks of burning zealots was a formidable display of brotherhood and bravery, a symbol Da'Razel accepted gladly.

"Yes, brother," he rasped, voice reverberating beneath the helm. "They are here. All of them. Just as our God-Emperor, blessed be his will, foretold."

His red, pulsating visor deepened to a bloodier, gorier shade as he fixed his gaze upon the man.

"But they are far. And we are deep. Let us listen. Let us pray together."

The chanting struck a crescendo, so loud it made the Saint startle. He cackled softly, mechanically, like breaking synth-waves.

"Is it not beautiful? Is it not the most perfect sound to ever course your ears?

We have boiled oceans. Melted mountains. Seared civilizations. And yet, we burn brightly still. An eternal flame."

He lifted the great hammer and lowered it again with a thundering clang, fire licking higher from its crown.

"We burn as the brightest star in this galaxy, brother. We, and the beloved God-Emperor."

His voice fell to a reverent hush, molten and resolute.

"And we shall burn so forevermore. An infinite Empire. A sun that breathes life into all who circle close… and burnsaway all who dare challenge its rule"

His gaze turned back to the labyrinthine distance, where hall after hall stretched into shadow. The heathens would have to wade through a shifting swamp of endless passageways.

"Let them come."

​

 

[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

It was a large station, such truths were evident even from the periphery of the crust. The exterior levels were but one of an innumerable winding maze that stretched all the way into the station's core, a labyrinth of technological sophistication that was just as much defense as it was marvel. The impracticality of traversing such distances through conventional means were a baked in defense, the Malsheem also utilized the grandeur of it's two-hundred kilometer scale to stymie any would be assailants.

In a war of attrition like that, the station would prevail every time. The Eternal Father knew such truths and accepted them. This preliminary slaughter was only to satiate some primordial bloodthirst, though He barely felt the faintest twinge of emotion even as His hands crumbled a stormtrooper's breastplate to jelly. Blasterfire cascaded in synchronized volleys all about Him, the hallmark warble of plasma bolts deflecting off His armor informing that their aim was well-centered. Those that came far too close to His face had their trajectory modified mid-air, the coagulated balls of plasmatic energy veering off to harmlessly dissipate into the durasteel walls.

All around Him moved Qabr'azm, a spinning whirling dervish of glimmering shards that intercepted more blasterbolts than they let pass; working in perfect harmony with it's master's natural defenses. Where some shards defended, others moved to attack. They punctured plasteel and armorweave like paper, the enduring edge of each shard reinforced through the blasphemous artistry of Sith Alchemy. Each strike was aimed for maximum efficiency, one or two strikes to kill a single stormtrooper. It was methodically clinical in that regard, but above all else...

Qabr'azm had inherited the cruelty of it's creator.

Some it slew outright, burrowing through brain and heart with a surgeon's precision, but for others their suffering was prolonged. In one such instance, the shards burrowed into the joints of a stormtrooper, wrapping and winding the nervous tissue around itself like twine. Puppeteering the still living stormtrooper, it spun into the enemies of it's master with unnatural and grotesque alacrity. It struck at them with a multitude of shards amalgamated together into long blades, each one erupting from the wrist of the puppeted trooper. When it's flesh puppet could no longer sustain itself, it abandoned it to die broken and shredded.

All the while, the Eternal Father followed on in it's wake. What memories He'd stolen from the flight officer were of little consequence, most He discarded immediately. But there were a few that proved interesting to His cause, such as the location of the nearest security office. That was where His journey was taking Him, though He'd had to carve through several squads of stormtroopers and rip open a series of blast doors to achieve it. In a station so massive, the enemy could only place so many obstacles in His path, especially as more and more adversaries descended upon it.

Devouring the memories of the security chief only provided minimal rewards, but that wasn't His goal. The tips of His fingers brushed against the security console, idly feeling the components and wiring splayed out within it's metallic shell.

"Typhojem."

L O R D C A R N I F E X

"I require a map."

A C K N O W L E D G E D

The runic circuitry built into the plating of the Eternal Father's armor pulsated with intellect, the presence of an independent node of the super-AI Typhojem awakening by Carnifex's call. Several shards of Qabr'azm spun forward, heeding it's master's unspoken will. They melded together and reshaped themselves into the approximation of an astromech droid's scomp link, which the Eternal Father gently plucked from the air with His right hand. Lines of geometric circuitry cascaded from Carnifex's gauntlet and into the scomp link, which He then plugged into the nearest scomp port. The metal of the scomp liquefied and expanded to fill the port before solidifying again.

Typhojem's awareness soaked into the security console, parsing various files with the speed and skill of an artificial intelligence that had spent decades managing the affairs of an entire Empire. It's current directives required it to seek out a suitable schematic of the station's layout for the Eternal Father to wield, so that is what it went after first. After that, it had no clear directive, but undoubtedly it would be provided one. Typhojem's alien awareness would thus spread, seeking to drip into every system available to it through the network it now infected.

The God in the Machine.

Kahlil Noble | Dark Forces ​

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Death Star III

Equipment:
Field Gear | Lightsaber

Spoiler: TLDR

-Ace kills some Stormtroopers.
-Ace senses Ravoch.
-Ace searches for Ravoch.
-Ace finds Ravoch.
-Ace attacks Ravoch.

The first squad of stormtroopers rounded the corner before he even heard them. Their shouts echoed, boots hammering the deck as blaster fire illuminated the walls red.

