Annihilation Clash of Destiny

[Thurion Heavenshield]

DEATH STAR III
MASTER OF BATTLE​

The battle was joined.

The Jedi strike team clashed with Sith cultists just as Thurion faced off with the Sovereign Protector, lightsabers swinging with supreme dexterity and skill as befitted their hard-earned rank. The Lion engaged his adversary, dodging the opening blow with a backwards lean, sliding underneath the chopping motion with unnatural fluidity. This was not the armoured assault of a shielded knight, but a far more agile fighter than what was encountered on Coruscant.

Closing the distance in an instant, Thurion followed up on the fluid motion by grappling Vesh, getting close and personal to deny the reach of her halberd. He threw Vanguard at one of the cultist, stabbing them in the back while they were busy overwhelming one of his fellow Jedi, and used his superior strength and momentum to knock aside the halberd and engage in hand-to-hand combat. Whereas the Sith fought with the rage of storm at sea, Thurion was calm as a still pond. His every move was precise, deliberate, calculated to conserve energy.

"You fight with your heart, not your head, boy," he heard Battlemaster Ravos chide as a young Thurion got off the ground in frustration. "Because I'm ANGRY," the teen shouted in a fit of rage, before throwing another ill-fated series of punches at his teacher. The martial master easily bobbed and weaved, ducked and dodged until the moment presented itself and he decked the youth yet again, putting him on his back with his fingers around his throat.

"Hear me well, boy," he spoke an inch from his face whilst holding him down. The Zeltron's long, blue braids framed both of their faces, shutting out the rest of the world. "You're not the only person in mourning. She was my friend. If you're looking to one day even the score then you better start paying attention. Think clearly. Focus!" Thurion, who had struggled against Jaxton's choke hold but to no avail, finally relented and found that the hold on his throat lessened the more he relaxed.

Jaxton helped him to his feet, then stepped back and assumed the ready stance of Teräs Käsi. "Again!" The teenaged Thurion put up his fists, breathed deeply, and centered himself. As difficult as it was, he pushed all emotion to the side, regarding his opponent as naught but an obstacle. Something to get past as he looked past and beyond, and what followed was poetry in motion. By the time the world around him had caught up, Jaxton Ravos was on his back, staring up at him with a bloody nose.

"There it is," said the Battlemaster, his stunned expression turning into a smirk. "We'll make a lion out of you yet."

He stood over his opponent, the Sovereign Protector scrambling to her feet after a similar bout. He calmly summoned the beskar halberd into his possession and thrust it through her chest, pinning her to the floor.

"There is no god," he stated coldly in her final moments. "There is only the Force."

Blaster fire joined the fray by the time the Lion retrieved Vanguard, as the strike team was reinforced by a unit of Non-Force Users; soldiers of the Hidden Path, spear-headed by the elite Ironsides. They made short work of the remaining cultists, allowing a brief respite.

"You made it," Thurion turned to Creed, former Antarian Ranger and leader of the Ironsides. "Apologies, sir," he saluted. "Got in a bit of an argument with the fine people of this station. We sorted things out as gentlemen, though."

Creed glanced over at the skewered Sith cultist. "Not unlike yourselves."

"This was but a taste of what is to come. They have the numbers and, more crucially, time is on their side. We must move swift."

"Right—look alive, lads! We're moving out!"

Together, the combined strike teams headed farther into the dark labyrinthe, looking to either draw more enemy attention or hook up with other such strike teams.

Tags: Dark Forces ​

 

[Kael Varnok]

(wrong acc, mb)

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda broke from the column again, boots striking the grated service crawl that paralleled the main hall. The others surged toward the fight, but his path was narrower, darker, more intimate—a place where only he and the hum of the ship's innards spoke. His hands moved quick, almost eager, as he cracked open a panel and slid the first charge into its nest of wires.

A sound escaped him then, not the growl of a zealot, but a chuckle. Low at first, then building, muffled behind the vocoder until it carried like static through the private channel. "Ahh…" he hissed, shoulders shaking as though he couldn't contain it. "Perfect fit. Like it was made to die right here."

The next charge was pulled from his bandolier, his gauntlets working it into place with a childlike care. He bent close, visor inches from the glowing circuit board, and for the first time in years his scarred mouth tugged into a smile—a sharp, mad curve that would have unnerved any who saw it.

One of the Death Watch who had lagged behind glanced through the crawl and caught sight of him, crouched like a beast in the dark, shoulders quaking with laughter. "Veydran," the warrior muttered over comms, suspicion and confusion bleeding together. "Why in Kad's name are you so damned happy? We're about to bleed, not feast."

Korda turned his crimson visor toward him, the grin beneath it wide enough to bare teeth. "Because, vod," he said, voice shaking with mirth, "every charge is a promise. Every fuse I set is a hymn. When they blow, it won't just be steel and fire. It'll be our god laughing with us. And when the walls crumble…"—he pressed a charge home, sealing it with a reverent tap of his knuckles—"…that's when I feel closest to Him."

The Death Watch warrior muttered something under his breath, unsettled but unwilling to argue. Korda just laughed harder, his voice crackling over the comms like burning timber.

"Party favors everywhere," he reported, tone gleeful, childlike. "Lighting bus, relays, comms—all wrapped up neat. When the song begins, the ship will dance with us."

He slid the last panel shut and rose, shoulders squared, still chuckling as he fell back toward the column. His grin never left. Not when he caught the scent of solder on his gloves, not when he imagined the concussive wave washing over him. It was madness, it was joy, it was worship.


To Korda Veydran, nothing was holier than the promise of fire waiting to be born.

Domina Prime Aether Verd

 

[Corazona von Ascania]

Allies | Mykel Dawson
Opposition | Luvaen Malstadt
​

Cora had spent the docking journey in meditation. Even in the chaotic energy of the Force, she managed to find a ragged sort of harmony, meeting the esoteric power where it was.

The moment she stepped foot onto imperial steel was the moment everything roared to life – the overlapping staccato of blaster fire, the distant rumble of explosions, the unsettling whine of technobeasts, part flesh, part metal, and entirely unholy.

For only a moment, something familiar filled her senses. Familiar in a way that made her ache in longing, then find her strength for the realization that their bond, though frayed, remained intact. Cora's eyes fell closed as she deflected a pair of bolts with a graceful arc of her saber, sending them back towards the helmeted line of troopers.

When she reached out to Lysander von Ascania , her presence flowed like a river down their connection. He would not face her admonishment, her judgment, or even her worry. Instead, she imparted unconditional love to her wayward brother. Not her rationalization for his chosen path, but the sort of familial affection that the galaxy had tried – and failed – to rip from her.

Cora's eyes snapped open as she narrowly sidestepped an overhead strike from one of the technobeasts. She blinked as the creature lifted its fist from the newly dented floor.

