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Vinaze had been perfectly right in saying that there was still a trace of naivety within Eina. Among other things, it lay in how she always tried to assume the best in others and to see that good within them. She could see their souls, the things they tried to hide from everyone else, and she was able to perceive some form of light in each being. In Vinaze’s case, she hoped that this remnant came from the host body itself, if the eldritch being still had one. But that was something she could not yet know, for she was not near him.
The woman sighed wearily when the man spoke of his wounds having healed, and that he was now even stronger than when they had last met. That same truth applied to Eina as well, though she would never say it aloud, for she was always humble and never boasted of her power. In the Netherworld, she had faced War, Death, and Rebirth alone when she had no choice, and she had done the same here, above Exegol, when the Maw’s ritual had summoned them. It had been she who kept them bound, preventing them from fully manifesting in this dimension, the Realspace.
And Eina was not truly alone; the dyad between her and Geiseric still existed, allowing her to draw upon her husband’s strength whenever she needed it. And, of course, there was Ashla. Eina had become a part of the Oversoul - though she retained her own will - and she could draw upon the Oversoul’s power whenever necessary. It was a kind of connection that had not yet existed when she had once fought Vinaze. Though she had already been a Vergence back then, she had since grown far stronger. Yet even so, she remained more powerful within the Netherworld than in Realspace, for the afterlife was, and always would be, her true home.
For a few moments, the woman pondered what to say to the man; something that would not be a lie, yet would let him feel that she was different from before, without her beginning to speak like a Sith Lord.
~ I am Ashla. ~ she said softly to him at last, her tone gentle and serene and yet, the telepathic message sounded as though thousands upon thousands of voices spoke from the mists of the past, as the Oversoul itself spoke through Eina’s voice.
Just as she was about to reach out through the Force to teleport to where Vinaze was, she sensed new, familiar auras within it. She already knew that all three of the young L’lerims were aboard - Ellayina, Lilianna, and Tancred. Hei was there as well, and another presence too, belonging to someone whose relative was very dear to Eina’s heart: Cesare Demici
. There were so many gathered here now, so many she could worry for, or wish to help, yet even she could not divide herself into so many directions at once. She could only be in one place.
Thus she began to weigh her choices. Eina could feel how the Dark Side thickened near the ritual; yes, this was the place where she could do the most; where she had to do the most. The former Valkyrja still held to her vow never to attack those born of Realspace unless they struck first, to act only in defence. But Vinaze was a creature of the Netherworld. That rule did not apply to him.
~ Last warning, Darth Vinaze. The crusade lives, and it shall endure for as long as even a single soul believes in Ashla. ~ she sent to the man telepathically.
Indeed. Arris placed one shot that ripped a fist-sized hole through an officer and lodged itself deep inside the chest of a Death Trooper behind him. It was still smoking when the barrel lined up to Meliant next, and stayed only when he addressed Gerra as Brother.
Brother? Mother? What was it with this heist and complicated family matters? The cyborg holstered her weapon and sat her ass on a computer console beside the door. Hefty security.
"I hate to interrupt a moment, but I assume we're here to do a job, right?"
She slid off the console and looked around the controls. The Talusian had tampered with many a system before, but this seemed excessive. Then again, it meant nothing to the Vahlan's raw strength, she reckoned. In the corner of her eye, she spotted a wounded trooper crawling for a blaster. Her metal foot came down hard on his hand and crushed it with hydraulic force.
She dented his helmet with her other foot as he screamed. Not dead, but severely injured and concussed.
Arris leaned down to his unconscious form. "Don't interrupt, yeah?" She whispered.
The corridor leading to the command complex carved right through the maw of the superweapon; weak plums drifted from ruptured conduits, and the air had the stench of scorched durasteel. You could feel the low growl of the reactor core reverberate through the deckplates.
Ashina move ahead, his blade still lit, its azure glow slicing through the haze. Romi followed close behind, covering their flank. It felt colder with every step forward, till it wasn't. They could feel him now, well the gravity of him...no touch of the Force was needed; it was the inevitable confrontation that the body sensed naturally when danger was near.
When the came upon the last set of blast doors, red emergency lights pulsed along the ceiling, casting their faces in alternating shadow and light the closer they got. She paused there for a single breath. Two Masters, last of their strike team, on the threshold....
Those blast doors parted with a hiss that seemed to last forever, Romi stepped in first beside Ashina, and now they were in his sanctum.
Then she noticed -- Atrisia's horizon spilling over her face in muted shades of blues and reds, as they emerged from their jump. It was under assault, but they were just...
She caught her breath, mouth agape, "Wh-" breathless. Her arm flew out as she took a quick couple steps wide.
"Enough. Kaigann" She whipped around, "Enough with your games, and scheming..." Her gaze never left Solipsis. Her voice didn't rise; it didn't need to.
"You've mistaken prophecy for permission..." She said, "The Four were never yours to claim...and you won't have them, because I've already seen your end." She stepped forward, boots ringing softly against the obsidian floor, stopping just shy of the throne's dais. Her voice steady, but carrying just enough steel to cut through the ritual chant leaking through the walls.
She tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing at the throne, and she just let the words hang there...meeting his ember eyes without flinching.
Shiraya's Sanctuary Council Chambers (flashback) Briana Sal-Soren
The doors parted with a soft chime, and the scent of rain and stone drifted in with her as she travelled up from the courtyard. Naboo's midday light, though, seemed to spilled in wherever, leaving sihlouettes with a gold-edge; darker reflections in the marble. Hers rippled faintly under her boots as she stepped inside.
Her robes still smelled faintly of ozone and starship oil, remnants of a personal mission she was preparing for; she was just on her way for the Mid rim territories. She could feel the quiet dissonance as she crossed the threshold, like a hum of conflict clinging to her aura against the room's calm, but wasn't that always?
This summons, it couldn't have been anything routine.
Romi sauntered toward the center of the floor, hands clasping behind her as the became lost to her worn poncho. Her posture measured all things considered, but tight -- however she couldn't shake the tension knotted behind her ribs.
"You summoned me, Master Sal-Soren," she said. Her tone was formal, but the tension beneath it betrayed what she already suspected, this was in no way a summons for ceremony.
Meliant scoffed audibly. Stealing was just as base, even if the ambition - and the prize - was a lofty one. More muscles than brains, ol' Gerry always had. Maybe that was why he thought he could steal this giant, hideous orb of death.
Arms unfolded, Meliant looked poised to jump. "Don't you even think...!"
Too late. Yes, of course. There were those aforementioned muscles. Meliant's armor creaked under the strength of his brother's embrace. It was, perhaps not to Gerra's surprise, not dissimilar to hugging a balloon buoyed by spite instead of helium.
Though it was cut short in only a few seconds when a seismic telekinetic wave blasted the Dark Side Elite free - shattering more than a few of the console screens that adorned the hallway.
The younger Hasuras landed nimbly on his feet, fists clenched in indignant rage. If he spared a thought to any of Gerra's proteges, he didn't share it.
"You're in the wrong spot for a hijacking, you lumbering brute," he hissed. "This overbridge is only for show. You start trying to send orders from here and a thousand different little subsystem commanders will revolt."
He brushed off his chestplate as if it had come into contact with something gross. Meliant had been stationed on Archais where he had foiled (or at least according to his report he had foiled it) an attempt to steal the Death Star III plans.
Quite a lot of time he had spent idle and bored. The rest he spent harassing, quizzing, insulting the designers. You could learn a whole lot by being mean to people... And Meliant was always learning.