Ace's blue blade snapped up in defense. Blaster bolts ricocheted wild as he batted them aside with sharp, economical movements. There was no wasted motion, no hesitation. The first trooper dropped in two strokes, the next went down with a thrust through the chestplate, and another crumpled when Ace's hand snapped out, the Force hurling him into the durasteel bulkhead with a sickening crack.

Months of active combat, fighting enemies of all shapes, sizes and number had sharpened his skills into a Padawan nearing Knighthood. If he were a Jedi, that is.

He carved them down methodically, every cut was clean. He fought like a man who already knew the outcome, like the blasterfire was just noise and the soldiers just obstacles in his path. Gone was the boy who hesitated to take a life, who let the act linger in the corners of his conscience like an infected wound.

When the last body fell, Ace didn't even look back. Then he felt something else. Not the darkness of the ritual that lingered on him like oil, it was something else, someone else. Closer, more tangible. It wasn't overwhelming, steady, disciplined, controlled. But there was something unnatural about it, not like the usual taint of the Dark side he'd felt in the past. There was a faint second presence, buried deep, wrong enough to set his nerves on edge.

Ace turned his head, blue blade still humming at his side, and started walking. Each step was steady, lacking any hesitance, echoing through the corridor. The Force wrapped around him like static, guiding him deeper into the labyrinth. He didn't know where he was headed, only that he couldn't turn away.

The presence only grew sharper as the passages narrowed. The ashen haired rebel finally found himself within a junction, a wide T-shaped split in the station's endless arteries. He slowed when he saw him.

A man. Tall, broad, carved muscle wrapped in shadow and armor. Still as stone, but eyes locked on him, piercing. Ace's lightsaber hummed, filling in the silence stretched between them. For a moment, he just stared, grip tightening around his hilt. He could feel it again, his blood stirring, the lust for combat. To really cut loose.

He'd faced a Sith Lord before, and survived. He had just massacred an entire coven of Nightsisters. He was destined to become a being of pure power. The figure that stood in front of him now, reeking of the Dark side? It was just another obstacle, another thing in his path that only served to make him stronger.

His lightsaber raised, now gripping it with both hands as he summoned the Force into a leap that sent him toward the taller, broader man. The blue blade came down in a heavy arc aimed for the shoulder, a strike meant to break through on the first blow. Raw power channeled into speed, the kind of opening that dared his opponent to stand and take it.

Kyrothian Ravoch​

 

[Casaana]

Mission: Deactivate Shields
Gear: Huginn Fighter, Naboo Response Armor, Blaster Pistol, Satchel of Explosives, Republic Lightsaber W/Bondar Stun Crystal

The dark cockpit of the Jedi fighter soothed Casaana more than the breathing exercises. The quiet hum of the life support blowing air, the feeling of electricity and circuitry enveloping her. The last time she'd flown solo, her precious skyhopper had taken a rocket, the titanium sphere of the cockpit escape pod ejecting her to safety, protecting her even in the craft's death throes. Now she was flying again, a hyper advanced technological work blending art and death. She wasn't sure how she felt about that. Even with ion weaponry, a dogfight out here would likely end in someone's death, but looking out the Huginn's crisp theadian viewport at the assembled armadas as they went through their opening dance moves, she had to admit that her own compunctions about killing wouldn't mean a thing in the grand scheme of today and the future of death or souls saved that would follow it.

She kept her focus, the scanners dark, only relying on the barest whisper of maneuvering thrusters as she and Brandyn hurtled closer to the massive station on pure kinetic energy built up in the outer edges of the system. Powered down, they trusted to the tiny fighter's coating of reflec to stop them from being detected, along with a sophisticated suite of ecm arrays and other sensor defeating regulators. The field disruptor caused a slight shudder to run through the fighter's frame as it passed through the massive station's shields. Inside, it'd register as just another hit, one of the thousands the Death Star would take today.

Sensing Brandyn's intent more than anything else in their self-imposed communications silence, Casaana followed him through the braking and landing maneuvers. Thankful for her armor's filtration systems. "Hopefully this isn't indicative of how the rest of our mission will go." She deadpanned at Brandyn as she followed him through the refuse disposal center. Despite her words, she was staying alert with her blaster drawn and set to stun, it only took one to sound an alarm.

Brandyn Sal-Soren Drystan Creed​

 

[Phaelissia]

Location: Laser Cannon Gun Deck - Death Star III
Thread Objective: Clash of Destiny
Mission Objective: Stop the ritual.
Tag: Lirka Ka Helix Dark Forces Darth Nefaron Darth Carnifex

At the Imperator’s shouted command, the boarding craft took off into the void, one among a swarm of its kind. However, as their particular craft carried the Imperator herself, the privateer-mercenary commander Helix, and a single Hand of the Sith Dyarchy, a greater escort was warrnated to ensure that it could reach the Death Star intact. For her part, Phaelissia stayed secure in her seat, delicate features pulled taut as the force of acceleration tugged at her body.

Bringing up a holoprojection of the battlespace, her gaze narrowed as she looked over the movements of Sith-aligned forces as they breached the Death Star or were otherwise shot down en route. Phaelissia didn’t pay mind to the latter possibility. Instead, her thoughts went to the objective. They first needed to secure a map of the Death Star. Thereafter, a secure method of transit needed to be arranged, in order to traverse the tens of kilometers that were likely between the battle station’s exterior and the ritual chamber deep inside.

Failing that, they would be running for hours.

It was then that Phaelissia felt a sudden lurch as the boarding craft slammed into the hull, drilling through the dense armor plating in a cacophony of metallic shrieks. Her gaze widened with a flash of cold relief as the craft came to a stop, at which point she threw off the restraints and made for the disembarkment bay.

