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

[Darth Howl]

GOSH'EN DUNGEONS
Yula Perl ​

"That nalorgon is over one thousand years old."

Zym never raised his voice but the Sith acolyte quietly seethed when Yula landed awkwardly on the ornate instrument, a priceless work of art in its own right. Her unsteady feet trod over its large keys in a musical scale from hell. He watched her acrobatic display with seeming indifference. This younger generation was so obsessed with high tech gadgets. Always grappling somewhere or buried in their comlinks.

"Couldn't you have jumped?" he tilted his head to one side.

In a flash of crimson the Sith's lightwhip arced forward, slicing through falling debris then lashing out at the blaster in her hand.

"Such violent delights have violent ends," Gnost seemed to be almost enjoying himself, "You will be my masterpiece."

 

[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 Thurion Heavenshield Sakadi Marathi Sinvala
// ENEMIES: Brotherhood of the Maw, New Sith Order, Witches of Rhand, The Mongrel Glossa Jaedec Ren Zachariel Steelblood Bendak Crail Romund Sro
// Gear : Tenebrae, Tidefall, Left-Handed Grav Glove

From the skies above the 501st descended to bring hell unto earth in the northern area of the encampment. Bodies littered the earth, mostly stormtroopers. After Carlac the use of disruptors were too good of a thing to be used once. Bolts, beams, whatever they employed, bodies would be atomized, turned to dust, in a similar fashion to his own fibrecord cable -- a thing that didn't stop him from launching himself forwards to deliver pain to his foe.

She spoke of pointless things.

Destruction this.

Destruction that.

War, death, and peace. Things that he never really thought about. Perhaps even, took for granted.

War? He made that. The New Imperial Order was the face of such a event in recent years. One only need look in the galactic east, and see there was vacancies in power. Her words fell on deaf ears.

A warrior's not alive unless they can feel their heart banging against their ribs.

Death? If there was a 'god of death,' he was certain they'd favour their Imperial son. Whether it was giving them insurgents and rebels, or returning those souls that had escaped their grasp due to the likes of Halketh and his acolytes, or if it were the monstrous Draelvasier of the Bryn'adul and their coalition of ugly bastards. Or even Silver Jedi who thought they were better than the True Imperial. The Imperial that put an end to the darkness -- the war -- that they neglected for nigh a decade. He Voidwalker served them well.

Gods? The Force? Destiny? To defy the fates means one is truly great.

Peace? War and death were his peace. Constants that gave him a purpose beyond rotting away in Ravelin's underworld. There was no such thing as peace. And he was glad for it.

Whatever it was that she professed to know, spewing out at him like he wasn't living and breathing evidence of the words she spoke. He ignored it.

"Shut up."

She leveled the spear, and its point was aimed in his direction. Valaar was certain that it was meant to pierce his heart. Reckless as ever, the jetpack shot him directly at her. Before, when he had propelled himself with the intent to fly through her and bring her down with him, the boost had been constant. Here? It was to close the distance -- to occupy the same literal space that she was, or to crush her underfoot. Either result was satisfactory in the end.

He flew through the air, less like a bullet, and more like a brick. A brick capable of shattering her entire frame if she was caught lacking.

The Tidefall blade snapped upwards from his side, on a direct course with the spear as he moved. The fibrecord had turned to dust, a failing that he hadn't foreseen. Some would've stopped, but Valaar was decisive. Always had been. It was unfitting for a soldier, a warrior, to be anything but.

The black blade flew up, blemishes dotting the metal, circular in fashion, giving an impression of poor integrity. An imperfect blade.

But it was not so.

Micro-repulse generators.

He had never made an attempt with his new blade to cut a living creature with them active. During that destiny defining moment, it occurred to him, for the briefest of moments, and he very much relished the damage that a buyer was promised. As his blade neared the spear, it stopped short, a depressed button on the hilt triggering repulsors to activate. Invisible energy, much like the metaphysical field that was the Force was expelled outwards, shoving the spear off kilter. Whether it went by his shoulder and helmet, or armpit, bicep, and torso, it did not matter to him. Even as his HUD registered damage, he ignored it, let himself remain ignorant as his feet dropped down, stamping the earth under foot.

She could move, or remain in place. Whichever she chose, with her spear off point, and the edge of his vibroblade arcing in, it flicked up in an attempt to cleave her arms off. The nature of vibrotech made it so that when it was active, it was not a single blade, but was like a dozen, cutting in the same spot to create a gaping wound, where there should've only been a slice. And then, he'd step forwards, in a bid to further seal her fate with a plunging strike directly through the abdomen.

 

[Kadan Scipora]

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O B J E C T I V E 1​

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Tags: Sars Sarad​

Equipment: 1x lightsaber, Kadan's Armor, 2x OS-101 Retractable Vibro-Sword, OS-PBC-770-FFE, OS-104 "Reaper" Variable Strength Blaster Pistol, The Afterthought.​

​

Kadan had taken several steps towards his foe, and winced as his opponent moved to intercept him. He was surprised to find the foe had a second weapon, a knife that bisected his knife like it were paper. He was alarmed to say the least, though his senses were on high alert, his feet slowing as his foe moved to strike his blade, starting to knock it aside; leaving Kadan open in his stance. His warning came to him soon after, knowing he needed to move and fast. He tensed his legs, and leapt, his saber switching off, freeing him to manuever as he flipped high over his foe, avoiding the knife that slashed through where he had been just moments ago.​

​

He reignited his blade mid-air, body turning as his senses remained aware of the small battle around him. He landed a meter away from the man, and spun to face him abruptly. This wasn't going to be an easy fight. The man inquired for his name, and behind the mask, Kadan scowled. His stance changing to holding his blade in a two handed grip, his mind reaching out to seize the vibro-sword that had been sliced in twine. He positioned his feet, right foot first, left foot sliding in place behind.​

​

"Kadan Scipora. And yourself?" He responded. His voice modified by the mask. He awaited the man's next move, readying to fling the severed blades towards the man once he made his advance.​

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Whoever this guy was, he wasn't the usual smuck darksider. It was time to stop fooling around.​

 

[Mrurh'en'lase | Hel]

Equipment: Hel's Lightclub | Robes
Objective: Engage the Brotherhood
Targets: Darth Tennacus
Enemies: BotM | BotM Allies
Allies: SJC | SJC Allies

​

The deflection landed perfectly with its brutal ugliness of impact, the man's crimson blade flung away from its trajectory for the Hybrid's chest. In the quick milliseconds before the attempted back fist for the man's abdomen, the Shroud forced on smile on its host's face. Its blackened eyes wandered to the man's lack of visible surprise in his expression - at least what it could see outside of his mask. This injected a gnat of disappointment in the Shroud, whose second main course in its never-ending dinner was surprising the enemy. Thus far, it had done so, catching the man off guard with its sudden release and improvement in power in stark contrast to the Hybrid's own conflicted strikes and attempts to keep it locked away. Now, this dark foe bled off a million and one things that mingled into an emotional greasy soup within the Force, and the longer this bout was drawn on the canvas, the more chaotic and imbalanced it became in the Hybrid's Zeltronish mind. And thus, the more it began to envigorate and contort the Shroud's own.