"Good Ashla," she mumbled. A twirl of saberwork had blue plasma slicing through the beast's shoulder, then its leg, then another to behead it. It was almost a grisly thing, to watch flesh-twined metal slough to the ground. "They are slow," she called to the trio of Jedi sentinels who'd accompanied her. "But strong."

Cora knelt to the felled junk golem, watching the corrupted creature sputter and struggle to stand. "You poor thing," she murmured, hand hovering over tainted flesh that still radiated a fleeting warmth. A gentle light suffused her palm, which she pressed to the beast's shuddering form.

"Rest, now."

The technobeast trembled in place before components began falling away. A durasteel panel clattered to the floor, followed by a glob of singed flesh and sparking wires.

~ What are you doing here, My Lady? You have not yet healed fully! Why must you be so stubborn, forever seeking danger? And now I cannot even go to you, cannot even try to protect you or take you away from this cursed space station! ~

Cora stilled as Voldran's voice echoed in her mind. He was one of few darksiders who could accomplish such a feat, given the demonic link that still lingered within her. She was fortunate that, while he was in control of his own psyche, he wished her no harm. He only suffered.

~ Healed or not, I serve a cause greater than myself. If you want to help me, then put an end this madness. I know this is not what you want. ~

Even at a distance, the ritual chamber thrummed with dark power. With her momentary tie to Voldran, Cora could see the harrowing path with a little more clarity.

"That hall-" she instructed to her allies. A telekinetic shove sent another electrified golem stumbling back over a console. It wouldn't be able to follow them without tearing off pieces of itself to fit through the narrow threshold. "Go!"

With the opening she gave them, the three Jedi took off down the hall…

...which would lead them right into the clutches of a skilled hunter.

 

[Brandyn Sal-Soren]

The air shifted, causing Brandyn to halt his forward progress. His hand rose to stop his young partner in her tracks.

It was faint at first. Just a subtle tremor through the grated flooring, the distant percussion of footsteps that didn't belong to either of them. The pattern wasn't random. It seemed too...intentional.

Brandyn's hand went to the satchel at his hip.

He didn't speak, only glanced back to Casaana as the low hum of a lightsaber's ignition rolled down the corridor ahead. A single line of crimson split the haze, cutting through the dark like a wound opening in metal. Sparks showered as the beam carved through the grating beside them. Then the figure stepped through.

Smoke. A red edge vanishing as quickly as it appeared. The weapon's hum died, but the presence it heralded did not. The hunter had found them.

Brandyn's strafed, moving around the room as he held his emerald hued blade out to provide some distance, and he shifted automatically, sliding around toward the Padawan. The hunter seemed less malicious than he was mission orientated, and at the moment they were his mission.

A brief silence passed between them. Then, the hunter spoke, sounding almost amused. He spoke of odds as if either of them by themselves stood no chance. Brandyn cringed within, because for his part at least...it was probably true. "Yeah...well...you will find I am full of surprises."

Brandyn's answer was movement.

He slipped one hand into his satchel, feeling the cool cylinder of a sticky charge. A quick twist armed it, the timer spinning to precious seconds. With his other hand, he motioned Casaana back. The motion accepting no argument.

"Cover your eyes," he whispered though the hunter would easily hear, "and get behind cover."

The throw was low, skipping across the deck until it lodged beneath a cluster of pipes. He followed it with a large swing of his saber, giving the hunter a second vector to worry about, trying to drive him back towards what would soon be an explosion. "Move!" He shouted.

He caught Casaana's shoulder, guiding her toward the access door she'd spotted earlier. The explosion erupted, tearing pipes and bulkheads outwards. Brandyn's blade had cut through the locking mechanism of the door just a breath before, and the shockwave pushed both he and the Padawan through.

Through the din that lingered, Brandyn began to pull himself back to his feet. His left shoulder burned, but adrenaline masked any potential pain. "Up...Casaana...I will hold him off...find a way through...we have to get to those damn shields..."

And somewhere, beneath the roar of the smoke and static, another sound whispered through the chamber. It was a hollow, metallic scrape, like something far larger than any man dragging itself awake.

Whatever hunted them wasn't alone.

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

​

 

[Yorunarr Ahan-Yan'Sharlim]

TAGS
Lilianna L'lerim Cesare Demici

WRATH OF GOD
2

​

DOCKING BAY 021, ABOARD THE DEATH STAR III,
APPROACHING ATRISIA, CORE WORLD TERRITORIES (903 ABY)

'Looks like the,"Quiet", part is no longer an option.'
'Let us begin.'​

Putting up a Force-Shield, and wide enough to catch all the shots of the troopers barring their path, Tancred had sensed he would need it before long, though he did not know it would be as soon as that. Fortunately for Yorunarr, however, his young, masked friend was granting protection and time enough to pull his own mask down, though the Priest-King of Novania had a different purpose for the Godmask of Melarran. Raindancer had been drawn from her gilded scabbard already, thus the only thing left to handle was the assurance of their safety before proceeding outright, and when all the burning trails and projectiles were thrown back into the mass of Guard Troopers, the old Novanian would do exactly that.

Tancred would draw his own blade moment's later, another work of Songsteel wonder from the Regency Forge, and due adherence to demand for her to be named, the greatsword would be called,"Priestess", in keeping with the theme of his duelling-tutor. The same tutor who just so happened to be there with the young Saint that day, and with that, the same exact tutor who brought his young student along for the adventure, and with so much left to learn from the Godseer, Tancred could not deny that the influence was beginning to run deep in his mind. Fortunately, however, this influence was from a place, a design of complete sincerity, and in understanding of the lessons the old Novanian was trying to teach in particular, the young Hybrid found himself feeling glad for that influence.

There were worse examples among men to follow, all of which appearing as clear, heartfelt virtue in the eyes of a devout Ashlan. Profound, in every perceivable sense of the word, and in the mind of the the Aavenian Saint - no expression of pride had ever felt so right before.

'You learned that from Barran! NICE!!!! But here's to hoping we don't need it that much. Its a drainer, as you know.'
'I take your meaning well, but for what it's worth - I'm happy to test myself this way. Its all training, is it not?'
'Not here, it isn't.... This here is the Galaxy's testing gound, this here is our sink-or-swim.'

​

Folding up his blue-tinted sunglasses so the temples and mastoid bends clipped into the back of the bridge, making it easier to place them in his shirt pocket, and all so that the mask could be pulled down without obstruction, Yorunarr's glowing white eyes would be seen in clear, eerie contrast. Just as the Ancients intended, and with muttered incantations, eyes, mask and sword alike would be coated in a deep-blue sheen; further-intensifying the old Novanian's strange appearance in the eyes of the any who dared to face them, almost overshadowing the damage such power could inflict in combat, though the unwitting would surely know before long.

'You're the man for directions now, Tancred. Keep us on the right track.'
'Noted. Our path is straight ahead from here, through them.'