"If you had any real idea what you're doing, you'd go for the master controls in the throne room and execute your little stunt from there. But I'm afraid my dear Emperor is there now, and he's not taking any appointments."
The ringing in his ears began to fade, replaced by the dull throb in his shoulder and the hiss of cooling metal. Smoke drifted through the broken doorway, curling like ghosts around the consoles. Beyond it, the hunter's shadow stalked.
Brandyn reached out through the Force. For a heartbeat, the chaos receded. Through the blinding haze he felt Casaana like a bright, nervous flame pushing toward purpose. The path she'd chosen would lead her true. He knew it. It was not hope, nor instinct that spoke to him. It felt more like...destiny. She would reach the shield controls. She just had to be quick.
He unclipped the satchel from his belt and tossed it toward her, the strap sliding across the deck. "Take these. Use them if you must. Then get back to me." His tone left no room for argument.
The floor trembled again as the hunter approached. Brandyn pushed himself to his feet, rolling his left shoulder once to loosen the joint. His saber ignited with a snap-hiss of green light, casting both men in harsh relief. He looked up, eyes narrowing through the swirl of smoke.
"Five minutes, was it?" The faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Let's make them count."
He raised his weapon into the high guard of Soresu, blade angled above his head, free hand extended forward — two fingers out, tracing invisible geometry in the air. His posture was pure defence, yet unyielding, the stance of one who understood that endurance was its own form of victory.
The attack of the Death Star continued around them, but Brandyn stood immovable — calm and centred. For the first time, in a very long time, he felt he could be the Jedi he had always wanted to be.
"Bless you?" The synthetic mesh of his sound-box crackled as the golden-clad figure asked Deonis Laythar
rhetorically.
The crimson glow of his visor fixed upon the Magistrate before him, faceless yet expressive through stance and tone. Despite the mechanical rasp, there laid compassion within.
"Brother, you are blessed! We are the living heralds of a new age, the sanctified few, chosen to witness the ascension of a god. Millenia of destiny fulfill themselves before our gaze!"
The resplendent, clawed gauntlet came to rest upon the near-human's shoulder, its touch hot but not searing, heavy but not cruel.
When he spoke again, through synthetic vocal cords, there was a melancholy audible in his tone.
"Rejoice, brother! For we are truly, truly blessed."
As though overtaken by a brief moment of weakness, the giant withdrew his hand. His voice hardened, sharper now, reverberating like iron on iron.
"Now go, brother! Go and worship at the altar of War. Burn the heathens, as the God-Emperor wills it."
The mechanical whirring of gears and dynamos echoed like church bells as his gilded torso turned to face his warriors.
"Brother Merrik Vaan!" The fallen Jedi, his face hidden behind a visor illuminated like his Saint's own, rose to his feet. A oppressive darkness clung to him like the crimson cloak that hung around his form.
"Magister Vhol," called the Saint next. A sleek figure, dignified in every motion, inclined his head in reverence. "My Saint," he intoned with a crackling voice, hardened by the ages.
"Zharrek!" Peterius bellowed, through the congregation. At the rear, a figure rose with feline grace, a near-audible purr rumbling from its corner.
"Worship beside our brother Deonis!"
Movement rippled through the faithful as yet another flock departed from their shepherd's embrace.
Then, as if reconsidering, a flicker of remorse hushing across the featureless visage.
"Return to me, brothers," he commanded.
"Return with the ashes of the blasphemous."
With that, he set both massive gauntlets upon the hilt of his war hammer, the stoic sentinel guarding the passage between the shrine chamber and the forces forming in opposition.
Only two figures remained at his side: one mighty and armoured, of similar stature to his Saint, the other smaller, frailer. His gaze lingered on the latter.
"Were you able to mend his wounds, Tú?"
The red-robed figure, his skeletal frame faintly lit by the eerie glow of his lantern, set it upon the hook at his waist.
"Aye, dearest Saint. His essence is whole, his body mended. May he go forth blessed with the God-Emperor's divine protection."
The Saint Peterius turned his gaze down the dark corridor, watching the zealots disappear into the shadows.
Human ash flakes tumbled through the hangar bay like leaves caught in an autumn gale, while thick, convulsive plumes rose upward from the raging mound of flaring corpses.
Within the crackling blaze, bones snapped like brittle branches, and flames licked meters into the air.
A forest canopy of sickly fumes from searing cadavers clung to the ceiling, while the vapors slipped below, festering and pooling around their feet like mist at dawn.
Before the burning mound of corpses, Salafir knelt in a puddle of bubbling, liquefied tissue streaming past his crimson robes, hissing as it cooled upon the durasteel floor. The zealot was entranced, chanting in the ancient tongue of the Sith.
The other two stood watch, one a hulking menace of blades and iron, the other a lean silhouette of augmented, mechanical limbs. Both gazed, mesmerized, into the shifting hues of the inferno as it twisted and twirled, dancing upon the heart of the human bonfire.
Then, without warning, the Green Warden droid shrieked to life.
It emitted a burst of binary code before its repeating blaster rifle snapped upward and unleashed a storm of plasma toward one of the main hangar entrances.
It screamed in machine-tongue as it poured fire into the threshold, its programming dictating only one law: Protect its heralds at all costs.
Within milliseconds, its identity tagger failed to capture a valid CRI. Its sensors ran cascading calculations, threat models, heat signatures, motion probabilities, and identified the faint silhouette of Phaelissia
emerging from the shadows as hostile.
Kandora spun, diving behind a stack of cargo crates. She linked her ocular implants to the droid's targeting sensors, her field of vision overlaid with its data streams, targeting protocols, and lock indicators.
"Infidel scum…" she hissed.
The biometric readings were absurd. Infrared patterns revealed a heat trace whose cyber-organic integration index far exceeded her own, a figure well beyond standard military tolerance.
She swung herself over the crate, blaster first, and took aim. Laser-focused on the target lock, she was to deliver single, measured shots while the droid's suppressive fire pinned them down.
"Brother Gazim, secure Salafir! We must wake them now!"
The towering Devaronian obeyed silently in the beating hail of gunfire, his armored frame taking a defensive stance before the mumbling shadow.
The kneeling zealot was still entirely immersed in his litany. The shrieking scream of blasters bolts erupted around him, yet he did not stir nor flinch.
The massive inferno in their midst heaved, first one way, then another, a vortex of Dark Side energy drawing a long, shuddering breath in before exhaling its searing essence into the chamber.
The giant, entombed in golden ultrachrome, stood in silence, basking himself in the hymns and chants of the spirited congregation beyond the fortified gate he was tasked to guard.
A faint but wholehearted smile tugged at his lipless mouth, pulling apart the scorched remnants of his visage, beneath the armoured veil.
They were so close now. On the cusp of a greatness few in all galactic history had ever reached. Annihilation so pure, on such scale, most mortal minds couldn't fathom.
It had been done before. He had witnessed it before. On Coruscant, standing atop the temple stairs, watching the lightside's sabers melt in the forge.
He reminisced on the memory of prophecy fulfilled, how he longed to return to that night among his patrons, when banners the length of city blocks unfurled from towers that pierced the heavens, and the voice of his God-Emperor still rang in his skull.
A ping from his internal sensors drew his attention, perimeter breach, it was silenced with a thought.
So they had come.
Their first challenger had revealed themselves.