Following the successful deflection of the crimson blade, the Shroud took the stance for its next attack and performed it as flawlessly as it could in accordance with its rapidly formed plan. This is where it felt that it would regain that element of shock and awe within its foe and once more stand at the precipice of domination over him. By subduing its host's conscious awareness of the searing agony that her curse forced into her nervous system, the Shroud was able to utilize the arm for something more besides increasing the speed and power behind lightsaber strikes. It was a kitchen sink move, for lack of a better term. And to its utter delight, this attempted attack beyond the Hybrid's mental limits brought on much more than even it anticipated.

First was the sense of "being threatened" that the dark foe instantly felt the moment the Shroud began to build energy within the glowing musculature of the arm. For a Darksider such as this to feel even an inkling of true threat to their well-being...well this was, in a sense, the pie before the steak in the Shroud's opinion. Within the merged cognizance of the Hybrid's darkness and the young woman herself, a cackling laugh echoing eons of torment and pain of the Force resounded for miles and miles of cerebral corteces. Next was the actual connection of the hit itself. The man had unleashed a ball of energy, the Force coursed to slow down the momentum of the attack just enough to avoid serious internal damages. It was not enough to stop the attack entirely, and it did - in the end - save him. The arm connected against his abdomen, pushing itself against muscles and skin, and sent him skittering back on his feet away.

Dirt and rocks kicked up into the air like bouncing balls of the earth. Satisfaction at the sensation of the strike rivered through the Hybrid's veins, enticing the Shroud to do it again and again until all that remained of their foe's stomach was mulched flesh and blood. The arm of dragon's fire burned aflame with mighty energy and the Shroud held it up in admiration as their foe gathered themself some ways away. Crackled skin with canyons between sections of flesh, as deep as the bones which were blackened with char. It should have been incapable of functioning as an arm given that almost nothing of the musculature or vascular systems were entirely connected. Yet, it worked all the same and had proved to be useful in combat.

This admiration would be a mistake. Where the attempted follow-up of a beheading had never come to fruition, the foe used that erased moment to enact his own retort in the bout. As the Shroud turned its attention back to its foe, only essences of the battlefield met its gaze - dirt and shards of dust stinging the Hybrid's eyes long enough for the man to suddenly appear. Like a wraith, he was hidden in the cloud of earth that he had kicked up with the Force and before the Shroud could respond, the man's crimson blade came racing for the left of the Hybrid's stomach. Suddenly, the blade stopped mid-swing and was dropped into a reversed carving motion for the Hybrid's right shin.

Had Mrurh'en'lase been in control, this attack may have succeeded to its fullest, removing her leg at the shin and crippling her for lie barring a cybernetic replacement. But, the Shroud was a touch more focused on self-preservation of both it and its host than her. Damage from the strike could not be avoided, that much was certain, but it could be reduced to a scar at best. Lightsabers can carve through even the thickest of bones with a half-hearted swing, and this was one with purpose. A defense here would be difficult, but...the Shroud silently desired to make it a commonality for it to pull something beneficial out of a difficult situation. All the more reason for its host to grant more and more control over her body in the future, it reasoned.

So, with a quickening of agility, the Shroud flipped the Hybrid's lightsaber into a reverse grip and in that same motion stabbed downward in a vertical angle to catch the man's blade. Thanks to the great length of the Hybrid's lightsaber, the barrier was formed at just the right moment, a flash of blue and red igniting once again. Expectedly, the foe's blade still struck through the flesh, carving open a lengthy section of the skin and muscle of her shin and the side of her calf. The Shroud hissed a groan of pain and stared into the eyes of its foe, attempting to read anything from him that could perhaps help in this fight. Regardless of it could read anything, however, the Shroud would still make its subsequent move. Immediately after blocking the attack as best it could, the Shroud would carve its weapon to the right in a crescent shape in hopes of both dragging the man with it and his blade away once more. Naturally, their capability of movement with a now bleeding, orange-hued gash would be limited, making the Hybrid's left leg the dominant one to stand on and a weakness to be exploited if its focus was dropped again. There had to be minimal movements and less distance for the man to perform his reaching strikes.

Now working with great leaps and hobbling steps rather than sprints and charges, the Shroud re-adopted the opening stance of Djem So and bared the Hybrid's teeth in an almost vampiric grin. Then, like a Nexu, the Shroud jumped forward off a great surge of the Force through the Hybrid's uninjured leg. The speed of this leap was, of course, lessened and the man would certainly have a greater advantage in forming a defense for the Shroud's attacks. Indeed, the Shroud looked to swing once more for his neck in a swift beheading motion with a single-armed grip on the lightsaber. Yet, as the dark foe himself had just done against it, the Shroud would stop the blade mid-swing just as the Hybrid's feet would touch the ground. In place of this apparent strike, the Shroud would instead fall to a crouch with the sudden jolt of impacted pain from the gash and shunt the cursed arm forward in a jabbing motion for the man's abdomen, attempting to wind him once more. Following this, if it succeeded, the Shroud would rise to their feet with an attempt at an uppercut for the man's rebreather-covered jaw.

 

[Jacen Nimdok]

Objective I: SIKE
Tags: Lyra Vent Zoraya Ives-Ayres Zachariel Steelblood
Location: Slave Quarters
NPCs: Tammuz Hoole | Jaina Grayson

Of course, Zachariel gave chase. Nimdok was in no shape to fight, and he knew it.

So did Jaina and Tammuz. The former guided Nimdok to a chunk of blasted wall large enough to take cover behind, and set him down. “I’ll handle this,” she said, unsheathing her katana.

“Wait a minute—” Nimdok protested, only to be interrupted by Tammuz (who, incidentally, was still a Silver Jedi drexl).

<You two get out of here. I will stay and fend him off.>

“I’m not completely useless,” Nimdok insisted. “If the three of us work together, we could take him down without anyone having to sacrifice themselves.” The emphasis he placed on the last couple of words was deliberate. Tammuz had pulled this sort of self-sacrificing stunt before, clearly craving a heroic martyr’s death. Or at least, he was always just a little too eager to lay down his life for his friends.

Zachariel was approaching steadily. Though wounded, he was a Gen’dai and would soon regenerate to full health. They would have to act fast.

The trio took just enough time to slap together an attack plan. When Zachariel entered the same general area as them, Tammuz struck first. The drexl moved like a cat pouncing on a mouse, attempting to bite Zachariel’s head off. At almost the same time, Nimdok stabbed a mental spear into the Gen’dai’s mind, trying to keep him occupied, distracted. Finally, Jaina leaped into the fray, her katana swinging, aiming to lop off each of Zachariel’s arms. Hopefully at least one of these attacks would land a successful blow to their pursuer...

 

[Starlin Rand]

Objective II: Tip of the Spear
Tags: The Man in White
Location: Wouldn’t you like to know, Mawboy
Gear: Lightsaber | Shoto

Starlin heard Zabka loud and clear even over the gunfire. The words even registered, but didn’t really sink in. This fight had exhausted Starlin, both physically and emotionally. He couldn’t help but compare himself, very unfairly, to his missing master. Syd wouldn’t have gotten tired and wanted to give up in the middle of a battle. Maybe that meant he was weak…

Even as he thought these thoughts, Starlin was still moving. He had never stopped fighting, even though some part of him really, really wanted to. There was another part of him that never wanted to stop—that wanted to kill and kill and kill, again and again, until the end of time or he dropped dead. Whichever came first.