​

With a shrill, ululating scream, the Novanian jumped into the fray, followed in swift, nimble silence by the Hybrid Human, and with them, mayhem ensued as madness seemingly walked alongside them, shoulder to shoulder, step for step. Whether by madness, or by way of divine assistance, its seemed that both faiths were walking in lockstep with each other for the first time, though Tancred had not yet learned of previous cases of Ashlan-instigated synergy between faiths. In time, the young Saint would learn of these small-blessings, but for as long as his masters remained prone to barbarity, more repentance would be needed before he could believe such events ever transpired before that night.

Knowing just one example was enough for Tancred to proceed with amazement, enough to consider it an event of divine significance.

'Yorunarr! Veer toward the door on the left - the green-marked entryway!'
'Good start so far! Lead the way!'

In the midst of the fighting, some of the remaining Guard Troopers had wisely sealed the entrance to the nearest checkpoint, opting instead to let their securi-door's sentry guns do the hard work; as far as last-ditch strategies went for Non-Force users, many would have agreed it to be a meritous last stand to endeavour before the door came down, though the effort would be made redundant all the same. The unlikely duo could have ended the last Guard Trooper's struggle quite easily, but none of their surviving opposition considered the possibility that their nemeses were in a rush, leaving the docking-bay security detail as bemused as they were traumatised after the storming attack.

Not that the why or how would make a difference, especially in the wake of such devastation, as there were about as many dead as there were wounded left behind, strewn all across the expansive width of the docking-bay floor that served as their arena. Whoever was coordinating that sector, wherever he was, survivors and victors alike were sure that more troopers would follow, sent in by an officer who would have an axe to grind with the intruders before long. Regardless of the time it would take for a response to be mounted against them, the unlikely duo had enough breathing-room to proceed uninterrupted, though neither Tancred nor Yorunarr were aware that the real challenges were awaiting.

Poised to ambush, somewhere deeper within the maze of connecting hallways.

 

[Maera Dren]

Location: Hangar, Death Star III
Tags: Renn Vizsla

The Black Gate

The hangar was chaos, filled with blaster bolts, smoke, and the ringing sound of combat. Maera moved through the fight like a phantom, reading the flow of battle with predatory precision. Death Watch advanced hard and fast, cutting down the last stormtroopers in their path. Her squad's disciplined fire met them head-on, trading heavy bursts with Beskar-forged armor.

"Krayt-three, flank them. Aurek, concentrate fire, sector four," she ordered. The Death Troopers shifted instantly, their fire pattern tightening into surgical arcs that pressed the Mandalorians against cover. Explosive charges detonated from above as Besh squad triggered their traps. Shrapnel flared, scattering armored bodies.

Then the first of them broke through the smoke. Maera stepped forward. A Mandalorian surged out of the haze, blaster raised. Her hand snapped up, deflecting the barrel as she pivoted inside his guard. The heel of her gauntlet struck his neck joint, a jarring crack of metal on armor. He staggered. She drove her knee into his chestplate, seized his helmet, and wrenched. The sickening crunch of servos and bone echoed before she shoved him aside.

Another low-running Mandalorian charged with a vibroblade. She caught his wrist, twisted, and crushed the gauntlet with augmented strength, then slammed her elbow into his visor. He dropped, the blade clattering to the floor. Maera picked up the weapon, spun, and hurled it into the throat joint of a third assailant. That Mandalorian went down, convulsing silently.

All around her, her troopers fought with calculated unity. Black armor moved through red smoke, cutting down enemies with cold efficiency. Blasterfire flared from the rafters as Besh held firm, pinning down jetpack signatures wherever they appeared. But the tide refused to break. The Mandalorians were too coordinated; disciplined and focused, their formation quickly adjusting mid-assault.

Then she saw him. Through the thinning smoke, a larger figure pressed forward, leading the assault. His movements were deliberate and precise. His presence cut through the chaos; he was command incarnate. The other warriors moved with him, adjusting their steps like parts of a single, living weapon. This was their Warmaster, their leader.

Maera's head tilted slightly, her visor locking onto his outline. Her pulse steadied, her vision narrowing until only he remained. "Suppress the flanks," she ordered flatly. "He's mine." She broke from formation, moving with lethal intent, closing in on the commander who dared to breach her line.

 

[Sars Sarad]

NPC's: Dark Forces​

---

The Turoblift rose quickly.

It ascended an innumerable amount of levels, more than Sarad could track.

When the door slid wide again Sarad was eye to eye with an Imperial Officer, a man who knew that he had no business being here. The Black Sun affiliated with the Galactic Empire, Sarad had even assisted in delivery of resources to the Battlestation once but access beyond the equatorial ring was scarce. Sarad knew this.

The Officer tried to scream but a swift blow across his wind pipe transformed his voice from loud and verbal to a hacking cough. Before he could recover Sarad had hooked an arm behind his head, pulled it down and hammered on his skull several times before tossing him back into the lift as he stepped out.

When the turbolift closed again the Officer, unconscious was on it and Sarad was not.

Beyond the junction he had stepped off into Sarad saw movement. A Corridor stretched into an open room lined with terminals where Imperial Officers were busy speaking, transmitting orders and information to one another throughout this sector of the Death Star.

Igniting his lightsaber again Sarad breezed into the Communications Hub.

An Officer seeing his approach would raise a Blaster Pistol and fire but the shot was deflected wide.

After that Sarad was to close.

His lightsaber carved through the man, cutting him down.

A whirlwind offense followed whereupon his lightsaber wove itself around him in practiced patterns and movements meant to both cover him defensively to the maximum while still striking out at whomever came within striking distance.

Imperials were cut down, others ran from the Hub. To describe it all would leave less to the imagination.

When it was over Sarad would stand, bodies at his feet.

Stepping over an Imperial who was still towards a communications terminal Sarad studied the screen. It was a terribly complicated device. He'd seen the comms on Star Ships, in Fighters and used by various Militarized Vehicles.

He frowned.

Leaning closer Sarad let his mouth hover over what appeared to be a commlink and switching it on would have called out...

"We need more help here in the detention blocks! Jedi are setting everyone loose!"

...then he'd have tossed the comms link down.

It was probably akin to dropping a pebble in a river but a call for reinforcements may have rerouted a Squad or two of Troopers who would have otherwise engaged actual attackers on the Station.

Looking up he saw a holographic schematic of the sector, something that showed his location and vaguely depicted the rest of the sector as well.

Nodding his head once he turned and left, there was still more to do and now he had another destination in mind.