Her eyes lit up. Light shined into the interior, reflecting in her cybernetic gaze, while the heavy reports of cannon fire met her pointed ears, causing them to twitch.

"Forward, warriors. To the strong, glory!"

Phaelissia stepped into the hallway then, at which point she realized that the craft had slammed directly into one of the gun decks. The ruined remains of a laser cannon, pulverized by the impact, lay twisted nearby. Dazed gunnery crews and stormtroopers staggered, struggling to recover their wits.

Phaelissia denied them the chance.

Electricity tore out from her outstretched left hand in a single, instantaneous blast. A laser cannon detonated, its capacitor having been struck directly as the three weapons technicians manning it were simultaneously incinerated and ripped apart by shrapnel. A stormtrooper nearby brought up his blaster to fire, only for the weapon to freeze solid in his grasp as Phaelissia looked at him, icy blue lances of ionized CryoBan spearing from her gaze. She finished the stormtrooper in much the same fashion, twin lances of frozen death boring through his helmet and skull to crystallize the gray matter encased within.

Phaelissia stepped forward. A trio of stormtroopers rounded the corner. A second blast of electricity intercepted them, the kinetic force throwing them back as thermal energy cooked them inside their armor. Flesh charred to the bone, and the stormtroopers’ bodies erupted into foul, sputtering torches as fat ignited from searing heat.

She caught sight of movement in her periphery—two gunners reaching for their blaster pistols. Phaelissia extended her hand, palm upturned. Scorching blue-white flame surged out, incinerating the pair through their jumpsuits as the surrounding deck plating warped cherry-red and superheated. Mere seconds later, all that remained of them were contorted, blackened husks, locked in pugilistic stances in the fire’s wake!

Spoiler: Loadout

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

 

[Kurayami Bloodborn]

Objective: Takodana – Sacred Claim​

Location: Nymeve Lake, Approaching Takodana Castle

Ship: Here

Equipment: Ceremonial Special Forces TIE Pilot armor, Modified SE-44C blaster pistols(x2 thigh holsters), Lightsaber

Takodana had seen its fair share of conflict throughout its storied history. Everything from battles betwwen Jedi and Sith, clashes between pirate raiders, scoundrels, and other ne'er-do-wells, the Battle of Takodana in the mid-30's ABY, and countless more since. Forged in the flames of conflict, but today it was meant ot be a peaceful exchange of power, a show of force, reminding the populace that the Commonwealth had not forgotten them. They were remembered, valued, and above all, would be protected should the need arise. Though he did not wear his XC-86 armor today it was nearby in the Olys Turhaya, with S3R-V0 taking care of flying. The stealth systems were kept on full power and all weapons were powered down onboard.

To make the point clear to the people ceremonial honorguards were being flown in from across the Commonwealth, and one of the squadrons asked to escort the transports was a detachment of Jester Squadron. Usually flying as a training squadron the core group was only three pilots, Kurayami and his two wingman. Today the Corellian flew a ship he had been working on a long time, a modified TIE/in and Jester 2 and 3 were flying alongside in TIE/wi interceptors.

[[::1 minute to reversion. R6, double check comms traffic in the system.::]] A series of trills and beeps let Kurayami know that the droid was processing the command and scanning. He opened an encrypted comms channel to Two and Three. [[::Jester Actual to Two and Three. Takodana is reported calm conditions, no resistance detected, we are on course for landing. Once troops are planetside and boots on the ground we are to begin the display portion of our flight.::]] Cutting the comms channel he prepared for reversion and took a long sip from his flask before capping it before placing it back in his utility belt.

Seconds later multiple flashes of light could be seen in the sky as the Commonwealth ships reverted to realspace setting course for Takodana Castle. The approach vector was one that was low over the Nymeve Lake, meant to make a dramatic entrance. All that could be seen was the approach of the single troop transport and the two TIE/wi interceptors flanking on either side. A few miles out what looked to be a heat haze would dissipate, revealing the third fighter 'Huxian' as it dropped its cloak. The Corellian's fighter sat slightly above the transport as they approached the landing zone. On cue, showing how well oiled a machine the three pilots were, two and three split into high banking turns opposite each other while Kurayami pulled nearly vertical and corkscrewed upwards as the transport settled on to its landing struts and the ramp lowered.

[[::Jester Actual to Transport Aurek, congratulations on another happy landing. We will be in the area.::]] He cut the channel as he pulled back around and angled towards the lake, looking to skim the surface and raise the largest rooster tails he could, partly for fun, but also to show the precision that Commonwealth pilots were expected to maintain, even in peacetime. It was a statement to any Sith who saw, we are not to be underestimated. We are here and these are our people.

Domar | Bella | Davorin Orsava | Emilia Locke | Merryn Sellek | Ivalyn Yvarro

 

[Henna Ashina]

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

<: Master Henna Ashina ? :>

Despite the padawan's attempts to master her fear, Henna could detect the slightest waiver in her voice. No response came from the master - for fear of giving away her position as she crept through the corridors, searching for the comm rooms - but Henna had sharply cut the next turn, sensing out the padawan's presence. Sounds of battle became louder as she approached, leading her to break into a sprint. One hand extended, sending the dark side elite crashing through the wall, and the master followed on her tail, two blades springing to life to cast their glow against her robed form. A quick glance was spared to Kito to ensure the padawan was following. They would end this together, and move forward as one.

“Who are you?”