Name: Kandora
Force User: No
Appearance: Scarred Echani woman, ritual burns across face and arms, synthetic augmentations, wears red robes over armored scout gear
Strengths: Tactical awareness, precision, speed
Weaknesses: Lacking strenght, heavily reliant on implants
The words echoed at the back of her mind, raspy and quiet yet ever-present. Dull a first, but as the whine that pricked at the center of her eardrums faded they steadily grew louder and louder, eventually becoming the only sound she could hear even though she couldn't taste them on her lips anymore. It wasn't the brutality she was looking for, nor was it the excruciating pain that radiated down from her shoulder and into the top of her rib cage, what she wanted was surprise. Outsmarted? Maybe that was part of it, but it was the sudden thrill that she might've been bested and caught lacking that she was searching for, and in the moment she'd been flung across the hallway she thought she'd finally found someone who could give that to her. Satisfaction for an itch she hadn't been able to scratch since she'd found herself stranded in the seven Corellian hells.
This brutish approach, however? This wasn't it.
If she had been the picture of crazed excitement before, in less than an attosecond her expression had transitioned immediately to disappointment - maybe even disgust. The entirety of the left side of her body slumped as she slid her right foot forwards, her weight moving with it, but her lightsaber didn't move an inch - maybe a little to the side as a consequence of the movement, but not much else. It wasn't necessary when, after all, a lightsaber was inconsequential in the face of the dark side of the force. She would've rewarded him with something different, perhaps something a little more flashy, but by the time his claws were hardly centimeters away from striking her between her breasts he was met with a tremendously durable sphere of force energy that was quickly followed with a forceful shove of telekinetic force towards him and arcs of bright purple lightning that crackled around its surface threateningly.
She restrained herself, reluctantly, from ripping panels of steel from beneath and around them in the interest of not putting herself in harm's way as well, but the implication behind the triad of visual cues caused by the manner in which she was manipulating the force suggested that it was certainly not out of the cards. The sudden spike in anger, or perhaps frustration - she couldn't rightly tell the difference herself at that point - did better than any verbal objection would've in highlighting that this wasn't was she was looking for. Still, the display was just barely enough to keep her attacker at bay - it was clear there was something else on the way.
"Do I need to give you a demonstration?" She asked, her face red and slick with sweat. "I thought you were Sith."
She spat the word out like it was bitter on her tongue, as if Krasskorr the Maw
being one would've meant he should have understood her without needing any explanation.
"Clearly I was wrong."
Her posture straightened as she slid her foot back, some semblance of strength returning to the left side of her body, and the grip she held her lightsaber with tightened until her knuckles were almost white. She shifted her knees slightly, one bending just a little more than the other, and raised her lightsaber just a tad higher as she adopted the opening stance of Form VII, of Juyo, and then sucked in sharply through her nostrils. The showy display faded abruptly as her shoulders sagged but by the time the last arc of lightning dissipated she had flung herself forwards with a sudden forward cut in from the side using the tip of her lightsaber - what would be the start of a trio of strikes, each of which held no rhythm, with seemingly no discernable connection between one and the next. There was no illusion that his large stature would afford her any certainty in landing any purchase with her blows, but her desire wasn't to finesse damage on her opponent.
It was to show him the ferocity of a predator, precisely what she'd expected from him before, and each strike carried with them greater force than the one preceding, both literally in the strength she expended but also with subtle applications of telekinetic force.
He travels toward the spot where the warclaws are landing
--------------------------
The Saint of Fire's armored hand came to rest on Deonis's shoulder - a hand that, should the power within be unleashed, would sear his flesh to ashes in the Emperor's name. Yet the heat that spread from it now was not a cleansing inferno; it was a heartening warmth. The church magistrate let that warmth suffuse him, drawing strength from it, letting it burn away his weariness and doubt. Yes, he was blessed. He was among the Elect, those chosen and empowered by the Sith'ari himself, to carry out His will and witness His ascension to galactic rulership.
"So mote it be, Saint Peterius," Deonis whispered reverently. He stood, his strength restored.
The runes carved into his body scabbed, then became no more than thin white lines in his patchwork of scars.
"I thank you for this blessing," the magistrate said, his voice full of renewed purpose and determination, "and for the aid of your retinue. Together we shall ensure that none of these unworthy interlopers can interfere in His holy rite." With that, Deonis turned and departed, the trio of holy warriors falling in behind him. The heat and smoke of the ritual chamber fell away as they made their way through the Death Star's labyrinth of halls, replaced by blaring alarm klaxons and the stale smell of recycled air. Troopers they passed hurriedly stepped aside.
It was a great distance from the dark cathedral to the edge of the station, where Deonis had sensed the threat he was destined to face arriving. The magistrate would need to travel dozens of kilometers to reach it. He and the Saint's retinue boarded a tram, one of several they would need to take in order to reach the external hangar bays, and it whisked them along at high speed. They looked almost comical, these four dark warriors crammed onto a utilitarian passenger train. One could imagine civilian commuters carefully averting their eyes from the group.
Yet even as they traveled, Deonis sensed that something had changed. There was... interference in the Emperor's ritual. Where before there had been only growth, an endless flood of the dark energy that arises from suffering and death flowing into the cathedral, now there was something flowing out. A mosquito had appeared on the Emperor's holy flesh, an insect attempting to drink His blood. Stretching out with the Force, Deonis followed the flow of power. He followed it through the twisting hallways of the station, to where it had been partially interrupted.
Rather than confront the Emperor in actual battle, these leeches had latched on at the station's edge - scavengers dining on scraps, stealing the remains of a true predator's kills. It wasn't just that they were siphoning the energy in the ritual chamber; they were also intercepting some of the energy that flowed up from the carnage on Atrisia itself, like tapeworms that embedded themselves in the digestive system and stole nutrients from the body. This was why the Emperor must sweep away all these Force-using demigods to bring order to the galaxy.
At this distance, there was little Deonis could do to prevent these wretched carrion-feeders from slurping up some of the incoming energy. He stood near the figurative heart, and the leeches had attached themselves at the furthest extremities, siphoning away blood before it could flow back through the circulatory system. He sensed that another was confronting the pair - Darth Ayra
, her agenda unknown to him. Had he known she had offered to guide one of them to the ritual chamber in exchange for the other's death, he would have been utterly enraged.
But he did not know, and could not know. So he focused on the matters he could control.
"I will come for them as well," Deonis swore under his breath, letting his senses turn back to the other threat he had sensed. Once he had beaten back the Sith currently diving toward the station in their warclaws, if the Emperor blessed him with the strength to do so, he would seek out and banish these hangers-on as well. Perhaps he could do both at once. The first tram slid to a stop, its doors springing open. Deonis and his new companions stepped out, making their way through the halls to the next tram station. Time was of the essence. At least they had a map.
They must intercept these dangerous interlopers well short of the station's heart.
Metal, fire, and death all colliding in an endless rhythm that made this sector feel like a sucking chest wound. The composition of the Death Star did little to quiet it, mostly, making the structure feel as if it had been hollowed and filled breathable hopelessness. Atrisia, for all its fortifications, wouldn't stand a chance if the Galactic Empire unleased the full power of their newest weapon at what equivocated to point blank range. She watched Velda Nar-Donna
clear the gap in the floor she'd pointed out and knew that Gerwald Lechner
wouldn't be far behind.
There was no fear in either of them. Never had been.
Glimmering golden orbs slid down when warmth began to answer back through the phylactery that she always wore around her neck. It was a malevolent thing, bristling with darkness, that made her stand out in the void like a beacon—But it was the one piece of jewelry, aside from her wedding ring, that could always be found on her person. Few knew what it was, save, those who had been present in the deliberations between the Dark Council, Kainite, and Empyrean. But…She knew.