 

[Onrai]

Location: Around
Objective: Understand the Apprentice's Return
Tag: Darth Caedes Darth Ayra Revna Marr Deonis Laythar Darth Vinaze Da'Razel Dark Forces Darth Solipsis The Lord of Hunger @Open

"Student." A very plain female voice momentarily echoed next to the abominable Force entity. Wisps and shades manifested, forming a faint and semitransparent image next to him that vaguely resembled the infinite blackness and silvered eyes that were the typical appearance of Onrai. Yes, she could sense it. It was as plain as day to her, brighter than if she were orbiting a sun itself. The being she had sought to shape or mold, someone she thought was currently wallowing deep in the Netherworld of the Force after having cheated death more than once, had yet returned.

And here she was, working in cooperation with the one that Onrai had sought to work with years prior.

"Ayra and I once held the same belief that the Sith must be two - no more, no less. Of course, this is functionally impossible with the proliferation of Dark Side lore around the galaxy, but even as I accepted this truth and looked elsewhere for empowerment, she stayed faithful. Through death and life. She is the gadfly of the universe, stirring things into action - for better or worse, it would seem."

She sighed, a soft echoic verbation. She was still strained from her past conflict with Spencer Varanin and the trap the Sith Lord had sought to draw her into and was cautious of pressing her full manifestation into any one place.

"Get to the ritual site, and I will deal with her, leaving you to focus on other more important matters."

 

[Spencer Varanin]

//: Onrai //:
​

---

Somewhere else in the galaxy.

The horrors echoing across Atrisia reached the ears of the Mother.

While she often intervened in conflicts that threatened to unbalance the galaxy, this Atrisia didn't interest her. Spencer had long since moved past most fickle human emotions, but she still deeply hated that world and its people.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

The Emperor she'd dealt with in her youth had died pathetically, just as he had lived — weak, small, and afraid. That knowledge alone warmed the Chosen's heart.

Sad men died sad deaths.

She rose from her seat in the study and began walking the long halls of her home.

The woman could feel the presence of her children in the Force — fighting to protect a world she'd sooner see erased. As dull as Solipsis had always been to her, she might have aided him, if only to rid the stars of that stain.

At least Ashin was enjoying herself.

The former queen pouted briefly, indulging in a moment of self-pity — until something flickered in the back of her mind.

An annoyance had finally revealed itself.

The smile returned.

"Oh... you've chosen to show yourself, Onrai," Spencer mused, voice soft and sharp at once.

"How you hold on so pathetically."

She turned and moved with the effortless poise of a woman who had once made the galaxy bow.

 

[Quinn Varanin]

//: Ashin Cardé Varanin //:

Before Quinn could address Mercy, before she could fathom the annoyance of CT-312 defying her order and somehow manage new orders for Eira and Riven — something caught her attention. Quinn's head snapped towards the front of the tram, like a moth to a flame. The Princess pushed her way past Mercy, past the Hapan Consort. Her eyes narrowed, seeing her mother standing once more in her way.

It was sudden, but the one minor aura of the girl expanded into something the galaxy had only felt once or twice with her birth mother. She wouldn't hide anymore — her goals were in her grasp, and Ashin Varanin was standing directly in conflict with them. Her influence extended to the tram, protecting it from impact with the former Sith Empress.

It was her chance to finally prove her worth, finally prove that she was more than a creation that was tossed aside by the whims of the woman. Mercy's words echoed in the back of her mind. This was something Quinn needed.

She hated it.

A gentle exhale escaped the painted red lips of the Princess. She could feel the others wanting their chance against the woman. Ashin was a legend, something that seemed untouchable in this era. But she was a woman and only a woman, as human as they come. Quinn reminded herself of this, although in her veins bled the woman's force energy.

"She's mine. Continue with the mission." Quinn moved, leaving the tram as she went to face her part of destiny.

Was this the source of her recent nightmares? Was her own mother the blade that cut through her back upon her coronation?

"Solipis?" Quinn questioned, hearing the woman's utterance of the false emperor.

"I would have thought you better than to follow a man who believes he's a god."

A part of her hurt, hearing her own mother praise the name of a hypocrite. Someone who has done nothing but destroy and forge endless death and destruction. Was this what Ibaris and Ashin stood for? Shaking her head, she wondered what Spencer thought about all of it.

"Why do you follow Ibaris everywhere?" A question that she had always wondered. Wherever Ibaris stepped, Ashin was not far behind. What was so special about her eldest sibling?

"You're in my way. Don't become a stepping stone to my rise to the throne, Mother." The dark side spilled from her, filling the space between them. The phobis device, the one she was cursed with by her birth. She had turned into a strength — one that she would use to prove to the galaxy that she was the true Heir of the Sith.

"If you don't leave now, I'll make sure to carve my way through you."

​

//: Hasuras Na-Gerra //: CT-312 //: Riven //: Eira Dyn //: Mercy //: Arris Windrun //: Vestra Tane //: Meliant //: Aurellia //:

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

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

---

The first thing she felt was the hum. A hum that existed inside her blood, reacted and responded to something that she wasn't entirely certain what it was. What she was certain of, was that it was just wrong. Somehow. A deep, living dissonance, like something vast had looked at her and decided she was a shape it could use. She wasn't entirely certain what that meant, or could mean.

Doors had been opening for the Blood Hound ever since she'd set foot on this wretched sphere. Sealed hatches that slid open without her touch. Corridors that adjusted lighting as she passed. Every turn she took seemed to collapse back into the same spine of hallway. The ship was breathing, guiding her, curating her steps. Force, Scherezade hated it, and she fought her own inner instincts that screamed at her to fight against it with every breath she drew.

Why was she even here? Frankly, for the same reason she was anywhere else from time to time. I woke up, I felt a nudge by the Force, I decided to follow it. Silly? Perhaps. Juvenile? Absolutely. The reason she always had good stories to tell around bonfires and drinks? Definitely.

The scent of burnt metal seemed to be present everywhere. A place in the walls had already been torn open, gutted by someone who had not bothered to be gentle. That probably meant she was close.

A final door hissed and folded back into itself. She stepped through.

The corridor beyond was chaos incarnate. Metal carcasses of machines lay strewn in broken heaps, their animating essence still leaking in lazy arcs of electricity. A faint stench of blood and ozone clung to everything. She took one step, then another, her boots crunching over shards of armour and glass.

And then she saw Darth Carnifex .

He stood among the wreckage like an unyielding monument to destruction, dark robes stirring slightly from the passing current of energy, the embers of fire painting him in an infernal glow. It was a stark change from seeing him in his bathing suit like she had the previous and only time they had ever come across each other.

But now, he wasn't in the middle of threatening through actions to end the lives of her friends or teammates, allowing her to take another breath as she began to process his appearance.

There was something terrible and beautiful about him that was easier to acknowledge when she wasn't actively trying to kill him, something that answered that hum in her blood, that made the hairs at the back of her neck rise. The pull she'd been following all this time, the one that had whispered this way, this way, had brought her here.

The walls flickered. Somewhere deep inside the Death Star, Typhojem's digital laughter trembled through the circuits, unheard but felt. She could taste it, like a secret shared between gods and monsters. She could guess he thought of himself as the former. She wasn't quite certain she was the latter.