He didn’t know how to feel about that part of himself. It seemed so alien and yet familiar, like it had been festering inside him for a long time, but he had never truly noticed it before now. How was it that he could feel like giving up, and never stopping, both at the same time?

Why did it feel like there was no other alternative, no real choice for him to make?

Starlin watched his father violently dispatch every enemy that came his way. Zabka’s methods were far from the clean, bloodless killing Jedi rendered with their shining blades of light. His guns blasted gory holes in the Mawites, ripping off limbs and blowing heads off amid showers of blood.

Then Starlin turned away. The phrik blades retreated back into their sheaths, the blood of those he had slain with them trickling from his knuckles. His armor was in tatters and his shoto burned his hand when he held it, but he refused to let go as he began to cut a swathe through the enemy’s forces, heading back toward the Goshen War Camp to resume the siege.

I am a Jedi, he thought, as though the words were a prayer. I am a Jedi Knight...

 

[Lord Letifer]

LETIFER | NEW SITH ORDER
KILL Dagon Kaze, Jem Gaelor
Goshen War Camp | Rooftops of Keep



PEACE IS A LIE​

The Shikkar struck true, slicing across each Achilles’ tendon with precision in one fell swoop. The Sith assassin had taken advantage of the momentary victory the Jedi received, while his own right arm was still stunned, locked up in place. He had to take advantage of the moment, had to finish it. Any delay and he’d be at a disadvantage fighting two on one again, he had to take this one out.

The Jedi padawan cried out in pain as her knees hit the rooftop, her golden skin quickly took on a silver tone as she bleed across the cobbled concrete roofing. He could feel her panic, her raw emotions flood in. Letifer took it in, feeding on it like a hungry animal looking for it’s next meal. He felt empowered, invincible.

This was the feeling of power.

Reality hit him immediately as he twirled the blade in his hand, coming in for the finishing blow. Like a punch to gut, his senses lit up with warning, red flags firing like neurons in his brain. His mind was ready and willing but his physical body was too slow, too in motion to divert his course to prevent the Jedi Knight’s foot from planting directly into his face. His mask shattered like glass as felt the full blunt of @Dagon Kaze’s kick send him crashing into the ground with a roll backward.

The wind knocked out of him, he nearly froze in place before it all came crashing down. The anger, the hate. His body felt the pain of what had transpired and let him know first hand, his face felt like jello. The mask had saved him from the blunt force trauma but still gave him the pressure and weight behind the blow. He grit his teeth and picked himself back up.

Coming to stand once again was a struggle but one he conquered nonetheless. He felt it close in, the black rings around his vision. He imagined himself ringing the Jedi’s neck and let all the trauma from his past flood in as he drawed upon the Dark Side of the Force to awaken his rage. Small fragments of his mask fell from him, the Sith breathed in and out violently. Half of his mask was gone, fractured and scattered upon the rooftop. One would expect the now visible face of the monster before them to be grotesque, rotten.

They would be wrong.

The two Jedi would look upon a face no different than theirs. The face of a human, the face of Sora Mohc .

Strands of black hair fell from beneath the broken mask over his face, his lone visible eye stared out with intensity. His near hyperventilating slowed, his eye shifted color before their very eyes to a sulfuric yellow. Letifer screamed a bloody roar, he unleashed the monster within as the Dark Side augmented his body. He charged in, right hand stretching out as his saber returned to his now-functional hand. Armed with a lightsaber and a shikkar, the Sith assassin moved in for the kill with a flurry filled with PAIN.

 

[Tu'teggacha]

Location: Lao-mon, Monastery of Slaughter and surrounding quadrant
Tags: Gir Quee | Tren Chaar | ADM. Reshmar | Liram Angellus | Commander Ewan "Raider" Isaacs

As the mass of Mawite fighters closed in from one side and the Brotherhood capital ships advanced from the other, streaking toward the invasion fleet like the jaws of some great interstellar beast snapping shut around their prey, there was a brief flurry of chaos and carnage. Then, abruptly, the Emerald Undertow appeared to stretch wide... and vanish. It was the telltale sign of a ship jumping to hyperspace. "Hah!" chortled Telemachus of Daedalon. "Cowards. They ran as soon as they realized they'd been tricked." It would be much easier to mop up the rest of the enemy forces with their biggest ship fleeing the scene.

As it turned out, though, it wasn't a rout. It was a tactical maneuver.

The Undertow reappeared beside the Monastery, or close enough that it could quickly reach such a position within the gas cloud. It then deployed some kind of energy field, a starship shield on a massive scale. It was astounding that a ship of only 5,000 meters could project a dome 20,000 meters in diameter, comfortably encasing both combatants in a field strong enough to disintegrate incoming craft. The Brotherhood ships did not test the shield's power. They intended to use the Undertow's absence to wreak devastation on the still-flanked remainder of the fleet. The Monastery would fend for itself.

As the Undertow began firing its heavy guns, huge shells slammed into the station. But the Monastery had been built as a defensive structure, and while it had few weapons - only a few cannon emplacements that could hardly hurt the massive Undertow - it was covered in astoundingly thick armor plating. It was a tough nut to crack, and would be able to hold up for a while even alone. Certainly the enemy capital ship could break it in time, but the station would not be idle while that happened. Even with its fighters launched, it was still the home of the Maw's most elite warriors, warriors who remained and hungered for blood.

As the H-1ME and Marinus Battle Droids landed on the station, they soon found that the monastery's occupants would not take their intrusion lying down. The elite Knyghts of the Maw, clad in their alchemically-fortified phrik armor, waded into the fray. Their wrist-mounted plasma blades and shoulder-mounted grenade launchers were deadly weapons indeed, especially in the close quarters of the station's unhallowed halls. The punishment they could take was immense, and the muscular uplinks within their armor interfaced with their cybernetics, keeping them much more mobile than the slow Marinus-class droids.

And a single thermal grenade could surely do terrible damage to a H-1ME swarm.

While some Knyghts fought back the borders, battling fiercely through the halls of a station that shook with each impact of the Undertow's heavy shells, others became borders. Loading up in Mawite boarding pods, they streaked out of the hangar bays and headed straight for the enemy capital ship. The pointed prows of their single-use boarding craft were designed to punch through the Undertow's hull, allowing them to spill out into its hallways and begin killing whomever they encountered. After all, the Undertow was projecting its shields far from its hull in order to isolate the Monastery, and thus could not use them against boarders.

Armed with the Force, cybernetics, and heavy weapons and armor, they aimed to wreak bloody havoc on those who had dared to attack their sinister home.

Meanwhile, the Mawite capital ships suddenly found a spreading cloud of gas and ion chaff blocking their view of the Silver Jedi fleet. Both sides fired blindly through the barrier... but there was a difference. The Alliance ships had still turned their flanks to the Brotherhood force, in order to unleash their broadsides, while the Mawites were approaching prow-first, a much slimmer target. As a result, it was far more likely that Mawite fire through the cloud would hit something than SJC return fire, simply because they had much more surface area exposed to their guns. It was a good thing the SJC ships were charging up their shields.

