Faction Death to Traitors | A Operation Cinder Story

[Talin Treicolt]

Incoming: Obj I | tags: Tansu Treicolt | see u soon: Kyric

Everything’d gone to hell after Coruscant. It had been the spark which lit the whole damn powder keg. She hadn’t known a quiet night since. For near two years, she haunted Fondor like a ghost no one dared name. Folks came and went in the dark. Dax went like smoke to the wind, untouched by time or war. Kyric, still lost somewhere in the Unknown Regions, always lookin’ so tired. Damien. Auteme. Pryce. The whole lot of ‘em. Folks who knew her once, hangin’ round the edges like shadows she couldn’t shake.

Those nightmares came regular. Sent her bolt upright, soaked through with sweat. From across the barracks, Tansu’d just watch, jaw tight. Same look Ma used to get. Anxiety thick as molasses. She wouldn’t ask, and Talin wasn’t about to tell. What could she even say?

But last night had been different.

No whispers. No darkness. Just him. Black hair dancin’ in the wind, smirk playin’ on his lips like he knew something she didn’t. He gave her a look—one of them sideways invites—and turned down an alley squeezed between two rusted-out warehouses.

She followed. Couldn’t help herself. Mouth too dry to speak, questions withered on the tongue like fruit on the vine. He led, she followed.

He stopped dead when the sky split open. A ship dropped outta hyperspace so low it damn near shook her teeth out. TIEs poured out, hornets, angry and buzzin’. The boy didn’t flinch—just reached for the hilt at his side and lit up that saber with a hiss. Crimson spilled over everything.

Then she woke up.

“They ain’t gonna court-martial us,” Talin said, boots kicked up under the pilot’s console. “Told ‘em Waylon wrecked himself. That buys us a couple days, maybe. Besides, it’s the academy. Ain’t like we’re AWOL or nothin’... yet.”

Outside, hyperspace swallowed their ship. They’d jumped on a gut feeling. No plan, no coordinates. Just that dream, sittin’ in her chest like a weight she couldn’t shake. Tan thought she was half outta her mind when she jabbed a finger at the nav screen.

“Listen to the Force,” she had muttered. “Or whatever it was Pryce always yammered on about.”

Tal leaned forward, scowling at the empty space. “That old cap’n wasn’t lyin’. This place is bigger’n a bull pasture. We been flyin’ damn near forever.”

A restless settled over the air. She felt it in her gut—this wasn’t just another joyride in some hunk-a-junk.

Used to be the thought of a fight’d get her blood up, make her grin. But time’s a mean teacher, and she’d learned the hard way. Glory don’t come cheap.

And this time, they were short a few good souls.

 

[Tydeus of Tion]

Cademimum V

Grand Cathedral of the Dark Side

An interruption…

"Go to the next row," Meliant snapped, "I'm using this one. Obviously."

“Obviously,” agreed a voice, high and thin, but sharp as edged steel.

A shadow detached itself from the end of the row, air warping as bent-light fell away to reveal a boy some years shy of twenty standard standing haughtily at the end of the row.

An unlit lightsaber hilt dangled from the belt at his waist. He did not reach for it. Nor for the vibrosword magnetically adhered to the back of his old and worn black duraplast armor.

Cold gray eyes regarded the blackguard.

“Do you have a friend on Jaemus?” He asked, some cryptic riddle.

Meliant

 

[Meliant]

Cademimu V - Grand Cathedral of the Dark Side​

Objective: Mandatory Tithing
Progress:

Meliant's head snapped around to find someone new standing there at the end of the row. A random person. An outsider. A young man with dead eyes and a sword stored improperly on his back in addition to his more modern weapon. Meliant stepped away from the console and carefully considered the stranger's question. That lasted precisely one very short second.​

​

After that, he leapt forward with surprising speed - closing the distance between the two in the span of a blink. A pair of red lightsabers snapped to life in his hands mid-air, and he brought both of them crashing down directly into the stranger's face.​

​

Tydeus of Tion​

 

[Tydeus of Tion]

Cademimum V

Grand Cathedral of the Dark Side

A lightsaber of coruscating white - some fallen Imperial knight’s last echo in this life - rose to meet the oncoming blades with a crash and a crackle, even as the boy deftly stepped backward, giving ground beneath the sudden onslaught. With his own lightsaber, he pushed one hateful length of crimson into the other as he retreated.

A storm raged within him in the Force. A billion voices crying out for vengeance. A nexus of pain. Of loss.

This mongrel interloper was not their true foe, but he stood in the way.

Tydeus would do what he must.

Despite the storm within, Tydeus exhibited utter control over his breathing as their lightsabers crashed again and again against one another - his foe a whirlwind of crimson with those twin blades.

Drawing on countless lessons with his blind Miralukan tutor, the boy drew upon the Palawan teachings - an ancient art developed for a single purpose: kill Jedi.

Seeking to entangle both blades in a parry with his lightsaber, Tydeus stepped in close and his duraplast armored glove rocketed out for the man’s ribcage. He might feel reassured in whatever protection he wore.

He should not.

This punch was part of a kata known as Unbökta.

Break Stone.

And break stone it would. And body armor too. And ribs beneath.

This was the way of the Steel Hand.

Meliant

 

[Tansu Treicolt]

​

"Uh, no. I'm listenin' to you listenin' to The Force," Tansu reminded her sister with a voice that sounded like she was trying so hard to be casual.

She tipped her hat back—habit, not comfort—and studied her twin's profile like it might give her an answer the nav screen couldn't. Talin had that far-off look again like she was sittin' by the fire but hearing coyotes howling at the three moons of home.

"Just sayin'," she shrugged, feigning disinterest. "We used to flip a credit on where we were headin'. Now you're followin' spooky ethereal riddles and callin' it navigation."

Tansu's fingers drummed against the console. The hum of hyperspace filled the silence between them. It always made Tansu feel like she was sittin' in a saddle too big, ridin' fast toward somethin' she didn't have a name for yet. She loved it—but she didn't love it when the unnamed was her sister.

"If you wanna tell me what you saw, I'm here, Lin." She sounded lame. She heard it. The appeal. She sounded like Ma sittin' on the edge of their bed back home, patting the blanket, touching their hands, trying to wrangle truth outta girls who came home smelling like smoke and trouble. When did she ever have to plea for her twin to share her thoughts with her? Usually, they were just there. Already in her head. Plain as day.

