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

[Halketh]

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

C A R R I O N
The Perished | 5000/5000
​

The thundering sequence of dropships crashing through the foliage and impacting the lush jungle floor resounded with absolution undying. Steam hissed from ventilation systems, airlocks discharging their seals, and at once doors swung open in sequence, unleashing the swarm of undead upon the jungle. The Perished advanced before their leader, moving with the predatory precision of the eager.

The underbrush rustled violently as they surged forth, commanded by single thought from the Dark Lord, trampling the ground beneath boots thousands strong to catch up to the Silver Jedi and New Imperial forces advancing on the first camp crossing their hitlist. He would not so easily allow it, not here, not there- no, they would have to take the grounds by sheer force, and he had a mind to pin them between the defenses that lay ahead and the swarming wrath of the damned behind them.

He would pinch them between a rock and a hard place and apply pressure until they could do naught but collapse.

The Divine swept forth amongst his white-clad soldiers, extending a hand high above his crown to call upon the sinister charge in the air, exciting each molecule until a whip of crimson lightning arced into the clouds and expanded, blossoming into a flaring lattice he wielded as his own. His malicious blast was brought down, crashing upon the trees and growths so rapidly it seemed the wildfire had started of its own accord. Thunder tolled. Flames surged higher and higher, crackling with virulent light as they devoured the fuel growing in choking thickness around.

"Ati uynsutu, kirazi ri Rokatsa," he spoke with the heavenly hymnal reverberating through his tone.

And with that simple phrase, the legions of undead howled in blood-curdling jeer, rallying together as they charged from the treeline, swarming upon the invaders in a tidal wave of blood and splattering gore. Their weapons ignited in unison, the jungle coming alive further with the deafening thunder of slugthrowers and scatterguns pounding away in sequence, blasting apart any flesh set against them. Limbs were blown from bodies. Holes incomprehensible were punched through entire ranks and between the cracks, The Perished advanced.

Those of them cut down by the quick reactions of their enemies were simply trampled underfoot as the nigh-unstoppable tide swelled and burst through the seams, their frenzy heightened only by the sheer carnage unleashed by other Mawite efforts. The swarms filling the skies. The strafing run of bombs. It was all such beautiful chaos the Dark Lord wished he had more than a fleeting second to relish in it. The armor at the front of the advancing forces however, posed much of a problem.

Charging behind it and using it as cover, it seemed the Silver Jedi had managed to reach the southernmost entrance of the emplacement rising out before them. This would simply not do. Through the Force, the Sith Sorcerer extended his influence, expanding his senses far beyond the physical until he gleaned the silvered icons of arrogance in the grey landscape; the Jedi. Their Knights pressed the assault heavily, able to stand toe-to-toe with the worst tides of his undead soldiers with their expansive repertoire of abilities on hand.

But perhaps it was their idealistic hope within them that blinded them to the very danger in the center of the horde. They were fighting for their lives. Should they fail, not only would they die, but so too would the allies who stood with them in this assault. It brought a sigh from Caelitus's nose to see such desperation so soon. Gilded, clawed gauntlets lurched forth and he latched onto the metaphysical threads flaring within the first two Knights that his Sight could catch.

Mere compressions of his palms saw bodies warp and twist, cracking and splitting apart as bones were contorted and used as splinters to puncture through hide from within. Blood rained upon his soldiers, exciting them further, and the more he wrung from the tortured bodies he held within his grasp, the louder their guttural, feral cries became. He felt them die, the Knights' life essence bled to slip away into the beyond, and through the satisfaction of that alone, he discarded them as the useless playthings they had become.

Onward, to the gate.

The Dark Lord of the Sith bore down through the channel his soldiers had sundered in the confused rank, delighting in the confusion and panic bubbling so freely into the air around him. He could have imbibed it for days, truly, had he not a purpose for his incursion here already. He considered approaching the gate himself, dispatching the foes gathering there at the choke point, but decided his personal intervention was better kept as the ace up his sleeve, should the need for such a card arise.

A jerk of his helmeted head saw an entire swath of his undead forces break off from the greater horde and charge through the blood-soaked clearing, beelining straight for the armor and Silver Jedi gathering their courage to press on.

​

ALLIES | Dakrul
FOES | SJC | Starlin Rand | OPEN FOR DIRECT OPPOSITION

 

[Rurik Fel]

I M P E R A T O R
NEW IMPERIAL ORDER
KNIGHTS OF THE EMPIRE
NIV ANTARES DRACO
Iron Skin | Lightsaber
Allies | NIO | SJC | GA | Kiara Ayres
Enemies | BOTM | NSO | Darth Solipsis

IMPART
​

They would do what they must- nothing more. There was an intangible line Kiara was not willing to cross in the realm of fighting and defeating the enemy. There was no such restriction inflicted unto Rurik. Whatever variables aligned for the Empire's enemies to perish, Rurik would make so. He nodded once to Kiara.

"Trust isn't hoped for...it's earned." He said, the troop bay doors swinging shut and the sounds of hydraulics releasing, hangar bay doors prying open and TIE launch racks firing erupting within the Star Destroyer. But they, the Silver Jedi, had the benefit of the doubt in their favor, there was little niche and nuance in this task eternal they were soon to embark on shoulder to shoulder. To bring death to darkness and bring ruin to the festering chaos. His eyes screwed shut for a moment in brief meditation, hardly able to isolate his thoughts as they were marred by the visions of the slain Imperator, the piles of the dead on Carlac, the darkness. Steel eyes opened once more before he began to speak.