That was all that mattered.
A moment later she was greeted by a familiar holographic form that she hadn't thought to expect here.
They had held many conversations whilst aboard the Mors Mon but he'd rarely spoken to her so distantly. His AI was a marvel, imitating humanity in a way that was almost eerie, but in the moment, all she could see his struggle to maintain the connection. The strain of whatever it was he was being made to do made him waver in and out. Blinking, like a green ghost. Her comm began to light up and a moment later it pinged with new information. She raised her wrist to reveal glowing schematics that she soon enough realized, belonged to the Death Star. How had the All-Father gotten these?
"The Faithless…", the word came to her, without reason, and for a moment her eyes seemed to belong to someone else. Particularly, that of Darth Carnifex
. He would feel her presence rise beneath his like a tide responding to the moon. "…Have placed too much certainty in this machine."
They were the same words that the Butcher King had offered, however, the pale woman uttered them in distant agreement. Her fingers remained on the phylactery a moment longer before she turned her sights on Revna Marr
, Darth Caedes
, Aether Verd
, Gerwald Lechner
, Velda Nar-Donna
, Haro Aven
, and Naamino Zuukamano
, and swiped her hand across her comm to send the schematics toward their devices. That same copy was also transmitted back to the Iron Eidolon (Lina Ovmar
and Madrona A’Mia
) so they might be able to gain an advantage, or at the very least, find a way to cripple this beast.
"A gift…", she murmured, not bothering, to say from who.
Typhojem hadn't exactly been quiet.
"We won't find what we're looking for by chasing our tails in this maze."
Srina had only glanced at the schematics, and yet, she seemed well-versed enough to move. She could already map the proverbial veins of the Death Star, where its power bled, and where it could be strangled. The detailed images would flicker across their variety of display units and the white-haired woman addressed her team, only, to provide necessary direction. Boots had made shipfall—it was time to start running. "We split up. There's too much ground to cover…Use the schematics and look for pressure points or the source of the disturbance that brought us here. Target power relays, shield arrays, reactor junctions, anything that might make even the strongest crew panic."
"If it explodes, burns, or screams—It serves our purpose."
Srina turned and jumped over the dead drop in the floor before, landing softly, glancing down the western corridor. "Stay in contact. If you run into Solipsis…Don't underestimate him, or his men."
The Echani warrior had already warned them all, not to be a hero, but that didn't mean they would heed her warning when the temptation of battle lingered so easily in the air. It would be confusing for many who had spent the majority of their lives on Jutrand or in the Holy Worlds. Why were they fighting the Galactic Empire? Why were they, in essence, defending the Alliance? The truth?
They were protecting themselves. Designing their own victory, necessary, because a threat could not be ignored under any circumstances. They were "other" in the eyes of the Faithless… And otherness, it seemed, was unwelcome, by the Emperor in the Core. Even if they were cut from the same cloth.
She took once last glance at those she had arrived with—Before turning down the path she had chosen. Srina had briefly witnessed Darth Solipsis
fight during the Great Hunt not so long ago. He was either out of touch from his recent return to existence, or, he had been holding back. Considering he had thought to challenge her husband during that time…She was betting on the latter. With that in mind—She would be leaving this godforsaken place with all her children intact.
Not in body bags.
The further she went, the heavier the air became. It felt charged with negative intent…And if she closed her eyes? Listened? She could sense the disturbance growing in the same way she could feel her heart beating. Steady. Strong. Srina was drawn to it in the same way a moth might flicker about searching for a flame…But she was not an acolyte. She was not some dreamy apprentice, easily seduced, by whispers in the unknown. She controlled the Darkside—Not the other way around.
Still. The sense of wrongness had done nothing but grow since the Eidolon ripped its way into this section of space. It would be so easy to slip away into the black…
Into the dark.
It pressed against her skull like a living thought. The more she traveled into the labyrinth of the Death Star the more she felt the disturbance clawing at the edges of her mind, twisting the shadows between flickering lights, creating half-formed visions. Power was being channeled here, somewhere deep, within the battlestation…The after effects were winding through like smoke, crawling through corridors, and along circuitry…It was then that she saw him.
And so he set out through scarred and emptied hallways, his fingers tightening on the deactivated lightsaber clutched in his hand and his focus wholly upon the mental image of white hair and a woman's visage that had been burned into his mind's eye. He knew not who she was - despite a lingering familiarity that burned at the edge of memory. All he knew, was that he would kill her.
For the briefest moment his lazy gait flashed a memory into her mind. A quiet day on Naboo…Watching him walk toward her with a telltale grin that meant he had done something incorrigible. His pace quickened when he was near. It didn't matter that this warrior of the Empire wore a helmet, nor, did it matter that he was covered from head to toe in black. She couldn't see an inch of him. There wasn't a thing about this individual that should have brought any measure of recognition—But it was there.
He was right there. She would know him…
"Aryn."
Anywhere.
Before either of them could close the distance, let alone speak, an armored door cleaved downward between them, hydraulics screaming. Srina stared through the shimmering barrier, a transparent membrane of energy and glass, that hummed like a containment field. For a breath…They were worlds away. Her eyes were cruel…Cold as ice while her head tilted slowly in silent evaluation.
As if she were studying an insect from beneath glass.
Only—The insect was the door. Not the person behind it. She steadied herself, planted her feet, and let everything she was gather into a single, ruthless motion. Her gloved fist met the pane and the sound it emitted was not the brittle crack of bone but the low, offended howl, of engineering failing beneath intense pressure. She punched through as if the barrier were made of mist, white hot pain shocking her fingers where the energy bit at her, but she didn't flinch.
Her arm threaded through the jagged aperture like a barbed hook. Her fingers closed around the throat of the man with an intimacy that suggested anger, even, while her expression remained empty of all things. She did not feel, especially not, when it came to him. Could not. The contact was sudden, immediate, and he would find struggling to be…A difficulty. Her grip was law, not a plea. She was not asking for his compliance…She would take it.
Srina pulled him forward suddenly, with more strength than her small frame should hold, to slam him face first against the shielded door—And she felt it give. The world between them collapsed and energy snapped away, dissipating, while glass rained down.
The Sovereign Protector kills several Wookiees, but goes down after being blinded and overwhelmed
--------------------------
The Houk's sneer only widened as Connel stood back, leaving the Wookiees to fight on their own. "Tired, Jedi?" It asked, shoving the body of the Wookiee it had killed further aside and taking up a guard position with its twin shotos. "Need a breather while others do your fighting for you? Or is this merely the Jedi way?" It chuckled darkly. "Small wonder that the Alliance fell before us, when its supposed protectors leave ordinary people - or even malnourished slaves - to try in vain to hold back the darkness." It flourished its blades in a challenge.
Several of the Wookiees opened fire with the rifles Connel had given them. The Houk deflected the bolts contemptuously, reflecting several of them back at his foes. Wookiee cries of pain and the smell of blaster-burnt fur filled the cellblock once again. "Perhaps you tell yourself that you're teaching them some kind of lesson," the Sovereign Protector went on, bemused. "That leaving them to fend for themselves will somehow empower them in the long run." With a wrench of its hand, the Houk pulled the blasters from every Wookiee's grip.
"It will not. You are merely abandoning them to their fate when you could have helped."
