Invasion Death's Sting: SJC Invasion of BotM held Lao-Mon

[The Man in White]

Wearing: Senate Commando Armor (White)

Armed with: Sonic Ventilators (Twin Heavy Sonic Pistols)

DC-15S

Shining Edge (Jedi Katana)

Sword of The Resistors (Green Bladed Lightsaber)


The Man in White breathed in and out under his stormtrooper grade armor as he butchered Maw Cultists.

Soooooo much chit had gone down at Kerest that it wasn't funny. Holy fething chit that had been an awful place to be. Especially if you were Darth Xiphos. What had his son, Starlin Rand , done to her, exactly, that left her a screaming wreck?

The Man in White wasn't sure he wanted to know the details. And when he got the full details, as much as he hated to admit it, it made Xiphos understandable.

T'sid's obsession with that poor woman had destroyed both their lives. Syd had gone a little mad from the revelation herself. Where she was now was anyone's guess. He was tempted to hunt her down but that was stymied by the obvious connection and attachment Starlin had to the Witch, even in her fallen state. And even Zabka could not ignore that whatever his ex best friend was now, she was in pain. Terrible pain.

(Narrator laughs in Frank Oz)

The Man dodged the sword swipes of a vicious Maw Cultist, his Force Speed, letting him watch the attack in slow motion like he was Tobey Maguire after getting bitten. Don't worry folks. I'm working up to that Willem Dafoe reference. Can't do a Goblin reference though, as it would be too obvious.

As he dodged a twin stab, he pulled out his heavy Sonic Pistol and domed the cultist with a single shot to his skull. Instant bloody. Just add Blasters.

"Rot in Hell you fethin' amateur..." Zabka snorted as the corpse fell. His pistols we're out, gunning down half a dozen as he charged in. The enemy was everywhere, shooting at everyone. He began shoot dodging, using the Force to enhance his jumps as he flipped forward, backward, side to side, all while shooting back at his attackers.

Wow, did this bring him back. It was like the early days of the Plague, when the crazies came out to start their pillaging. It had been a shooting gallery back then. It was at the very least something he was all too familiar with.

As he killed another, his heart pounded. He shoot-dodged a guy with a grenade, blasting it just as the grenade left the enemy's fingers.

The blast knocked him backward...

The world went dizzy, lobsided as he hit the ground.

Get up he told himself. These are evil people and they have to die.

The Man in White pulled himself up. He wasn't some super powerful Force Spawn that could regenerate on command. But he was, however, a John Preston Expy. And that came with perks of its own.

He rose just in time to see a Maw Dude aiming a Rocket Launcher at him.

His Ion Carbine was raised and fired just as the Maw Cultist fired the Rocket Launcher.

The bolt hit the rocket just as it left the tube.

(GLORY KILL!!!)

The blast made a mini cloud of red mist.

"Punk..." he muttered.

Then he spotted Starlin Rand fighting a Darth.

The emotions that went through Zabka's head at seeing his son were complex.

On the one hand, he was proud of how knowledgeable he was. He had learned much...

On the other hand, it was all her magic. Her tactics.

The guilt at having left him and his Mother stirred. He hadn't been the best father. He'd had bad habits. Too many secrets. Too many demons. Secrets that had eventually crushed his home life. Demons that had eventually made him leave altogether. He hadn't even dared to approach Jen. He knew she likely would never forgive him.

His most personal nemesis, a creature he once took a bullet for, a creature that had caused him decades of misery after killing her in her madness the first time around, a creature that had been his own personal Norman Osborn (Okay, I fethed up, couldn't help the Green Goblin reference, sue me)...had been a far better, more attentive parent than he ever had.

As he absent mindedly double tapped a Cultist sneaking on him from behind with a knife, his stomach curdled with the nauseating reality that they had both left him because of their personal demons, no matter how much they wanted to stay.

He didn't even know what he would do when he ran into his former apprentice again.

How could he even hope to make it up to Starlin? He could barely function in a civilian setting. He might have been a hell of a lot more functional in that setting than say, someone like Maple. But that wasn't saying much.

Being alone with the only thing you can rely on being the regularity of people wanting you dead or worse wasn't much of a Primer for parenting. And the more he delved into the history of Darth Xiphos, the more unsettled he became at just how much of her actions and thought process were only a few shades removed from his own. He'd been on the verge of being her at more than a few points in his life with the chit he'd pulled. It hadn't been against Jedi or Allies, but in the modern setting, he'd probably still be called a Criminal for the things he had done to combat Phyre's cult, as well as for what he had done to Phyre herself, basically enslaving her to help him destroy her cult, then trying to imprison her forever in a tiny rock, Andrew Divoff style.

He gunned down another few cultists about to kill one of the Shi'ido Rebels, and hung on the periphery. He couldn't hold his son's hand, couldn't come swooping in heroically to save him. He didn't deserve to.

But he could brutally execute whoever tried to take a cheap shot at him from behind, which is what he did, sniping three who took aim at his son as he battled the Sith with Blood Magic. He mowed down zombies who looked like they were drifting too close to his position, and shielded himself and a whole other squad of guerillas with the Force, allowing them to close the distance on a gun nest even as they were shot at...

 

[Vella Forte]

---

E M B E R _ O F _ V A H L
COME DIE WITH ME
LAO MON | GOSHEN WAR CAMP | QUASI-CRUMBLED WALLS NEAR EVIL WOOF BEASTS
AN AUTUMN WHISPER BETWEEN THE MAPLES
KEPT URGING: COME DIE WITH ME

IT ALL COMES BACK THREEFOLD

---

---

She’d felt his pull through the darkness like a magnet, like a vacuum, like a torch in the dead night. The promise of retribution for the betrayal to a traitor. In a sick cycle, one undone and done again, backstabbers and turncoats roared and gnashed, it was an unbreakable cycle –– but revenge didn’t need to destroy the pattern. It just needed to take care of loose ends, and thus was the promise when she took the hand of the final traitor that foresaw, connived, prepared, sacrificed for the ultimate recompense.

Climbing, grasping, and clawing through the metaphysical framework, she opened everything up so completely to constellations of promise and darkness so she might drench herself in the shadow of rebirth.

For a timeless moment, all the netherworld felt still. The ceremony of whispering resurrection initiated with her piety and exchange of respects.

He’d unmade her, and she watched herself being unmade by him, the Sorcerer.

Vella became a landscape in herself, a world. A soul strung along to a design and pattern she'd never seen before. She’d fallen father in and away, into Halketh ' clutches, that tight tether that bound promise to promise. Retribution paid in loyalty. A wage easily delivered through a union of mutual desire.

Then she felt it –– all she’d sought. Destruction’s reward, Vahl’s blessing. Embers smouldering within, growing hotter and hotter with power. Immense, incredible, unfathomable.

She’d become aware of her body, the skin, the sinew, the curl of her gut, the nerves firing in her brain. The boiling of her blood. The virii in her tissues. The woman who had been Vella Forte became a landscape interwoven with the complex sprawling patterns of reconstruction and demonic purpose. Cells became molecules –– countless, complex and varied. The demarcation of one thing and another failed. There was only a community of molecules, shifting in a vast dance. And then atoms that made the molecules gave up their space, a mist. A breath –– something she didn’t need. Her lungs did not expand, did not intake; there was no need now in this existence as a tiny play of fields and interactions in a vacuum of the spiralling vision, a vibration and nothingness. But somehow, together, complete. Built and rebuilt.

What had been destroyed had perpetuated. A Paradox to Vahl’s Eternal Flame, the deity of destruction; brought back to redefine the word and set ablaze the world that had stolen her first life.

It was that fervent, hate-filled zeal that filled her lungs where air should have been. In lieu of oxygen or other mortal needs, her sustenance was that lustful, terrible purpose. Anything lacking was sustained by the generosity of the sorcerer. Part of the bargain.

The other part, she was about to make good on. And she could feel it, the thrill bubbling beneath her skin.

Fear and desperation culminated to a point nearing critical mass as soon as she emerged from the personal pod. Inhumane caterwauls from the prisoners contained in the camp, their screams evidence to their torture by hope. Foolish, foolish hope so that they might continue living.

Wickedly, she grinned a growling condemnation.

Life, in the end, turned out to be the greatest inhibitor. Promising always that death, no - do not die - watch out for death! – was the end.

In death, those shackles were shed.

Death was truly only the beginning.

The place she landed in was not entirely foreign. She'd hunted on Lao Mon before. The odour of Imperialism, stalking around the walls wasn't foreign either, though it was more putrid than before. Desperation clung to the air, blaster bolts whirring around in frantic cover. A scream of fear and instruction shouted out nearby and the undead snapped her focus to it. It was distancing itself from Vella's position, getting further and further away.

"Blow it!"

Instantly, she understood their means. But not before the destructive, concussive blast erupted from the press of a button.

Such an annoying thing, technology. It hadn't changed. It thought sudden changes, massive shifts of energy were enough to control the flames. It may have been enough to start one, but control?

That was for those who sought true destruction. Those of Vahl.