Through the commo of the joint Ranger-Stormtrooper Corps command, Rurik's heavy metal voice rung out in transmission.

"No matter the flag and banner you swore your oath to...today we venture unto the breach as one unbreakable force, one unstoppable will to vanquish the darkness. Lao-Mon is one of many worlds defiled by this abhorrence...and by our actions this day- we can make certain it is the last. They will punish you, they will torture each and every one of you to your limit in attempt to find your breaking point. Hold fast...give them nothing and suffer not this filth to live any longer. There is no redemption to be had and there is no mercy to be given." Rurik said, iterating his ironclad belief toward the Maw once more before looking to Kiara.

"Only the justice we can rend unto those who have done the unforgivable. The evils they have done...justice will come to them, just as it did to the Sith Empire...just as it will to the Bryn'adul. And we will pass the sentence. May the Force be with us all." Rurik patches through before he focuses on the movement of the gunship itself among the wave of boarding ships and starfighters swung out into the fiery cosmos before them.

<"Imperator. We have identified the command ship...but I'm afraid it is a foreign entity to any of our databases- not present at Csilla or Korriban...we will do our best to engage in close range combat with the vessel...as it is closing in on our formation. The location of their We shall hold."> The Kel Dor Admiral remarked to Rurik who nodded once in acknowledgement.

Good. It was sooner they'd be through the breach.

The Tartarus was a vicious, foreboding image. A dreadnought constructed in the traditional image of Imperialist, Kuat Entralla make and design. The sophistication arising from these abhorrent terrorists was deeply concerning. Nay...terrifying.

By Rurik's will, they would undo all of it.

<"Ninety seconds and closing, prepare to board."> The pilot sounded out to the troop bay to the sound of the clatter and clammor of blaster rifles and equipment checks through the section 1st Command Special Tactics Group 'Enigma' of the 501st Stormtrooper Legion. The very same unit attached to Rurik's precursor on the field.

Blaster bolts and flechettes beat against the hull of the RDAG before eventually, crimson lights flashed red and they were into the ship proper...barely. Rurik's eyes pried open again and his argent blade hissed to life before he sprung into the hangar bay of the ship, his metallic hand forcing a seismic crash into the metal floor beneath as his ironclad form thudded against the flooring.

"Troopers! Seize the hangar bay! Knights! To me!" He commanded with his distorted voice of mortal man and dark interference, a tone defiled by the esoteric dark force power that confined him to his Iron Skin to begin with. Two of the Knights Sentinel joining his flank as they made way to carve through the hangar bay of this metal leviathian to course their dagger toward the head of the snake. To kill another 'Dark Lord'.

By will of the Grandmaster and the Imperator they would make way into one of the many labyrinthine corridors of the vessel.

Onward to the throne.

 

[Keilara Kala'myr]

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

Objective: Try to escape from captivity
Location: Prison Block, Goshen Keep Dungeons, Lao-mon
Equipment: N/A || OPBC-01m
Writing with: N/A
Allies: Konrad Harrsk | Auria Blackmoore | Jacen Nimdok
Enemies: Tu'teggacha

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

~ Come on, come on, come on! ~ I said quickly to myself. Not to MANIAC, just to myself, hoping to succeed. It was a pretty weird feeling that I didn’t have to worry about deciphering binary codes or just trying to break code. Although it was a little uncomfortable that someone else solved this for me, even if it was an AI and not a living person. But I wouldn’t have had access to the machines here; I could not have used my knowledge of mechanical engineering or electronics.

Moments later, I felt a tremble and some dust fell down from the ceiling. Bombing or blasting. I am underground; I was sure of this. The energy field crepitate for a few moments, it seemed as if the energy centre had also been attacked or damaged. That was definitely good news. Although I hoped this would not hinder MANIAC's work. Another infinitely long seconds passed, I carved my nails into my palms, because of the pain, and I wanted to see if it worked or not.

In the end, yes, you succeeded; the energy field was gone and I was able to exit the corridor. I was careful and slow, not as if I could be faster because of my sore throat and broken ribs. If all your breath hurts, in both places, and you feel infinitely weak, you don’t have to be careful, you are already careful to not hurt yourself better. I didn’t want to lose my consciousness again because of the injuries. Then I certainly wouldn't get out of here alive.

There were three more cells in the hallway, as I saw, but they were closed, though there was no one in the cells. What's going on? Did I manage to attack such a high-ranking person on Carlac? It seemed so. I think I’ve greatly underestimated my own abilities when I tried to kill him, and The Mongrel is a lot more vengeful than I thought. Feth! There was a door at the end of the hallway. I walked over and tried to open it. Lockdown; of course it didn't open.

And because of the motion, my ribs hurt a lot, according to MANIAC data, three were broken, two were cracked. Damn it! I was in armour when the man hit my side. Would he have torn me in two if I hadn’t been in it? I gasped for air and had to lean against the wall so it wouldn't collapse. Luckily, I was able to stay on my feet, but that way it will be hard to get out and get a weapon. How am I going to fight in such a condition? I don’t think about it yet, only then, if necessary... only then.