They were going to need them if they remained so exposed.

The ion and gas cloud did force the two Crucifix Is to break off their attempted ramming attack; flying through the ion chaff would have sapped their shields too badly for them to hold up well on the far side, and they might have been hit by friendly fire given that precise targeting had been blinded. Instead they paused in their advance and joined the blind fire. The result was a confusing exchange where neither side could be certain whether they were hitting the enemy, or how hard. It was certainly an unproductive way to do battle, dragging out any potential victory for either of them into a long defensive stalemate.

The Maw had no patience for stalemate. So while the Star Destroyers continued to fire through the cloud, the Samael-class frigates descended, moving three-dimensionally so that they could angle under the nagnol gas and target the SJC fleet from below with their ion cannons. They would also be able to feed positional data back to the Star Destroyers, allowing them to fire more precisely through the cloud while the SJC fleet could not hit them back with the same precision. In effect, they planned to turn the enemy's little defensive "wall" into something that only disadvantaged them, allowing the Maw to turn it back on them.

Meanwhile, the huge mass of Mawite fighters coming from the Monastery was hitting the SJC battle group from the other side, and was thus unaffected by the gas cloud. While the SJC capital ships had made no move to counter them, allowing them to close in and begin bombing the Picket Flotilla without any coherent response to their attack, the Alliance aces were doing their best to fight them back... not least the squadron leader that Telemachus of Daedalon was chasing. The Knyght could sense that the enemy pilot was planning something, but by the time he realized exactly what it was, it was too late to stop it.

Tren Chaar 's plan worked to perfection. Divine Eagles scattered, tossed end over end by the concussive force of the six combined missiles, and the much faster X-Wings and A-Wings had their opening to get behind the Mawite craft. What had been a totally unified advance, like a wall closing in to crush the SJC ships, was forced to break off in a long series of dogfights that pitted the speed and agility of Alliance starfighters against the armored but bulky fighter-bombers of the Knyghts. That would certainly slow down their devastating attack on the Picket Line... but the Brotherhood still had the superior numbers by far.

"Clever," Telemachus ground out from between clenched teeth, "but ultimately futile." He streaked in after Chaar's B-Wing, reaching out to the Force to anticipate his rival's maneuvers, using his cybernetic interface with his craft to react near-instantly. He was determined to punish his foe for ruining the perfection of his charge, his trap that was closing in to crush the life from the SJC fleet like one of Lao-mon's great serpents squeezing its prey. His beam cannons blazed in a constant stream, trying to carve the armor from the resilient heavy starfighter he pursued. He would have his revenge, he swore it.

Chaar would die, and the SJC fleet would burn in the Ace's wake.

Spoiler: Action Summary

• The Monastery of Slaughter deploys its Knyghts
  • Some move to repel the droids boarding the Monastery
  • Some move to board the Emerald Undertow
• The Mawite capital ships blind-fire through the cloud
  • Prow-first, their profile is slimmer and harder to hit than broadside-facing SJC ships
  • The Crucifix Is break off their ram attempt and join the blind firing
• The Mawite frigate line descends three-dimensionally to get a firing angle behind the cloud
  • They begin to feed targeting data back to the capital ships
• The Mawite fighters (40 squadrons) swarm the SJC picket line and begin bombing it
  • No fleet defenses against them have been declared
  • Many enemy fighters and support craft have descended to Lao-mon
• The Alliance fighters break down the unity of the Mawite fighter attack
  • Individual dogfights break out, delaying some of the damage to the picket line

Spoiler: Fleet Composition / Actions

Aeon's End, a Praetorian-class Destroyer	Shields Battered, Blind firing through cloud
Bonfire of Vanity, a Praetorian-class Destroyer	Shields Battered, Blind firing through cloud
Wrathborn, a Crucifix I-class Destroyer	Minor Damage, Blind firing through cloud
Oblivion Herald, a Crucifix I-class Destroyer	Shields Battered, Blind firing through cloud
Misery Bringer, a Samael-class Frigate	Minor Damage, Descending beneath cloud
Orphan Maker, a Samael-class Frigate	Shields Battered, Descending beneath cloud
Hope Taker, a Samael-class Frigate	Descending beneath cloud
Harvester, a Samael-class Frigate	Shields Battered, Descending beneath cloud
Avaricious, a Samael-class Frigate	Descending beneath cloud
Mad Dog, a Samael-class Frigate	Minor Damage, Descending beneath cloud

 

[Glossa]

Location: Western Walls, Goshen War Camp - Lao-mon
Objective: 2 - Tip of the Spear
Allies: BotM ( The Mongrel Marlon Sularen Halketh Romund Sro )
Enemies: SJC ( Sergeant Omen ) │ NIO ( Noel Strasza Cromwell ) │ GA ( The Dark Inquisitor )
Direct Engagement: The Dark Inquisitor Sergeant Omen

The Jango Jumper’s nostrils flared with hunger as the horned demigoddess crawled pathetically towards the Marine’s fallen form, blood trailing from her wounds as she did, the dissipating fog allowing Glossa to see the blood left on the ground in her wake. It went without saying that the Jedi’s wounds were likely severe, but the Zabrak nevertheless clung to strength, perhaps bolstered by her deific powers. Glossa knew that she could kill her, but instinct told her that it would be a dirty, gruesome fight. Even if she did manage to emerge victorious, Glossa knew that she would be in no shape to defend her prize after the duel, meaning that another glory-hungry marauder could come and claim her kill, easily dispatching her in the process. After all, the Zabrak would be a cornered rat with almost nothing to lose…

Save for the life of her friend.

In spite of the fact that she had seized the advantage, Glossa had not escaped the fight without injury. The contusion and numbness in her thigh would slightly her down, stemming from the verpine shatter round which had struck her leg only moments before. It would rob her of some of her speed and agility, which would make fending off the demigoddess all the more difficult. Furthermore, her chest also ached, wrought by the Jedi's sudden exertion of energy. Every breath was painful, which was becoming all too apparent as she watched Kinhaes embrace the fallen Marine. Fortunately, it seemed that the Jedi was suffering even more severe injuries, but Glossa doubted they would impede her much.

"Not again," Kinhaes said, her voice hoarse and quiet, "Please, Omen, don't do this." The hand on Omen's chest clenched into a fist, Kinhaes' face warping from despair to Unbridled Rage. Heavy breathing began to leave Kinhaes, her eyes flaring with a wrath she never felt before. "You," Kinhaes said, loud enough for the Marauder to hear, "You MONSTER!"

The Jango Jumper did not sit idle as the Zabrak mourned her wounded friend. Ultimately, Glossa still had the leverage and she intended to use it. Just as the Jedi moved to stand, Glossa set her aim next to the Zabrak left thigh and squeezed the trigger, firing a single shot from 16 meters intended to as a warning to dissuade the Jedi.

Then, if the Jedi ceased her attempt at retribution, Glossa would begin to speak.