Her tongue clicked against the roof of her mouth, tsking her disapproval.

Years of worship atomized, catching the oxygen around her. The ground beneath her feet charred, dirt turning to dust and black ash as the fire stretched up her legs, hips, waist, chest, neck, down her shoulders and arms to meet the build of heat that pulsed outward from the scattering of donations –– each heeding her beckoning and collecting around her, rather than the full expansion of the righteous explosion they'd meant to be. Buildings still crumbled, lives were still lost, but the full force of the eruption was hastily dampened with the redirection of the flames themselves. The energy though, the concussive radiation, was beyond her control. But those flames, that fire ––

In low whispers, the Ember of Vahl murmured and growled commands unsaid for years. Fire gathering around and eclipsing her into a silhouette of zealous vengeance. It burned differently this time; it was more painful. So she let it build. Tolerating the pain, letting it grow and get hotter and hotter and hotter.

It needed somewhere to go, and that pain took to a bright orange and red, elongating stretching out with her manipulation whip-like trail as she stalked in the direction of the Maw's hounds. Their designation was shared, the dogs that hated and hunted same as her: Imperial Operatives ––– those who were devout to the government that had condemned her.

But they'd made good distance from their initially set explosion and the offshoot of flames. The stretch of their planted cowardliness didn't quite reach them as anything other than residual sparks and shakes. But she'd fix that.

In the time it took them to run, Vella'd consumed enough flames to get revenge, and with inhuman speed, made her mark on the troublemakers. Temporary nuisances.

Once they were in her sights, the Vahla sneered. Terrifying and beautiful, the womanly pillar of flames stretched her arms. On unsaid command, rolling from her eyes to her shoulders, through her fingers, that stream of fire flickered and danced, twisting and whirling down the ropelike extensions of fire that poured from her hands.

"Silly girls. Fire is for gods."

In an instant, those limply hanging ropes of fire lifted with her arms straight in front of her, protruding outward in a torrent of flames in the direction of the Imperial Operatives.

---

---

​

ALLIES | BOTM | DEATH | VAHL | Halketh | The Mongrel | Maestus
FOES | SJC | NJO | THE LIGHT | Lyra Vent | Zoraya Ives-Ayres | O P E N

 

[The Mongrel]

Location: Lao-mon, Goshen Keep Dungeons
Tags: Sakadi Marathi Sinvala

In the narrow stone corridor, the bark of the revolver was deafening. The Mongrel's implants automatically protected his eardrums, dampening the sound. The Jedi wouldn't have that problem, of course, because she was already deafened. The gas and flashbang had proved even more effective than the warlord had hoped, driving his foe into cover... though she had been quick and skillful enough to reach that cover before the flesh-eating bio-bullets had ripped into her. That was a shame, for he had no more of them; his gun's remaining bullets were more ordinary.

They were "only" white phosphorus coated.

The Mongrel fired one off as the Jedi fled, disappearing through the door she'd used as an improvised shield. He knew exactly what had happened, for he'd once used a similar tactic against the Imperial Knight he'd faced above Neo-Csilla. The incendiary round, trailing sparkling white fire behind it, struck the cloud of anesthetic gas... and ignited it. A rush of flames chased Sakadi into the room beyond, the heat nipping at her heels as she went. She'd put in her rebreather anyway, so The Mongrel was glad to weaponize the gas cloud once more in another way.

Through the flames stepped the cybernetic warlord, giving chase to his Jedi prey. He knew these dungeons well, having dragged many a Shi'ido prisoner into the cells over the years of battle against the changeling rebels... and so he knew which room his foe had ducked into. It was a torture chamber, its walls lined with instruments of pain and brutality, its center filled by a bloodstained slab with rusted manacles atop it. This was where the Taskmaster Tu'teggacha and his hand-picked Overseers plied their grim trade, producing brainwashed Shi'ido fleshtakers.

There was only one way in... and thus one way out.

Tromping forward, gun and blade in hand, The Mongrel blocked the doorway with his half-machine form. He had the Jedi on the run, and now she was out of places to run to. Above and below them were level after level of dungeons, separated from where they stood by two meters of dark stone. There were no windows this far underground; no light touched this place save what torches and lamps the torturers allowed. In short, the only way to escape was through him, and he had no intention of letting that happen. "Let's see how a cornered rat fights," he sneered.

Would this be the day he finally killed a Jedi, finally took a lightsaber as a trophy? In three years of war he had fought many of the self-righteous order, but he had never managed to do more than survive, and always only by the skin of his teeth. But with each injury his Force-wielding foes dealt him, each piece of him they stripped away with blows of their laser swords, he became stronger and more deadly. They had begun his transformation into something less - and more - than human... and perhaps he was finally changed enough to stand toe to toe with them.

The Mongrel's visor had multiple modes of sight, from night vision to infrared, and could easily pierce the darkness of the torture chamber... but he had a flair for the dramatic, and wanted to keep the Jedi off balance. So he fired three more times, incendiary tracers flying across the room at random, each striking the walls with a deafening crack. The spent bullets left behind little clumps of burning white phosphorus, casting a ghostly white illumination over the otherwise pitch black chamber. The other sources of light: the Jedi's lightsaber, and the bloody glow of his dread blade.

The warlord holstered the big iron on his hip; there were too many torture implements in the way to give him a clean shot at the Jedi, and he wanted to settle this up close in any case. Taking a two-handed grip on the dread blade, he stalked slightly forward, searching for his opponent. She'd had a moment before he'd reached the room to prepare herself, as her Force push had thrown him far up the hallway... so she might be anywhere amid those grim instruments of pain, either hidden among them or standing tall beside them. He'd soon find out which it would be...

... and what exactly she'd cooked up to use against him.

 

[Halketh]

S A I N T E D
Dark Lord of the Sith
vestment | creation

S E R P E N T
The Perished | 4696/5000
​

It seemed despite the decisive counter, the apprentice endured without injury, to the Dark Lord's surprise. Good. Starlin's vigor seemed to rise further as he questioned and prodded more at Caelitus's motives, but where the Jedi had returned to loquaciousness, the Sith grew more reserved. With the cast of Presence dampening spell, he sighed somewhat.

“Try sensing my next moves now, schutta. Hell, try sensing me at all.”

The flow of The Force within the apprentice was snuffed out on the churning canvas panted by the miraluka's mind's eye, but it did not stop him from glimpsing the physical, colorless silhouette of the man's form, or hearing the warbling drone of the twin sabers approaching so closely. He would not take action it seemed, perhaps Starlin's trick had paid off. A ploy. Truly, however, the Dark Lord put his faith in the cortosis-weave armor he donned, knowing there was a chance upon contact by the blades that it would render them temporarily useless, and that the heavy plate could sustain a number of blows before suffering. He held his ground, waiting until the dull shade grew so close it piqued the hair on the nape of his neck, and only then, did he take action.

The air directly around The Divine surged with power, a projection of malice, charging with crackling lightning and manipulating the very weight of the air, so it seemed, to slow down the charge and inflict heavy pain of one caught within it. A net cast about him in a circle, thrown for one particular target who was becoming more of a nuisance than anything.

Even now, the saber slumbering on his hip remained so.

Beyond the apprentice and Dark Lord, the tsunami of undead crashed through the advancing line, trampling the fallen corpses of foes and friendlies alike, descending upon them with all the ravenous hunger of their respective creators' conquest. None were spared that found themselves within range of the high-impact slugthrowers of The Perished, or the claws and jaws of Ren's horde. Many fell, but greater still stepped to fill the rank, weaving the illusion of endlessness that could oft inspire despair in rivals who required the mortal necessities of rest and succor.
​

​

ALLIES | Dakrul The Mongrel Glossa
FOES | SJC | NIO | Starlin Rand Damsy Callat Artemis Lu Ripley Kühn The Dark Inquisitor Sergeant Omen

 

[Aemilio Valaar]

// Voidwalker-Actual // 501st Legion, Black Hands //
// Objective I : Bring the Light Iron : Lao-Mon
// ALLIES: Silver Jedi Order, Galactic Alliance, Zoraya Ives-Ayres Lyra Vent Sakadi Marathi Sinvala Thurion Heavenshield
// ENEMIES: Brotherhood of the Maw, New Sith Order, Witches of Rhand, Glossa The Mongrel Marlon Sularen Jaedec Ren Bendak Crail Darth Tennacus Zachariel Steelblood Ves Fett
// Engaging : Tegan Starfall
// Gear : Tenebrae, Tidefall, Left-Handed Grav Glove

Impact was made.

In the final seconds of his armoured frame flying through the air on a direct course to bringing the frail looking Witch to the ground, an energy shield came to life, shielding her from the harshness of his attack. He felt a shock of energy run up the right side of his body, and not much more, as the Witch was knocked off her feet. An end result that he was ultimately satisfied with were he to think of the days events over, but in the very moment, his mood soured.

With no quarry in his embrace, he was forced to extend his hands out in front of him, falling into a somersault and sliding across the blood slicked ground. Instinctively, his left hand flew up -- a favoured move of his -- and the micro expelled its body crushing force in the direction of the woman. What he hadn't been expecting however, was the grenade flying towards him.