Golden eyes bore into the helmeted foe, seeing beyond the corporeal. The ethereal crimson tethers that bound the elite wound around her throat as a collar would a beast, though they barely restrained the gnawing abyss that howled beneath. A being of pure hatred, molded to a single purpose. Her Emperor's will. Some ghost of a sneer twisted across the prophet's face as she flourished a blade, drawing it into a readied form.

"Master Ashina. Apologies for my tardiness." Henna began to move, weaving left, making way for Kito. "And what name will we record upon our annals when we destroy you?"

Henna was stalling, really, offering her fellow Jedi a moment to recoup and prepare - but something caught her gaze as she made her way sidelong. A viewport suddenly became visible, the soft glow of hyperspace falling away in an instant. Stars returned to their static form. Cradled in the space amongst them lay a fleet, at ready, in defense of a planet - no, not any planet. That sight was much too familiar. Home. All color drained from the master's face. It did not take an intellectual to draw the necessary conclusions.

Restraint vanished. There were no more moments to spare. Hesitation is defeat. Her children consumed every thought, still planet-side, made to stay home and away from the danger. They brought a ferocity otherwise unknown to Henna's lunge as she flowed with the river of emotion to slice at the dark sider's torso.

 

[Talin Treicolt]

Continuing From Shattered Dawn....
Objective: Don't Die ?? | Somewhere Aboard The DSIII
It Mighta Been A Suicide Mission: Morrow | Grody: Aphon

Them lift doors rolled open, and Talin was movin'. Plasma rained from behind her form as Morrow took his shot at the dark sider who awaited them. Saber out, Talin moved to circle around him, attemptin' to put his form between her and the friendly fire. The man looked comical, nothin' like the first elite she had encountered, but a similar vein to one that she had squared up to in the pitt. Them pointy features had been corrupted, givin' him a look similar to one of those birds she had seen on Jakku, and his eyeliner sure was givin' hers a run for it's money. Some piece of consciousness that floated outside this situation they had found themselves in laughed at the comical sight two roughnecks made squarin' up to a villian straight outta the holos.

"Hey, ugly!" Talin shouted in greeting, attemptin' to keep the attention off Morrow. "Makeup a parta the uniform, now? I could probably give ya some tips."

A sickly glow emanated from the dark sider's blade, makin' Talin think twice - but they were here for one thing. She was just gonna have to be careful. They had to make quick work 'o this guy if they were gonna manage to get through this place and find the spot to plant the charges. As Talin neared the wall, she charged, blade raised with the tenacity of youth. Cerulean angled for his shoulder, hopin' to cripple him, fast. Never could be that easy, though.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Leidimas Sith Plate | Disciple's Helm of Devotion
Malora Varis | Domina Prime

​

As the Jedi drew near, he listened to the rhythm of his rebreather. Every hiss, every exhale, swung like a pendulum, especially against the dying trooper’s gasps. Beyond that, Lysander heard the symphony of tubrolasters thudding, a war drum he might’ve even marched to under different circumstances. Amid the wreckage of death, he stood rooted, helm tilted slightly toward the golden blade’s glow, the visor catching the false dawn.

And then, the Pantoran's grin. Venomous even, so much that it might have coaxed the corner of his own mouth, had he allowed it. She unknowingly stepped into his chosen arena, where the words were blades, a realm that felt like home.

A gauntlet flexed once, before falling still to his side. The silence that stretched was no accident, but to allow the woman's laughter to echo down the corridor, to let the wounded man's own breath tether them both to mortality. Light or Dark, all were bound to death.

“I already see the crack. You mock compassion, clearly a mask for exhaustion. You bleed, but you laugh to hide it. You call me hesitant, but I believe it is you who fears the pause. You cannot stand silence, cannot stand the weight of a choice unmade.. so you fill it with words, with doctrine recited like a child’s catechism. All of that is just noise. And noise, is the opposite of dominion.”

He allowed no time for the words to settle.

Lysander's voice was low, the helm turning lines hollow, judgement pronounced for a cathedral's nave.

"Look at him. He is pitiful, like you. His agony is but a hymn I conduct. You call it hesitation. I call it authorship. The difference between a beast and a sovereign is this very moment. I decide whether he breathes another hour, or whether his lungs collapse."

His body began to angle sideways, presenting one shoulder, the crimson line of his saber held low.

The free handed extended, palm open, fingers curling with the elegance of a skilled duelist, rather than some mindless berserker. In truth, it’d been a long time since delving into the flow of Makashi, but it only felt appropriate now.

So, his weight began to settle, into the balls of his feet, the helm tilting on purpose, to make it known he was already a surveyor of her terrain. This was the grace of a Ukatian who'd rehearsed Form II thousands of times.

Another voice brushed the mind's edge.

"When one falls, one chooses."

“Choice is the sharpest weapon in the galaxy.”

Akin to a nexu at play, he was just circling the moment before it became time for the kill. He was not ravenous, nor was he desperate, but indulgent nonetheless when opportunity presented itself.

The blade lifted fractionally, offering her the first step of a waltz.

“Perhaps, I will enjoy this more than I expected. A verse I did not expect to write.”

His hand curled once more, a courtly gesture almost polite to the trained eye, offering her the floor.

“Step into me, if you dare.”

 

[Drystan Creed]

DEATH STAR III

"Oh man, let's hope my wager pays off. The smell's already settling in."

Drystan rubbed his chin, strolling through a low-lit sector of the Death Star. He was a Syndicate affiliate for the job—credits were good, but the real lure was the hunt. An all-out assault on a moon-sized weapon made for excellent prey-ground: every operator, saboteur, and infiltrator worth their salt would be crawling the guts of the station tonight. Perfect for finding the kind of "rats" he liked to chase.