Talin didn't take the bait. And Tansu couldn't take the silence.

"I guess this ain't so different than a credit toss, y'know..." she filled their soundless cockpit with aimless drawl. Tryin' to convince herself things weren't different. "Seein' where it lands. I guess this just makes us the credit, huh?" She forced a strained laugh—a dry gulch chuckle.

Then she felt it and stopped short.

"Holy chit."

Nausea haunted the back of her throat. She was overwhelmed by a storm she couldn't see, but felt it beatin' at her from every direction.

"Is this it? Gotta be it! YEEEHAW" she shrieked, delighted by the idea that she and Talin might unify in the sensation. It was unthinking muscle memory that made one hand lash out and grab up her sister's, squeezing enthusiastically while her other fingers darted over the dashboard, commanding the ship to drop outta their endless hurtle through the void.

In an instant, lightspeed's soft glow gave way.The stars snapped into place. And Cademimu hung before them, a burning orange-red cattle brand pressed to the sky.

Tansu's eyes went wide.

"Is...this...it?" she asked, voice gone small. Her hands clenched tighter. "This what you saw, Lin?"

____________________________________________________________
Talin Treicolt | Kyric oop
____________________________________________________________
​

 

[Meliant]

Cademimu V - Grand Cathedral of the Dark Side​

Objective: Mandatory Tithing
Progress:

A square hit, and true, right into Meliant's rib-space. It would have felt like hitting something not-quite hollow, but not-quite full. The blackguard's duraplast armor bent inward and he took precisely two steps back. Meliant paused as if waiting for the injury to catch up to him.​

​

Thin tendrils of smoke rose lazily from the fringes of the wound, emerging from minute tears and perforations. Break ribs indeed. Meliant had no ribs. Had not had ribs for some time.​

​

"You're strong," he observed. "I'll savor this."​

​

His own bleak presence in the Force, if it could not be felt before, made itself known now: invisible claws, thin and insidious, sinking into the interloper's spirit and teasing out strength. Meliant took it into himself and felt a fraction of the weight of Tion's dead.​

​

Much to savor.​

​

Meliant reignited his assault and took the offensive once more. He was at home among the dark confines of the mainframes - leaping off of them, changing directions, herding his opponent this way and that. It was how he fought in Mithrid's great mausoleum, defending the bones of the old masters.​

​

Another life! Another world! Another universe! If those bones could see him now, they would weep with grief. One of Meliant's blades purposefully caught the casing of a mainframe and scraped free a spray of debris - durasteel and glass - which he flicked into Tydeus' eyes.​

​

He followed that up with a flourishing kick to the knight's chest, to send him out of the archives and into the wide, dark hallways of the grand cathedral.​

Tydeus of Tion​

 

[Tydeus of Tion]

Cademimu V

Grand Cathedral of the Dark Side

Impossible.

The blow should have laid this warrior low, doubled over in pain. Yet beyond those taunting words the masked knight did not slow a step.

If anything, he grew stronger. Faster.

Blows swift as thought fell upon Tydeus and he parried the twin blades, blurred streaks of white and red left afterimages in his retinas so quickly did their blades flash in the darkness of these sacral halls. The mongrel moved with a ferocious speed and a display of acrobatics that Tydeus had seldom trained against - so one-minded was he in the pursuit of Carnifex, so fixated on that emblem of death's style. A hundred curated holovids of Darth Carnifex's foul exploits across a hundred battlefields.

But the Dark Lord did not move as this one. It put Tydeus off-balance as he sought to adjust. Long enough to exploit an opening. Molten glass and durasteel sprayed for his face, he closed his eyes, head jerking away, and felt the searing as they burned across his cheek and forehead. Then a bootheel met chest and sent Tydeus flying backward, tumbling into a roll, into a skid, and coming up on his feet - panting - chest a growing bruise beneath his armor. He stood just outside the archives, the shadowed hallways at his back, and arched, shrouded ceilings stretching far up and above.

The scion of a ravaged world looked once more on a foe that he did not understand and, not for the first time, felt the cold fingers of dread and despair clawing at the doorway to his soul.

If he struggled to sweep aside even this masked warrior, how could he possibly hope to defeat the Tyrant of Panatha? Tydeus felt anger roiling through him. At himself. At this being.

"What are you?" he hissed.

Reaching out in the Force, he tugged the vibroblade on his back free with his mind, activated it, and set it to loom just over his shoulder - held their suspended in air through the exertion of his will, tip pointed directly at his foe. A blatant threat. Grasping further within, Tydeus called on the echoes of the fallen to lend him strength and felt power surge through him, building all around the vibroblade so that it shivered in the air with potential energy.

Meliant

 

[Meliant]

Cademimu V - Grand Cathedral of the Dark Side​

Objective: Mandatory Tithing
Progress:

Meliant followed the interloper out into the hallway at a leisurely pace. His lightsabers skimmed the ground as he went, leaving molten gouges in the flooring. The doors to the archives slid shut behind him with a certain finality.​

​

There would be no returning there until this matter was settled. The dark hall stretched before them, its walls draped with tapestries and carved with reliefs depicting Mawite cullings and various mystical rituals. The ceiling was invisible above them - vanished into shadow.​

​

Melaint tilted his head at Tydeus' question and answered him.​

​

"Hostile contact at archives entrance. Armed Force Sensitive."​

​

Oh, no, that wasn't an answer. He was speaking into a comlink. Meliant gave his lightsabers a fanciful flourish and crouched into a ready position.​

​

"Human male. Atrocious form; likely Jedi. Approach with caution."​

​

He waited. Perhaps the interloper would wait with him, and then he could contend with both a Dark Jedi and as many fireteams of security troopers as this place could muster.​

​

Which was at least three.​

Tydeus of Tion​

 

[Tydeus of Tion]

Time. Time and space.

Tydeus needed them to gather his thoughts, his strength, and pour his will into what came next.

The masked warrior ignored his question, but obliged his need.

A rictus snarl twisted Tydeus’ lips and he gestured with his hand in a tossing motion, channeling his will into a technique favored by the Jensaarai Truth Keepers: ballistakinesis.

The vibroblade zipped through the air as if shot from a railgun, propelled at the warrior’s torso with such ferocious speed that even if the vibration of the cortosis-woven blade did not carve through his armor like butter it would still strike with the impact of a maglev train.