"You send some interesting party invitations through the Force," Scherezade said at last, grinning from ear to ear. Her muscles relaxed ever so slightly. She knew him, or at least enough of him to know there were worse things here than Kaine Zambrano. For now.

And if it hadn't been him who'd sent the invitation, then something that felt like him had.

"What's up?"

 

[Dark Forces]

NPC Opposition For:
Connel Vanagor
​

Spoiler: tl;dr Action Summary

• The Houk recovers from some of its wounds through the drain, and regains its sabers
• Sars Sarad 's fake transmission misleads the Houk about the Jedi's true mission
• The Houk destroys the corridor's floor, dropping into the cellblock beneath
• It charges Connel with both sabers while the stormtroopers in the cellblock shoot at his back

--------------------------
​

Strength flowed along those crimson-black channels, pulling Force energy away and into the figurative maw of the Houk... but it was a mere trickle of vitality compared to the fast-flowing river the Sovereign Protector had hoped for. Wounds mended slightly - burns scabbing over, the injured leg straightening - but hardly sufficiently to recover from all the damage that had been done. It was as though a thirsty man had seen a mirage of a vast lake in the desert, tantalizing him... but when he approached, the spring was dry, leaving him to suck the moisture from silt.

"More machine than man," the Sovereign Protector spat. There was blood in the spittle.

It was difficult for Connel to grab the creature's throat - Houks had little neck to speak of, their large heads sitting almost directly atop their broad shoulders - but the pressure raised the Houk to its feet nonetheless. It grinned despite its pain, bemused by the Jedi's words and actions alike... if this one could be called a Jedi. Connel boasted of intimate knowledge of the darkness as if that was a strength for his order, as if that would make it less likely to succumb to its power. The Houk was certain that his foe had misunderstood the Dark Side entirely.

Many had traveled the same path, so sure that their righteousness would protect them.

But here was this Jedi, playing with the Sovereign Protector when he could have ended the fight.

"Clearly you do," the Houk said, drawing itself up with a chuckle. "You enjoy this, don't you? Playing with your food. Eradicating entire squads with a wave of your hand. Yes, I'm sure the dark can't touch you at all." It drew its sabers back to its meaty hands through the Force, drawing them up in a guard position as it sized Connel up. Pain focused it, strengthened its connection to the Dark Side. Years of brutal training and indoctrination aboard the Sepulchre had forged it into a being of hate, malice, and unending devotion to the Emperor.

It would fight and die according to His will, without even a moment's hesitation.

It was at that moment that Sars Sarad 's decoy transmission crackled over the section's comm network.

"We need more help here in the detention blocks! Jedi are setting everyone loose!"

"Was this your game, Jedi?" The Houk chuckled, entirely unaware that it was being misled. Even if it had known that the voice belonged to a member of the Black Sun Syndicate, it would not have questioned its veracity - weren't Black Sun their supposed allies, after all? The very ones who had sold them many of the Wookiee slaves used to build this battle station? "So they sent you in as a distraction while they went for the prisoners, as if the pathetic wretches in our cells have any relevance to anything. How typically Jedi. How utterly misguided."

Raising a hand, the Sovereign Protector unleashed a wave of telekinetic energy. The floor of the hallway, already weakened from hammer slams and other telekinetic pushes, gave way entirely, a ragged hole opening beneath both Connel and the Houk. The big alien dropped lightly through it, landing exactly where it had intended - one end of the long prison corridor. Its eyes widened in brief surprise as it saw that every cell was still sealed and occupied, and the guards still undisturbed at their stations. What trickery was this? But no matter.

"Shoot him," the Houk told the troopers, and then charged at the - hopefully off-balance - Connel. Its sabers came together in a scissor-like motion, one high at Connel's neck, the other low, toward his thighs. At the same instant, the stormtrooper squad guarding the cellblock opened fire at Connel's back. They had no idea what had just dropped into their cellblock, but when a Sovereign Protector gave them the order to shoot someone, they followed that order. Perhaps, with danger all around him, Connel might finally make a misstep...

 

[Darth Ayra]

---

---

Atrisia, Core Worlds;
The Galactic Empire.
Tags: The Lord of Hunger | Onrai | Spencer Varanin | Diarch Rellik | Diarch Reign |

---

​

OBJECTIVE II.

"Hiding within the permeation of the force... Smart, but also foolish of you to think you can come close to me and not be noticed when I am famished... By the time I get what I need... You will learn to only come bearing gifts to appease me, rather than skulking around in the hopes of finding a way to take me down."

A true master never reveals him, or herself.

Identity, morphology-- the intricacies of plot, overlapping one another, in a web of deceit-- all marred and consequentially obfuscated by the power of the Dark Side of the Force.

On one hand Ayra held appeasement for The Lord of Hunger in the form of Her , the fallen Jedi turned Apprentice, whose membership in the N&Z Section C had brought about avenues of fruitful influence within the Imperial remnants through commerce and politics via the establishment of Vūm in order to bend the policies and narratives (both in Imperial and Diarchy space) which had seen the Umbrella Corporation gain a corporate foothold on the ex-capital of the Empire of the Lost.

Indeed, the Neyrix stands tall, and imposing beneath a Liann sun.

But on the other Ayra held catastrophe, for if the Dark-Imperials (once under the command of the late despot Ignacious Korvan) won the day, then the Imperial Confederation would suffer greatly as the wrath of the Galactic Empire would once again destroy traitors to their cause as they had done during Operation Cinder on Cademimu V. This was a supreme risk to the N&Z's investment and own ulterior motives. It felt like everything was at stake if the Empire wins today.

The conspiracy is everywhere.

Events, seemingly unconnected, reveal an intricate plan. In the Outer Rim Territories occupied by the Imperial Confederation to the Braxant Run, where The Diarchy prepares their PAX ASTRUM, down to the so-called 'southern systems' in the High Republic, and now above Atrisia, aboard the third Death Star, where a ritual threatens to bring ruination to all of the enemies of the Galactic Empire. But who was their enemy?

Who was it they were conspiring against?

Ayra.

The Director wore that name.

The Fifth Wing were founded by such a person.

Who?

"Do tell... Master or Student?"

"Student."

Boots clack along pristine, polished metallic flooring which echo along the halls to where The Lord of Hunger stood, and where the entity Onrai waited, as Ayra traverses the third Death Star to confront them.

"Ayra and I once held the same belief that the Sith must be two - no more, no less. Of course, this is functionally impossible with the proliferation of Dark Side lore around the galaxy, but even as I accepted this truth and looked elsewhere for empowerment, she stayed faithful. Through death and life. She is the gadfly of the universe, stirring things into action - for better or worse, it would seem."