The place reeked—ozone, burnt circuitry, old oil and waste—exactly the kind of stew that hid footsteps and masked signatures. Still, he trusted his instincts more than the suite in his helmet. The suit's sensors were sophisticated, sure, but unreliable here: clever crews masked their heat signatures, looped cam feeds, and dressed their comms in static. Anyone worth catching would bead their tracks and jam the obvious paths; electronic eyes and trackers would be eating false positives.

So he shut down the display, let the HUD dim, and leaned on what his body already knew. First, scent: a faint tang of powdered metal, honing in on the natural scents of the body. Blood, sweat, skin and hair, things that would stand out amongst the metal, steel and waste. Next, sound—honing in on the faintest noises, filtering out the ambience of turning gears and groaning machinery—small things a recorder might miss but a practiced ear would not. Then, the subtlest of cues: the pressure of the corridors changed by a fraction when a bulkhead had been cracked ajar, a draft that whispered different against the hairs on his forearm.

He followed those clues like a hound. Subtle changes in what ought to be a dumping zone for waste, each adding to the bigger picture. Each micro-trace stitched into a single line, a trail that threaded through service corridors and maintenance shafts.

As the thread resolved into a direction, Drystan's grin spread, low and ravenous. He dipped his head, tasting the hunt, and moved—quiet, hungry, and utterly confident—into the shadowed throat of the Death Star after his quarry.

He would give chase to this trail, a sprint across the halls and shafts of the disposal sectors, not bothering to hide his intent or his presence, the weight of it bearing down with a palpable air of violence. A challenge issued, an arrival proclaimed. He was conflict incarnate, and he would bestow his blessings upon those he deemed worthy.

Brandyn Sal-Soren Casaana

 

[Xashe Tistya]

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

Single focus drove Xashe forward. Once, preventing the destruction of another world would have been her purpose. No longer. Heroism would be left to her Jedi brethren. Now, she was a parallel to her target, an executioner come to grant deliverance. Prior defeat had not turned the Mirialan away from the quest for Rhis's head. Senses tingled with vague familiarity. Somewhere, he was aboard this grotesque abomination, and Xashe whispered to her once master through the force, exposing her position.

You should have killed me when you had the chance.

A heartbeat allowed her to call for Ashla's embrace. Light would emanate as a beacon upon the Sith's senses.

I promised you mercy. You taught me to keep my oaths.

So his ghost haunted the corridors, looking to make good on that final wish. Miles of station rolled on before her. It seemed an impossible task, but Xashe followed the string that even scathing light had failed to burn away. A squadron of troopers rounded the corner, stumbling into the Mirialan's domain. Weapons raised, their fire returned to them as it met Conviction's edge. The crystal thrummed as Xashe bolted forward in a blur and laid it in an Imperial's chest to dispense judgment.

A foot raised to kick the body off the saber into the trooper behind. Danger flashed, and Xashe ducked as an armored fist moved to meet her head, instead falling into another of the perpetrator's brethren. Amber flashed, taking advantage of the stupor the hit wrought upon the man. One by one, the platoon fell to saber or blaster, the proximity leaving scarlet speckles upon the knight's face. Skulkiung away from the scene of slaughter, Xashe continued on in her search for the Emperor's dog.

​

 

[Heinrich Faust]

Engaging: Kann

Tags: Eina L'lerim-Vandiir , Veynos Qeyl

Defeat The Darkness

It had all started again...

The chaos, the death, the war... as if the battle upon Tython had never ended. Heinrich could only think back on the countless battles he had survived fighting this very Sith Lord. Heinrich was one of the few that fully understood the reach of his enemy's ambition, for it was that same ambition that Solipsis had tried to drive into Heinrich years ago. The former Grand Marshal of the Ashlan Crusade had long been forgiven for the sin of seeking the tutelage of Solipsis, but that did not mean he didn't feel the obligated to see this fight through to the end. After all, he had certainly thought it had ended that fateful day on Tython, yet... it seemed that evil never dies.

He took a deep breath, leaving the shuttle on autopilot as he did his best to focus on the task at hand. Sneaking onboard an Imperial vessel was no easy task, but thankfully, this was no ordinary ship. Vessels this incredibly large, no matter how secure, surely had weak points in their defenses. Cracks, no matter how small, were cracks nonetheless. And luckily, despite the lack of influence his old position brought him, Heinrich was not without his resources...

He had procured an old clearance code from a former ally of the Crusade. He was an old, rugged Imperial from the days of the NIO. One who still had a bone to pick with the Sith. It was a long shot, but with any luck, this new Empire had picked a few things up from their predecessors. Things that would allow Heinrich to slip in unnoticed.

He input the code as the station hailed his vessel, mouthing a silent prayer to Ashla as he waited for a reply.

A moment passed...

Another...

And another...

After what seemed like an eternity, the reply came. Cleared for landing, it said. Heinrich let out a long breath of relief, not realizing that he had been holding his breath the entire time.

It was an old code... but it checked out.

As he docked in a less-used hanger, Heinrich quickly left the shuttle, ducking under the ship and passing into a nearby corridor. Not long after his arrival, he could hear the voice of his old friend Eina. He reached out through the Force, sending his thoughts back to her.

It's good to know you're here, Eina. Ashla be with you.