Thankfully for him, she was directly aligned on the trajectory of the Grav Glove. And the micro repulsed energy that was expelled from the technological appendage was still on a direct course for her. She seemed to be closer to the edge of its range, a fact that he did not mind. With her small diminutive frame, it'd feel like a kick to the ribs through her entire body. Though he would've been more partial to the explosive force shredding her in its entirety.

The bad news however, was the grenade in between them.

N-!

The detonation was closer than he would've liked, jerking him a handful of steps back. Were it not for his well timed attack -- or counter -- it was certain to have been more effective.

Rapidly blinking, a reaction that was quick to trigger even with the flash protecting visor, Aemilio reached over his shoulder and withdrew his vibroblade once more, his thumb teasing the activation button of the ultrasonic generator; the thing that'd turn the simple blade's cuts and slashes into gaping wounds.

Tightening his gaze into a squint as he marched forwards, he saw her scrawling something in the dirt.

"Stop playing in the dirt, and get up!"

Rising to the challenge of protecting him and only him, something in the back of his mind spoke of danger, warning him of something on the cusp of occurring.

 

[Michael Barran]

POST 5
OBJECTIVE 2: TIP OF THE SPEAR
WRATH_OF_THE_WOADS

ALLIES (NIO): Noel Strasza

ALLIES (SJC/GA/AC/OTHER): Starlin Rand Sergeant Omen Damsy Callat
Artemis Lu The Dark Inquisitor

ENEMIES (BOTM/NSO/TFD): Khaostra Devoid Romund Sro The Mongrel Dakrul
Halketh Marlon Sularen Zachariel Steelblood Eldervine Glossa


MICHAEL'S FORCES
THE HIGHLAND BROTHERHOOD
ARGYLL COY. - INFANTRY
LARGS COY. - INFANTRY
FARRIN COY. - ENGINEERS
ISLAY COY. - ANTI-TANK

BLUE-HEART BRIGADE
196 XT-62,"CATAPHRACT" TANKS
32 SCOUT-AFV'S
9 MLV'S (NAKAIOMA)
5 PREDATOR LAUNCH-PLATFORMS (NAKAIOMA)
1 COY. OF GUARDSMEN
1 COY. OF MEDICS
1 COY. OF QUARTERMASTERS


MICHAEL'S LOADOUT
PRIMARY WEAPON: PALE-BLUE LIGHTSABRE
SECONDARY WEAPON: BLASTER-PISTOL
SECONDARY BLADE: VIBROSWORD CAVALRY-SABRE

PROVING GROUND: THE SECOND DEPLOYMENT - PART 8

GOSHEN RAINFOREST, LAOMON (869 ABY)
HOUR ONE OF THE MAIN BATTLE FOR LAO-MON....

Begin....
Operation: MELARRIA - as of now, is in full effect.

Good luck, boys.​

'McKidd to Guardian Nine! You heard the man, so keep our exit covered. Stay safe up there, Maitland!', the last-surviving ranked officer of Scope Platoon barked over the comm-link, gearing up his soul for mayhem as much as he was with his tactical-equipment beforehand. All the other operators around him were seemingly pumped for the fight to come also, and with the Lord-Captain's final order given to resume hostilities for the eighth (and last) time, there was nothing left to do but follow their Sergeant down the abandoned, derelict monorail tunnel, first replacing their scope-sights with Archer's R&D night-vision optics and slipping the long-distance sights into their webbing or their jackets as McKidd silently awaited whatever wordless affirmations they could offer on the spot. This was their one and only chance to wreak as much explosive havoc on Lao-Mon as they could, and possibly the most on the planet's surface if they played their cards right, but only if they played them at the right time; other parts of the Wanderer's plan were to play out perfectly in order to make more than a minor, short-term nuisance, but the remnants of Scope Platoon would still find themselves very busy with tedium regardless, with every shooter being reminded constantly of this this by the loud, bomb-laden mining cart they'd have to pull with them every step of the way.

<"Copy that, an' likewise. All oor hopes o' victory are resting wae you an' the Shaman noo, Scope Four.... Dia saor gu Woad-Macushla! Guardian Nine out">​

Dia saor gu Tuath, Maitland....

'Aw'right.... This is it, lads. Let's go! I'm takin' point, Gorman's pushing the cart - the rest know what to do', McKidd growled to his half-platoon of bloodied Quartermaster-Snipers, slap a shoulder or two in encouragement before passing into the shadows right in front of the others. Seeing their platoon-commander on their rifle-optics, the others' reservations of the idea would evaporate as they joined McKidd in slapping into the shadows, covering every turn, crack and crevice in the tunnel whilst the mining-cart scraped and squeaked into life behind them. If they'd known how uneventful their descent into darkness would be, they'd be less-likely to rely on caution to dictate the pace of their movements as they set charge after charge in every flaw and blemish along the way, and would be more likely to miss the best places to lay charges, a double-edged sword everyone had made their peace with beforehand. Even with the risks of bringing the mining cart with them, through noise and potential obstructions of any escapes the Scopes would need to make down the line, the tunnel itself had been and would remain abandoned for enormous spans of time, a blessing they still couldn't quite take for granted by the time they'd reached the tunnel exit and lit a flare at the other end.

Reeks o' Drengir, this does.... Idea biht!​

'We good, Sarge?'

'Jus' endless trees here....', McKidd started, responding to a rather wheezy Gorman until he paused to peer through the gaps in the trees closest to their halted position. Seeing even more dense forestation beyond them, the level of uninterrupted tree-growth the QM-Sergeant then saw would give credence to his theory that the branches from trees much taller were blocking the sunlight with more success than the small, withering excuses for trees that creaked and moaned around them. Seeing it as the perfect kindling for a forest-fire, the Woad-born sergeant rounded on the nearest Scope and resumed, whispering,'Set incendiaries all around the entrance, the force of the blast - fae inside - will send the flames spittin' through all of this mess.', as he pointed out the gaps in the tree-trunks around them. The one who McKidd rounded on would then relay the instructions to all the others in the same whispering volume, providing the QM-Sergeant all the breathing room he needed to see if there was any way his efforts could be made even more explosive when the time came to detonate their long stretch of depth-charges, especially with spare charges resting in the near-empty mining cart behind them.

Keep them back for the west end, man. Anything can happen back there.

PROVING GROUND: THE SECOND DEPLOYMENT - PART 9

​

THE SIX-EYED GATE OF MARUNESH,
MELARRAN'S FIRMAMENT (869 ABY)
HOUR ONE OF THE MAIN BATTLE FOR LAO-MON....

YORUNARR!!!!! TAKE THIS - THING BACK TO THE CONSCIOUS WORLD!!!! RIGHT NOW!!!!​

Mother Melarria was not impressed, never before had the Matriarchal goddess of fertility and the Archaisian rains raised her voice to her favoured modern Shaman, and certainly not in such a disgusted, enraged manner. Whatever Yorunarr had done by bringing the mind and animistic soul of a Drengir to the Firmament, he had no idea it would be seen as an affront to all the Root represented, no idea of how he could've possibly gotten his assumptions so wrong for once, leaving the Shaman with a gnawing sense of self-disappointment that could only be rectified by following whatever instructions Melarria had to rectify whatever blunder he had made. Bowing respectfully, the Novanian showed the utmost humility in the face of a power much greater, and more beautiful than his own as Yorunarr framed his answer, calmly responding,'On any other occasion, I would obey without question, but I am not attempting to tame or befriend this beast - this thing is my enemy, and I want all of it's friends to die. This thing wants me dead also, can't blame the sorry thing though!', with head firmly remaining bowed throughout.

WHITE EEEEEYES!!!! WHERE AM I?!?!?! TELL ME!!!! WHEEEEERE?!?!?!​

'This Drengir only answers to chaos, it cannot be reasoned with, nor can it broken to obey our will.', Yorunarr continued after looking up again with more bravery in his gut, hoping that his strong heart would handle the pressure of a goddess' irate glare of near-unforgiving disappointment. Slamming the beast's astral skull into the ground between them, the Novanian would calmly retreat a few paces before framing the rest of his plea for help, pondering on what would help to be said next before coming to the realisation that truth, and a full revelation of the plan for the Drengir, would help him leave the encounter with reputation relatively unscathed. With a dejected sigh, the Shaman realised he was well and truly at the mercy of his gods in that moment, accepting whatever fate as he concluded his strategic pitch with,'But I want neither for this beast, nor do I wish it a quick death - but maybe there's a way I could, perhaps, drive it insane instead?', shrugging with mask bowing low as Yan'Sharlim approached to speak for Melarria.

Ziost was different, I know - but this? You're lucky I know a way to help, boy.