This was the exact line of propaganda used by the Empire against the Alliance and the Jedi - that they stood on some high pedestal above ordinary people, ignoring the suffering that everyday citizens went through unless and until it fit their aloof morality to deign to bestow some morsel of aid. In the conquered Core Worlds, it had been an easy message to spread. Why hadn't the Jedi stopped the conquest? Why hadn't they saved all the people killed and imprisoned in the invasion? Because they don't care about you, the Office of Imperial Truth whispered.
The OIT painted the Jedi as distant, uncaring about anything save the moralistic dictates of their religion.
Leaving a group of malnourished Wookiees to fight a Force-wielding being with lightsabers felt like good evidence of that.
Disarmed, enraged, the Wookies charged. The Houk cut down the first two, one blade decapitating a foe, the other ripping through a torso and arm. It sent the third one flying back into the pair behind it with a telekinetic push, sending them tumbling down the corridor like bowling pins. A fourth managed to put one hairy hand on the Houk's shoulder before the Houk severed the offending arm at the elbow. But in that moment, the Sovereign Protector missed what was in the Wookiee's other hand - the armed flashbang it had concealed behind its hairy back.
As the Wookiee went down, it held out the flashbang... and the grenade went off in the Houk's face.
"Graaaaaaah!" the enraged Sovereign Protector bellowed, blinded and deafened. It lashed out wildly with its lightsabers, slashing several more of the oncoming Wookiees. But the shock of the attack, and the sensory deprivation, allowed the numbers of its enemies to truly add up. Wookiees surrounded it, growling and howling, grabbing at its armor. One managed to get behind the Houk, wrapping a powerful arm around the meaty base of its head. Another two closed in from either side, each grabbing one of the Houk's arms. And then they began to pull.
"My death... changes nothing... Jedi filth!" the Houk spat, struggling for breath.
And then the Wookiees tore its arms out of their sockets, as Wookiees have been known to do.
The Houk went still - limbs severed, neck broken. Its lightsabers dropped from its limp, disembodied hands and clattered to the floor of the cellblock. Around it were piled three dead Wookiees and a half dozen more badly-injured ones, a testament to what a Sovereign Protector - even a wounded and exhausted one - could do. They were not so powerful as the squad-annihilating demigods that now invaded the station, but they were mighty, and more than capable of holding their own. This one's spirit fled its body, absorbed into the Emperor's dark ritual.
Connel had won, though the Wookiees had paid a terrible price along the way.
As Quinn departed the tram the pale elf shifted her attention to the only member of her little squad still present on it, Eira. She was regarded with a silent crimson stare for a moment. As she listened to the apprentice she could only believe it to be rather unfortunate for her for Riven answered to a higher power than the Princess. Ultimately she might've not even been here on Quinn's order alone, no, it was rather obvious she had some other reason for being present.
"... Good luck..." muttered the short assassin to Eira before she hopped backwards and off of the tram. It was a pity that the squad had broken apart entirely but she couldn't ignore her own task.
With her recently acquired Maser Rifle in hand she approached to stand in view of both Quinn and Ashin, though her body language, her silent gaze, none of it suggested she would be interfering in their clash. The pale elf was, at this moment and the imminent future, a neutral party that served as the eyes and ears of another, an unbiased point of contact that could retell what was about to occur.
If anything the elf was more likely to take aim at anyone trying to get too close to the imminent battle between mother and daughter, more than prepared to fire warning shots at those that presumed to interfere.
Riven wasn't particularly concerned about any collateral from Force powers, her nature would see to a large part of her safety in that regard. The worst the pale elf had to worry about were potential debris flying about and intruders, but she kept a safe enough distance away from the two.
If worst came to worst, at the very least she might be able to help keep the Princess not entirely without aid after the battle; providing she survived it...
Location: Aboard the Eidolon Objective: Oversight and Backup
Lina’s only response to the Mand’alor's growl was a tilt of her head, the soft curl of one side of her mouth into a smirk. Before she could form any verbal reply, Srina stepped in, her soft words to him chastising…almost teasing. Settling the matter before it could rise into a fight. Obsidian orbs flicked to their warpriest, Domina Prime welcomed the gift. She gave the woman a curt nod and with the gentle flick of her hand the shadows shifted to those who were willing to bear them.
There was another she cast, thin and spindly it latched onto the Empress’s shadow and disappeared from view as they swept from the room. Lina watched them go, an unease settling in her chest. She and Revna had spoken briefly about a whisper of change in the force, of something lying in wait for them on the horizon. Would this be where it reared its ugly head? When all that remained in the room was herself, Srina’s praetorians and the elegant form of the Lord seer, Lina let go of a breath she had not realised she was holding.
She let the quiet sit, watching the battle through the vast view port as the warclaws left the Eidolon streaking towards the monstrosity that was the Death Star. Her eyes scanned the rest of the battlefield as star destroyers split open, spilling their crews into the cold abyss of space. Lights of blue, green and red danced across the dark black canvas, with blossoms of orange illuminating as smaller craft exploded. It was a beautiful canvas, there was no denying it, but the fact remained that this work of art was not under their control.
Lina closed her eyes and stretched out in the force, allowing herself to be pulled towards the darkness that coalesced around the Death Star. Fear and death fuelled the growing mass of power and as Srina and her escort set boots upon its floors, she opened her eyes, seeing not the great space battle she had before, but the slender armour clad legs of the Empress.
Rising from her shadow, the spindly creature slid away from her, slipping from one shadow to the next, oblivious to the reverberations that ran through the station's walls. An extension of herself, the wajis slipped between walls, between this realm and the next as they felt the two begin to tear at each other, a wound in the force was growing, fueled by the battle, spurned on by the ritual.
She felt her grip of the creature slip, her vision passing between the Eidolon and the endless maze of the Death Star. She tightened her grip on the staff, swearing beneath her breath as blood trickled from her nose, the dark veins of corruption spreading further across her face. She reached again, sinking her proverbial claws deeper into her pet as it continued its journey into the heart of the darkness.
Seer, lend me your strength. I need to see, we have to know.
The same sharpness with which she had cleaved open the portal, she felt the A’Mia meld with her again, the Eidolon faded from view and the creature shifted once more, spurned on, unstoppable by physical barrier it slipped past duels, between the cracks and the framework, drawn to the nucleus of it all. She could taste it now, the sweet tang of the darkness and barely leashed chaos. It reminded her of the Nether. Pushing through it was like wading through thick mud, but the power breathed. Drawing in the fear and death with each inhale, and expelling power with each exhale. She let herself be pulled in, phasing through till she could hear the chanting, till she could see the runes.
The faithful were bowed, heads pressed against rune etched durasteel, the power of their chant reverberating through the creature she possessed. It retreated, climbing into the high ceiling of the chamber, pressing itself into the shadow, unseen but ever watchful.
“Qyâsik Asimi.”
Lina blinked, leaving the shadow walker where it hid and returning to herself. Wiping the blood from her nose, she turned to the neti, knowing that she had seen all that she had. For a moment, she said nothing, the magnitude of it settled over her as she began to work though different options in her mind, shaking her head before opening the comms to the others on the Death Star trusting them to pass the message on to whoever else needed to hear it.
"It is a Force Storm. One of this magnitude will stretch beyond the boundaries of this sector. Even if we were to sacrifice the willing, it would not be enough to stop it. We need to contain it, and quickly.”