~ Let's play what you did last time, try to open the door! ~ I asked him.

 

[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 ( The Dark Inquisitor Sergeant Omen Starlin Rand Artemis Lu ) │ NIO ( Noel Strasza ) │ GA ( Damsy Callat )
Direct Engagement: The Dark Inquisitor Sergeant Omen

The smell of tibanna, fire, and blood filled the humid air within and around Goshen as the crucible intensified, claiming its first lives over the course of seconds, which likely became hundreds within a few minutes, given the scale of the battle. Situated behind the battlements, Glossa continued to shoot into the advancing legions of Rangers, periodically ducking behind cover as return fire erupted in spades, with one such barrage cutting down an unfortunate Aspirant next to her, his head a mess of charred brain matter which was splattered against the battlement. The Jango Jumper immediately returned fire in the direction of blaster bolts which had struck the marauder down, sighting a pair of Rangers in her scope before gunning them both down in a quartet of surgical bursts, explosive slugs igniting against armored chests, setting the unfortunate soldiers alight.

It was precisely why she preferred her slugthrower rifle over a more conventional blaster, as while energy weapons were easier to aim, slugthrowers made it that much more difficult for an enemy to triangulate her position.

Unrelenting in her barrage of fire against the Rangers, Glossa’s sights came across two more soldiers, with one caught leaning from cover and punished with a pair of slugs punched into his neck, while the second was cut down only meters away from a barricade. Unfortunately, in seeing so many of their comrades cut down, the Rangers remained holed up behind various obstructions, creating a brief stalemate which was only interrupted by various exchanges of suppressive fire...

Up until the sighting of the Shi’ido, then Final Dawn bombers soaring overhead.

Marauders quickly moved into cover, with many retreating back into the camp itself, especially as reports of Jedi infiltrators reached the lines. However, Glossa and a few others held positions along the walls, hoping to keep at least one front from collapsing. As she slammed a fresh magazine into her rifle, the Rangers sensed the opportunity, with many becoming more bold with the arrival of air support, popping smoke grenades and delivering covering fire in order to shield a renewed advance. The sonic scope, scavenged from Carlac, allowed Glossa see through the smoke, but with their advanced optics, the Rangers were able to do so as well. Nevertheless, Glossa, along with a few others on the walls, held the lines, continuing to pour fire into the advancing ranks. A burst of explosive slugs from her rifle caught one in the neck, another in the head, then a third who had managed to get dangerously close to the walls, in a precise barrage. Nevertheless, more followed in their wake, getting ever closer as many of the Shi’ido bombers managed to evade the return missile fire. Feeling her rifle heat up slightly in her hands from the sustained fire, Glossa grunted as the Rangers got closer, managing to shoot down two more before a bolt glanced across her shoulder. The heat seared sensitive purple flesh beneath armor and shield suit, causing the Jango Jumper to grimace as she ducked back behind the battlement, slumping onto her butt as the pain surged across her senses.

Then, she glanced up.

The roar of the incoming vessel’s ion engines caught her ears, with her eyes merely following the direction of the sound. Immediately, Glossa’s eyes went wide as she processed a massive gunboat, heading directly towards the walls. The marauders around her shouted out as they recognized the threat, with many jumping from the walls and into the camp in order to escape the incoming strafing run. Falling prone and covering her head with her arms, Glossa only just managed to evade the wrath of its rotary cannons, which unleashed powerful slugs that punched through the battlements and scythed through a group of nine marauders who were too slow to recognize the incoming threat.

In the wake of the attack, the western walls were almost completely clear.

Another few marauders moved to retake them, only to be gunned down by the autoturrets which had appeared in the area. Seeing one activating next to her, Glossa picked herself up and rolled just out of its sights, before leaping from the walls and landing smoothly on the ground in a graceful roll...

Only to find another autoturret swiveling directly towards her.

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 (2)
• G-20 Glop Grenade (2)

 

[Kiara Ayres]

Objective: 3
Location: Imperial Gunship
Allies: SJC | GA | NIO | Rurik Fel | Bernard of Arca
Enemies: BotM | Darth Solipsis​

"Agreed." She replied with a curt nod of the head. The wounds of the Elder Compact ran deep for the major powers of the galaxy and sins against the New Imperial Order were not so easily forgiven. The Concord wanted not to have friendly relations with the Imperials, as was against the natures of both groups, but they merely wanted to ensure their neighbours were not a threat.

The two factions would never see eye-to-eye but the Jedi wanted to ensure sights were not set on the Concord once all other enemies had subsided and their neighbour's imperialism grew hungrier. The irony of asking for trust was that the Concord didn't trust them either.

Still, with each new leader came a new shift in the dynamic of foreign affairs and while she was yet to discern nuances of the current Imperator, his following rally to battle to their combined forces ensured that he had earned himself some more respect from the Jedi who listened to his inspiring discourse as the same sense of determination conveyed within his words ignited within herself.

Some of his words were crude but necessary. One of the unfortunate consequences of war was that sacrifices had to be made. She did not truly believe all of those they would encounter on the battlefield this day were beyond redemption but she knew they had no means to offer such a luxury now. Lives depended on them.

While an ideal world would dictate that all lives who were willing to forsake their darkness would be given an opportunity to do so, an escalation to war meant their fate would be sealed. They would be shot as another faceless, nameless conduit of the Maw. She disagreed with the notion that there was no redemption but rather she believed it to be out of reach.