Use it wisely.... It drove my enemies mad, but they murdered me in the frenzy.​

'Father, I know how you died!', Yorunarr snapped back with rage he thought had been eradicated years before that day, recalling the day his frenzied captors made him watch as they murdered Yan'Sharlim in cold blood. The only thing that saved the boy that day was the fact his captors turned on each other almost instantly after the head of Yorunarr's father hit the floor, giving a teary-eyed successor to the father's title a tiny window of opportunity to act on, and gifting the lad with an instinct that would keep him alive through the hardships thereafter. The doubled trauma of seeing his father murdered and living to see Yan'Sharlim's darkest spell manifest in such a bloody, brutalising way, (compounding harshly with a heavy lifelong weight on his mind from that night onwards) recalling such throughout his life could only leave the harshest of scars on any young lad's soul, but those scars were the very things that had made the Shaman into the brave soul he was destined to become, even if it was also destined to anger the very deities he prayed to.

Then let your enemy feel it! Give it your FEAR, your RAGE, ANGUISH!!! THROW IT ALL AT THIS BEAST!!!

LOOK INTO MY EYES, BEAST!!!!! I HAVE SOMETHING I WISH TO - SHOW YOU!!!!​

 

[Starlin Rand]

Objective II: Tip of the Spear
Tags: Halketh
Location: Like right outside the war camp, idk tbh
Gear that I should have clarified a while back oh well here it is: Armor | Lightsaber | Shoto | Tal’Kar Bracelet

The tricky thing about blood magic—er, well, benevolent practitioners prefer the term “Hematokinesis”—was that it came with some pretty hefty drawbacks. Presence Mute, the particular spell Starlin was using, made it nearly as difficult for him to predict his opponent’s moves as it made himself harder to predict. It also completely cut off Starlin’s ability to use offensive Force powers for the duration of its effects.

In other words, while he could still defend himself from Caelitus’ magic, if he couldn’t get a hit in with his blades, Starlin wouldn’t have much else at his disposal attack-wise. For the next three minutes, at least. As he was about to find out (though it was hardly surprising; Starlin was similarly outfitted), the Sith magician was clad head to toe in cortosisweave. Starlin’s lightsaber and then his shoto each shorted out as they came into “contact” with Caelitus’ armor, winking out of existence before flickering back on once the stroke was completed.

Not to mention the whole Dark Aura thing—Starlin was hacking away at the Sith Magician in slow motion. The expression on his face gradually morphed from grit-teeth determination to snarling frustration to eye-rolling annoyance, veryyyyyy sloooowwwly...

Until he finally fought his way free of the Slow effect. “We’re going to sit here and feth around with our magic powers all day long, aren’t we?” he grumbled. “And to think I tried to switch things up a little, keep things interesting…”

Surrounded by yet another storm of Dark Energy™, Starlin simply stood there and waited for it to die down. He held his lightsabers at the ready, of course, but made no move to attack. “You should probably try to hit me while I’m standing here, cause I still got a couple minutes left before this spell wears off…” he muttered, checking his chrono. “Didn’t mean to play myself like that… probably won’t be using this spell again anytime soon...”

 

[Darth Tennacus]

Location: Goshen War Camp Surface
Equipment: 2 Lightsabers
Affiliation: Brotherhood of the Maw
Nearby Allies: Darth Senthral
Engaging: Mrurh'en'lase | Hel


​

. . . And there you are, just as I had hoped you would be.

It had irked him, in a way he was not willing to express, about what exactly dwelt within her. The blackening of her eyes, like two voids to which the Sith stared curiously, were but a window into her inner self. And now that window had become a doorway, and something he had never expected stepped beyond its threshold. Still, he was trying to cooperate with the Dark Side, attempting to understand what this voice stemmed from. Legends told of Sith Lords who attempted to inhabit other hosts, yearning to maintain a tangible grip on the mortal plane. Was this it? Was this the power of a Sith Lord of old, encapsulated within the body of a Jedi? If so, then Tennacus would have been undoubtedly impressed. A perfect method to incorporate espionage unto the enemy. To walk in their shadow; to learn from them, as they unknowingly fed into the dark. The very notion brought ideas of cooperation between the Sith Lord and this new, potential ally. But then it spoke out, and it made clear intentions that it wanted to kill him. Complimented by hearing he was the only one to ever hear its voice, he thought it unfortunate, but necessary, that they would now have to cross paths aggressively. But in the end, this would only serve to feed the Sith further knowledge and understanding of its existence. What it was, what it could do, and just how he might be able to abuse that. . .

Against all warnings not to engage with an enemy one couldn't understand - against all warnings that this unknown entity was about to challenge him - the two, despite their associations with the Dark Side, had common ground on one thing.

"You are right," Darth Tennacus confessed. After holding his tongue for so long, he was confident to explore an agreeable approach to something. "The order of the Sith appear to have lost their way, in more reasons than one. I suspect our very own Dark Lord believes as much, and would sooner dispel us should we stray too far beyond the path our predecessors set out for us." Tennacus stared down at his lightsaber, its gleaming red luminosity stirring reminiscence of days long forgotten. "I recall our own doing being ourselves, as the founding father of the Rule of Two predicted at the conclusion of the Brotherhood of Darkness's downfall. Inner fighting - obsession of power and superiority amongst ourselves, brought about such destruction which took a thousand years and more to recover from. And then we did, and our shadow has tried to maintain its presence over the Galaxy. But our shadow is only growing." Tennacus looked back to the dark-eyed girl - whatever now possessed her. "Not only is it growing, it is strengthening. Maybe your emergence to the surface is such an omen of our coming superiority. You could kill me, but in the end, that shadow would not falter. Even if I fell today, another will rise to take my place. That much I accept willingly, for it means they would be stronger than myself. But if you can't kill me today, what makes you believe you are going to bring an end to the Sith who inevitably takes my place?"

Maybe there would be grounds to hear a response further ahead. Right now, Tennacus was not willing to stand around for an answer. Such little space divided them. His lightsaber rose almost half-heartedly, taking no particular pose to compose himself. The Force stirred itself behind his legs. It grew and concentrated, until it strained to withhold itself. Then, and only then, did it collapse upon its own weight.

The concentration of Force served to propel Tennacus towards the Jedi girl when it finally exploded. In a swift, sudden course of action, the Sith had closed the space between them, bringing the crimson blade further upward in a strike to jab at the Jedi's sternum. He did not believe the attack would hit, intending on only clashing with their own lightsaber to feel the strength this being obsessed. But if it had other means to approach the conflict, Darth Tennacus had a response for that, too. For now, it resided in his empty palm, gathering in a concentration of the Dark Side.

He hoped to learn a lot from this battle.

Did they?

 

[The Dark Inquisitor]

Objective: Tip of the Spear
Tags: Glossa Sergeant Omen

---

It was a strange feeling coursing through her now. She felt like she should be more vicious in her assault, but her mind knew otherwise. It was like her protectiveness of Omen had brought on a revised recklessness. Her feet hit the ground in a hard sprint, her sabers gripped tightly in each hand, fearing that they'd be broken. Her breathing, ragged and full of spite, she closed the distance to the Marauder. The sabers in her hands began to twirl, aiming to disarm or kill, she couldn't tell anymore. The words of Omen had long since fell on her deaf ears. Was this how it feels? Is this how the master felt?

Taking only a moment's thought on the matter, she didn't see the flash grenade heading right for her until it went off, the last thing she saw or heard was the enemy jumping away, and a lump of metal being hurled at her. Suddenly, a deafening and blinding flash ignited right at her face. Kinhaes instantly stumbled, the twin sabers deactivated and losing their golden blades once again. Unable to halt her loss of balance, Kinhaes tumbled down, rolling on the ground as she tried to gather her surroundings without her two most important senses.

Taking a knee, Kinhaes held her saber hands tightly again, positioning one behind and the other in front. With a flick, the golden sabers ignited, the high pitched hum filling the air again. Reaching out with the Force, Kinhaes tried to feel her surroundings like how she could with a blocked visor during training. Slowly her hearing returned, but her eyes were still filled with a mixture of white and black. "Omen! Help!" Kinhaes called across their comm channel, hoping the solider would aid her like she had aided him.

 

[Keilara Kala'myr]

Ziare Dyarron
COMPNOR (ISB) Junior Agent, Nite agent | Slave of the Maw​

Objective: Try to escape from captivity
Location: Goshen Keep Dungeons, Lao-mon
Equipment: 1x standard assault rifle | 2x blaster rifle | 2x vibroblade | 3x dogtag || OPBC-01m
Writing with: Zachariel Steelblood 's hunters
Allies: Konrad Harrsk | Auria Blackmoore | Jacen Nimdok
Enemies: Tu'teggacha

[ Dream of home ]
"Galactic Basic" | ~"Telepathic" communication ~ ​

The voice of the enemy still followed me, the noise of laughter, shouts, howls, movements. While running, I couldn’t pay attention to be careful, so my broken ribs also hurt a lot. The place was a finished maze with many long and short corridors that often intersected. I felt like there was a square in the place, or just when the worms were eating holes in the cheese or just in the fruit.

For one thing, I was sure they were everywhere very soon. My biochip was able to detect life-signs within a hundred-meter radius, so I knew where they were, I just didn’t have a perfect blueprint of the place. Just what the chip sensed in the wake of the metals. Based on that, I was surrounded. I thought they didn’t know I knew where they were or what the base looked like. If that had been the case, I would have had more hope.