In the next heartbeat, Tydeus’ fingers curled and the air around him shimmered and distorted, rays of light bending beneath his will until he disappeared completely from view.

Leaving nothing for Meliant but the dark grandeur of the hall stretching away, the threatening hum of their lightsabers, and 60 centimeters of edged steel screaming for his chest.

 

[Ersethy]

Wearing: Darkspawn Raiment

Armed with: Dauntless Blade

Objective: 1


The First Force Spawn has gone on an absolutely vicious killing spree since her arrival.

She had been surviving in a few massacres hear and there... enough to keep from splitting apart...

But this was a world awash in suffering and the darkness.

The darkness inhabiting the flesh that called itself Ersethy rampaged through the streets with Dark Magics, though it was not averse to straight up butchering those who fled with her sword. Old, young, it didn't matter. The beast in the guise of a woman ended them in horribly painful ways all the same.

She fed on the suffering, her flesh shuddering constantly like rats moved underneath it the more she killed.

What was this Dark Empire? What did it believe in?

The Darkness didn't know, and didn't care. She followed the Dark Three and Thomas Barran .

These mortal governments, with their obsession with pomp and grandiose displays of displeasure, were nothing before The Dark Side, which humored such systems for it's own ends, despite how limiting they really were in truth. All that mattered for the flesh, was the next life that could be absorbed.

Her sword, blazing with an unnatural aura of red flame, dripped redder blood, her sparkling black ritual gown disturbingly immaculate as she rampaged through streets with the largest amount of fleeing victims. The Imperial Soldiers stayed away from her, her frenzy and cruelty in her murders a tad too much for even them to stomach.

Belches of red fire from her throat, string enough to threaten even alchemized items, torched a building full of people, and spotted what looked like an ordinary man, frozen in fear.

Ersethy did not bother with smirking or taunts. All that mattered was the next act of butchery.

She raised her sword as she approached, intending to hack him apart slowly.

As if remembering something, he pulled open his shirt and revealed the image of a Yovshin Swordsman in mid sword swing, the same image as the one on her gown.

Her blade stopped a quarter centimeter from his forehead.

"Why worshipper, you really must keep your wits about you..." Ersethy said, pulling her blade back. "I would so have hated to kill you by mistake..."

"I...I didn't recognize you until the last second." The Worshipper answered. "I can hardly believe you have returned.

"You will obviously need transport. Are you the only one?" Ersethy asked.

The Worshipper nodded.

"You serve the Mawsworn now. You will stay close to us at all times. It is the only way you will leave this planet alive." Ersethy warned. "Rejoice."

The Worshipper nodded, still panicked.

"Your fear will pass, in time..." it assured, boldly striding forward into the street, unleashing a rope of red Force Lightning from the sky to utterly destroy a building full of people.

"Today, Worshipper...you will assist me in the sacrifices taking place here..." Ersethy instructed, gesturing for him to follow her...

 

[Remus Adair]

INV Vexation
Rampart-Class Dreadnaught (x)
Atmosphere of Cademimu V
Domaric Mordane | Tansu Treicolt | Talin Treicolt | Shannic Wulf | Thomas Barran

A helmeted flickered onto one of the bridge’s secondary holoprojectors. Standing to attention with his gunners helmet on, Warrant Officer Jair Hockeen the Vexations Chief Bombardier. While nominally on the bridge, Hockeen had deliberately presented himself to the Vexations rhypalm refinery, fuelling the warheads for the bombardment. “Rear-Admiral,” the grizzled Bastioner growled with a bow of his head, “All ordnance has been primed and ready for our attack. We await your order.”

Remus nodded at the officer, “Excellent work.” The Prefsbelt veteran complimented, “Return to the aft gunnery deck and prime your crews for the operation.” Adair ordered, “I am certain as you understand Bombardier, that the efficacy and saturation of our target by your crews is of critical importance.”

Although his face was not seen, Hockeen’s body language as his head rose up betrayed a certain offence taken. As if Adair had stated the obvious.”It will be done, Admiral.” The Chief Bombardier affirmed before flickering off.

Remus was a little perturbed by that display of curtness, but then again Hockeen had always been more at home with his enlisted gunners than reporting to senior officers. Remus only betrayed his frustrated expression momentarily. His eyes now rested on the large starboard holotable. Helpfully, the navigation crew had annotated where the bombardment would begin, and the Vexations position as the dreadnought drew closer and closer. “Lieutenant,” Remus barked.
Ashar’s head popped up from the console he was manning. “Do get me a line to the Grand Vizier. I will update her as to our progress.”

Ashar obliged and a blue light appeared on the central walkway. A sort of actors mark to ensure he was in view when we began communications. Within seconds the Grand Vizier was before him. “My liege,” Adair bowed, “We are presently in atmosphere and rapidly approa-“ Remus felt a presence from close behind him. And saw Captain Rue. She too had taken a place within the projection circle. Bloody rude. The senior imperial shuffled a little forward, feeling his personal bubble had been intruded. Remus cleared his throat, “We are rapidly approaching our designated bombardment sector. Warnings have been dispensed, and local communications silenced.” Adair diligently reported,“When we have completed our run, we will return to orbit and support the urgent withdrawal of materiel and personnel.” Both Rue and Adair bowed their heads as they flickered off the screen. The senior of the pair, Remus gave his subordinate the briefest of sneers as he rose again.

Remus returned to his place by the main viewport and sipped on his flask. This was it. He could feel the tension ratcheting as another squad of TIE fighters dove below gargantuan dreadnough. In the distance, below the cruiser he could witness the carnage. Already the initial waves of bombardment and bombing had destroyed much of the industrial zones smoke stacks and machinery. Now it was about to be cleansed in fire. “Admiral,” the call came from the Portside navigation sector, “We are in position.”

There was a countering voice though which shot up immediately afterwards, “Belay that, Admiral please!” Lieutenant Ashar shouted. Remus looked to the communications officer with a mixture of scorn and disdain. In fact, the entire bridge crew did. How dare he? And order was an order. But Ashar already was bashful having sensed he had overstated his place, cheeks flushed red. “Admiral, please. There are elements engaged in heavy fighting right within our path. If we proceed, we are going to destroy them.” Ashar’s face was twisted in desperation and anguish.