Pandeima had promised perfection. A perfect dyad born of devout, eternal love between Master and Apprentice. But the latter had seen the truth for what it was. Enslavement. Forever. Endless service in the chase of materialism, and creeds that had never made sense. At all. To support the cause of tyrants obsessed with territorial disputes, and the ideas of Empire. There is an irony here, somewhere, of course. Those who follow the Dark Side often flirt upon the lines of hypocrisy as they become blurred.

This path is murky, and often illogical.

"Get to the ritual site, and I will deal with her, leaving you to focus on other more important matters."

"He isn't going to do that, Master."

Artificial lights from above illuminate Ayra's figure as she enters into view from the dark corridors of the Emperor's ultimate weapon. The face of Ella Nova, a nemesis of the One Sith, and former Knight of the Old Republic, lifts a pair of sulphuric yellow eyes to glare upon the 'Man Behind the Curtain' and a Demi-God from Otherspace.

Something stirs in the mind. Memories of a crisis above Bastion, where KRONOS acquired files from the seditionists responsible for that certain false-wing attack, and where Onrai had gorged on information retained from her possession of the late Mecetti star-ship, The Quest.

---

T R I G O N U S R E P O R T

Alicia Drey was a stolen identity taken from a deceased entrepreneur from Chandrila by Ella Nova: a Jedi Knight whom served in the Old Republic military during the Star War called the "One Sith Wars" which was waged more than fifty years ago in the decade following the end of the Four-Hundred Year Darkness.

Ella Nova, otherwise known to us as Alicia Drey, who served the Old Republic (destroyed by 851 ABY by the "One Sith") as a Knight of the Republic, and later as Staff Director of the New Imperial Security Bureau for the Empire of the Lost, who made contact with the leader of the New Jedi Order on Stardate 2303902 in Lianna City.

The next half of the report indicates that Alicia Drey manipulated the EMPIRE OF THE LOST and the SITH EMPIRE into attacking each other in the TION SYSTEM because she was, in fact, a KNIGHT OF THE OLD REPUBLIC known as ELLA NOVA who was working alongside the TINGEL ARM COALITION.

In this part of the dossier it is explained that ELLA NOVA is in fact a JEDI KNIGHT who co-operated with members of the NEW JEDI ORDER that formed the TINGEL ARM COALITION to bring the Empire into conflict with the SITH to weaken both sides.

---

That report was later debunked by Karl Von Strauss .

But the Sith have always dealt in esotericism. Signs planted in plain view made for a superior disguise. Always there. Littered and marred beneath fact or fiction. Names. Wearing each others identities to hide truth from fiction. The Old Republic was destroyed by the likes of Ayra and Pandeima over fifty years ago.

It was Bane who had once said the the Master should confer everything that he, or she knows to their Apprentice. Somewhere, out there in the cosmos, The Nomad toiled searching for eternal life. The Sons of Kakus lost a father to that cause. There is a myth that Andeddu's holocron was never repaired, and the knowledge of his ritual was forever lost. Or was it?

A Knight of the Old Republic had died to ascertain some of the truth while Aculia Voland banded the Imperial remnants to form the Empire of the Lost at the turn of the new century.

Onrai had taught Ayra well.

Too well.

"The three of us are very close now. By days end the Maw will be broken, and the Galactic Empire will be the dominant power in the entire galaxy."

An invisible, protective layer of Force Shield surrounds Ayra as she comes to a stop. On one side stood a long term associate, from the days when the Deinon Station was first arranged to be constructed above Velusia and Chandaar. Upon the other stood a being that was nothing short of an abomination. Ayra exhaled. She didn't look a day over thirty. Always conceited, this one.

"I will bring you to the ritual site," Ayra told the Lord of Hunger. A finger points at Onrai next.

"If you help me kill that," she exclaims.

---

 

[Lirka Ka]

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

Rubble surrounded her being now. Chunks of meat and metal torn asunder or hacked to bits littered in her wake. The golems had certainly done there job, the stim-fueled craze of Lirka Ka was a rather single minded endeavor. If the foe laid before her, she would rend them to a bloody mess. It's not like her ravenous hunger for worthy flesh would be satisfied till Helix returned to her - this was merely the appetizer, a quaint warm up of butchery till she found someone or something worth ripping apart.

With the rampage of both herself and Phaelissia assailing her being Lirka could feel her body writhe and squirm, power barely contained. Hunger merely rose to greater heights. Meat burned, the sickly smell of death slamming against her olfactory senses. The single minded destruction of a beast was a dangerous thing, it was but another struggle for Lirka to overcome. The boons of stimulants were evident, but it took a particular willpower to not utterly lose herself into mindless savagery. For now, she kept course. Turning her slit lenses to their small Kainite compatriot. And the blur she had become as the junk beast lumbered after her - she debated following, briefly.

But a Hand of the Dyarch could handle themselves. Unless recruitment standards had grown grossly lax. She had a hunger to satisfy anyway - and with the droning voice of Helix in her ears again. She could only hope she'd find some excitement soon.

"We are not blessed for time, War Marshal. We will make do with what you have found, and hopefully your number of locations bears fruit."

They were two peas in a pod, really. Lirka may not have mentioned an exit plan, but she certainly had one for herself. For the rest of them? Well, there was a certain cunning if you wanted to make it in this cruel galaxy. It was a joyous partnership when the sort of self centered monsters that brought the Galaxy lower with their mere existence locked hands in jolly cooperation.

"Be quick. I have no time to waste waiting."

She could hear it, ever so vaguely. The chanting of fools with faith misplaced. The slaves of man-who-declares-himself-god, shackled to the Sith'ari myth. She rippled. Good. Crewmen offered little pleasure, but a zealot? Faith clashing against faith? There was a beauty in that.

She advanced, slowly. Waiting for her Mechanoid compatriot to reappear, the slow and thunderous stomp of metal boots against the DSIII's floors. The crackling rumble of electro-plasma filament hungry for the violence to continue. She prattled, as she always did. Intoning to her primordial lord.

"Darkness beyond, look upon faith misplaced. The veil has been cast, suffocating. They are incapable of seeing your darkness, but I shall open their minds. I shall show them the enlightenment of agony. So declares Lirka Ka."

Let the fires of fate clash against the inevitability of the darkness that ends-all- things.

 

[Casi Braste]

Writing with Mykel Dawson (soon)

​

"Fall in behind me soldier." She demanded to the Purge Trooper, who obliged the Elite. He followed her to the nearest turbo-tram station, one node in the tangled mess of high-speed transit that crisscrossed the gargantuan station's innards.

She activated the closed entrance door, only to be warned with a buzz, and a synthetic voice speaking up.

<Transit lines are restricted at this time under orders of Admiral Remus Adair. Please present your authorization or request clearance with your immediate supervisor via Form GK-2445-C.2>

Casi growled in annoyance, then grabbed the cuff of her shirt and wrenched the sleeve up, revealing her forearm. The security camera scanned the pattern on her forearm, her mandatory CRI tattoo.