Justification for the war was righteous but justifying the deaths of those who had lost their way, some who were once even themselves, was uncomfortable.

As their gazes met, she made no movement at first, disagreeing with his notion on redemption. However, upon conclusion of his speech she gave a nod of agreement, particularly at his closing sentiment. She respected him more than his earned title within the Imperial hierarchy but also his rank as a Force user. It was a connection she had never expected to have with an Imperator.

With a few moments to spare before their journey's end, she brought the commlink on her wrist up to her mouth to contact Gir Quee aboard the Emerald Undertow. The Silver Jedi Council were on the ground, embarking on their own missions but the Admiral aboard the command ship had means of contacting practically anyone who could be reached via comms.

::Admiral Quee, inform me if you receive intel of the situation deteriorating on the ground. Otherwise, maintain radio silence on this channel until I contact you again. The Imperator and I will be boarding the Maw in a few moments to strike at the heart of their operations by nullifying their leader. The skies are yours, Admiral. May the Force be with you::

The flashing of lights informed them of their arrival so she took a brief moment to compose herself, concentrating on the gentle waves of the Force before the storm would hit. When the Grandmaster opened her eyes, there was a fierce determination behind her gaze. She leapt from the ship, emerald blade igniting from its hilt as she did.

Though she brought no troops of her own, she was not alone. She hoped that in showing some trust towards their uneasy allies, she would begin the journey of healing and eventually earn some trust in return. Now, she conveyed that she trusted in their strength and in their protection enough that her own reinforcements, even personal protection, were not necessary.

With the troopers engaged with capturing the hangar, the two leaders could leap into the belly of the monster where they would meet their match. Neither would be oblivious to the blemish upon the Force, tainted by darkness, but equally neither would her presence as a paragon of the light go unnoticed.

As the darkness grew nearer with each step, her conviction grew stronger.

 

[Konrad Harrsk]

D E M O N ' S _ H E A D
Operation: Bastion Spear
14th Military Intelligence Brigade, 501st Legion
Goshen Keep Dungeons

Carlac had been a wake-up call for many foolish minds. The death of the Imperator, the sedition of the blind dog - all were heavy losses. Yet, even in loss, Konrad could see the flames of victory growing. The uprising of Carlac had bolstered the ranks of Tarkinists across the New Imperial Order, strengthened COMPNOR's fragile positions after the death of his father Jaeger Harrsk, and a growing mindset among the populace that one strong hand was what they needed and not a dozen self-serving warlords like that fool of Serenno and that milksop Vizier Enlil .

And thus came Konrad to Lao-Mon - with injuries still healing from fighting off a crazed crone and a horde of undead, but with a heart ablaze with conviction.

The screams of tortured souls echoed through the blood-stained dungeons below the Keep. Somewhere beneath this maze of horror lingered the Taskmaster, he who breaks minds, he who creates armies of suicidal, unwavering zealots for the Maw. Brainwashing to an irreparable state, the Taskmaster was one of the heads of the hydra the Imperials were bound to decapitate, and Konrad was the Imperial's blade. For the vast contempt he held for the Brotherhood as agents of chaos and an antithesis of order, the young assassin couldn't help but be fascinated at their methods of indoctrinating individuals. Brainwashing was a technique as old as time but hardly ever perfected; it was why Konrad had ventured to Mount Tantiss for, and also why he wished to learn the Taskmaster's secrets before his demise.

An indoctrinated galaxy meant eternal order. A thousand-year Empire.

With Konrad at its helm.

Down the labyrinth of a dungeon, using the shadows and naturally formed crevices in the walls to evade patrols on high alert going upward to deal with the uprising the Jedi were stirring. They moved slower than Konrad would've liked and he blamed it on the witch - she was no assassin; as a matter of fact, she was the antipode of an assassin. Loud, noisy, and literally a walking wildfire. Yet, Auria was vital for this endeavor. Her command of the Force could yield better results in dragging the Taskmaster's secrets out than his own methods.

Growing impatient, Konrad urged both to hurry despite the carelessness of the move. It bore fruit - they met the Ebruchi on a T-intersection, and beneath the black helmet a wicked smirk crossed his face as he withdrew the song steel katana from its sheath.

"Taskmaster. We finally meet." he said, cocking his head. "There's a lot in that mind of yours I intend to acquire." little did Konrad know that his urgency to rush forward had caught them both in an ambush.


ALLIES | NIO | GA | SJC | Auria Blackmoore | Ishida Ashina | Keilara Kala'myr
ENEMIES | MAW | Tu'teggacha

 

[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 Amelia Venthyra Sergeant Omen Sakadi Marathi Sinvala
// ENEMIES: Brotherhood of the Maw, New Sith Order, Witches of Rhand, Halketh Darth Tennacus Bendak Crail Romund Sro Marlon Sularen Glossa
// Engaging : Tegan Starfall
// Gear : Tenebrae, Tidefall, Left-Handed Grav Glove

Voidwalker stood at the lip of the open ramp, staring down at the target of the Accord's ire.

Goshen War Keep.

He had been there when the war plans had manifested. There was a feeling of pride, as plans that he had been apart of, or rather, first party privy to were manifested. The realization of such only dawned on him now, as leading up to this point he had been occupied. Carlac, mainly, and the sleepless dead of the traitorous snake.