Remus’ eyes darted to Rue. She was silent. Implacable. Those cold eyes of hers betrayed nothing but Remus could see absolutely everything. This was a moment she would remember. And no matter the outcome, he would be challenged as to how he had set course on this day. Adair’s old glassy eyes shut and he took a sharp breath. Now was not the time to show weakness. But could he be the monster these savages demanded? Those men in their path, they were theirs. They were comrades, fellow travellers, veterans and even in some circumstance friends? They were following the Emperors orders were they not?

Alas, it was time for Remus to follow his own. ”We cannot afford delay. We have given the Grand Vizier our assurance of our ability to assist the withdrawl before the Alliance can investigate.” Remus’ tone was fierce and strong, but held a certain fatigue to it. Adair raised his right hand, “Fire.” He dropped his arm like a sabre raining a great blow.

“But Admiral!” Ashar gestured to the display. In the immediate path of the Vexation was littered with dotted signals. Symbolising units engaged in heavy street to street combat. “We have several forward elements engaged! A minute! Give them another-!”

“My decision is final!” Adair snapped, with surprising gusto and grace the older imperial descended into the crew pit. His boots roughly clicking against the durasteel floor plating. Ashar recoiled as Adair approached. With Captain Rue stalking slowly after the older imperial. A pale spectre behind the old man’s fire, “We fire now! Not in a minute! Not in ten! Now!”

Remus was now on top of Ashar who recoiled in his console chair, and seemed to physically shrink as the older man leered. The junior officer reached for the headset attached to his cap, and fiddled with the headset. The Lieutenant took a deep breathe, and cycled through the channels till he reached the final one. ”Commence fire.” Tears seemed to well in the younger man’s eyes.

Adair eased up and stood tall, straightening his posture. No matter how improper it was to have such an outburst, Remus did recognise it took courage. Courage that would ordinarily be rewarded. The imperial brushed his uniform out as if to remove the uncertainty of the moment, and swallowed the lump in his throat. An uneasy calm came over the Prefsbelt veteran. But clarity soon dawned on him. What had he done?

​

The holographic display of the battlespace shuddered, almost buffering. And then it hit. It was hard not to notice the brilliant hues the sky now glowed as dense rhydonium concentrate began to escape from the fumes below. The UV spectrum seemed to “glitch”. Once the hologram stopped shaking, the devastation became clear. Already the rubble was further flattened. And at least a dozen of those IFF signals were now gone.

Remus watched transfixed as the Vexation slowed her speed and began to creep across the battlefield. The dreadnought was hardly the fastest vessel in the Galaxy. But even now, the pace she was setting was minimal. For those below, all they would see at a distance was this great malevolent wing, launching wave after wave of missiles. And the great firey explosions which trailed behind those gargantuan red engines. Those caught in the blast were fortunate, melted near instantly as the warheads detonations overlapped. Rendering crumbled duracrete and rebar to nought but slag.

Those who were unlucky, they choked on the thick plumes of smoke that cascaded and blew away from the maelstrom of flame sewn. Even kilometres away, the thick smell of rhydonium could be whiffed. While those closer suffocated on it. Combatants and civilians with lesser air filters, all choked to death within minutes. Their insides revolting as all manner of incendiary poisons and preservatives fried and melted their insides.

Remus slowly snapped out of his trance after a good minute. What had he done? The imperial stopped being drawn in by the display. It appeared now, most of the command crew were huddled around various terminals having recalibrated the display to show the desolation from the bombardier deck. It was almost a pschadelic display, the dizzying display of detonations. But it drew the attention of all who witnessed like children to a holoseries. But there was one whom caught Remus’ attention. Captain Philomena Rue.

Rue sat with her whitened knuckles behind Lieutenant Ashar’s seat. The junior officer buried his head in his hands. Headset on the console. Philomena however was watching intently as the monitor voyeursitically displayed the carnage below. Those vibrant detonations which radiated such gorgeous hues of the UV spectrum. It was the happiest Remus had ever seen her. In fact… was she salivating?

Remus felt his breaths become more and more hitched. A little heavy in step, he returned to the command deck and made a beeline to his thermos. All he could lament now, is how much he wished this caf was dosed with something strong.

 

[Meliant]

Cademimu V - Grand Cathedral of the Dark Side​

Objective: Mandatory Tithing
Progress:

Meliant felt an undulation in the Force as the interloper gathered his strength. He readied himself, prepared to leap and dodge and parry and charge, and the vibroblade passed so cleanly through his torso that he barely registered the sound of his armor being rent. "Oh."​

​

He remained posed there for a moment. The hallway beyond was clearly visible through the newfound sword-shaped cavity in his chest, even as a plume of smoke rolled lazily out of it. Eventually his lightsabers shut off, rolling from his hands and clattering to the floor.​

​

The blackguard soon joined them, and fell to his knees with a sad, muted thud thud. His fingers twitched, but otherwise he was still. Smoke continued to rise from the wound and towards the ceiling.​

Tydeus of Tion​

 

[Thomas Barran]

TAGS
Ersethy R Remus Adair Darth Solipsis Shannic Wulf

BLOODHOUND - PART FOUR​

CADEMIMU V,
HOME TO BETRAYERS (902 ABY)

<"Brute, I think I know who it is.">
​

The rain continued to pour, showering across the ruins of the city as the southern inner-city districts suffered through a power-outage, and still, without moving from the spot, the masked warrior remained seated, meditating with legs crossed in serene ignorance of the planet's suffering traitors. It had been almost an hour since the last body had been stacked atop the tower of corpses, though there was an increasing likelihood the planet's garrisons would make a counteroffensive push in the general direction of the hooded swordsman's location, and though the attack was guessed to be widely dispersed, the spectating sharpshooters knew that reinforcements would be sent to investigate every suspicious comm-silence.

And without fail, the unwitting force of sallying contingents sprang forth without knowing who awaited them.

Bearing down into the dark, gloomy southern districts as if it was merely conventional attackers, merely the orthodoxy of warfighting aggression, regular soldiers like they were. However, as it was with all things pertaining to communication in the Fog of War, intelligence was scant in supply on the frontlines, thus nothing could be known of the threat in the dark, not until it was much too late to avert it. The urban courtyard itself was almost too large to avoid, being a central feature to multiple tower-blocks around it, even worse for the ones expected to hold a wide front over the speeder-access trail beyond, and all according to the warrior's ghastly plan.