“Your friend clings to life, godling. However, he can still be saved.” The Jango Jumper began as she walked a few paces forward. Her high-pitched voice was hoarse with pain, anxiety, and bloodlust as she pointed her rifle towards the Marine’s fallen form, her sights set on his head from 11 meters away. The adhesion system in her gloves activated as she did, the sensors processing the increase in grip in anticipation of another attempt to rip the weapon from her grasp via the arcane powers. “There is a chance that you can help him, a chance that we can end this without further injury, but it will demand that you let go of your pride and vanity, Jedi.” She spoke, before taking a deep, raspy breath, her senses set on edge in anticipation of another rash move from the Jedi.

“There’s the easy way, then the hard way.” She continued. “Give me your laser swords and I will leave you and your friend alone, with no further harm.” The Jango Jumper offered, her eyes watching both the Jedi and the wounded soldier all the while, primed for any signs of sudden movement.

“Or, he dies.” She hissed.

Spoiler: Loadout

• White Pulsiva Bodysuit
  • Supplemental Armor Plating
    • Scavenged Duraplast
      • Vambraces / Greaves / Cuisses / Rerebraces
  • Energy Shield
    • DS-102 “Aegis” Personal Energy Shield
  • B-11 “Greitis” Class Combat Boots
    • Whimsy Knife (2)
• Hekler’Kok FR-01
  • 30-Round Magazine
  • Ammunition
    • Hekler’Kok Polymer Cartridge Ammunition-Explosive
    • Hekler’Kok Polymer Cartridge Ammunition-Armor Piercing
  • Sonic Scope
• FAE/M-01 "Scherezade" Energized Vibroblade
• Flash Grenade
• G-20 Glop Grenade (2)

 

[Sars Sarad]

Objective 1
Location: Lao-mon, Goshen War Camp; the Citadel
Equipment: Lightsaber; Old Sin; Dueling Armor
Allies: The Maw, nominally
Opponent(s): Kadan Scipora

---

A brief clash of lightsabers resulting in some sparks and then a disengagement. The Jedi Sarad had been engaging was gone, disappearing overhead as he flipped up, overhead and away down the corridor. Turning, Sarad would see the Jedi as he landed, lightsaber reignited and spun to face him. Gazing at him Sarad, in no hurry to engage again would reposition his lightsaber carefully so that it took a defensive position across his body while Old Sin withdrew close to his left side.

He'd hear him as he offered his name from behind the mask he wore causing Sarad to nod his head once in acknowledgement before responding...

"I am Sars Sarad."

...keeping it short, simple as he watched Kadan. It was at this point, with Senses still extended out and dispersed through the force that Sarad would remark...

"Your thoughts betray you, Scipora."

...the subtle nuances rippling through the force indicating to Sarad that his opponent was focusing on the pieces of the Vibrosword he'd cut into pieces. Lifting his left hand Sarad extended his index and middle fingers in a gesture while the other remained on Old Sin prompting a telekinetic burst of Force Push to rip outwards. Kadan would be unaffected, the Force Push would specifically target the pieces of the Vibrosword and throw them away, further down the corridor behind the Jedi ensuring they were, if nothing else much more difficult to manipulate.

It was the Force Push that would act as a catalyst for Sarad's next movements as well. Exploding forward from where he stood only a short distance from Kadan, Sarad advanced on his quickly. The Lightsaber Sarad held had been raised to height with his shoulders, positioned horizontally so that it extended from his right to left shoulder while Sarad's left arm had withdrawn following the manipulation of the force so that his elbow cocked back behind his glutes and Old Sin hovered close to the outside of his left hip.

As he came across the short distance of a meter, all but leaping at Scipora he'd have inquired...

"And who is your Master, Scipora?"

...Sarad knew nothing about the Jedi aside from his obvious Mandalorian heritage due to the armor he wore, the style of his Helm, etc. He might have been a Padawan, a Knight or even a Master himself. All Sarad wanted to know was who trained him. When he advanced on Kadan Sarad's lightsaber raised, fanning in front of him to make contact with Kadan's raised lightsaber near the hilt so that it was more difficult to generate momentum from the higher position. The Lightsaber came in at forty-five degrees so that if Kadan made a downwards stroke the natural angle it was positioned would assist in parrying Kadan's blade off to the right of Sarad. Sarad would end in a left sided lead again, his right foot back and turned outwards for stability following his advance. He'd come within inches of Kadan, extremely close quarters as the crackling sound of the lightsabers locked together above them hissed and popped ensuring it would be difficult to wield the longer weapons effectively. Old Sin slashed as well, rising from Sarad's outer left him and coming across for a slash from the right to the left of Kadan's stomach just above the waist; Sarad was hoping to avoid the overhang of the armor and rip through the soft, fleshy area that was small but sometimes exposed there though he was aware the Phase-Knife was also capable of shredding armor by itself. Regardless after Old Sin completed the slash Sarad would jerk it backwards in what was essentially a combination move, punching the inverted blade towards the inside of Kadan's right leg, at the thigh just above the knee.

Despite the battle raging on Lao-Mon and even inside the Citadel itself Sarad seemed completely focused on his opponent, the corridor they fought in filled with many dead Mawites as well as some Jedi was surrounded by blaster fire, shouting, etc from other areas of the Citadel but it seemed as though this fight now was theirs alone without interruption.

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Omen's voice croaked to life as his broken body layout lifeless on the dirt. "Don't... Don't listen to her... I've lived a good life... Just run... Your sabers aren't worth my life..." Even though she probably still would trade the sabers in a heartbeat, he still didn't think she should. Those sabers were the result of a lifetime of work and dedication to the Jedi way of life. To just give them up for him... Well, it would cement how much she cared for him at least. Either way, it was her choice and he was stuck on the sidelines, powerless to stop her whatever the Padawan chose.
Glossa, The Dark Inquisitor

 

[The Dark Inquisitor]

Objective: Tip of the Spear
Tags: Glossa Sergeant Omen

---

With the warrior before her now pointing her rifle at Omen, his heavily wounded body limp on the ground, Kinhaes' mind cleared. What was she doing? She was acting no better than those that started her true dedication to the Light. Releasing the objects in her grasp, once held up by the unseen Force, Kinhaes listened to her foe. Her demands, were unexpected and painful to hear, but she should have figured as much. Looking at the two silver metal cases in her hands, Kinhaes heard Omen, his weak voice calling out to her to run. Her heart was in her throat as she swallowed her pride. She'd have to in order for them both to survive. She didn't want Omen to die on account of her desire for physical property.

Glaring at Glossa for a moment, before casting worried and pained eyes at Omen, she turned to the Marauder and knelt on the ground. Placing the inactive sabers before her, she pushed them lightly letting them roll to the warrior. "Have it your way," Kinhaes said, her voice equally pained as her eyes showed. Her master had aided her in finding her crystals. Taught her how to build them and utilize them. Now, she had to relinquish them to save hers and another's life. The choice was hard, but it needed to be done.

Once the shining weapons were far enough away for Glossa to pick them up, she walked backwards to Omen's place. Her body shielded his limp body the entire time as she moved between him and the Maw Soldier. In case she fired at them, she was ready to pull a piece of metal debris in front of them. Pain shocked her heart, knowing she might not see the tools of her life again. But as a Jedi she must learn to let go of the past. This might very well be the first step.

 

[Ves Fett]

DOG OF WAR
BROTHERHOOD OF THE MAW
OBJ2
Tags: Thurion Heavenshield

​

Crap.