Location: Hangar - Death Star III
Tags: Renn Vizsla
The Black Gate
Blasterfire scorched the walls. The clash of metal and cries of engines formed a harsh rhythm, one Maera could instinctively read. Aurek kept the midline, enduring relentless pressure. Two troopers were down, one dragging the other to cover while firing short, disciplined bursts.
Above, Besh's comms crackled with static interference. Their positions were under siege, Mandalorians forcing them into brutal close-quarters combat. The hangar felt like a furnace, but the line still held. Barely.
Maera saw the shift. Death Watch pressed harder through the breach, the Warmaster at their center. Her HUD blinked red warnings: advancing hostiles, flanking signatures, troop losses. She ignored them all. Her breath steadied, her purpose narrowing.
She broke from cover.
Her rifle dropped, clattering to the deck. She sprinted forward, cutting through the smoke with predatory speed. The Death Troopers adjusted formation, giving her the space she needed. Their fire tightened to shield her advance. She barely noticed the storm of bolts hissing past, focused only on the single figure ahead: the man anchoring the Mandalorian line.
Her boots struck the durasteel in a hard, steady cadence. The hum of her armor's servos rose as she channeled power, momentum building. Her black armor streaked with crimson light as she closed the gap. The Warmaster moved to meet her, grounded and deliberate, a mountain braced for collision.
At ten meters, she dropped her center of gravity and surged forward, leading with her shoulder. She intended to break his stance, to slam him back before his blade or carbine could come to bear.
The two forces converged: the immense weight of Empire's dark precision against the fury of Mandalore's iron will. They were caught in the final heartbeat before impact.
What soon greeted the stoic gaze of the zabrak soldier, as the Blackwall parted and their ship careened through it, was pandemonium. Naamino steadied his breathing, fists clenching and slowly unclenching at his side as warfare ravaged ships beyond their viewport. And beyond that was a thing of infamy: A Deathstar.
The young man's ears were ringing a bit with the sheer amount of action unfolding before him in such a short span of time, the legendary machine built on hubris and surely a staggering amount of resources was something familiar to him thanks to a military history course Naami took as a first year at Kor'ethyr. He let his mind buzz with thoughts even as he grounded himself physically and energetically in the moment. The Darkside was fierce here, even to Naami's sometimes obtuse sense for such things— in fact, a nagging memory cut through the overwhelming input of their situation and the zabrak briefly felt a tug at the back of his mind. Gavin Vel
?
Naamino shook his head as if to clear it and all at once his thoughts honed in to the words of his King, moving at once to fall in beside him. He'd missed the dry quips of those gathered and rather purposefully avoided engaging with the beskar warriors— innately as superstitious or suspicious of them as they seemed of Sith.
As he strode for the dropship decks, they fell in at his back. "We've just arrived in the Atrisia System," he briefed them, tone clipped."It would appear the Galactic Empire has managed to construct a super weapon in the form of a mobile battle station."His derision was clear in the sarcastic tone he adopted. "A... Death Star," he continued, atop a tired sigh."You may recognize its namesake, owing to historical significance. A cautionary tale," he explained."Yet a planet killer nevertheless, and one I do not intend to let them employ here, on Atrisia. Some Darkness festers in that station's belly. A rot I intend to cut out from within. You will both accompany me."
Despite having some sense of what they were facing, Naami appreciated the King's rundown for Haro's sake and to buy him more time to get his own fething head in the game. This was far beyond some simple mission or clandestine operation. Darth Caedes
himself would be overseeing their work in an active war zone and the Hands would be expected to perform flawlessly.
The hulking young man resisted the urge to look over his shoulder where Srina Talon
, the actual Empress of the whole fething Order, followed in his footsteps. They all made their way to a Warclaw dropship at the King's direction, when the clawdite turned to address he and Haro.
He turned then to Naamino and adopted an earnest aspect. "You are to be Aven's shield."The skin 'round his eyes tightened. "See too it that he has sufficient opportunity to act efficiently. His life will be in your hands. Destroy all who endanger it. In this, you shall be my judgment, too," the King invoked.Protect the Lady Revna with your life, for your own depends on it, he signed ominously, angled conveniently away from the Lady in question.
Thankfully Naami's face was hidden beneath a helmet, or else the widening of his eyes and subtle pull back of tapered ears would've given away how taken aback he felt. Not at the order to guard Haro Aven
, that was a given— he'd always make sure his buddy was safe, they were a team. However, the silent command to watch after Revna Marr
was a surprise.
The royal couple were far beyond where he perceived his own power level to be, so to be tasked with the safe keeping of one of them was daunting but right in line with expectation. That only motivated him to sink deeper into concentration. He would see to his task with utmost diligence and enforce the safety of his assigned people. Upon entering pod, Naami was securing a handhold before instructed to do so, and braced one strong hand on Haro's shoulder when the advice was given.
His eyes widen in surprise as his claw slammed into the force shield, the impact generating a gust of wind that swept down the corridor. He soon experienced a telekinetic push that was enough to stagger him which left him open to the assault from the purple lightning as it spread from her hand into him directly.
The white currents of power soon found purchase in gaps in his armored plating, pain shooting through his left arm and shoulder. He ignored the smell of scorched scales and ozone that rose from his own body. The pain was irrelevant but the tactical information gained was not.
A sith sorcerer....he concluded, having know about them from studying underneath the Dark Side Elite. Typically they focused entirely on the force rather than lightsaber combat and this was proven by Darth Avida
using the force to repel him instead of her lightsaber to slice off his arm.
Krasskorr did not retreat even as she entered into the opening stance of Form VII, Juyo. Her ferocity was a mask to hide her lightsaber inflexibility and so the only thing to do against her would be to close the distance.
His lightclub still deactivated in his right hand was ignited in a fraction of a second, the crimson blade snapping back into existence to serve as a massive shield as her first strike, driven with a subtle telekinetic push, was met at the midpoint of his lightclub.
Krasskorr used the length to keep her saber far outside of his vital space, absorbing the impact and the accompanying shockwave, minimizing the chance her blade could slide and score a disabling hit on his body.
He used the impact to shove forward, transforming the block into a brutal, one-handed parry that drove her off-line. He was ignoring the elegant flow of Juyo, turning her ferocious, unpredictable series of strikes into a chaotic, close-range brawl.
Pressing his advantage, using the long hilt of his weapon to obstruct her vision and crowd her space, denying her the range she needed for further Sorcery. He needed to keep her focus on the blade clash and his overwhelming physical presence.
"You shall be my right and left Hands. The one, a lock and key. The other, my sword and shield." —Darth Caedes, to Acolytes Haro Aven
and Naamino Zuukamano
The Warclaw's jaws tore through the Death Star's hull like the teeth of some colossal beast, molten durasteel cascading in ribbons of liquid metal as the dropship's laser-drilling maw forced its way through. The impact thundered through the ship's crude interior, jarring bones and rattling armor alike. Then came the hiss of hydraulics, the groan of metal giving way—and silence.
When the hatch irised open, the air that greeted them was acrid, electric, and heavy with the stink of ozone and blood. The blackened hallways beyond pulsed with an unnatural rhythm, deep beneath the press of the Dark Side. The ritual at the heart of this wretched construct bled its poison into every corridor. The Dark Side was thick here, like hot, wet, and sour breath sliding down the back of one's neck.