<"Shoot.">
<"Its the Bloodhound, its Thomas fething Barran. Leader of the Maw.">
​

As the torrent continued to hide the rising moon behind the rainclouds, the strangest of silences beset the darkened portions of the city - assailing loyalist and traitor alike.

Some in earnest, and others in fearful apprehension as they walked among the shadows, though as for the rest, it would be known that their own, collective brand of silence had stemmed from the mere mention of one particular individual. One human name, with one epithet, and one title, this was all that the nearest spectators needed to recognise the man behind the mask. Remembered from yesteryear's wars as one to dread as much as revere, a legend among soldiers and mystics alike, and a leader of notorious renown in his own right; and fortunately for those on the rooftops, they chose to celebrate this sudden revelation, rejoicing the presence a living Heathen Saint.

Thus plans would be hatched among the rooftop watchers, finding ways to bait the nearest traitors into overstepping, (and perhaps even far enough into lost territory that they wandered too close to the Khan's location) but before anyone could set to work, these little comm-link ideas would be rendered quite redundant by external factors. Fate was bringing her own ideas into fruition, and from the same skies that hid the subtle glow of the moon, and with that same chaotic twist, the Emperor's fleet would send Hell and Rhypalm for added, dread-inducing effect. Fortunately for the loyalists on the rooftops, the Heathen Saint they were working to assist would remain untouched by liquid flame, though the former would note that not even the earth-shaking ground impacts could shift the Bloodhound from his meditative state.

'THE KHAN BELIEVES!!!! BARRAN BELIEVES!!!!'
'STACK 'EM UP, BARRAN!!!! SHOW 'EM WHAT YOUR MADE OF!!!!'​

As for the traitors, however, they would be quick to see that the nearest, most-accurate bombardment groupings had also cut off their only lines of retreat, with the pollutant residuals forcing the breakout contingent to march on with the wind at their backs, advancing with haste toward the teeth of the Flayed Blue-Lion. Yet Bloodhound still remained seated as the nearest traitors approached the tower of ill-fated outcomes, unmoving to a deathly, porcelain extreme of stillness, but only until the first boots landed on the outer boundary of the courtyard. Approaching from three different sides, and all seeking to kill the Khan by their own means, the most-eager of sallying traitors would never know how far they had strayed from the comfort of wisdom and survival, marked for death before they could even comprehend the mistake they were making.

More were approaching from the north at the time, still working to punch their way through the harshest of urban chokepoints, but then something happened - another stray fragment from the realm of the unexpected.

'Barran, come fight for Solipsis! CARLAC LEADS THE WAY!!!!'
'KILL 'EM AAAAAAALL!!!!'
'THE DARK VOICE SPEAKS AGAIN, KHAN!!! COME JOIN US!!!!'
'FOR THE BLOODHOUND, FOR SOLIPSIS!!!!!'​

Both blessing and curse, rolled into one life-defining moment for all the Dark Voice loyalists who were there to see it, and as much as they were all trying their utmost to show restraint, the rooftop spectators could do little and less to stifle these screams. For there were none among them who could contain screams that resounded from the deepest depths of their souls, there were none in attendance with that sort of training with Telepathic self-control, none but the Khan. Giving away their positions atop the surrounding skyrises, but for all they had given away in revealing their positions to the traitors, their encouragements had given the Bloodhound what he needed most.

A brief, fleeting moment of hesitation in the hearts of the attacking traitors.

​

For those who blinked at the pinnacle moment, the ones who survived the first surge of activity would open their eyelids to the sounds of roaring approval, screams of agony, and the windy rush that preceded multiple metallic impacts, only seeing the aftermath of the first foray in the aftermath of it's carnage. Beyond that, the distant flames of the Rhypalm in the north could only show the traitors so much of the mistake they had made, the rest would only appear as the dark, pearlescent spatter of the life that once flowed through the veins of their comrades, that and the supreme violence of the Mawsworn Khan as his sword swept back and forth, fulfilling a promise of death for all who dared to face him.

Before long, another collective of traitors lay strewn across the courtyard, bloodying the Khan's altar to the Dark Three once more, fated to fade into the same watery torrent that washed the sanguine horror from above; and before long, another quiet spell of dragging and tower-piling ensued, building the next phase of the gruesome obelisk in the same spirit of stoic, reverent wordlessness, a silence of which all the previously-celebrating observers respected in turn. Beginning to believe, much akin to the faith of troopers who served Solipsis in the earlier years of the Brotherhood, and in the midst of this burgeoning belief, there sat a hope of reconciliation between their castes.

To stand, shoulder-to-shoulder, with Marauders once more.

 

[Maestus]

Cademimu V

Space-side...

Praedo Mundis erupted from hyperspace with little fanfare or advanced notice to those already punishing the planet looming large before the battered cruiser's command deck level viewport. The ship bore no identifying insignia or number. No transponder emitting this or that code. It would require a comms officer scanning long forgotten frequencies to hear anything. On a frequency used by the Maw decades prior. Long before even Csilla. It was an automated message on a loop.

War. Death. Rebirth.

The ship would take a perimeter position, well outside the present "field of battle". Weapons were clearly primed and ready, and attempts at scanning were overridden by internal security measures. Apparently, the ship's commander was content to observe for the time being.

Once the Mundis achieved its position, moments later a shuttle departed its belly, and began a clear path for the enflamed planet below. Scans would reveal a single lifesign. Twi'lek, adult female. No detectable Force signature.

The shuttle made its descent with the precision and velocity of a raptor rushing down towards its prey. It made no attempts to engage anyone, focused on finding the preferred landing area. Snap barrel rolls to one side or the other would cause a rookie pilot to need the barf bag attached to their flight suit. Not to mention needing to nosedive more than once to avoid missile fire which seems to be coming from every freaking where at the same time. It was with a push to the shuttle's max thrusters it avoided criss-crossing missiles, but that did little but put it into the path of a pair of incoming missiles aimed for the shuttle's belly.

With meters to spare, the incoming missiles change trajectory abruptly. The shuttle didn't avoid all damage, however. The missiles shifted extremely close to the shuttle, and this was not a precision maneuver, this was fight or flight, life or death. As the WMDs changed course, contact was made with the hull plating. Chunks of the landing ramp's outter plating flew up as the shuttle barreled towards the planet's surface undeterred, albeit with less actual control of where landing would happen. Sensory attempts again reveal no detectable Force signature.