Her footing came loose and the stone beneath crumbled, forcing her to stumble and jump off the tower and onto the nearest pile of bodies to shield the fall. Fething Jedi bastard, she swore in pain, pushing herself off the pile of corpses and rolling down on her back. If she could get that lightsaber from his hand, this fight would be a bit more entertaining and more in her league. Ves didn't want to be the mouse in this cat and mouse chase; no, she wouldn't suffer it. Not from this snow goblin with a lightsaber. She fought a hundred battles and more, and she wasn't gonna let him be her last. Not now, not here; it wasn't her destiny. Ves had seen it in her fever struck nightmares; she'd die but not yet. Not while there was still purpose.


"You know you're really something Jedi; I would've thought you'd of ran by now, but noo noooo you got to kill the Mandalorian, add another name to your list like you lot did to my clan, but I ain't gonna be the next."


Cocksucker.


If he had sense, he'd know a cornered dog was more dangerous than one free; that was basic common sense; without his force magic and fancy titles, he was no better than she was. They were both glorified killers who collected their tithe through killing those that opposed their way of life, the only difference between them was that one of them pretended he was good and okay with the life he led. On the other hand, Ves embraced the brutal nihilism of war; without it, she was nothing but another PTSD riddled Mandalorian veteran with nightmares.

​

 

[Darth Tennacus]

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


​

Her manoeuvrability was exceptional. Truly was it difficult for him to believe that such a creature had earned its place among the Jedi; and it was such reality that made him empathetic. Compassionate? Definitely not; however, he understood that this great, twisted thing hungered power. The flavour of the Dark Side was ever intoxicating; one sip of its unrivalled expanse was more than enough to yearn for more. Such Sith - and, of course, Jedi - believed as much. So much that they bent all of their intent and dedication towards it, without ever truly knowing when to stop. As their lightsabers fell in union yet again, Tennacus wanted to help it acquire such power. But it had a host who needed better convincing. For now, Tennacus would keep on fighting it. How many attacks it took - how many gashes across her flesh he would enforce - his tenacity would drive him to acquire cooperation. One way, if not the other.

When the moment came for them to temporarily part their weapons, Tennacus stretched out to the Force to make psychological assault through the Dark Side. If this creature was as connected as he believed, then it would have heard his thoughts across the black tides of the dark, from which his voice ushered along the ripples of the void. If you want to be absolute in your power, you need to enforce yourself upon this Jedi who longs to hold you back. Only I can bring you salvation. You only need to make her let me in. He had hoped such words would reverberate to Mrurh'en'lase, and perhaps encourage her to rise up and take back the throne of her vessel. In doing so, perhaps they would fall out with one another further, and allow Tennacus to catch them both off guard amidst the conflict. Then again, it was only an attempt, and one he would pay for dearly.

Unfortunately, his focus into the Force brought his expectations to a slim margin of possibilities. He intended to block her attack with the lightsaber, not concerning himself with potential trickery like he had displayed only moments earlier. In his reach into the Force, he had given up his focus on the battle, if only for a fleeting moment. Her punch winded him - stronger, this time - to a point where all the air in his lungs rushed from his body. Amidst a gasp to deposit such air back within, her uppercut against his respirator was successful, and the air quickly hissed out of cracked vents and strained filters. Tennacus immediately stepped away, swinging his lightsaber ahead of him aimlessly, while the other hand clawed against the metallic frame, trying to adjust it. He was losing air faster than he was taking it in. He was not ultimately dependant on the machinery, but in the heat of battle, his body demanded filtered air that would not overwhelm his lungs. Synchronised to his movements, it served to only supply him what air was required to fuel his current state, and only a drop more or a drop less would fall grossly out of his favour.

The Sith reacted instinctively, attempting to hold the mask against his face in one hand whilst the other bearing his lightsaber swung wildly. It cared not for where it would hit: just that it would hit whatever was opposing its wielder as he tried to regain steady breaths. But until that mask was reattached appropriately, he would be reduced to only one hand to fight this battle.

Clever.

 

[The Mongrel]

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

Varkas was going to die. He knew it. It was his destiny, the moment he had been bred to strive toward, for his death was his gateway to paradise. And yet in the heat of the moment, with the Jedi in front of him and his battle brother fallen at his feet, he found that he did not want to die today. It would be easy, certainly. All he had to do was lift his finger, and then he and Androk would be gone almost instantly, almost painlessly. They might even take the Jedi down with them, or at least hurt her badly, and surely that would earn them the favor of the Avatars in the afterlife.

But no matter how beautiful the New Galaxy described by the Heathen Priests might be, Varkas liked being alive right now. He liked to drink and joke and laugh with his comrades, making up stupid, dangerous games like jumping over bonfires or throwing darts to knock bottles off of each other's heads. He liked to shoot up and watch bad holovids, laughing himself hoarse at the terrible acting. He liked to get plastered day drinking, pass out for twelve hours, and then wake up in time to watch the sunrise. Life was an uphill struggle, but it was also beautiful.

His mind traced the path that had led him to this point. Born to a clan of slaving pirates, he had been taught from a young age that the galaxy was cold and cruel, and only those who were equally cold and cruel could thrive in it. He had made his first kill at twelve, his gun hand shaking, his mother screaming at him to pull the trigger, Varkas, don't be weak. By twenty he'd killed a dozen more, and beaten and battered many times that number. When his clan had joined the Brotherhood, he hadn't hesitated. His life hadn't changed beyond the battles getting bigger.

And the stakes for his soul getting higher.

Had there ever been a chance that his life could have gone differently? He could have walked away anytime, he supposed... but where would he have gone? He'd never been tortured and brainwashed into fanatical obedience like the slave-soldiers, but simple inertia had carried him forward. He'd just kept doing what he'd always been doing since childhood, alongside many of the same people. And he'd been good at it, good enough to rise to a high rank in the Scar Hounds, good enough to earn the respect and camaraderie of the powerful but primitive Androk.

Now, the Jedi was doing something no one had ever done before: she was telling him he had a choice, one that would affect the course of his entire life, and then demanding that he make it. He was wounded and clearly beaten, his battle brother even more so. There were only two options before him: keep going down the course that had been laid out for him since birth and let go of the detonator, dying "gloriously" for the Maw... or choosing a different way, one he couldn't define. Could he even do that? Would Androk, the faithful tribal warrior, despise him for weakness?

What could the Jedi even do for him on a battlefield?

Androk was silent, near-catatonic with pain. The choice would belong to Varkas alone. "I... I don't know," he finally said. The arm holding the grenade lowered, though his finger did not leave the dead man's switch, and the explosive was still armed. All around them the battle continued to rage, brutal street-to-street fighting that would claim thousands of lives within the hour. "I don't understand. What alternative can you possibly offer us? We're enemy combatants, and I'm not going to some Jedi prison. I ought to just go out in a blaze of glory."

He frowned, brow furrowed in thought. "But if you back off right now, if you let us go..." Then what? They'd pretend their one-sided fight had never happened? He wasn't sure.

 

[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 7​

Hunting his targets was easier than expected, primarily because one of them was still a massive beast still. However, he didn't simply rush forward towards them, but advanced slowly, simply following along. Stalking without rush, Zachariel's senses remained open, looking out for any attack, or the location of his prey.