The visored helmet turned back, glance shooting to the men that stood awaiting his signal.

They weren't the legion of Nirauan, the Sun Guards of Thyrsus, nor the Galidraani, or even the veterans of the 501st that trained them. They were new faces and names. They were the children of Bastion, of Muunilinst, of Serenno, and Dantooine. They were the generation of soldiers that would fight to preserve the legacy their parents sought to achieve. Those that were turned to ash on the Braxant and the other Pentastar sectors, they survived them. Their struggles and deaths immortalized in the minds of those that followed. They had not gotten their experience from the easiest of theatres, no insurgents or rebels on fringe worlds to eliminate. They were thrown directly into the named battles of their time. Korriban, Circumtore, Carlac, and now Lao-Mon. The Youths aged rapidly in this short time period.

Faces of the New Order.

The Next Generation.

They would not be so willing to die like their forefathers.

At the head of the attack, was the Silver Jedi forces, taking the brunt of the defensive onslaught that left bodies disintegrated and unrecognizable. The grinder, as it was so affectionately called. Before he had gotten his callsign, he had heard stories of the unforgettable experiences. With a few battles of his own behind him, Voidwalker had stories of his own now.

In the upper right corner of his HUD, numeric symbols ticked lower and lower, denoting the time to deployment. Where he had once sensed apprehension on past operations, he felt strength and courage.

He couldn't feel the wind as it whipped past his body, the armoured plates adorning him shielding him from the elements that assaulted his frame. In the sky around him, dropships were torn apart, missiles impaling metal gunships and detonating, sending chunks of metal in every direction in fiery clumps as hundreds fell to their deaths.

Free falling through the flames of an allied dropship, the jetpack placed securely over his spine spat out flame, jerking him off course and out of the fragments of metal that were flying up into his face.

Other troopers were not as fortunate, spiraling limply as they were caught by the aerial screen of defense the Maw deployed. Meters away, a troop was caught by a Gore Wasp riding Mawite. Flipping head over heels in the air, the jetpack fired back up, rapidly slowing his descent as he neared the earth. His own men following on his wake hit the wall, assailing the defenders on the Northern Wall with rifles and bladed weapons alike.

The only warning of their arrival was the whine of their flame-spitting jetpacks, coalescing into a thunderous chorus as Voidwalker led his men into the final descent upon the Camp. Crashing onto Mawite positions with bloodlust melded discipline, with every passing moment, more and more of the Five-Oh-First hit the wall and the surrounding grounds in clusters of fireteams and squads.

The first of the Black Hands didn't wait to be slain, even after landing their jetpacks boomed back to life, propelling them further along the walls with a surprising speed to further widen the gap they forced in the defenses.

Valaar's vibroblade carved through flesh and bone, plasma filamented blade bisecting Marauders on his left, before the blade swung around to slash across his right. A closed range bolt caught him in the shoulder, jerking that part of his body back. Before he could close the distance, another of his number landed right atop of them. Onto the next.

This place should be dust...

Worthless slaves aren't worth the lives.​

F*cking Jedi.​

 

[Dagon Kaze]

NEW JEDI ORDER
CAPTURE Lord Letifer
Central Keep Rooftops

​

A thousand times they've played the game of cat and mouse, of hunter and prey, and it still the mystery remained - who was the hunter and who was the prey? From the riots on Empress Teta, to the criminal syndicates of Denon, to the bowels of Coruscant, Dagon had only caught glimpses of the man's cloak before he vanished and the Jedi was left to undo his work, one that was often irreparable.

The game of cloak and dagger ended now. Atop the roofs of the war camp's keep carved into the ridges. From here one could see the waste the Maw had laid upon Goshen. Pillaged, defiled, and shaped into a war manufacturing plant that supplied the cult's ruthless destruction across the stars. The Brotherhood, nay, the Sith pulling the strings had to be stopped here and now. Before the rest of the galaxy shared the fate of Lao-Mon.

The wind blew sporadically, in bursts, from the trumpets and drums of war beating in explosions both in the jungles and in the Camp. Dagon stared at the hooded man he had chased across the Core, a man he believed to have been instrumental in the efforts to fragment the Alliance and disavow the New Jedi from within. Soot and sweat covered his face, blue eyes once bright with innocence now shared the burdens and trauma of a youth spent in the trenches of the Stygian against the Sith Empire.

"Letifer!" he shouted the Sith's nom de guerre as if invoking the Force to clear his mind; to brush his pestilent thoughts away, mostly his fear over Yula. She was here. He hadn't protested, at least not verbally, but she'd seen it on his face. The worry, the concern, the guilt. Especially the guilt, one borne of abandoning her to the hands of Zaavik and losing her eye in the process. They may have reconciled but the sting still burned in the few sleepless nights he could manage away from work.

"Doesn't have to be this way." said Dagon, almost whispering. The hilt remained still in his hand, the blade a button away from igniting.