I was like a fly trapped in the middle of a cobweb. The illusion of freedom is still there, but it does not really exist. When I was still on the outside and not inside, they tried to shoot me several times. I instinctively tried to dodge it, though it wasn’t exactly me who was being targeted. I stepped wrong at one and fell to the ground. For a few moments I saw stars, coughing in pain; blood was on the ground. A medical note immediately appeared on my retina that one of the broken ribs had injured my lungs.

When I got to the middle of the place, almost where I started, I could still hear the sounds. In the present situation, I had two choices. These hunters will surely arrive from two directions in a matter of moments, I either let them catch me or fight with them. there was no tunnel at the bottom, but at the top! I chose a place where the ceiling walls were damaged anyway and there was more debris on the ground. It was less striking that another panel would be there. I successfully loosened the panel with the gun, which even fell off.

I clenched my teeth and jumped up. I managed to cling to the edge of the hallway and pull myself up. All my nerves were screaming in pain, I tried to keep quiet until I finally reached the ventilation shaft. I gasped loudly so I put my own hand on my mouth to make as few sounds as possible. And then the enemy will probably arrive in the area below me, chances are from both directions…

 

[Cromwell]

OBJECTIVE II | TIP OF THE SPEAR
SPECTRE OF THE EMPIRE

Avenger gave her no response other than silence, focused on the task at hand but also plagued by the possible scenarios of the Order's futures with Rurik Fel on the throne. Democracy had failed him, cost the lives of his parents, and left him nothing more than a vengeful spirit seeking to their memory justice. But was Imperialism truly the way? The question tore him apart through the sleepless nights and endless days. A question personified in the ghosts of his parents shaking their heads in disappointment. It stung his heart.

The howls of the perished broke his pestilent thoughts and halted both spectres in their invisible tracks.

"That snake is here somewhere..." She stated toward Avenger, grinding the mismatched teeth in her mouth, "We could end him and now."

...we could.

He stood in deep deliberation over the idea, assessing its pros and cons as the wind of war blew at both spectres atop the command structure. They had failed to cut the head of the snake on Carlac, now a second chance had revealed itself. Rage at his failure to stop the traitor urged him to abandon the mission but clearer thoughts prevailed. What they set to do here towered above the satisfaction of settling a vendetta so personal to every Imperial.

"No." a plain reply, concealing its reluctance. "The Camp must fall and it won't happen without sabotaging their communications and aiding the Army's advance."

He set to charges on the roof and hastily backtracked away. A moment later they imploded into the structure, creating a gaping hole. Avenger jumped down from it, activating the stun blast on his belt to knock out cold anyone in the immediate area.

An idea sprung in his mind.

"Revenant, slice into their command terminal and find a way to tap into their comms and link it to the Army's Signals units."

ALLIES | NIO | GA | SJC | Noel Strasza
ENEMIES | MAW | Eldervine

 

[Khaostra Devoid]

Post: 3
Objective: Playground Wars
Equipment: Red Midnight Duster | Red Sith Armor | Sith Mask | Grav Boots | CrushGaunts | x2 White lightsabers | Forearm Lanvorak | Wrist Laser | Variety of Explosives | RSKF-44 heavy blaster | X-21 shock glove (Stored in her coat pocket)
Allies: Halketh | The Mongrel | Darth Tennacus | Bendak Crail | Romund Sro | Marlon Sularen | Glossa
Enemies: Michael Barran | Starlin Rand | Amelia Venthyra | Sergeant Omen | Liram Angellus | Noel Strasza | Thurion Heavenshield | Zoraya Ives-Ayres | Damsy Callat | Mrurh'en'lase | Hel | Lyra Vent | Artemis Lu
Special Tags: Michael Barran | Eldervine

Forces:
150- Raider walkers
25 - Spider Cruisers
30 - Firefang wardogs
1 coy. - Kitiakira Warband
1 coy. - Scav Kings
1 coy. - War Shamans
12 - Sorcerers of Rhand
24 - Flesh Stalkers
12 - Drengir

---

Play to force Michael’s hand seemed to have stalled for the moment, even though she could feel the Drengir they seemed to be momentarily caught in a snakes Gaze. Even though she could feel things grinding to a halt she tried her best not to let the aggravations show on her face. She didn’t want to give this one an inch of satisfaction that her well thought out plan wasn’t well going as planned. Though she still had the Flesh stalkers that were at this moment no doubt poisoning leaders within Companies this contingent of the NIO had replacing them taking the guise and consuming the essence of the play makers.


“Few issues with that form of belief Mr. Barran.” She said as she pushed away from the words of burning the Drengir and the jungle. “One the Maw are willing to burn their own worlds, it brings them closer to rebirth in the new existence, so they also hold life in little regard.” Hell, he just had to look to Csilla to see how little regard the maw had for life at least life in this existence. Even the sheer amount of life lost there had gotten to Khaos it still hunted her dreams that Chiss soldier reaching out to her as she just so coldly put a bolt in its brain pan like it was nothing.


“The other thing what happens when you face one of those Gods, that aren’t your problem?” By Khaostra’s crazed mother’s own self proclamation of being the God of Destruction that made Khaos something of a demigod on could reckon. The Demigod of Mayhem sounded kind of nice, but this was no time to let into her mothers’ delusions. Her thoughts faded back into the real as she looked towards Michael and then to the glasses on the splintered wood table. “Or are you one of those atheists that just likes to spout religious rhetoric to feel superior?” Her face finally broke from those sneers into a smirk.


At her battle lines the Warbands were itching for a fight they didn’t care much for the talking. Though they trusted Khaos and would obey her words to stay, that didn’t mean they wouldn’t try to antagonize a fight. Across the field a squad of scav kings began yelling insults across the way. “Eh ya spineless iron humpers, when dis war is ovah I’m gunna be taken ya sista’s maken babes!” The Scav yelled out across the way and made a lewd thrusting motion a few times with his hips. “Den I be given dem to da Blood GOD!” As he said that his comrades began to howl.


There was tension in e the lines and they wanted to move but all that damn talking had to happen first. The Drengir were supposed to have started this fight now then they could have charge and open their fire. Itching but nothing was coming one of the shaman’s looked to the Sorcerer’s the Khaos had brought with her. “We should start the ritual.” The Sorcerer shook their head at the shaman. “No Signal has been given yet.” The sorcerer looked towards the lines the Drengir still hadn’t emerged yet. Where the hell were they.

 

[The Mongrel]

Location: Lao-mon, Goshen War Camp
Tags: Amelia Venthyra

Hetzen's body tumbled from the Jedi's blade, dead before she hit the ground. Did her soul travel to some far-off paradise, a future galaxy where the Three Avatars had been victorious and cleansed away the past? Or had she merely been taken in by the promises of a Sith-led cult, deceived as so many others had been by the Dark Lords over the millennia? There was no way to be sure. Whatever the truth, her part in this battle was over... and that left a vacancy in the Scar Hounds' command structure, one that would urgently need to be filled.

There was something of a tie for the highest-ranking warriors left on the battlefield; Varkas and Androk, the two wasp riders Hetzen had dispatched after the NIO infiltrators, had joined the ranks of the Maw at the same time, fighting together across a great many theaters of war. They shared all things, battle brothers to the end... and so they were prepared to share command. Androk pulled his Gore Wasp up short as Lyra Vent dodged beneath it, trying to turn in time to cleave her head from her shoulders with his warblade... but he was far too late by then.

The industrial processors the spies had targeted blew sky high, sending out a brutal shockwave and raining flaming debris over the area. Dozens of men and women, slaves and marauders alike, screamed in pain and terror as they were ripped limb from limb... or as their flesh bubbled and melted from their bones. Androk was tossed from the sky; his Gore Wasp let out a strange insectoid chitter-shriek as a huge length of white-hot rebar pierced its vulnerable underside, sending out a spray of greenish-black ichor. The creature plummeted like a stone toward the ground.

Fortunately, Varkas had been on overwatch. Streaking on with his own Gore Wasp, he intercepted the falling warbeast and rider, clasping his strong hands around Androk's forearm. With a mighty heave he pulled his battle-brother onto his own mount, then managed to pull up on the reins and streak away just before they would have splattered against the ground. The half-dead wasp that had been impaled did meet that fate, its carapace cracking open as it struck the hard stones of Goshen's increasingly bloodsoaked streets. What a day of slaughter it was!

"Hetzen is dead," Varkas told his fellow warrior. "She died well, in battle with the Jedi. We must regroup our forces." Androk nodded, reaching down to the comm device he wore at his belt. Quickly he sent out the signal, pulling the Scar Hounds back from the breached walls and lining them up amid the narrow alleys and teetering buildings of the War Camp. The initial phase of the siege had been incredibly destructive, a sweeping warfront of jungle, gate, and high stone wall. Now, with the enemy inside, it would become much more close-quarters.

More brutal. More personal. Good.