Caedes stepped down from the Warclaw's maw as smoke and hydraulic steam drifted past his boots, his eyes burning in the dark. Revna Marr
was at his side, and behind them came Haro Aven
and Naamino Zuukamano
, their faces periodically lit by the dull red flashing of emergency strobes or else by flickering, overhead glow-globes. The Empress, radiant and terrible, followed in silence, in lock-step with Gerwald Lechner
, and with the unseen. The conjured shadow-spawn of Lina Ovmar
rose up from their hiding places in the shadows of each figure to flit and shimmer forth, pressing through solid materials and slipping through the cracks, burgeoning, pressing, clawing... pulling themselves further... further... further in.
<<It is a Force Storm,>> Ovmar said over the crackle of comms.
<<One of this magnitude will stretch beyond the boundaries of this sector. Even if we were to sacrifice the willing, it would not be enough to stop it.>>
So that was their plan, was it?
<<We need to contain it, and quickly.>>
Such Darkness as that which permeated this place would have broken lesser beings. Caedes imagined the whispers of those recently departed trailing along the edges of his hearing, voices layered within voices, cloying whispers, moans, begging. Lifeless, Imperial corpses stared up at him, their departing souls quivering in the dread presence of this, their new King—the Lord of the Dead. Caedes drank it in; every inhalation filling him with renewed purpose.
"We won't find what we're looking for by chasing our tails in this maze," mused the Empress aloud, her wintry voice sounding cold and focused.
Caedes nodded his agreement.
"We split up," she continued.
"There's too much ground to cover."
"So be it," he acquiesced, easily.
"If it explodes, burns, or screams—It serves our purpose."
Srina turned to depart.
"Stay in contact," she ensured, beating Caedes to a similar suggestion.
"If you run into Solipsis… don't underestimate him, or his men."
Caedes tilted his head in acknowledgment, finding the Dread Wolf.
"The Empress is in good hands," he admitted to him.
"May the Force be with you."
Then, turning to his Acolytes, he gestured down an adjoining corridor.
"Aven," he intoned, cocking his head to one side. He appeared all of a sudden distracted, as if listening to a distant voice only he could hear.
"Lead us to the engines of this... battle station. I seek the main reactor core or one of its auxiliary generators. That is where we can deal the most damage."
Sobering, he found the gazes of each youth, urging them onward.
"Quickly," he said.
"We haven't much time."
They obeyed without question, splitting away from the Lady Talon and her retinue to carve a path further into the Death Star's heart. Rushing ahead, blast doors slid open and internal defenses powered down beneath the careful ministrations of Haro's slicing efforts, his fingers dancing across glowing consoles, accessing Typhojem beneath the protections of his hulking zabrak counterpart.
As they moved, periodic blaster fire erupted from adjoining corridors—stormtroopers and alarmed officers in uniform stumbling into plain sight and raising weapons in self defense. Caedes did not slow his pace. Blaster fire seemed to bend and flex around him, hyphens of red light distorting midair, warping like scenery viewed through the glass of a drinking cup. They struck bulkheads instead, whirring to sizzle and explode against durasteel walls, sometimes even twisting back on themselves to strike the very ones who fired upon Korriban's King. With a casual flick of his fingers, similar to turning out the lights in one's room at night, Caedes closed his hand into fists and entire hallways folded unto themselves. Fizz-pop cans, crushed beneath the boot, swallowing all within and abruptly silencing panicked shouts.
Metal screamed as infrastructure imploded, crushing whichever enemies managed to escape Naamino and the deadly workings of his own Lady Revna into unrecognizable paste. He did not so much as glance in their direction as he passed. Doors which could not be sliced buckled and split before his approach; shattered lights flickered out one by one, bursting with popping noises to send glass tinkling underfoot, catching the light and crunching beneath his boots. Together, Revna and Caedes worked in flawless harmony with one another, dispatching foes to either side, each an undertow of annihilation in the Force. None survived them.
Gradually, Haro brought them deeper into the labyrinthine superstructure. He turned to Revna.
"Something approaches," he whispered.
A pulse, faint but distinct, cut through the white-noise clamor of battle—a presence, brushing up against his senses and making itself distinct from the rest.
"You feel it too?"
The air around him stirred, drawn toward the gravitational pull of his power.
"We are soon to have company," he announced, his voice a low growl as he turned back towards the Acolytes at work.
The hangar burned with the fury of battle, a crucible of sparks, blasterfire, and steel. Renn felt its rhythm, each collapse of cover, each scream of jetpack ignition feeding into the symphony of war. Around him, the Death Watch pressed hard, their beskar helms forward, rifles thundering in a brutal cadence. They advanced not in a rush but as a grinding wedge, momentum carried by his presence at the center.
Overhead, Squad Keld was locked fast in the rafters, a deadlock of fire and blades that rattled the trusses with every exchange. Below, Vhek held close, their fire cutting at the seams of the Imperial defense, forcing black-armored troopers to shift and adjust. Still, the Death Troopers’ cohesion was undeniable, no blind retreat, no collapse, only the cold machine of their training holding the line in measured defiance.
Through the haze, Renn saw her break cover. Her rifle hit the floor, discarded without hesitation. Black armor surged forward, flanked by the burning veil of disciplined fire. She came not as an officer hiding behind formation but as a weapon unleashed, closing the gap with predatory focus. Renn’s steps slowed, bracing, his weight settling like a mountain dug into the bedrock. He rolled his shoulders, drawing in a single breath that steadied the storm around him.
At ten meters, she lowered her stance, servos humming, intent on striking first and striking hard. Renn let his carbine fall to its sling, his gauntlets flexing open as if inviting the collision. He didn’t back away. He didn’t shift aside. His visor locked onto hers as though nothing else existed. The Warmaster of Death Watch met the charge head-on, not yielding a step.
The final heartbeat stretched thin between them, fire painting the smoke in red and gold. Two leaders, iron and will incarnate, closed in with the weight of armies behind their shoulders. Whatever else raged in the hangar, it would bend to the outcome of this clash.
The Warmaster braced, then shifted low at the last instant, letting her force drive into him but not through him. With a sudden twist of his hips and torque of his gauntleted arm, he rolled with her momentum, pulling her past and over him in a controlled throw. Armor scraped and rang as they hit the deck; her speed turned against her. Renn surged up with predator’s speed, his visor locking on her as his fist came down in a brutal arc, aiming to drive the weight of beskar and bone into the vulnerable seam of her helm.
:::Some point after the battle, a click marks the beginning of the recording. Static intermingles with the soft hum of a distant hyperdrive. Then, Lord Ravoch's voice, commanding and sharp, pierces the idle silence. Each word is measured and drenched in authority.:::
Log entry Aurek 902-44.3.
The boy is strong in the force. His command of it is still lacking, obviously, but the raw power at his disposal is remarkable. When he sighs, the Force ripples. It betrayed his true emotions. From the very first moment I saw him, I could feel his guilt and his pain. Misery. It was almost hard to sense anything beyond it. But the ebb and flow of the Force around someone so powerful yet so inexperienced; it makes it easier to catch even the most fleeting emotions.
This one, he was not tempted by my offer of training: Of making him stronger and more capable. There may even have been a smidge of defiance. But then, there was control. He is desperate for it. The yearning, the hope, the primal urge- hohoh- he must have done something truly despicable.
I will talk more of this encounter in the next entry. Lord Kyrothian Ravoch, signing out.
Brows fell as an inquisitive gaze pierced the non-Padawan's eyes. Was the Lord not allowed to tell him what he needed? The nuance of his irises shifted slightly as they shone in a bright golden hue. A mocking smirk formed across his features "Don't I? Look at yourself. Would you be where you are now, if you knew what you needed?" Ravoch shook his head 'no' "You need me - because I know exactly what you need."