Where the pilot had been wanting to land, near a certain, centrally located courtyard, was now a few clicks east of where the pilot was able to finally bring the shuttle down. When its hull plating ripped apart, the landing ramp also lost the hydraulics on the port side of the ramp. Meaning the attempt to open it as per usual resulted in little more than a lot of smoke and sparks, no movement. Seconds after the sparks subsided, the landing ramp was quite forcefully expelled from its position attached to the shuttle. Not all, mind, but a hunk big enough for an adult humanoid to get through.

Boots, scarred and worn, that have seen many miles landed on the beaten remnants of a city street. Dressed for function over form, loose and rugged darkish colored pants tucked into the old boots. No blaster strapped to a thigh, but a couple cargo pockets, sagging with weight. A hand, protected by a tight fitting, tactical looking glove, poked into a pocket and fingers searched. Out came a small breathing mask, with specialized filters for the presents being carpet bombed all around. The second hand, likewise covered, slid into a different pocket and pulled out a pair of goggles. Up and over the crimson skin and Lekku, the goggles were pulled down firmly on Maestus face. Behind the goggles, her yellow eyes, rimmed with the flames of Mustafar, were alive.

Least it isn't snowing...

She hated the cold. Had she her way, all the snow covered hells could go the way of Csilla. Heat. Warmth. Fires of both death and life. That was her element.

It was with a scowl that she began her trek. The logistics of the situation had been altered incredibly with the impact of the missiles on the shuttle. Negligible as it was, the change in LZ added to the already high danger associated with being on this planet and having a pulse. Or databank. Her distance was tripled, increasing travel time and visibility, thus increasing the likelihood of being sucked into this damn war.

Again.

Again and again. Where did it end? Maestus had been young and naive when she was first thrust off the cliff at Mustafar. Truthfully, it was another lifetime ago. Several, in fact. Growth, as it turns out, isn't always clear when you're in the moment. Sometimes, it isn't until time has passed and you're assessing yourself that you realize you are not who you once were. Thoughts and questions change. Interests and beliefs undergo constant, unconscious evaluation. Develop patience, and layer after layer of weakness begin to show. What begins with a spiderweb of tiny cracks clings to what vestiges of life remain. Real or imagined.

Young and naive, she hadn't been for a long time now. She had withdrawn from the greater galaxy because she had seen the spiderwebs. Many years ago, questions and doubt had begun to tickle at the edge of her thoughts. She didn't understand the various forces in play back then, not all of them. But damned if her gut wasn't right, every time. Fractured loyalties. Delusional power grabs.

She spit viciously at those thoughts. Those she considered oath-breakers were among the most vile creatures imaginable.

She ducked into an entryway of a shopping center. Well, the remnants at least. It was little more than a flaming husk now. The roof was gone, as were all windows and doors. Maestus leaned against the frame to observe her path forward. She estimated the courtyard half a click ahead. The storm raged everywhere, visibility was minimal made worse with the winds whipping the debris of battle haphazardly around the city.

Narrowing her eyes, she noted some buildings still intact along her path. Her preference for having as much information made the choice for her. She left the relative safety of the entryway and moved up and cross the street towards the first building with a roof she could stand on. Once there, she made towards the courtyard where the Swordsman held his macabre court.

Her presence in the Force was well smothered, buried deep, deep below. As she crested the building's edge, her eyes trailed down upon the ritual-space the Swordsman was creating. Few, if any, knew just how truly the Twi'lek once held the refrain to her core. War, Death, Rebirth. Within her, she felt her heart begin to pound faster, harder. Her lips curled into a knowing smirk. Around her on the roof, the wind carried the exclamations of the voyeurs to her ears.

Idiots.

With a small jump forward, she dropped down to the courtyard below. She should thank the cities designers and developers, she supposed. There was such extensive space for this center and courtyard, Maestus landed without intruding on Thommy's courtyard of corpses. She watched in silence, her own thoughts a whirling miasma at the moment. No matter how many times she'd considered this, since word began to spread, she had to know. What's the end game this time?

Thomas Barran meditated in his cathedral of flesh, while Maestus observed from its threshold. The Khan had earned every bit of respect Maestus held for him, a rare matter for her. One she didn't take lightly. So she would not cross the threshold, no. Stand on the line and see where it really was? Absolutely. With that in mind, she called out into the wind with a raised voice. A futile effort given the storm and its wind, but hey, manners and all that.

It's been a while. ​

 

[Kyric]

Kyric blinked awake at the first scream to pierce the haze which beset his mind. He jumped up to his feet, immediately brought back to the terrible attack on Coruscant two long years ago. He sought the familiar trappings of his sorta-mother's apartment. Instead, he discovered an altogether unfamiliar room staring back at him. Dozens of people cowered in a seedy, underground bar that trembled under the weight of nearby explosions. Dust rained down from the roof, eliciting a scream from someone expecting the worse.

"Where the feth am I?" Kyric shouted at the bartender.

The greasy looking bothan looked back at him. "This is the Spinning Rancor," he answered, his flabby face creased with shock.

"No, man. The planet!" Kyric pinned his father's poncho around his neck and quickly tied Resolute to his belt. "I was on a freakin' beach on Ord Cantrell when I decided to take a nap. There's too many darned sentients on this rock to be O.C."

"That's cause you're on Cademimu V, you freak," the bothan spat. "You stumbled in here babbling like a drunk about some sorta eclipse and passed out in the corner."

Last Kyric checked, Cademimu V was somewhere out in the Ghost Nebula, which meant he wasn't far off from Ord Cantrell. But that didn't explain anything, really.

Before Kyric could pose anymore questions to the proprietor, an explosion ripped through the starscraper directly above them. Bodies soared about the room as dozens of floors above them came crashing down, quickly turning the not-so-safe-basement into a soon-to-be-mass-grave. And much like his idiot father before him, Kyric was prone to act without thinking. He thrust his hands upward with every intention to stop the horrific accident waiting to happen. All around him, space began to vibrate as he layered stasis field after stasis field on the ceiling of the bar, and more importantly, the foundation of the building itself. Blood oozed from his nose as he overextended himself—no surprise.

"Start haulin' ass!" Kyric roared to the stunned crowd.

Most of them climbed up and raced for the stairs. One of the guests stood slack jawed, while another struggled to stand under the weight of a twisted ankle.