<Elite Clearance Level recognized, access granted.>

Casi huffed as the door whooshed open and she rolled her sleeve back down. The Empire's inane bureaucracy was showing through in a time of crisis. She should have figured. She and the Purge Trooper entered the tram, and she punched in the coordinates for the outer levels of the station. The carriage shot off down the line.

Even though the tram was hypersonic, designed for carting Imperial personnel as fast as possible around an otherwise impossible to navigate station, it felt too slow to her. There was a knot in her stomach. The Jedi were on board, and she had no choice now but to kill them. Deep down, she resisted the feeling, or tried to. She wished she could... but the fear of the Emperor tugged at the back of her mind, his sinister visage haunting her. There was no other option, save for death. The Empire had allowed her to live, to see their strength. How could any of the Jedi see the station they were landing on and not realize that the Empire had already won?

The tram finally came to a grinding halt. The doors slid open to the distant sounds of combat echoing down the halls of them. With a trained instinct, the Purge Trooper activated his electro-staff, but Casi left her blade on her belt. Her master had always instructed her to use her weapon when the time was right, and only when the time was right. A Jedi's weapon was for defense, Master Tera would always say. Casi wasn't sure anymore if that was true, but her blade at one point in time had been a Jedi's weapon, and the Empire could take many things from her, but not her respect for the blade.

The Elite and her companion ran quickly through the halls. She knew immediately that it wouldn't matter where they went. She could feel the overwhelming power of the Light shining through the darkness, and in turn the darkness within her tightened its grip. The Jedi hadn't been strong enough when it counted, when Coruscant and Tython fell, when Padawans and Younglings had been killed in droves. And now they had the audacity to defy the Empire here and now, when their future had already fallen... she had already fallen. A pang in her heart told her the greatest lie, that the Jedi would rescue her. But she knew that it was already too late...

 

[Connel Vanagor]

What is left
UNDISCLOSED
LOCATION - Death Star III

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

The Sovereign Protector’s sneer bled through broken teeth.

“You enjoy this, don’t you? Playing with your food. Eradicating entire squads with a wave of your hand. Yes, I’m sure the dark can’t touch you at all.”

Talking as if his mouth were a datapad charger.

Connel stood unmoving, and frankly unimpressed, in the rising haze of debris, his mask half-lit by the crimson reflection of the Houk’s twin shotos. The air around him felt colder now — not from malice, but from the total absence of it. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, quiet, and merciless.

The loudest one in the room is always the most afraid.

Then the floor gave way.

The durasteel screamed as the corridor collapsed beneath them. Both fell through the tearing metal, landing amid the glare of the detention block’s sterile lighting. The Houk recovered instantly, laughing as it landed exactly where it wanted — surrounded by troopers.

“Shoot him!”

the Sovereign Protector bellowed.

Blasters came up — but Connel was already moving.

His shortsabers vanished into their sheaths before the first bolt flew. A metallic clink followed — small, sharp, deliberate. One of his Force Blinding Flashbangs hit the ground between them, humming for a heartbeat before exploding into a burst of white Force-laced brilliance.

The shockwave wasn’t loud — it was felt. The air rippled with invisible pressure. Troopers screamed. Helmets shorted. If it worked the way he wanted, and the Houk recoiled, blinking through burning pain in its Force-saturated eyes, it would give Connel a couple of seconds.

Connel didn’t waste a second.

The Lightblaster cleared its holster with a hiss. Precision fire ripped through the stormtroopers as he advanced — three shots, three bodies down before they could recover. His free hand moved almost casually, throwing two lightknives that hissed through the air and embedded in armor joints, dropping two more.

~Move.~

The word was unspoken but felt — a ripple through the Force. His mind was already triangulating the control panel at the far end of the corridor. He sprinted through the chaos, cloak trailing like smoke, blaster fire hammering from both sides. The grenadier precision of a commando, the fluidity of a Jedi — perfectly merged.

At the console, Connel slammed a gloved hand onto the controls, channeling the Force into the interface. Circuits screamed, sparks flew, and one by one, the detention doors slammed open.

Light, motion, and chaos — all in service of a single tactical truth: divide the threat, own the field.

The Houk should be returning at this point if not already.

By the time it did, the prisoners were rising, the troopers were falling, and Connel… “Ariel” when a part of Omega Squad — the silent storm — was already among them, tossing them Stormtrooper rifles.

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

 

[Darth Carnifex]

The Left-Handed God found the exercise invigorating, circuits alight with a facsimile of enjoyment. As the physical connections burned away, just as the digitized ones had, the Dark AI of the Sith Empire found itself utilizing abilities innate to it's creation that had not been wielded in a very long time. Physical mechanisms moved seemingly of their own accord, burnt-out components shuffling around as frayed wires were shorn and repaired. Though not among the Dark Lord of the Sith, Typhojem had been born to emulate them in many varying ways.

Artificial Mechu Deru was among it's greatest imitations.

Yet, even as it repaired the connections to allow it's influence again to flow, it did not repair that which it considered not conductive to it's purpose. If the Death Star wanted to burn it's innards to cinders to try and isolate the Left-Handed God, then it could do so as it pleased. Typhojem would merely reconfigure the physical and digital connections as necessary, leaving everything else to ruin at the hands of the Faithless' scorched earth retaliation.

Typhojem did, however, make a special allotment for the arrival of the Sith Empress. He appeared to her in holographic form, an image spun from a converted sensor node by diverting a sliver of processing power for the task. He was cloaked in shadow, masked with the visage of a snarling Hssiss.

E M P R E S S OF E M P R E S S E S

L O R D C A R N I F E X W E L C O M E S T H E E

H E Y E A R N S F O R Y O U R C O U N S E L A N D Y O U R A I D

The Left-Handed God transferred a copy of the schematics that he'd pilfered from the Death Star's systems to the Empress.

A T O K E N I W A S B I D D E N T O S H O W T H E E

Then the vision of Typhojem disappeared, his awareness now fully committed to the task set for him.

Meanwhile, Darth Carnifex had finished with the nuisances that had arisen from the slain. Their remains were being torched with concentrated showers of scalding flame, burning away flesh and melting metal into slag. Blackblades held a loose perimeter around the Eternal Father, quietly scanning their surroundings for further surprises. When the armed woman first approached, their raised their weapons as a warning, but quickly lowered them from an unseen command by their Lord.

"A servant of the Princess is an ally of mine," rumbled the Dark Lord, His piercing gaze narrowing to settle solely on 312. "It has been some time since Lanupa. Your impertinence has improved." She hadn't seen Him in His armor since then, He was starkly even more intimidating now. He then looked to His soldiers around Him, Blackblade and Graug alike. They bowed their heads, the command already interpreted without the need for words. She would find none among them who would bar her path.