ALLIES | GA | SJC | NIO | Jem Fossk
ENEMIES | MAW | Lord Letifer

 

[Amelia Venthyra]

Objective 1

Location: Lao-mon, Goshen War Camp

Equipment: 1 Lightsaber (Purple - Regular), 1 Shoto (Purple), Jedi Robes

Tags: The Mongrel


A burning sensation lingered on her left forearm as a scorched mark was evident on the now exposed burnt flesh. Amelia silently hissed and wasn’t given much time to recover before the general made her appearance. It wasn’t that uncommon for Amelia to deal with a dark sider or sithspawn. Traveling through the wild space, hunting down sithspawn and forgotten dark side spirits wherever she went. However, it’s been some time since she’s crossed blades with another bladesman, or bladeswoman. Mostly because she tended to use Form Zero where she dissuaded the thought of fighting without igniting her lightsaber. The buzzing of insectoid wings grew louder as they rapidly approached, and the tall cyborg landed on the wall ramparts with a wicked blade. Amelia found that weapon to be interesting and wondered if it functioned the same as a lightsaber or was it a special kind of lightsaber? She heard stories and even rumors that Sith used swords touched by the Force to unleash a world of terror.


Amelia drops the launcher as she telekinetically pulls her lightsaber from her belt into her right hand.


”Hate to break it to you, but it is not our time just yet.” Amelia responded as she tapped into her well of energy, into the Force. Slipping her mind into the hive mind of the Gore Wasp. Not to inject fear, or whisper pacification. But to betray its own senses. Forming an image as if Amelia leapt high in the air as if trying to go over the wasp in hopes of luring the wasp skyward. Painting the illusion in its eyes or whatever sensory abilities it relies on like it was chasing some airborne jedi, which of course is just tricks into the mind.


”Now that we have a moment. Are you certain that you wish to go down this path? How far does your resolve take you?” Amelia questioned assuming her illusion was successful. Either way, Amelia holds her lightsaber in the Form VI stance, angling her purple blade downward diagonal to her right as she doesn’t advance towards Hetzen. Instead she assumes the defensive measure as she’ll use a mixture of Form III and Form V techniques to parry, deflect, and potentially evade however she can. Most of her mental focus would be dedicated to planting illusions inside of the wasp’s mind, which normally wouldn't be much of an issue, but in this case the hive mind might build a more complex wall that Amelia had to get around. So at least to say she can’t wield strong amounts of the Force against Hetzen. The left forearm in view of the scorched mark, a little tactic in exposing a weakness within herself to draw in the eager for a potentially strong counter.

 

[Sakadi Marathi Sinvala]

Location: Dungeons of the Central Keep
Objective 1: The Goshen War Camp.
Opposing: The Mongrel

Even the dark stone walls of the dungeon screamed terror and pain. To such a degree, that she was forced to turn inward and focus solely on her own emotions. It was one of the downsides of having a connection to the Living Force. The constant chaos, the whirling amalgamation of feelings and thoughts not her own - it was distracting.

But when one had honed senses, it was equally as rewarding.​

She sensed his presence long before the metallic footsteps echoed through the dark corridor. The machinations of his mind unreadable due to sheer will, although his surface thoughts betrayed bloodlust and killing intent. The kind that made the Force wail with every step he took.

It gave her reason to reach out and project her disembodied voice. "I assure you, I have no intention of leaving." His challenge nor his provocations perturbed her. "Not until the last Shi'ido is free." She simply stood with her hands clasped together within the sleeves of her robe, calm as the surface of a lake. Her lightsaber, a sleek and elegant weapon of silver-electrum, remained concealed by her wide sleeves. "So please, surrender." Her gaze shifted to his glowing blade. Then back to his mask. She was ready. "Or be destroyed."​

 

[Garven Piarcos]

Vornskr 1-Actual
"Blackout"

Objective I/BYOO- Rescue the Escapees, Collect intelligence.
Location: Goshen War Camp, near the Central Keep
Equipment: COC-10 Carbine, HG-88 "Big Iron" Hand Cannon, Talon Vibrodagger, S-01 Covert Operations Armor
Allies: SJC/GA/NIO
Enemies: BOTM, Marlon Sularen

Blackout cursed, the fight had begun before his team could even infiltrate the Keep, and this would make their mission that much harder, even if they had the same objectives. Motioning for the other 7 men of his squad to breach an entrance, he kept his rifle up as he took point. He broadcast a quick comm signal over an SIA frequency, no words or anything, just a quick burst to signal to his superiors that his team was in position. A quick nod between the Commando and his executive officer, and the squad broke up into two 4-man teams, ducking into rooms and sneaking down hallways, looking for the escaped rebels while trying to avoid getting into the fights which were now breaking out between their allies and enemies.

Again he cursed as a pair of the Maw's warriors rounded the corner ahead of him, alarmed as he was at the sight of armed intruders to their base. Before they could respond, Garven fired a pair of Plasticine-thermite slugs down the hallway, aimed directly between the eyes of each defender, before rushing forward and into an intersecting hallway, continuing his path deeper into the keep, and towards the dungeons.

 

[Cromwell]

OBJECTIVE II | TIP OF THE SPEAR
SPECTRE OF THE EMPIRE

A new dawn rose for the New Imperials, one forged in the pyre of Irveric Tavlar's death. An Iron Imperator to hammer the way forward for Order. The Executor-turned-Imperator, Rurik Fel, was a man of far fewer compromises than Tavlar. A man with a heart of steel and a will of iron. A man to which the general populace, the New Generation of Imperials, and to an extent the now-jubilant Tarkinists welcomed with open arms and with great need.