Upon sensing something, Zachariel slowed further, drawing his sword as well. Something felt off, though he couldn't tell what, but the drexl was close at least. Pausing for a moment, Zachariel forced his worst wound to heal partially, enough that it wouldn't hinder him in the slightest. Then he continued, turning the corner and suddenly running into his targets. Wordlessly snarling at them, he raised his weapons as they struck.

The drexl struck first, aiming for his head. That was what he had been sensing and it was coming fast. Ducking as fast as possible, the beast that was Tammuz still managed to shear off half his upper horns, leaving them jagged and much shorter. The mental attack from Nimdok reached the same plane as before, and forced Zachariel even lower at the sudden pain. Snarling, the man lashes out with the Force instantly. Where Nimdok had prior jabbed into his mind, now Zachariel returned the favor, sending forth waves of pain and agony towards the man.

Lastly, the attack from Jaina proved more successful. Gashes appear in Zachariel's armor from Jaina's sharp katana, though they fail in cutting his arms off. As low to the ground as he is, Zachariel's pauldrons provide much more protection to the swings coming down. Snarling at these attacks, Zachariel lashes out in turn. Springing up and forward, his blades strike towards Jaina and Tammuz, the sword to Jaina and the axe towards Tammuz. Zachariel is roaring his rage then, actively drawing in the Dark Side and sending it forward towards the trio, particularly Errik.

Laughing at her words, the marauder champions leans even closer.
"Oh darlin', you ain't seen real hell yet. Each of us knows what you've gone through, we've gone through similar or worse. By the Avatars, we've committed worse things than you could dream of."

Then they continued to act as they had, even as Ziare fought back. It simply brought the pair amusement, though the third in their group remained unmoved. Even as the knife stabbed him, he remained unmoved, merely grunting at it. Then the blades fell from her grip at his blow, and he left them to the ground, uncaring of them. Thus they marched on, uncaring of their prey or her actions. They hoped she would fight back, hoped she would show her strength, as they only respected strength. The silent marauder however, he looked on impassively, eyes narrowing somewhat as he watches the champion. There is a dislike there at her actions, not towards Ziare, but what she has said and done with their prey.

She made her move towards her blaster, while the champion and marauder dragging her were oblivious. Instead they simply moved on, laughing to themselves and joking about the horrid acts they'd commit. The silent one behind Ziare said nothing, instead watching with amusement as she aimed towards the front pair. Her first shot sailed clean and clear towards the marauder dragging her, hitting the man in the neck and dropping him instantly. The champion was turning towards Ziare with a smile on her face, before the second shot caught her by surprise. Scrambling back with an arm before her face, she was shot in the arm rather than the face.

Still, her surprised movements brought her to cover as she cursed.
"You said that was a single shot!"

Her furious cry was directed towards the silent one, who had now taken a step to the side and back, even as Ziare was left laying on the ground. Ziare's third shot struck the champion in the leg, forcing her to a knee. Another shot strikes her in her chest armor, causing her to fall over, while the fifth shot goes wide. And then Ziare has no more shots left, causing the gun to click emptily. Smiling to himself, the silent marauder steps forward and above Ziare.

The champion pushes herself up, already cursing up a storm as she glares towards the silent marauder.
"I will kill you for this, you he-"

Her rant is ended by an abrubt shot from the silent marauder, shooting her through the head. The mans eyes never left Ziare's though, instead he just looks down at her. Leaning forward slightly, his quite voice floats down to her as he holsters his pistol.
"Welcome to the Brotherhood dear, you'll fit right in."

Smiling a genuine smile, the marauder then proceeds to grab her and continue to pull her along. They pass the bodies of the marauders with little fanfare, with the silent marauder only ensuring Ziare can't reach any weapons or further ammunition. By now, another pair of veteran marauders are approaching, glancing over their dead comrades with some surprise. Then they join the silent marauder without question, instead choosing to focus on Ziare as they advance towards the cells once more.

 

[Darth Maleva]

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

The smoke was suffocating. Each breath burned, but Maleva powered through the pain, her chest falling evenly and deeply. The pain was hers to conquer. As she refused to bend, it instead gave to her, empowering her strikes. The Jedi that had struck against her was struggling. Every step accompanied a sharp inhale, which led to coughs the man couldn't stifle no matter how he seemed to try. His body betrayed him, his struggle leaving him open for just a moment- long enough for a crimson saber to slide in between two ribs. Last words were lost in regurgitated blood. The master retracted her blade with a quiet hmph. She then glanced up, searching for her soldiers.

Their forms were lost in a spray of dust and fire. This explosion was not distant, its effects far more devastating than a bit of smoke. The world became remote chaos. Survival was Maleva's only thought as her body began to writhe in the air, attempting to protect her unarmored head. All too quickly, the fall came. Her spine arched over a piece of rubble, the air leaving her chest in a forced exhale. She struggled there on the ground for only a second before acceptance came. The air had been knocked out of her. It would come back easier if she did not fight. Rage filled the empty hollow where fear ought to lay.

Maleva struggled to get upright, her body protesting every inch. The back of her armored had caved to the fall, and although it was not broken, her range would be limited. Her boots were blackened and cracked, and exposed skin poked through, angry, red, and twisted. She could feel the trickle of blood on the nape of her neck, letting her know her attempts to save her head hadn't been perfect. The wartorn camp spun as she rose, but even stumbling, her determination kept.

One hand extended, calling forth the blade that had been thrown from her in the blast. It was still intact, for she could sense it's presence, and after just a moment she could feel it moving closer. Another hand raised, dancing through the air, touching the force. It was hers to twist and mold, serving to end her enemies. A violent shudder rippled through the air as the darkness hunted the witch, intent on bringing her and her friends pain... or at least the illusion of it.

 

[Maestus]

Aaran Tafo
Gren Blidh

GEARZ

Maestus Fury - Lightwhip
Dragon Shield Talisman
Shield V1.0

Via.

A simple name. For a simple girl, from a long time ago.

A dead girl. For that is what Via was, literally and figuratively. Maestus killed Via, and Via's parents, years ago on Gehinnom. The unholy trinity died at the hands of the Sith Lord, under the watchful gaze of the Sith'Ari, Darth Solipsis . She had seen Via's parents and was instantly revolted by their smallness. Their weakness. Not a one of the 3 had any vision. Any strength. Least of all strength of will.

If Maestus despised one thing, it was the weak of will. For if one could not stand for something, they were destined for failure. And to her, failure was not an option. Not then. Not now.

So when Aaran Tafo greeted her with the dead girl's name, he received no reaction. No spark of anger. No raging hostility. When she deigned to respond to him, she...Smiled? What the hell was going on? Had Aaran entered the Twilight Zone? Was Maestus in the midst of a Bipolar mood shift? Enquiring minds would want to know.

She smiply graced him with a faint smile. And dipped her head as well. THe slightest inclination of her respect for him. She was no fool. Her own power and knowledge had grown exponentially in the years that had passed since they'd last seen each other. She knew that he was an eternal scholar. He was not one to rest on current status quo. The galaxy and all its denizens were in constant flux. Shifting, expanding, decreasing. Just as she had grown, she knew he had, as well.