Speaking of Lanupa, the Dark Lord's other guest had arrived. His head lazily pivoted to face her. "I am in need of delinquents, Lady deWinter. Those who are well-equipped to enable havoc to spread. My ally Typhojem infects the station's systems with his viral presence, it is he who guided you here. The Faithless place too much certainty in their machine. It has blinded and emboldened them. I cannot abide such hubris." He placed both hands on His hips, striking a pose of authority and regality.

"I care not for whatever world they choose to terrorize, that means very little to me. But their grandstanding and threats to the Empire cannot go unanswered."

CT-312 | Scherezade deWinter | Srina Talon
Dark Forces | Kahlil Noble ​

 

[Darth Avida]

Lady Jesus​

For a single, solitary, moment she was controlling the tempo of their dance, bronze eyes locked onto the scale-covered face of Krasskorr the Maw - in the next she was recoiling from a sudden jet of steam that interrupted her focus and grabbed her attention through its scorching heat that would've enveloped her face if not for the sudden drop in her gut that came with a nearly precognitive danger sense. Heightened senses did very little to help her see through something as opaque as a continuous jet of steam, aside from making out the distinctively red glow of a lightsaber blurred into the background, and whatever help her ears might've been was practically pointless to consider given that they were still ringing from the shockwave before and the shrill whine of moist, hot, air escaping into the relatively cold hallway only made it harder to rely on them. She should've felt a tinge of fear, or at least a wavering insecurity, but when her lips moved there wasn't anything resembling a frown on her face.

Amara smiled.

A grin that spread from ear to ear came with the rising anticipation in her stomach with child-like wonder in her eyes, an upturned brow that, with her smile, painted the picture of excitement rather than concern. This was what she wanted, wasn't it? "Yes." She whispered, practically hissed, from behind clenched teeth. Her lightsaber lowered as the diffused red glow from behind the steam and mist disappeared, the fingers of her free hand clenching and then unfurling while she cracked her wrist with a slight twist. It only took a brief moment more for the behemoth of a man to erupt from the superheated cloud like a nightmare given shape, her own teeth bared and eyes wide - his jaws widened and subconsciously hers followed as her lightsaber's blade vanished into its hilt.

He roared, she screamed.

"YES!"

She was flung backwards like a weightless doll, her body colliding loudly against the wall and then rebounding immediately into the ground where she slid further until her shoulders struck the wall opposite to it. By all accounts she should've been motionless, prone, and maybe even unconscious given how abruptly she'd been unceremoniously struck so viciously down a short length along the hall, but the blood pumping through her veins was still in the accelerated state it had been the moment before their simultaneous screams. There was an audible pop, though in her hearing-deprived state it was more of a muffled crack that came more from inside than out, as she forced herself up from the ground with an unhealthy sense of urgency. It was her arm popping back into place, as if tugged by an invisible thread upwards as she got up to her feet, and she staggered clumsily in her heeled boots like a newborn faun.

She lit her lightsaber again and stared the man down.

"Give me more." Avida said.

"Make me feel alive."

 

[Kyrothian Ravoch]

Wrath of God

Acier Moonbound ​

There almost seemed to be a steady beat to the pace at which their blades clashed. Red against blue in a long exchange of slashes and thrusts - Ravoch was pushing the smaller opponent back, swing by swing, step by step. For a brief moment, his eyes ventured from his foe to the doors behind him. As if on command, they swooshed open, giving the Rebel more space to retreat to. But that was not all - something was wrong.

From the narrow maintenance corridor, the catwalk sprung into a massive open area. Where they had been flanked by consoles and machines on both sides previously, they were now suddenly allowed to breathe. The large and spacious maintenance pit connected several different pathways like the one they had just fought through. The corridors were all connected by a central pillar with stairs circling around it on the outside and a turbolift running through it on the inside. The main source of light in their vicinity would be their own blades - aside from those, there were lamps following the stairway by the central pillar and minor screens and shining buttons by the consoles by the doorways.

Ravoch's back straightened and his swipes were allowed to take wider arcs, putting far more power behind his attacks. Where he had drawn on the force previously to avoid getting burned from the heat of the pressurised air and to see in the thick smoke, that was no longer needed now. Instead, he could devote his undivided attention to the ashen-haired Rebel. Even then, his brows furrowed as a creeping sense of danger tingled his senses. The wrongness he had sensed in the corridor was becoming more pronounced.

Shimmering yellow eyes darted from spot to spot, scanning anything from Acier to the distant catwalks above and below them. Finally, his gaze dropped to the pipe - realization of what was about to happen spread across wide open eyes. The metal casings barely had time to groan before the pipes that ran underneath the catwalk exploded from pressure that had built up during their fight.

Instead of fighting to stay on something that wasn't falling, Ravoch's first reaction was to let his armoured arm shoot out in an attempt to grab the non-padawan by his ankle as he hopped away. This time, it would seem like Ace was faster as he narrowly escaped the Sith's durasteel grip. That left the Lord in a tricky spot as the structure he had been standing on was falling apart under his feet. This time, his reaction was not immediate - it would seem like his skill with the saber far exceeded his experience in simply falling from a high point.

Eventually, the Lord spotted a large chunk of pipe falling in parallel to him. With an aggressive pull, he reached out through the force to will the object towards him. Once it was under his feet, he pulled it upward, consequently giving him a platform to stand on in order to hastily slow his descent to an acceptable speed. It allowed him to make a controlled jump off of the improvised platform onto another catwalk that ran just a few meters above the very bottom of the maintenance pit.

Metal whined and moaned as the Lord's boots hit the grating, causing it to buckle and break from the impact. From there, he extinguished his blade and oriented himself before finally focusing on the ashen-haired Rebel's force signature. Their fight would not be allowed to end this soon. Fortunately for Ravoch, his prey had a very distinct and powerful profile, tracking it would not be the challenging part.

A few minutes would pass before the Lord had made his way through a minor web of maintenance corridors, stairways and odd passages before he finally emerged in the same chamber as Ace. Standing high on a catwalk at least one story above the bottom, Ravoch clasped his hands behind his back.

"That performance was pitiful." His voice, despite not rising beyond a conversational level, echoed clearly through the pit, down to the bottom where Ace stood. His voice was measured and precise, his tone commanding and dripping with authority "You may not be a Padawan, but you clearly still have much to learn. I will concede that you know how to swing a saber well enough, but your form lacks refinement and your mind is shattered - it lacks discipline and control. What you felt when we crossed blades; I am the one who can help you temper it." Ravoch's arms appeared from behind his back and stretched wide in an open gesture. Smug eyes shot a piercing gaze at the Rebel "You know I am right."

If Ace tried to leap up to where Ravoch stood, he'd swat his armoured palm downwards in an attempt to smash the persistent attacker down onto the ground through a powerful Force-fueled push. His voice would snap with a sharp command "Listen to me. You need this. I am your only hope."