He ducked into a maintenance shaft, doing his best to find his way to whatever vital systems this station possessed. Heinrich wasn't entirely sure what it would take to bring this weapon down, but whatever the cost, it had to be done. He couldn't let another planet suffer the devastation that others had at the hands of Solipsis.

Never again, he would tell himself.

Never again...

​

 

[Deonis Laythar]

Location: Death Star III, Atrisi System

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

Opponents: Darth Caedes | Revna Marr | The Lord of Hunger
Darth Carnifex | Arris Windrun | Matsu Ike
​

Spoiler: TL;DR

• Deonis senses the actions of intruders using the Force to compromise Death Star systems
• He begins a Stygian Art ritual to create junk golems from the destruction left behind by intruders
• The golems attack those who have caused death and destruction on the Death Star
• The Death Star's electronic countermeasures prevent its systems from being fully infiltrated or controlled, but cannot prevent intruders from gaining maps, fooling cameras, or accessing transit systems

---

The battle raged, and the ritual swelled, a goblet overflowing with fear and pain and hate.

On the ground, Imperial troops were being butchered. The Atrisians had called in their every ally, and the Force - or military-grade hyperdrives - had sped them to Commonwealth space. Even those who would gladly see the Alliance and Atrisia collapse had come, drawn to this place to defeat the Empire's machinations. Against such overwhelming odds, even the fearsome Imperial Army could only hold on, slowly whittled down to bare bone as its foes circled it and snapped off bits of flesh with their slavering jaws. But that was all according to the Emperor's plan.

He would feed as many of his subjects into the meat grinder as it took to empower this ritual.

As Imperial soldiers killed and died, as they and their enemies lay screaming and wailing in the shattered streets of Jar'Kai, energy flowed into the Death Star's ritual chamber. There it was distilled like a potent alcohol, its proof steadily rising as the negative emotions were filtered through the chanting and rites of the cultists gathered here. Soon it would be a brew fit for the Emperor to sip from, and with that fire burning in his throat, his voice would bring the Atrisian Commonwealth to its knees... and echo across space to shatter the walls of more distant foes.

There were plenty more conscripts to be had from the Core Worlds. Let these ones die for a higher purpose.

Deonis, too, found the concentrated wine of the Dark Side intoxicating. It was not a brew meant for him, and yet he could not help but breathe in the fumes of it; he was, after all, among the vintners laboring over this dark cauldron. In all the years since he had followed the path of the Dark Voice into the Unknown Regions, pulled by the aura of one who could rewrite fate itself, he had not felt such a concentration of power. And yet his enjoyment of it could not be complete. He found himself distracted, unable to focus his entire awareness on this moment.

He could feel invading maggots crawling through the durasteel flesh of the Emperor's holy machine.

"It is glorious, brother," Deonis finally said. The faith of the Saint of Fire, the absolute certainty and reverence in his holy words, inspired the magistrate... and yet he still could not find full reassurance. He believed, with all his heart and soul, that Darth Solipsis was the Sith'ari. Surely, then, nothing could stand against him - his coming, and his dominion, were the culmination of thirty millennia of prophecy. But the auras Deonis could sense reminded him all too keenly that, though his master was all but a god, he was far from alone in that nearly-almighty category.

Unstoppable forces were finding ways to circumvent the scale and complexity of the immovable object.

Many decks above, he could feel Arris Windrun manipulating systems, overriding a tram to speed her party along. He could sense Darth Carnifex ripping through a security office, killing and maiming in search of a map to rip from the station's systems. He could detect Matsu Ike pressing her hands against the superstructure, mapping the surrounding area by constructing an image of its very molecules in her mind. He could recognize The Lord of Hunger waiting on his massive starship, unleashing his AI to attempt to compromise the Death Star's systems.

"... yet I cannot help but feel righteous rage when I sense those who would tarnish that glory."

The station was prepared for cybersecurity threats. Incursions would be isolated and contained, the nodes around them burned out to keep the infection from compromising any key systems. Yet there was little the engineers, or the troops protecting them, could do to prevent those who had mastered technology through the force from accessing maps or transit systems. The station was sizeable enough that no single tram could traverse it from hangar to command center, labyrinthine enough that even with a map it would take time to reach any destination of importance...

... but that could only delay what all these intruders were attempting, not prevent it.

Deonis himself could do no better. His faith was strong, and his skill in the Dark Side was sufficient to elevate him above any ordinary man... but he was not arrogant enough to believe that he could stand against the kind of beings now invading the station. The Emperor could - in many cases, He already had, surviving multiple encounters with beings like Carnifex, who could likely have flayed Deonis with a single thought. That was why He was the Sith'ari, the destined one, and Deonis was merely one of his thousand thousand heralds. But the Emperor was preoccupied.

The test for His servants was to handle matters in His material realm while He drew strength from beyond.

"We must carry His flame," Deonis declared, "and direct His wrath, as a lens focuses the sun into a blazing beam." He knelt down and stripped off his tunic, baring his muscular chest. Sweat had soaked through the garment, and now ran in rivulets down his tattooed skin. Setting down his staff, he drew forth a ritual knife. He looked into the gleaming breastplate of Da'Razel and used its golden surface as a mirror. Turning the knife toward himself, he began to carve, gouging ur-Kittât runes into his own flesh with hands that never once trembled.

Beads of blood rolled down his skin alongside the sweat. He never winced. He never ceased chanting.