War, Death, Rebirth. This is the way.

Hello Aaran. It has been quite a while, hasn't it? And yet here you are, offering mercy to me yet again. Tell me, though. What does mercy look like? What can I expect from you and your Jedi Order? Me, responsible for many death's, atrocities and horrors over the years and through out the galaxy.

She did not move. Made no motion to draw a weapon. She was, for all intents and purposes, quite content to hear what her Jedi enemy had to say on this matter.

Then a presence drew near. A very familiar one.

Her apprentice. Gren Blidh

She looked to her apprentice quietly, then turned her black eyes back onto Aaran. In years past, Maestus would have pressed the attack, feeling confident in superior numbers. In years past, she had underestimated the Jedi before her. Aaran could see the change in her apparently. Whereas before she had been brash, arrogant and gotten by on dumb luck...Now she was a smoldering volcano. Fury and power lying just below the surface. Restrained, controlled.

Calm.

That was it. While she would forever be a child of rage and lava, she had found the strength of will to control it. She harnessed that rage and fury. What remained to be seen was if she could control it once it had been loosed.

She held out one crimson hand towards Gren Blidh .

Aaran, allow me to introduce my apprentice.

She turned, gaze shifting from Aaran to Gren. As her eyes landed on Gren, the red flames that rimmed the black orbs blazed to life.

Gren, meet Jedi Aaran Tafo. He and I have history together. Do play nice boys.

 

[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

---

---

​

"Issues. You have issues."

The tidal wave of flames splashed against the gossamer barrier, whooshing overhead and spilling around the base with futility. Luckily, the heat didn’t dissuade the effectiveness of the hounds. Some, the Charhounds, even basked in it.

At the nape of her neck, a tingle flared and the inferno blossomed and flared on its own accord. Music, loud enough to boom over the cacophonous crackle of the flames, and then the distinct yelp of a hound being smashed strong enough for the yawp of distress to be followed by a thud.

"Hot damn! Talk about flaming hot!"

A distraction, those infuriating Imperials and their distractions. Especially when they took on the persona of men. She’d been distracted by an Imperial man once, a Knight Errant. It had been fatal and enraging.

In death, she could still feel hatred. Pure, raw, unadulterated abhorrence that fuelled the machinations of her attack. Her fist clenched in the direction of the male, crushing the air in her grip as a physical representation of her intentions. The musician –– talented or otherwise – in all his gaudy armour and plating would feel the suffocating pressure of an invisible force wrapping him up. Telekinetic power turning that which was meant to protect against the flesh and muscle beneath, tightening, squeezing, collapsing.

Beyond him, her eyes narrowed as the other two ran as fast as they could. She’d targeted them now, and their scent was strong enough to maintain throughout the discord of those The Maw had claimed.

Did she want blood enough to pursue? Did she care about such lengths? Her duty this day was to turn the tides of the war camp. And to enact revenge.

So yes, she cared enough.

The living were so precious about preserving their limitations, their lives. She narrowed her eyes, peering after them. Where were they going? A transport? She could destroy that.

Another flare and she honed in on her senses –– The Force was whispering something. Reminding her of intentions beyond escape.

Imperials didn't run. They served a purpose.

"Keep going! We need to charge up those quarters!"

Ah, so there it was. More fire. More audacity – more thinking they had the power to control fire.

Giving a final squeeze to the man in her grip, she made a gesture, like a flick of the wrist to manipulate that closing-in-sensation to be more like a toss in the direction of the hungry pack of dogs still seeking flesh to devour.

With unnatural speed, she sought the direction of the two that had gone. Pleasantly, she noted that the hounds were doing a diligent job of staying on the agent’s tails and not being distracted by the bony escapees (not enough to feed off, apparently). One was having more of a time than the other, which left Vella to hunt out the Force-user.

With a silent murmur, the Ember of Vahl recited an incantation that altered her perception of focus –– seeking heat amidst the squander. The unborn flames whispered to her from their containment zones, living within technology and jailed until a remote release allowed their blossom.

At first, the whispers were sporadic –– but those unplanted, those that remained in a cluster, were louder.

---

---

​

ALLIES | BOTM | DEATH | VAHL | Halketh | The Mongrel | Maestus
FOES | SJC | NJO | THE LIGHT | Lyra Vent | Zoraya Ives-Ayres | Jaryg Syn

 

[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 blaster rifle | 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 ~ | << comm. channel >> ​

I continued to snarl, as if I hadn’t seen enough awfulness as an Imperial Agent, or even as an insurgent. I saw what the Sith could do, I heard rumours about the Maw; I saw the undead in Carlac. I could imagine much more than the woman believed. True, these gave me nightmares and I would never have been proud of it all. Although as a Junior Agent I couldn’t read many files within ISB and COMPNOR, as a Nite Agent I had access to much more.

I read files through the Nite, saw recordings, they were a barbarian horde; nothing more. Crazy, insane barbarian horde. Although I didn’t want to give them what they wanted, I couldn’t give up. I struggled, even when they were being dragged and pulled me on the ground. I’m not going to lie, I was shocked that the silent one did nothing but just stand and watch. I had to learn to read in people, he didn’t seem to like what the woman was doing. This made the situation even more confusing to me.

I really didn't understand what this was all about. I was desperate as I struggled as they laughed at me. Maybe it hurt the most, I wasn’t ridiculous; I struggled all my life, I fought, I survived! Somehow I managed to free my hand and reach for the gun. I saw that the silent man does nothing but have fun. It was still damn scary. I shot the man who had previously kicked in the abdomen with ease, without any problems. After that, I fell to the ground again and he no longer caught me.

The following events happened quickly: lying on the ground I fired at the woman several times, who was not angry with me but at the silent man. I shot him in the hands, chest, legs and he is angry with the man. I didn't understand anything anymore, I just pulled the trigger over and over, but there was no more ammunition in it. The silent stepped over me, here I already thought it was over and they would finally kill me, but that was not what happened. The woman cursed the silent one, the silent looked at me.

What's going on?! I gasped frequently, looking at the woman and the other. Then a shot, I shuddered and screamed as I closed my eyes. There was no pain. The sound of a thud, blood and brain splashed on me. I looked at the woman with widened eyes and then at the man. He killed… he killed his own man. What kind of devilish creatures are these?! That’s when I saw his smile and heard his voice. I was terrified!

"No! I will never be part of the Maw, I am a NIO agent, I will never serve the Maw! You'd rather kill me!" I declared firmly, i.e. shouted at the man.

I wanted to be determined and resolute, but I wasn’t scary while I shouted, and he started to pull me again. I was still struggling to break free. In the meantime, others have joined us. I shouted at the man to let me go, I struggled; and in the meantime, I also tried to look at his armour. When we got to the cells and there was a part of his armour that I could reach and pointed enough, sharp enough to injure myself, I would have hit that part on his armour with my hands and cut both of my forearms along with my arteries as well. If it doesn’t have one on it, then the last option remains, tearing my wrists up with my own teeth, both in a row.

I'd rather die serving the NIO than still alive become the slave-soldier of the Maw…

For the Imperator, for the NIO…

One way or another, but I performed the suicide attempt…