A man Avenger believed further adrift from the spectre's own alignment. A threat to long-term stability.

And as canned in iron as he was, Rurik seem to have caught onto Avenger's disposition; the latter being vocal and straightforward didn't really help his case, too. He believed this was the reason the newly crowned Imperator had him team up with a new Spectre - Warmachine - to Lao-Mon. Avenger despised working in a team, he trusted no one except his own crew - the men and women of the NIV Black Lance. Cornelius, Harold.

And Chelenne.

Chelenne, perhaps, was the greatest reason why he disliked working in a team; it had led him to form a bond with the Zeltron that his mind often saw as a hindrance to his duty and mission but his heart refused to let go. The thought of her clouded his mind as he glided in stealth over the jungles of Lao-Mon where the forces of the Bastion Protocols battled those of the Maw. The events of Carlac played on repeat in his head; whatever that cursed world had done to Chel refused to leave his thoughts, lodged in his head and not moving an inch.

Feth.

He narrowed his eyes beneath the helmet, focusing on the scanner readings to escape Chel's visage and detected Warmachine's figure in the thicket laying unforgiving waste upon the Maw's forward scouts. We do not kill. He frowned, realizing this all had to be the Iron Imperator's test - sending him to war, which he despised, with another Spectre whose desire for blood rivalled only Bloodlet's. Adjusting his cloak for descent, he landed a couple of feet behind Warmachine as silent as a cat.

"With all your modifications, you couldn't just knock them out cold?" he asked hoarsely.

Not even a quarter human...

ALLIES | NIO | GA | SJC | Noel Strasza
ENEMIES | MAW | OPEN TO OPPOSITION

 

[Yula Perl]

As per usual, Yula was wriggling her way through the ventilation system. Slipping her way into the camp disguised as a slave had been the easier part, shimmying through the shafts of the Central Keep had left her dizzy from the fumes. She couldn’t remember if this had been a suggestion or her own bright idea.

To top it off, she was hearing things too. Who would even have the capacity to play music in a place like this? Yula didn’t know, and she didn’t think too hard about it. The further she tunneled through the camp’s only fortified building, the closer she found herself to the music. The foreboding melody blended with what sounded like genuine screaming, and she wrinkled her nose in confusion.

The metal fasteners holding the vent shaft in place gave way, sending screws firing off from each side. Then thin durasteel tubing groaned, heaving under the extra weight before bursting and spilling Zeltron all over the xenophilic keyboard. Predictably, this caused a terrible sound.

Yula rolled over, unceremoniously, onto the floor. Still loopy from the fumes, she peered at Kel Dor with a discerning squint and the red impression of key marks still lining her face.

“Hey. You’re not…that giant red Sith babe.” Somewhere in her delirium, she’d imagined that this path would lead to Jonu Zihtil .

Darth Howl

 

[The Dark Inquisitor]

Objective: Tip of the Spear
Tags: Sergeant Omen Glossa
Location: Dropping onto the wall

---

Hearing Omen's warnings about the bomber ships coming in, Kinhaes knew what course of action they'd have to take before he even said it. Preparing, she hit the button on the ramp's controls, lowering the platform of metal enough that she'd be able to leave. This was it. She was feeling a huge rush of adrenaline. Her first drop off into a battlefield to fight for the Galactic Alliance. Taking a deep breath, Kinhaes looked behind her to see Omen, prepared to give her the signal. She wanted to call to him quickly, some kind of reassurance that they'd be ok. Taking her attention off those thoughts, she pushed off from the ramp as the solider yelled to her.

Down she fell, her body falling head first downwards. The wind rocketed past her ears, deafening them to the most extreme extent. A few meters from the ground, Kinhaes used her training. Using the Force to push hard against the ground, her armored body lessened its impact, allowing her to half flip to a kneeling position. The Auto Turrets dropped around her as she stood up, the silver sabers on her belt launching into her hands as she ignited them. Twin beams of golden light reflected against her white armor, as she saw multiple foes trying to retake the wall point she was at.

Within moments, the Auto Turrets opened fire on the enemies. The ones that got through, hardly stood a change. One went to attack her with their weapon, which was soon after removed from the person's grip, along with his hand. Any foe that got too close was disarmed then launched backwards either over or behind the wall she was standing on. Kinhaes, the Jedi Padawan that had trained for years, was finally in combat. Her eyes moved from under the helmet, its one way visor catching small flashes of blaster fire from the turrets around her. Her gaze fell on one person. The Marauder, Glossa was about to be shot down, but Kinhaes had to make sure the job was done in disabling the foe. After sending two waves with the force on either side of her, knocking any incoming foes, she leapt from the wall, her boots crushing the small stones under her impact. The twin sabers shone behind her in a reverse grip, her sights set on the fast moving foe. Being trained in Form 3, she was highly confident in her ability to counter anything the warrior had.

 

[Tu'teggacha]

Location: Lao-mon, Goshen Keep Dungeons
Tags: Konrad Harrsk | Auria Blackmoore | Ishida Ashina | Keilara Kala'myr

The presences he had sensed, those intent on doing him harm, were drawing closer. Tu'teggacha knew he could not outrun them; his knobby little frame, less than a meter and a half tall but compact and fleshy, was not built for sprinting. Nor was he the kind of Mawite champion who could draw a warblade and cut his way through his pursuers, or blast them away with lightning or corruption. His gift, the gift for which the Brotherhood valued him so highly, was the gift of manipulation. If he wanted to survive this intrusion, he would have to lean on that gift, to make it work for him where speed and strength would not.