Across the Death Star, intruders had left a trail of destruction - dead stormtroopers and technicians, shattered bulkheads, destroyed consoles. The negative energy released in the soldiers' last moments, their pain and terror, lingered around them. The dark powers unleashed against them infused the area. Sending his awareness and his power out through the dark conduits that suffused the station, Deonis located these sites of carnage, and he harnessed them. Twisted metal and sparking wires arose, wrapping around the corpses of the slain Imperials like cocoons.

The technobeasts - half organic, half mechanical, animated by the Stygian Art - lurched to their feet.

Could they defeat intruders of such power? Of course not.

But they could slow them down a little.

 

[Dark Forces]

NPC Opposition For:
Hasuras Na-Gerra | Kael Varnok | Lirka Ka
Matsu Ike | Sars Sarad | The Lord of Hunger
Arris Windrun | Helix | Lysander von Ascania
Connel Vanagor | Quinn Varanin | Darth Carnifex
Acier Moonbound | Vestra Tane | Phaelissia
Mykel Dawson | Brandyn Sal-Soren | Kyrothian Ravoch
Corazona von Ascania | Malora Varis | Darth Avida
CT-312 | Valery Noble | Fa-Olan Warren
and any other boarders!
​

Spoiler: tl;dr Action Summary

• Junk golem technobeasts made from dead Imperials and damaged structures arise around the station
• Feel free to deal with them as you see fit; I will not be actively controlling them unless requested
• If you don't have active opposition and would like some, please reach out to me

--------------------------
​

Bodies do not cool instantly. The heat of life drains slowly, reluctantly, from flesh that once breathed.

Depending on environmental conditions, it takes between 12 and 24 hours for a corpse to reach ambient temperature.

Thus the bodies left in the wakes of Jedi and Sith as they rampaged through the Death Star's outer halls were still so warm that, but for their stillness, they might yet be alive. To those who could sense what ordinary perception could not, beyond what any electronic sensor could detect, heat was not the only thing that lingered. Each violent death had left a stain on the surrounding area, an imprint in the Living Force. The terrified last moments of the men and women who crewed the station had been woven into the fabric that suffuses the entire galaxy.

Some had died worse than others. Sergeant Lorik Vondeer had spent his last moments a prisoner in his own body, the shards of Qabr'azm stabbed into his joints and nerve endings, forcing him to dance to Darth Carnifex 's will until his flesh shook itself apart. Corporal Jan Reythan and TR-997 had been cleaved through with a single stroke of Hasuras Na-Gerra 's titanic blade, the stroke bisecting them both so quickly and brutally that they'd had time to see their own legs still standing as their upper halves went flying away. Such trauma left dark marks behind.

Even those who died quickly - like CZ-118, killed instantly when Acier Moonbound had Force Pushed him into a bulkhead hard enough to shatter his skull, or Corporal Raev Jessyn, whose brain had been snap-frozen by a cryoban ray from Phaelissia 's cybernetic eye - had died in the midst of powerful emotion. They left behind stains of fear, regret, pain. There was no serenity to be found on the Death Star; the darkness was oppressive, overpowering, and steadily growing. Every death fed the ritual of Darth Solipsis , but every death left its mark behind as well.

It was these stains of emotion that Deonis Laythar 's rite seized upon, and these cooling bodies - mangled, electrocuted, shot, sliced, stabbed, shattered - that his will gathered around. He was not so powerful in the Force as any of these Dark Lords or Jedi Masters, possessing a mere sliver of the power his Emperor gathered in the dark cathedral deep within the station, but he did not have to possess a soul that burned bright with destiny in order to channel the power he found already distributed across the carnage-strewn halls. He needed only willpower.

And by his will, he directed the blots upon the fabric of the Force to reject cold stillness.

Shattered consoles and broken bulkheads, sparking wiring and dented deck plates, the half-departed souls of the slain seized them like poltergeists and drew them close to their own bodies. With intangible hands they wrapped themselves in armor of ruined technology, drawing close the elements of the station that were just as broken as they were. There was no intelligence left in the things that stood from the carnage. The bodies flopped this way and that, boneless and limp. It was the metal and wiring that held them up, that made them lurch forth.

These were not animated corpses. They were gathered detritus, organic and mechanical, held together by hate and fear.

Held together by the lingering stain of slain souls, the last remnants of them clinging to a galaxy lost to them forever.

Some of the constructs had little organic matter in them at all - a severed hand, perhaps, or a partial torso. Others were built around multiple bodies, tied together with cables and durasteel plates, locked in a flaccid embrace within the metal cage. The bodies were not the drivers of the junk golems that lurched forth; they were merely the fuel. Like a hearth that stays warm for a while after the fire has gone out, the heat lingering in the stones, the metal was kept animate by the fading energy of life - and the dark emotions those lives carried at their end.

They were a temporary measure. In time, they would fall apart on their own, the last lingering heat fading away.

But until then, they lurched at the intruders who had already slain their organic components.

Fists of electrified metal, studded with jagged edges, swung for the trespassers.

 

[Helix]

Equipment: Himself
Tags: Lirka Ka Phaelissia Darth Nefaron​

The colony ground his claws together in barely-contained glee as the order was given. Finally. He'd long been itching to get his hooks into this new machine the Imperials seemed so proud of.

He glanced over as the Imperator gave the order, then his gaze drifted down to the creature beside her. He'd never seen Phaelissia before, but deduced from the being's prayer that she was a sincere convert to Lirka's little church group. Good. Lirka deserved a little vindication. She'd worked for it, that much was certain. Preached her bizarre creed at significant personal risk.

Helix didn't need to take the truth of it on faith. He was living, horrifying proof of it.