Whether his words found their mark or not, Ace chose to attack. Ravoch's brows rose as interested eyes looked around him. The very grates he stood on started to shake as the entire catwalk rumbled. The ashen-haired Rebel seemed fully intent on bringing his vantage point down. An impressed chuckle escaped him as he raised his armoured arm with an open palm gesturing upwards. Several loose grates and railings floated up around him. Without skipping a beat, he used his lower arm to gesture for various pieces to rocket towards his foe. The first flew towards Ace's core, the second to his saber arm, the third to his feet - there was no true pattern to it, only an unrelenting wave of objects aimed to knock, pierce and slash. Even if the non-Padawan moved, the torrent of objects would follow.
Perhaps it would be enough to interrupt the attempt at bringing the catwalk down, or perhaps it would only have slowed the effort. It did not matter to the Sith. For once he was done flinging steel and concrete, he calmly jumped down to the bottom of the maintenance pit where his foe was. Floor tiles buckled upon impact, causing the ground around him to shift and shake. A few electric zaps and zipps could be heard, suggesting that the impact had damaged the wiring underneath - and sure enough, a few of the machines around them stopped humming. Although huge in comparison to most, Ravoch did not look like someone with enough mass to make such an impact. Yet he did - for some, a clear indication of the dark alchemical process he had endured in the past.
As the hum of the nearby machines died, the aggressive rumble of the Lord's lightsaber came alive, drenching his vicinity in crimson red. Like a Hrosma ready to pounce, his entire being seemed poised to make a bold leap at the smaller opponent. The golden eyes flared up again and his feet shifted to let his legs explode into action. But the attack would not come, instead, he extinguished his blade. The Lord straightened his back and used his free, armoured arm, to adjust his cape by the golden chain that kept it in place. Calm but long strides brought him towards Ace at a brisk pace.
"Lesson number one, do as I say." A smug gaze fell onto the ashen-haired Rebel. He had asked for a lesson. "I could have brought you to your knees but instead, I chose mercy. Just like when I first arrived and brought the station's defenders into my fold. Unlike you. I saw what happened to the men and women who stood in your way, Jedi. Submit yourself to me, let me teach you what control really means."
The Lightsaber plunged through the blast doors amidst a shower of sparks and a crackle of energy as the superheated metal finally yielded.
As the blast doors opened, granting Sarad access the usual din of blasterfire greeted him from the otherside.
An Officer and Technicians. Tractor Beams weren't considered as important as Turbolaser Batteries or Quad Laser Cannons.
His lightsaber rose, deflecting the blasterfire as he wove it into a defensive arc used to slap aside the bolts that were fired at him. Every movement of his 'saber was accompanied by forwards momentum as he drove forward. When he was within reach Sarad made quick snaps, his forearms and writst doing most of the work so that he could reset quickly after making contact and dropping another Imperial amidst a sizzle of cauterized meat and smoking flesh.
When it came to an end Sarad didn't bother to chase the Technicians that fled around him, he was surrounded by the bodies of the slain. The Officer had fallen, second or third and Technicians loyal to the Galactic Empire or fearing death regardless who had attempted resistance.
He turned to look at the consoles.
In another life Sarad had been a Reaver. He'd taken part in more than one boarding action which often involved starship equipped tractor beams against smaller craft. Often these were regular tractor beams, meant to pull smaller craft into the clutches of a larger vessel; it was immediately obvious to him that the Death Star was the largest craft in the vastness of space.
Sarad didn't differentiate between a regular Tractor Beam and a Heavy Tractor Beam. By his understanding a tractor beams power may have only increased with the size of a vessel---and the Death Star was very large.
Controls tended to be universal in most cases, alien species not withstanding with only small differences based on manufacturer.
He studied a holographic screen that would have shown a display of the spacial landscape acting as the battlefield around the Battle Station as well as the planet of Artisia. Galactic Empire craft were marked as a universal friendlies whereas aggressors were marked with different symbols, etc.
Tension was evident in his jaw but he'd mutter....
"Let the living force guide my hand."
...Sarad was neither a vessel of light or dark he adhered to a different philosophy than Jedi or Sith entirely. To him the force pushed him to evolve further and he could only do so by engaging in ritual combat, a duel of martial prowess. This was not that but he called to the force regardless, channeling it through his senses and mind as the ochre in his gaze flowed back through him.
Turning nozzles, lifting levers, punching buttons. He attempted to activate whatever Tractor Beams this 'Control Room' had access to. It was a much more manual affair than his previous attempts with the actual weaponry of the Station.
His targets were the smaller Galactic Imperial Vessels, the Corvettes and Frigates.
His intention two fold; one to either pull those vessels back towards the Death Star which could take time but draw them out of position in the battle regardless and two, if they resisted to force them to pull before releasing the tractor beams hold in hopes that they might be thrown out of control, possibly into friendly vessels.
Was he successful? Not successful? Did this room control one tractor beam? two? three? He would find out.
There were a number of reasons why the force was so much more enticing to her than the pillar of light that she held in her hand - she could feel it, for one. Born weak, held in a bacta tank for the first two and a half decades of life because her organs couldn't support the body they were held inside, Amara was the equivalent to the runt of the litter. She was her parent's only shared biological child, certainly, but the thing, a strand-cast, they'd made of her to have a healthy child had an entirely different experience for her formative "years" than she did. It was the crystalline heart of her dead "sibling" that was holding her together, even now, after all - the final connection she had to the woman she'd burned away in their first and final confrontation in the pits of Chaos.
Unlike her parents, either of them really, she had somehow managed to have found herself with less physical strength than even the average human despite the two of them, Braith and Prazutis, belonging to species with a significantly greater physical traits than any human could ever hope to dream of having. In fact the only trait of either of her parents that hinted towards a shared bloodline with either of them was her mother's lack of stamina, something that was already starting to wear on her now - so she had turned to the cold, icy, grip of the dark side of the force for comfort when training only pushed her so far. Her skill and even her agility, however, was certainly nothing to scoff at, but she lacked the power to put force behind her strikes that didn't rely on the force for emphasis. Mistaking her very real weakness with an inability to perform, however, was a lethal misunderstanding in the making.
"At least you know the steps to this dance." She grumbled as she back-pedaled in response to his parry, sounding all too unhappy that this had devolved into a mundane brawl. There was a slight rasp to the end of her words, like there was just barely enough air in her lungs to propel her limbs and hardly enough to talk. In truth she was tempted to shift to Niman, a saber form that relied more heavily on the force than what she was mixing in already, but this fight was steadily turning into a lesson for herself to not ignore her shortcomings. There was, after all, only so much someone could do to compensate for their weaknesses once an enemy, in this case Krasskorr the Maw
, became aware of them. She could tell by his seemingly laser-like focus, or rather his stoic silence, that he must've realized how the tempo of the duel needed to change if he was going to come out the victor. Still, thus far they'd managed a clear exchange once so she was certain there'd come another brief moment where the two of them had another chance to take advantage of an opening to score a blow so she kept the rest of her cards close to her chest and continued on with the offensive while she forced her breathing to stabilize while she came back in from the side.
She needed him comfortable, secure in himself, but she'd be unable to capitalize on an opening if she didn't keep her breathing under control.
Darth Vinaze
| Closed 
Heinrich Faust
|
Darth Solipsis
|
Ibaris Varanin
|
Deonis Laythar
|
Kann
|
Cesare Demici
|
Aphon
|
Da'Razel
|
Janus Vipsanius
| Open