But as they observed the new lines of battle, marauder squads forming up to lay traps and ambushes around every corner, the battle-brothers noticed something odd: wardogs out of position. There were squads - and packs - chasing someone who was running toward the southern wall. From their elevated position, the two warriors could see who it was: the Jedi who had killed Hetzen. "Shall we take our vengeance, brother?" Varkas asked. Androk nodded, grinning savagely. The two marauders streaked in to follow Amelia as she ran, eager for the kill.

Varkas fired his heavy repeater as the Gore Wasp flew closer, trying to hobble the Jedi with a leg shot. Androk, still determined to wet his warblade that day, prepared to leap from the wasp's back and face the Jedi blade to blade...

 

[Thurion Heavenshield]

GOSHEN WAR CAMP
SLAVE QUARTERS
Tags: Ves Fett

Watching her closely at all times, how she deliberately revealed the grenade with an air of glee. Like she enjoyed the raging carnage surrounding them. In Thurion's experience, such behaviour was far from uncommon in enemies he'd faced over the decades. These Mawites were just another Sith cult at the end of the day. If the loss of sanity is the cost of being touched by the dark powers that be, then 'tis a poor trade indeed.

"Your move, big boy."

The grenade was primed and released, followed by a swift exit by the mad woman. The cluster of children all cried out in unified fear, despite some being too young to even know what the small round object was. But Thurion did not flinch from his duty.

"Everyone, get down!"

Sheathing his lightsaber, he reached out towards the approaching explosive with both hands, palms facing each other as if clutching the grenade between them. Just as the explosive triggered, the ball of fire was partly trapped within a protective bubble. The children were safe, but a handful of shrapnel escaped before he could contain them and struck him in the shoulder.

He powered through the full explosion, containing it within the energy bubble long enough for the destructive force to dissipate before dropping the barrier and finding the time to address his injury. Partly ripping his sleeve open, he gave himself a quick assessment of the damage. Several chunks of metal stuck out of him, with many more embedded underneath his skin. It would impact the mobility of his right arm, but he could take the pain.

Preferring not to upset the kids, he kept his injury from them.

"It's alright, you can get back up," he said as he hoisted several of the smaller ones back on their feet, one pair at a time. "That crazy lady may be laying an ambush, but we have no choice but to continue forward. I swore I would keep you safe, and I will."

With that, the party kept moving through the craziness that was the battle of Goshen, braving one danger after the other. Thurion fought off a stray group of summoned undead while the others snuck past, and he shielded them from a crumbling pillar by shouldering its crushing weight to allow them to safe passage through a narrow pathway.

He had no doubt the mad Mando was still out there, watching them walk into another trap. Yet he would weather them all for the sake of the future generations of Shi'ido these children representated.

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Well, this was going well. He had a padawan who aimed to get herself killed in the line of battle. He was so proud of her. In all seriousness, he was not lying when he was bringing her back home in a pine box and he wasn't going to go back on his word now. He had sunk his shield into the earth and crouch behind it when he heard the click of a grenade. Oh no... Suddenly a brilliant flash swept the area just as he has crotched down behind his implanted shield, narrowly avoided being blinded. Unfortunately, the Padawan was lucky and the horror in her voice meant that she had not. Well, it was time for a clone to save the day.

Omen clicked his own grenades, throwing the whole bandolier of smoke grenades to cover his approach, smoking up the whole immediate area. He then limped to the Padawan, leaving his primary weapon behind while giving covering the Padawan before limping out and trying to use his force sense to guide her to him, eventually grabbing her hand, pulling her back to safety behind his shield while defending them both, firing his Verpine pistol to cover them and drag her back to safety behind the shield. He then picked up his assault cannon and set it to rocket launcher mode before blasting into the smoke. If their opponent had got away, that was fine. It meant they didn't have to face her anymore and they all could live to fight another day. Maybe they would see each other again, maybe not but right now, all Omen was thinking about was surviving.

The Dark Inquisitor , Glossa

 

[ADM. Reshmar]

Objective III
3rd Fleet 38th Attack Squadron
Reef Home
Allies: Gir Quee Liram Angellus
Enemies: Tu'teggacha



Reshmar watched the station in the distance, its shielding rippling under the bombardment of the Silver cannons. Reshmar watched with interest as the enemy fighter wings withdrew and took up formations around the base in the distance. "Interesting," said Reshmar as he considered the maneuver and its implications. In his time as a naval officer, he had seen just about everything. This was a standard tactic designed to draw in an enemy and usually utilize the station's superior defense to wear down an enemy formation. "So it's a trap," said Reshmar under his breath. Reshmar considered that for a moment then a thought began to coalesce in his mind. If it were him, he would press the maneuver by.. as the thought crossed his mind, klaxons began to erupt from the room's loudspeakers.

"New contacts exiting hyperspace, 192 degrees of our stern sir," came a voice from the tactical station. Reshmar pressed a set of commands and the hologram extended out past the silver fleets current position, expanding the sphere of its sensors and brought the new contacts into view. Reshmar looked at the new friends who had come to play and thought about the tactics available to him now. "This will change things a bit" said Reshmar. He turned to the officer at the communications station "Open a channel to Admiral Quee," ordered Reshmar. A moment later the man nodded indicating a channel had been opened.

"Gir, we have company. I will deal with our new friends, feel free to dispatch that station if you like. I will be jamming comms in five standard minutes so say what you need to say." Reshmar turned and gave an order to the ship's captain. "Turn us 110 degrees, SHow them our flanks but keep us angled a bit at the nose. Have our broadsides open fire on the enemy fleet as soon as they have solutions. And captain, charge up the tsunami array," ordered Reshmar turning his gaze to his CAG. Colonel, launch the second wave and move into position to repel any attack craft from the new formation." Reshmar turned his gaze back to the screen before him. "Good hunting old friend. See you when it's done" said Reshmar to Gir eyeing his friend from Hast then giving him a knowing nod.

Actions
Launched second wave of 12 squadrons
Attack Wave moving into position to intercept any incoming attack craft.
angeling broadsides to new enemy formation.
Began charging the Tsunami-class Ultrawave Jamming Array

3rd Fleet 38th Squadron
304th Command-Line [shielding/hull/maneuvering]
Reef Home 100/100/100
Concordia-class Battle Carrier - Salacia 100/100/100
Guardian II-class Star Destroyer - Horus 100/100/100

311th Escort Section
Pelagic-class Star Cruiser
MC57-class Light Cruiser 100/100/100
Defender-class Cruiser 100/100/100
Odysseus-class Cruiser 100/100/100

365th Picket Flotilla
Fulgor-class Pursuit Frigate 100/100/100
Vigilance-class Heavy Picket 100/100/100
Vigilance-class Heavy Picket 100/100/100
Bellerophon-class Pocket Carrier 100/100/100
Bellerophon-class Pocket Carrier 100/100/100
Bellerophon-class Pocket Carrier 100/100/100
Intersector-class Sloop 100/100/100
Intersector-class Sloop 100/100/100
Intersector-class Sloop 100/100/100
Intersector-class Sloop 100/100/100
Intersector-class Sloop 100/100/100
Intersector-class Sloop 100/100/100

Moving to escort and defend carriers
MC57-class Light Cruiser 100/100/100
Intersector-class Sloop 100/100/100
Intersector-class Sloop 100/100/100

6 squadrons planet side assisting atmospheric flight operations

6 squadrons assisting attack craft engaging attack craft near the station

12 squadrons moving into position to defend the 38th against attack craft.

6 bomber squadrons in reserve
6 fighter squadrons in reserve

 

[Darth Maleva]

Allies: Darkness
Enemies: Light | Elpsis Kerrigan
「is it really a surprise if i'm playing with your mind」

Some time ago....

"New reports of Brosi, my lord."

The eternally young woman leaned forward, sweeping black sleeves drawing across her desk as she accepted the datapad. The stench of Severt's fear became less noticeable as he had become used to her presence, though it was the tenseness in his muscles that gave him away today. Maleva grimaced as she stared at the map before her. The rebels had gained significant footholds since the last time, and the damned crusaders had begun to encroach upon Brosin air space.

"How?" She inquired as her yellow gaze raised.

"The rebels have taken plays from our own book." He said, begrudgingly. "Guerilla tactics, agents, and they seem to have empowered some of the corporates who initially resisted, drawing them to fund their cause. They have named themselves the Brosin Underground, reborn."

"The price of rebirth has not yet been paid."

The mysterious statement hung in the air as Maleva stared at the man. The weight of the heavy gaze was absent. She was not here. She could no longer look to the past. The small alliance that was the Warlords had been shattered with Voyance's death. Brosi was a lost cause; even if they fended off the lightsiders, access to trade routes were blocked by other enemies. She turned her gaze forward. The force screamed as the suffering of the universe grew. She saw those truly reborn, in blood and fire, just as she had been, their strength and vigor growing with every blow. As the sith stared into the black well of time, she began to chuckle.

"Order our agents to send a message." She finally spoke. "Every corporate official is to be disposed of. Then, they are to withdraw completely.

"M-Ma'am?" Severt replied. Maleva tsked in response. "I just don- Are we abandoning the planet?"