"Ah, feth it," Kyric grumbled. He pulled them both toward him with a powerful wave of telekinetic energy. He jumped forward and hooked his arms around their waists, then concentrated on the power flowing between himself and the poncho wrapped around his frame. In less than the blink of an eye, Kyric tunneled through hyperspace to the outside of the bar and well beyond the reach of the still-collapsing starscraper. He dropped both bar-goers—who hurled a grotesque mix of booze, bile, and burgers—and turned back in time to see the others splattered with napalm.

Their bodies burst into flame before Kyric's very eyes.

---

Tags: N/A
Kinfolk: Talin Treicolt | Tansu Treicolt
Force Bonds: Bernard | Capris Halcyon | Creuat

 

[Tydeus of Tion]

Cademimu V

Grand Cathedral of the Dark Side

The blackguard soon joined them, and fell to his knees with a sad, muted thud thud. His fingers twitched, but otherwise he was still. Smoke continued to rise from the wound and towards the ceiling.

For a moment, silence.

Silence but for the scraping of stone as the hilt of the vibrosword swayed back and forth, embedded in the floor at an angle behind Meliant .

Silence... but for the hum of a lightsaber, still lit, somewhere down the hall. Slowly, the hum grew louder. And louder. And loudest, 'til it sounded just beside the blackguard's masked head.

For the second time, the air distorted and rippled behind Meliant, light undulating until it revealed Tydeus, arm extended, lightsaber held against the blackguard's neck, where it hummed greedily.

"Yield," his voice low, the rasp of cold iron, hard and scarce yielding.

Down the hallway, the sound of booted heels, and many of them, coming quickly.

"Yield," the boy said again, "I am only here for the archival data."

A far distant sound came, as of thunder and lightning. No doubt the turbolaser batteries in orbit doing their work. They were out of time. Tydeus' features grew grimmer still, memories of Tion's demise flitting through his mind's eye.

"Yield and surrender it to me, or we will all die here."

 

[Sharad Dhavale]

VALAR MARKET SQUARE
1st Prefsbelt Exile Brigade
Kyric | Talin Treicolt | Tansu Treicolt

“Keep….Bloody…..Going!” Sergeant Rickhard hoarsely barked from behind his filter. The squad of Prefsbelt exiles were a shambolic lot as they scampered through the ruins. The small pack of eight were a grimy lot. Faces coated in grey duracrete dust, glued on by their shear sweat. The rhypalm had coaxed from their exhausted bodies close to every drop of moisture as they had fled from the chaos. Now about one and a half clicks from the edge of the INV Vexation’s ongoing firebombing. “Squad…. halt!” Rickhard commanded as they entered what had once been a bustling market square, beneath an apartment block. “Dhavale…. Dosimeter. Mose, scanner. And Pailley, get the MMG set up there.” Rickhard gestured to the centre of the square, where there were a series of upturned picnic tables. "And Xoxia, see if you can unscramble our bloody comms!"

Lance Corporal Sharad Dhavale was doubled over, heart racing at about two hundred beats a minute. The Pa’Deshi soldier expelled bile with a guttural gagging. The smell of his empty stomach expelling nought but refuse caused his nose to shrivel and eyes to swell with tears, as he hoisted down his pack and his rifle clattered to the ground. ”Hey! Hey!” Private Jael Dannon firmly patted Sharad on the back, helping the Lance Corporal hack up the last of his reflux, “Easy man, take it easy and let it all out.” Sharad nodded and gave Dannon a thumbs up. “Nice.” Sharad responded in kind with a middle finger.

Nevertheless, Dhavale reached to his belt and retrieved the dosimeter. It was a clunky, small little hand held tablet with three antennae. With his dust covered hands, Sharad extended them one by one before shaking the device free of any debris. The Lance Corporal then held it high and waited for the errant beep. He then pulled it back and eyed the result, “Two point three, sarge.” Sharad reported.

Rickhard, still red beneath all the grey dust squinted from behind his goggles, “Not great. But it's not terrible.” He looked to the small squad in the square, “Alright ladies, masks off. Dust yourselves off. Have a drink and recoup.” Rickhard barked, “But if that thing dings,” he pointed at Sharad, “You give us the heads up.” The imperial NCO barked. “I’m gonna try and get in touch with HQ, maybe see if there’s an LZ we can regroup at.” He approached Corpioral Xoxia, to get a line to anyone, anywhere.

Sharad eagerly pulled off his mask, and gagged again at the smell. He tipped the protective piece of equipment upside down, letting the flecks of phlegm and refuse drip down. “Man….” Dannon mused, following suit, “I shoulda joined the fuckin’ navy.” He gestured to the Vexation, it’s bakers dozen of glowing red engines and the rainbow cloud of carnage it was dispensing, “Better views than down ‘ere.” He added, "Getta watch, as we blow planets from orbit... Not havin' tah run from schrack..."

Sharad chortled as he opened his hipflask. “Cut that out Jay,” Private Kris Mose chided, “You do remember what the navy was like, right? Especially under the Grand Admiral?” Heshook his head, “Laserbrained nerf Shepard like you woulda been spaced like that.” He clicked his fingers. “Rausgeber woulda have had your arse in one of ‘em Narakas as soon as you breathed wrong.” Mose chuckled. The others joined in, but Kris seemed concerned. He looked at the duo, “So….” His tone darkened. “You reckon anyone made it out?”

The Prefsbelt Exiles, a detachment of former Prefsbelt Command personnel had been engaged in securing a landing site for heavy equipment. Only to be countered by local forces, and be given ten minutes before an orbital bombardment. The retreat was frantic and chaotic before the rhypalm started dropping. They were only five, cut off and stumbling through the dark. “I…. I mean there’s got to be, right?” Sharad offered. He now poured his canteens water through his filter, rinsing it from refuse. “Those guys who jumped us, they can’t have taken many down but…” he looked down, “That uh, the bombardment….”

"You're such a softie, aren'tcha Sharad?" Dannon needled. Sharad's gaze narrowed, as he took his sweat soaked cap off.

“Are we now? Soft?" He glared, "We survived the end of Prefsbelt. The Galactic Alliance. The Maw. And the Sith Empire before them." Dhavale retorted coldly, "As far as I am concerned, so long as we act as a unit, play it smart, we will outlive whatever tests us next." Dannon seemed a little caught off guard by the outburst. But slowly nodded in the affirmative.