He didn't move as the pods launched, instead devoting a modicum of his attention to the casualty data from the other pods. He knew his superior likely wouldn't bother (or care) but it never hurt to have the facts in hand. One never knew when they'd be useful later.

With Nefaron announcing his own presence, the three would soon be together on the field of battle for the first time. Were he prone to pity, he'd almost feel it for the poor fools inside. He could contemplate few worse fates than being a captive audience for his own imagination, let alone the combined malice of all three.

Helix was among the quickest out of the pod when it finally hissed open, taking his first delicate steps out into his new art studio. He ran a finger along the wall nearby, concentrating. Such a large and wondrous machine, no question. Given time, he'd worm his way into the actual nerves of the colossus. Infest it like the disease he was.

For now, though, he had to at least pretend to be professional. Act as a unit, as much as he'd like to scuttle off on his own and see what fun he could have.

It was then that he noticed Lirka seemed a bit... off. More off than her usual uncaged insanity. He studied her minutely for a moment, utilizing senses far more thorough than the crude optical and auditory nodes born by natural life. Incredibly elevated heartrate. High blood pressure. Erratic behavior. Muscular twitching. Combat stimulants, if he was any judge. Plenty enough to be lethal to most life forms.

That settled it, then. He'd have to make sure she didn't charge a cannon emplacement and get herself shot apart. While the sudden promotion would be gratifying, it would perhaps be more paperwork than it was worth. For a moment, duty and bloodlust battled each other.

Duty won.

For the time being, at least.

Mad as she was, Lirka was one of the few living things that Helix felt any obligation towards whatsoever. It wouldn't do for one of his co-conspirators to die in a place like this.

Helix shook his head, distracted as Phaelissia made a grisly spectacle of the first response.

"Forward it is, then." He murmured, stepping away from the wall and noting the nearby wreckage. The smell of burning meat assailed his senses, but he'd always preferred his dinner raw and struggling.

Fortunately, there would be no shortage of more ahead. Of that, he was certain.

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

ABOARD THE DEATH STAR…

THE PRESENT…

"This may be where our paths diverge Warlord. At least for now."

“So be it.”

The giant Vahlan gave a curt nod, stepping backward and onto the awaiting tram powered by the will of Windrun.

When her eyes finally opened again, Arris was already standing on the tram and awaited the others, with empty hands at her sides.

Movement exploded from a nearby corridor, immense beasts of cobbled flesh and circuitry, creations of Sith sorcery, who lumbered forward at a loping gait toward the tram.

“Technobeasts,” Gerra scowled. “It seems, Apprentice of Adekos, that your presence shall prove useful indeed.”

He might have unwoven them with sorcery of his own, or perhaps a blast of searing hatred to unmake them entire in flame and ruin. But he wished to see the capabilities of this cyborg and her much lauded master. So he simply stood on the tram, sword on his shoulder, awaiting action. Either to accelerate the tram and carry them far beyond the reach of these golems, or to wrest control of them from their maker.

The rest of Gerra’s cohort hurried to gather on the tram, away from the technobeasts hurtling toward them.

Arris Windrun Quinn Varanin CT-312 Vestra Tane Mercy Aurellia

ATTN: Darth Solipsis Remus Adair Meliant Deonis Laythar

 

[Kyrothian Ravoch]

Wrath of God

Acier Moonbound ​

There he was. Skepticism marked the Lord's features as the young man approached. The powerful presence he had sensed was a mere boy. A subtle scoff escaped him as he made a slight shrug. Although the circumstances of this meeting may not have matched his expectations upon sensing the ashen haired Rebel at first, Ravoch was nothing if not adaptable.

The skepticism faded as soon as it had appeared. In its place came a judgemental and domineering gaze - one that told of ambition and hunger rather than disappointment and rage. Just like on the bridge of the corvette earlier, Ravoch remained unmoving and unflinching in the face of danger. For a long time, his hands remained clasped behind his back until the attacker was mid-leap. Calmly, Ravoch's armoured arm emerged from behind his back. A subtle movement pointed two fingers at the Rebel.

Bending the Force to his will, Ravoch increased the air resistance little by little, making Ace's approach decelerate as he got close. Putting him slightly off balance was all that the Sith Lord would need as he twisted his body whilst taking half a step back to avoid the overhead attack that was sent his way. Without missing a beat, Ravoch immediately followed it up by producing a backhanded slap with his armoured arm. If the attack connected, the armoured plates would hit flesh with immense force. Regardless, what came next was a powerful blast-like Force-powered push. A shockwave appeared between the two fighters as the massive Morellian pushed them apart.

"A Jedi Padawan" he said the words as if it was foreign to him. There was little use for these terms in the regions of unknown space where he had operated. "I did not expect your kind to carry so much anger and - is it regret, I sense?" Perceptive eyes challenged the young Rebel as a thin, predator-like smirk formed on his lips. "But then, I did not expect your master to let go of your leash. You aren't ready."

An unwelcome beep started ringing from his communicator, interrupting whatever he was about to say next. Finally, the unarmoured arm emerged from behind his back as he activated the comms unit. It was the Sergeant, voice strained, as she reported of a weird foe having emerged. The Dark Forces at play on this station were far beyond the comprehension of a mere soldier - and likely even beyond the comprehension of Lord Ravoch himself. "Head back to the Whisper. Bring my new subjects with you. Standby for further instructions." He waited for a confirmation before shutting the communicator off.

Whether it be arrogance, overconfidence or a realistic evaluation of his opponent, Ravoch had taken the time to answer a call. Giving his opponent ample time to recenter himself.