"Yes." She replied curtly as she rose from her seat. "We have matters elsewhere to attend to. The rebels will see that chaos is the law of nature, from which they shall be truly reborn, or they shall pay the price when other contenders rise. After all, democracy and goodness never truly fill the vacuum." She noted. "Leave me now, I would train."​

​

Today...

Her own forces met the opposition head-on as they broke through. A small force, but thoroughly trained, they held their nerves as they quickly became surrounded. Maleva had once more joined them in the thick of it, reminiscent of their failures on Ninn, though she promised herself this time would be different. The sith had seen the ripples that moved in that well and understood the significance. As blaster met the armor of one of her troops, a pale hand clad in black armor raised and writhed. An unseen grip seized the psyches of immediate threats. It slithered over them like a snake, its venomous coating leaving immediate effects. Soldiers began to scream, grown men crying for their mothers. A smirk crept across the master's face as her will imprinted upon them.

Her troops were quick on the uptake. It was not difficult to terminate a defenseless target, though the few that ran in circles did offer an opportunity for target practice. The calm came as the last body ceased moving. The force shifted around Maleva, its chaos trying to whisper a secret, though it quickly became too loud to hear as more troops flooded the area. These odds were more evenly matched, so the woman drew her crimson saber, finding solace in the swordplay. Only then did she decipher the message; They were here.​

 

[Zachariel Steelblood]

Objective: Defend the Warcamp
Allies: The Mongrel | BotM and Allies
Enemies: Jacen Nimdok | Keilara Kala'myr | SJC and Allies
Engaging: Zachariel engaging Errik, marauders Ziare
Links: Sword | Axe
Post 4​

Laughing at Errik's words, the warlord takes a step towards them, sneering beneath his helm. A shame, it may have made an interesting story if someone had accepted the man's offer. It would have made Zachariel wonder just what kind of coward such a person was, and why they even found themselves on the field of battle. He took another step forward before his mind was suddenly assaulted. Snarling as he brought a hand to his head, Zachariel's first thought was that such an attack was cowardly in the extreme. He is also left feeling the pain of the attacks, prompting a groan from him.

His next was a snarl of rage as he was dragged into his mind to defend himself. With Errik pushing into his mind, he'd find that Zachariel's memory scape wasn't concrete in the slightest, instead it was a smoky maze of unknowns. As a gen'dai, he has lived centuries upon centuries, in fact Zachariel is well into his first millennia of life. As such, the beginnings of his life are pale mists that shift and turn, unclear and intangible. What use are such memories that constantly shift and are unclear. Any memories removed here wouldn't be remembered in the first place. Of course Zachariel would also feel the pain of Errik's barbs latching onto memories, but he had long lived with pain and knew well its caress. Thus is simply continued on, with memories closer to the present becoming clearer and bloodier.

Zachariel has always been a man of violence and death, but the past century has truly showcased this, as his time in the Nether and his service to the Brotherhood can attest. At the same time though, they are a blur of violence, bloodshed, murder, and torture, meshing together over time. Errik would be free to target these memories, but they are vivid depictions of bloodshed on scales unseen, of battlefields that stretch systems with trillions fighting. Some memories may be easier, others harder, but all are similar in their violence, uniform in their bloodshed and the up close view that is Zachariel's perspective.

The cacophony and renewed view of such bloodshed causing Zachariel to laugh once more, even as he snarls. Digging through his mind has renewed many memories, while those of violence strengthen him, and any that could harm him are unclear to even him. But of all his memories, there are three that truly define Zachariel and are visible to Errik. The first his his 'training' at the hands of those who captured him and changed him. Second is his meeting of the Queen Mother and facing off against her vast legions. Third is his meeting of the Avatar of War, deep in the Nether where he lost himself. These three memories define him more than any other, but they are also seared into his very soul for their affect on him. All have affected him deeply, all are visible for Errik to access if he so desires.

Snarling louder, Zachariel takes a step in the real world, one lurching stomp towards Errik.
"Go on Jedi fool. ... Take a nice look and know the folly of it all, the folly of who and what you are!" Zachariel's grip on his axe is tight, causing his armor and the hilt to crackle together. Still his mind bores towards Errik as the man attempts to latch onto memories and remove them, and it only makes Zachariel laugh more as the pain mounts, pain he is oh so used to. "Take a look at true power, and know you are nothing before them, or before me."

Another heavy step as his memories flood towards Errik, the untold amounts of pain and suffering, both taken and given. The countless battlefields and unknown trillions of warriors fighting and dying in a war that was a game to a veritable goddess. A meeting with a true god, a deity that demanded blood and death in its name. Bindings of power and plans within plans, tools across factions and systems, all pointing towards one simple truth. The end was coming, and Zachariel had killed billions for his cause, but he was merely a herald to the death of trillions more.

Kill. Maim. Burn.
Blood for the Avatars. Skulls for the Throne
Let the galaxy burn

Continuing to hound Ziare, the marauders are cackling with glee as they track their target down. Though they took pot shots when possible, it was more a reminder than to truly harm her. But her coughing hacks were still a delight to them, seeing as it meant she was wounded. And wounded prey couldn't flee as well. More howls echoed as the marauders continued their advance, converging together in a semi circle. However, they were also moving to fully encircle her given time.

Howling as wolves do upon closing on wounded prey, the marauders grew more cautious as well. A wounded target was a cornered target, and willing and able to do anything. Advancing more slowly, the marauders also separated further, at least those in visible distance of each other. Then the marauder leader halted suddenly, sixth sense telling her something was up. The other marauders weren't as lucky however, and continued advancing. Continued their search and hunt of their prey.

The forward elements of the squad continued to close the circle, eventually meeting and turning inward. The other 'walls' of the circle continued their search and hunt, calling out eerily for Ziare to show herself. At the same time, the marauder that had been with the champion simply continued on, coming to a stop near where Ziare was hiding. Looking about the marauder sniffed the air, and unless he was attacked, he'd move further into the circle of veteran marauders.

As for the marader champion, she pulled a blade out to go with her pistol. Eyes closed and head tilted, the marauder remained stationary in the center of the hall. Her marauder squad stalked the hallways in search of Ziare, while the leader remained still, listening for anything to tip her off to Ziare.

 

[Michael Barran]

POST 6
OBJECTIVE 2: TIP OF THE SPEAR
WRATH_OF_THE_WOADS

ALLIES (NIO): Noel Strasza

ALLIES (SJC/GA/AC/OTHER): Starlin Rand Sergeant Omen Damsy Callat
Artemis Lu The Dark Inquisitor

ENEMIES (BOTM/NSO/TFD): Khaostra Devoid Romund Sro The Mongrel Dakrul
Halketh Marlon Sularen Zachariel Steelblood Eldervine Glossa

MICHAEL'S FORCES

THE HIGHLAND BROTHERHOOD
ARGYLL COY. - INFANTRY
LARGS COY. - INFANTRY
FARRIN COY. - ENGINEERS
ISLAY COY. - ANTI-TANK

BLUE-HEART BRIGADE
196 XT-62,"CATAPHRACT" TANKS
32 SCOUT-AFV'S
9 MLV'S (NAKAIOMA)
5 PREDATOR LAUNCH-PLATFORMS (NAKAIOMA)
1 COY. OF GUARDSMEN
1 COY. OF MEDICS
1 COY. OF QUARTERMASTERS

MICHAEL'S LOADOUT
PRIMARY WEAPON: PALE-BLUE LIGHTSABRE
SECONDARY WEAPON: BLASTER-PISTOL
SECONDARY BLADE: VIBROSWORD CAVALRY-SABRE

PROVING GROUND: THE SECOND DEPLOYMENT - PART 10

GOSHEN RAINFOREST, LAOMON (869 ABY)
HOUR ONE OF THE MAIN BATTLE FOR LAO-MON....

Of all the opposing commanders Lord Michael had met in his life, none had ever dared to test his beliefs in a such a way, nor his cunning as openly as Khaostra had; but instead of reacting in a way everyone would expect, (including Michael) the Wanderer found himself altogether more intrigued by the flame-eyed woman, and much more than he would ever care to admit. However, what ultimately surprised Barran would follow Devoid's challenge of his beliefs, of his faith in deities that differed from his own monotheistic variety, dragging further curiosity from within the recesses of the Wanderer's mind by laying claim to her own brand of godhood soon after. Answers did the Woad have in abundance for his Mawsworn rival, but he would find his attempt to answer interrupted by one of the accompanying Scav Kings warriors who were ordered to wait by the treeline, yelling insults and making lewd thrusts from far off, allowed his chance to finish before Michael responded, staring Khaostra in her golden, fiery gaze as his mind did it's nasty deeds. All the while, a shaman and a sorcerer from her retinue would confer much more quietly, and with much more politeness towards their enemies than the loudmouth he was force-choking at a distance, so Michael let that go unaddressed instead.