At least there was that much he and Sharad could agree on. There was a beeping however from Mose. Sergeant Rickard immediately moved toward it, "Sir, picking somethin' up, coming up fast!" Sharad reached for his rifle, "Possible speeder and or fighter!" Dvahle, like the others moved immediately to cover. Taking position behind a shattered stone park bench.

"Positions gents! Take your cover and make ready!" Rickhard barked, he took point. Standing tall with his own Volkswaffe Maser Rifle.

"Bogey is headed from the North East it- it's not, it's- it's one guy!"

Rickhard looked to his soldiers, "Alright lads, weapons up." The MG-69 was still prepped, "But... We'll see if it's one of ours." The senior soldier cupped his hands around his mouth, "Oi!" The sergeant barked, "What is, your operating number?!"

 

[Minister Janus Vipsanius]

Aldo Garrick | The Messenger | Shannic Wulf​

The air aboard the Annihilator was colder near the command decks, not by temperature, but by presence. It was the chill of power, of ambition, and precision. None felt it more keenly than Janus, who stood alone before the rising steps to the operations deck. The Dark Adept approached with a hunch and a slow decrepit walk, slender and draped in dark purple robes, he was the ever fitting image of an Imperial dark devotee. And now, he would prove his devotion to the Dark Side, now he and all others would bring forth their grand aims to fruition.

The doors parted with a hiss, and as the Minister entered, he bore first glance at Admiral Aldo Garrick , crisp in posture with the gleam of command heavy on his chest. A cold illusion that masked the dead eyes and cold skin, a man long corrupted by the worship of the Dark Side, a man rumored to have been brought back by Halketh himself during the events of the Second Great Hyperspace War.

But it was she, the woman behind him, who stirred Janus to lower his head and drop to his knee. The regal robes of the Grand Vizier, Shannic Wulf, whispered with every step. Cold, unreadable, she glided like the hand of judgment incarnate. It was her words that brought to bear this most noble crusade, it would be her words that would execute the Emperor’s will upon the galaxy.

Minister Vipsanius bowed briefly at the waist, hands clasped as the old High Priests once did on Exegol. A move that would seem out of place to the average Imperial and the uninitiated.

“Your Excellency, I am at your service.”

He rose, his pale eyes gleaming with a righteous fervor behind his aged features.

“In the coreward shadow worlds, in the feudal spires of the Mid Rim, even in the outskirts of the Hydian Way… our partisans speak once again of Order. Not merely of Imperial nostalgia, but of destiny fulfilled. Our agents are ready to act.”

He clasped his hands in gesture.

“The faithful who survived the purges are no longer scattered. With the Emperor's disappearance came doubt… but now, with His Messenger restored and Operation Cinder underway, they see clearly. His will has never left us. Only were they too blind to perceive its design. We are sharpened by fire. The galaxy sickens and cries out for control. For clarity. For deliverance from the illusion of freedom.”

 

[Meliant]

Cademimu V - Grand Cathedral of the Dark Side​

Objective: Mandatory Tithing
Progress:

Meliant did not stir much until Tydeus finished talking. He lifted his head to better look at him. There was emptiness behind the slits in that visor, and within it a dark, desperate hunger radiated out into the universe. Even now, apparently dying, he continued to feed on the interloper's presence in the Force. And what a powerful presence it was, that he could bend light and fling things at impossible speeds all at once or one after the other.​

​

He looked one way at the distant sound of turbolasers smiting the planet's surface.​

​

Of course this fool thought they were next. Meliant knew far better. "Witless ape, I can sense the fear in your heart chambers. Kill me if you can manage it."​

​

Something red began glowing faintly from within the hole in Meliant's chest. That would present a problem, though not one so immediate as the fireteam of stormtroopers who soon rounded the corner, took up firing positions, and started blasting at Tydeus.​

Tydeus of Tion​

 

[Shannic Wulf]

​

Ellayina L'lerim | Minister Janus Vipsanius | All loyal forces loyal to Solipsis

Grand Vizier Shannic Wulf
In high orbit above Cademimu V
Annihilator
Operational Command Fleet
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>​

The silence after Vipsanius spoke was not an absence, but a weighing. The kind of silence that fills great halls before verdicts are spoken or after prayers are uttered.

Shannic Wulf did not respond at once. She remained poised upon the command dais of the Annihilator, still as carved stone, her presence commanding without need of gesture. Her gaze rested on the Minister below, not with hauteur, but with clarity, as one who had endured, and saw in another the same.

"Minister," she said at last, her voice low and composed as it rang across the chamber with unbroken clarity. "Your words carry the weight of years."

She descended the dais without haste, her movements precise, unhurried, untouched by affectation. She came to stand level with him, neither towering nor lowered, but steady, a deliberate recognition of shared purpose.

"You are right. The faithful were never truly gone. Only waiting. Dispersed by fear, thinned by failure, but not broken. What flickered in the wind has now taken to flame once more."

Her gaze drifted a moment, as if recalling something distant. Then it returned, sharper.

"We do not seek to restore. We seek to reveal. This is not the echo of a fallen dream. These are not the shadows of an empire. This is its final shape, stripped of hesitation. The Emperor's will has not altered. It is we who now see it more clearly."

She paused. Not from doubt, but to let the thought settle.

"When He vanished, I too searched for answers. I watched the strong grow hesitant. The loyal falter. The structures stall. Many believed He was lost. But it was not His purpose that vanished, only our readiness to perceive it. His silence was not abandonment. It was permission."

Her gaze passed briefly to Garrick, still as ever, then returned to Vipsanius.

"This military operation is not one of vengeance. It is clarity. It does not punish. It distinguishes. It reveals who still sees order amidst flame, and who never did."

She inclined her head, not a gesture of ceremony, but one of recognition.

"You are not among the blind. You have stood through silence and watched the shape of truth emerge. And now, you speak not of vengeance or memory, but of readiness. That is what we require. Not fervour. Precision."

She stepped a half-pace back, her voice steady, the tone of one delivering charge, not encouragement.

"Go to the shadow worlds. Go to the Mid Rim spires. Not to stir old loyalties, but to teach that loyalty is not a relic, it is a decision. Let them see that clarity is not cruelty. That freedom without order is disintegration by another name."

She let it hang in the air a moment longer, then continued, quiet but firm.

"You have my confidence. Deliver structure where others bring chaos. Deliver silence where others bring noise. That is how we honour Him."

And finally, with a quiet nod she bowed her head.