Did your gods intervene as I choked you from this far away? Walk it off, weakling.​

'He'll be fine, Devoid. At least until I personally rip 'is teeth out anyway, sorry.... But where are my manners?', the Wanderer finally responded, adopting a polite demeanour to get himself answering the challenge and the revelation with a more-fitting level of succinct focus. Conciseness would leave no questions as to what he truly meant in such moments, but to hint at something more would allure the Lord-Captain far more intensely, as his experience with Celestial life was certainly one that atheists would've had a hard time believing if recounted in such company; perhaps even the demigod standing before him would have reason to doubt what the Woad's eyes had seen, as word of Michael's exploits on Carlac had not yet made it back to the many sub-factions of the Maw, and no such knowledge of Yorunarr's antics would be known by all until the deeds had been seen or heard by all. Drengir screams would ring out from the distance, screeching in all pitches in staggered unison, Michael's little long-awaited sign, the Drengir's unwitting confirmation that the Novanian was succeeding in his attempt to disrupt the heaviest-hitting element in that deeply-forested environment.

It'll only get wilder as the day progresses, dawl. Same song-an'-dance but louder noo.​

Sitting down again, Michael briefly broke eye contact to pull a vial out of his jacket's inside pocket, holding it up so the sunlight could illuminate the almost-orange powder inside more easily, briefly looking for recognition on his opponent's face before passing it off to the nearest Highlander with the satisfaction of seeing that the psychedelic inside had escaped Devoid's recognition. 'Ever heard of Melarria's Root, by chance? Answering your theological question and revelation of course.', the Wanderers began by asking, originally intended as rhetorical but proffered in genuine curiosity by the time his question met it's conclusion. With one last look into the black pupils of the Mawsworn commander's eyes to be sure, the Woad-born would take extra care to be sure she wasn't in a state of portrayal, nodding with definitive satisfaction before he continued,'Just one small dose of that can change so much in the heart of the crucible, honestly. Now I don't need to worry so much about the Drengir because of it, all thanks to a psychedelic vine in powder form.'

'Thanks to that same vine, I go with the favour of the Novanian Ancients, whilst also retaining faith in a god much stronger than they ever could be,"Dia saor gu Woad-Macushla!". And yet, those same ancients understand I come from a culture unaligned with their own, and still continue to bestow gifts on me to this day..... Your divinity, though I think you of a race more advanced than my own, is one I'd like to duel against someday. If you're able to survive what comes next, then you'll have every right to claim that honour.'

PROVING GROUND: THE SECOND DEPLOYMENT - PART 11

​

GOSHEN RAINFOREST, LAOMON (869 ABY)
HOUR ONE OF THE MAIN BATTLE FOR LAO-MON....

*'KASS HERRAI MERA EMDA'SIE - KASS HERRAI MUR NALISAAAAAAR!!!'​

'First command of an engagement, Maitland. Don't kark this up now-'

As predicted, the Drengir would up the stakes on their end as Yorunarr was in the process of upping the stakes on his own end of the struggle in turn, creating quite the horror-filled experience for the Mawsworn and the New Imperials alike as the tense situation unfolded around them. It had become obvious to the remaining Scope units in that moment that nobody planned to play strictly by the rules of parley, only to use them more like a guideline for how their eight and final battle on Lao-Mon would play out, and though this would normally be fine with the best shots in Guardian Company, the maelstrom of violence that was whirling up around the soldiering aspects on both side of the battle would prove to be quite frightening for every last rifle-wielding, flesh-and-blood element on the ground. Fortunately for Maitland's scrawny neck, the owner of the Guardian Nine callsign would take his cue to return to the northern thicket's positions as soon as the Lord-Captain's telepathic signal first reached the deeps of the young Sergeant's mind, much to the delight and relief of his supervising officers on long-distance recon to the east.

'-Look, Fraanken. It doesn't matter what command I give, we're all in it an' the only thing we need t'be worrying about is what appears right in front of us when the chit hits the fan. We're it, Corporal.... End o' the line until the tanks show up.'

'AAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUURGH!!!!! GET OUT OF MY HEAD!!!!! PLEEEEEEEEASE!!!!'​

The cacophony of uprooting trees, squelching of mud and breaking of rocks in the distance seemed to throw everyone for a momentary loop before they remembered that the one doing all the screaming and writhing wasn't just any of the Drengir fated to stray into their crosshairs, but it was in fact the desperate, manic outcries of anguish and rage of Yorunarr's most hapless of victims. In this reassuring moment of realization, the defenders of the northern thicket would readily reaffirm their shoulder-slung grips over their high-powered sniper-rifles, looking through their scopes for any signs of activity as Maitland worked up the courage to lend some of his own to the others; the only thing in this instance that was holding him back was the fact he'd never given any rousing speeches before, and had never retained enough authority or respect among the troops to give such a thing, but this moment would be an obvious exception. The Tuath-born Sergeant knew very little of how much it would be needed in the end, but the shooters on high-alert around him would appreciate their friend's attempts to encourage them all the same, and whether they liked it or not, they knew they were lucky to have him as their platoon-commander.

'IF MY KIN SPURN ME - THEN WATCH AS I CONSUME EVERY LAST ONE OF YOOOOOU!!!!'

'Ready up, comrades. This crucible's gonna burn hotter than any we've had the honour of fighting in before, an' that's nae joke! Stand firm, lads! DIA SAOR GU WOAD-MACUSHLA!!!!!!'

'DIA SAOR GALIDRAAN!!!!'
'DIA SAOR GALIDRAAN!!!!'
'DIA SAOR GALIDRAAN!!!!'
'DIA SAOR GALIDRAAN!!!!'
'DIA SAOR GALIDRAAN!!!!'

The willingness to join in bellowing out the Blue-Hearts' native-tongue creed struck young Maitland where it was needed, giving him a strong wave of pride and joy in the path he chose, knowing it was the same path that all the heroic stock of Galidraan III had walked down before him. This was where it mattered, on the very edge of Hell itself with nothing but his friends, his rifle, and his will to keep on fighting against all odds; and in that moment, the Guard-Sergeant smiled in a very Tuath-like sneering green, clenching his jaw as he looked through the sights of the sniper-rifle he'd left behind before. In time, if Maitland had what took to survive the battle in it's entirety, the lad would refer to that day as the fight that made a true soldier of him; like the legendary Sergeant Denny Rhone on Bastion, the man who mentored the guard-company's surprisingly young captain. Reminders that men like Rhone and Baird existed would work wonders for Maitland in the long-run, but only if he could last to see the battle concluded properly, but if the Guard-Sergeant could survive the ordeal, this experience would propel him through a career unlike any the lad imagined when he was still going through the enlistment process.

'NONONONO!!!!! PLEASE- AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!!!'

*'THURAAAAHL!!!!! THURAAAAAAAAAHL!!!!!!'

'I BLAME THE VINESWORN!!!! ALL OF THEM!!!!! THEY MUST BE CONSUMED!!!'​

**'YOU DESERVE THIS FRENZY - YOU DESERVE THE AGONY!!!'
**'SUFFER!!!! SUFFER!!!!'

 

[Halketh]

S A I N T E D
Dark Lord of the Sith
vestment | creation

S E R P E N T
The Perished | 4686/5000
​

The resilience demonstrated by the apprentice was greatly surprising to the Master, as was the speed with which he seemed to cast and maneuver. Whether it was by some fickle will of The Force or his own unrecognized weakness, his opposition still stood without injury. It was no matter, The Force moved in mysterious ways and he would act regardless, foregoing the next incantation within his arsenal for something far less conventional. It was obvious Starlin was physically enduring, but, the question he had posed upon the engagement of their duel still was without an answer. He would ignore the soft, fleshy shell of the halfling, and would fixate his malice upon what it was that truly defined him; his psyche.

Sensing an attack of opportunity with the Jedi's self-imposed weakness, a hand snapped upward to splay fingers over the silhouette of his body in the miraluka's gaze, imposing the weight of the world it felt like, upon the apprentice's limbs to seize any movements he would attempt to make. The crushing vice of malediction attempted to tighten and cinch around Starlin's joints and muscles to paralyze him.

It was obvious the Sith Sorcerer had grown tired of testing the waters with the boy, and now, he sought to demonstrate what mastery over the techniques they both shared could do. His speed increased, his incantations becoming far more complex and elaborate, and whether or not his grasp on Starlin's body was successful, the second half of his assault was brought to bear. Incorporeal talons lunged from his position, lashing out in an unseen assault to sink into the walls of the apprentice's mind. Deeper, they would attempt to plunge, slicing into the fabric of thought, twisting their grasp around his psyche and if they were successful, Starlin would experience the horror- both petty embarrassment and the downright trauma- of his own past uprooted and made tangible to play before his senses over and over. The gnashing thorns of anguish, regret, and fear- a poisonous cocktail brewed by the sorcerer from the natural folly of man.

A sinister form of torture The Brotherhood were infamously fond of, invoked in an instant upon the battlefield.
​

​

ALLIES | Dakrul The Mongrel Glossa
FOES | SJC | NIO | Starlin Rand Damsy Callat Artemis Lu Ripley Kühn The Dark Inquisitor Sergeant Omen