They met at a T-junction, the assassins' path crossing that of the Taskmaster as he made his frantic - but none too efficient - retreat toward the panic room. The one in the lead drew a sword, the blade glittering in the light of the torches lining the walls; the Maw had a flair for the dramatic in their dungeons, preferring open flames in the corridors, though the brackets held chemical sticks rather than burning wood. "Taskmaster. We finally meet." The voice was cold, sneering, confident. Very confident for someone who had ventured, almost alone, into the heart of a Mawite stronghold. He was either highly skilled, highly arrogant, or both.

The man was tall, at least by the hunched Ebruchi's standards, and clad head to toe in grey-black armor. His companion was... different. A woman, shorter and slighter, without the heavy plating to guard her. And yet Tu'teggacha sensed the power in her, a raging inferno coiled around her soul, ready to be unleashed. The tall soldier was dangerous, but this one was deadly in ways that those without the gift of the Force could only dream of. The Taskmaster was certain that he had not met either of them before, and yet apparently his reputation preceded him. He thought about quipping back about being at a disadvantage.

But that wasn't him. He kept the ring of fangs he called a mouth shut.

"There's a lot in that mind of yours I intend to acquire." Tu'teggacha laughed at that, a squelching, rubbery sound like a wet inner tube float being pulled through a too-narrow doorway. "I find the contents of your mind much more interesting, Konrad Harrsk," he replied, as phantom tentacles slithered over the NIO soldier's brain. "You really did hate your father, didn't you? Such a burden he was, and never around to help you bear it... How terribly sad." Invisible tendrils of telepathy tugged at memories, teasing out recollected arguments, awakening old resentments, until the image of Jaeger Harsk seemed more real than reality. It was as if he'd stepped out of a bad dream.

This was the Memory Walk, which some called Torture by Chagrin.

It was the Force ability in which Tu'teggacha was most skilled, but even if his talents managed to breach Konrad's mental defenses and trap him in a downward spiral of his worst memories, the Taskmaster was going to have to deal with the witch as well. That was why he had lured them to this T-junction... because he was not alone here. He had contacted his guards as soon as he'd sensed the intrusion. Why wait until he got to the panic room to benefit from their protection? With a snap of his knobby fingers, he signaled the Pontifical Palatini. Two approached from the way he'd come. Two more stepped out of the shadows behind the assassins, blocking them from any retreat.

They were trapped in the stone corridor between the pairs of bodyguards.

Not waiting to see what happened, Tu'teggacha began to hobble away, making for the panic room once more. The Palatini, their crimson helmets shining in the firelight above their jet-black robes and armor, moved up in graceful lockstep, midnight fabric billowing around them. They carried polearms, vibro-voulges with electro-plasma energy filament edges, weapons that could match a lightsaber while keeping the foe at a distance. They did not speak, did not vocalize at all, just advanced in eerie silence. Their polearms lowered, pointing towards the assassins like beast prods. Very, very sharp ones.

They had been trained in the Jedi arts by the Dark Voice. They were skillful killers indeed.

 

[The Mongrel]

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

The ghostly white glow of magnesium torches played across The Mongrel's durasteel mask, throwing eerie shadows over the walls. His orange-red optics blazed in the gloom, quite literally staring through the Jedi as they reduced her to a collection of meat - flesh, bones, organs, all unveiled before the sensors built into his visor. Meat. It was so imperfect, this product of random biological evolution, so vulnerable. So much of his had been lost, mangled, torn apart by the rigors of war. That was why he embraced the machine. Durable, powerful, easily repaired...

Metal was superior to flesh. It was obvious.

The Jedi was not surprised to see him, which was itself not surprising; they always seemed to know what was coming a little before it happened. But they also tended to underestimate those who lacked their magic, a fact that The Mongrel had often used to his advantage. Could he possibly defeat this mage-knight? Probably not through strength of arms alone. The willowy Sephi hadn't even drawn her weapon yet, and that spoke of a quiet confidence he knew to be far more dangerous than swagger and bravado. But he didn't have to overpower her in order to be victorious.

He just had to keep her from her goal.

"Get out of my head, witch," he spat, stalking forward with his blade raised. His footsteps and the hum of his blade echoed off the walls, joining the distorted screams and the sounds of fighting that were drifting down the corridors. It was hard to tell which direction any of it was coming from; the dark stone labyrinth seemed to stretch on forever, curving back on itself at irregular intervals like a coiled serpent that had burrowed into Lao-mon's surface. "You won't like what you find in there." No doubt that was true, for his mind was full of violence and hatred and dark fanaticism.

He also just hated feeling intruders in his thoughts.

"What would you do if I did surrender, I wonder?" His voice was harsh, caustic, mocking. He circled her like a hungry loth-wolf sizing up its prey, spinning his blade in a lazy arc as he moved. "If The Mongrel, the butcher of a dozen worlds, fell at your feet and wept, begging for your pardon, would you absolve him? Would you rehabilitate the slave-taker, the orphan-maker, the chief of a blood-hungry tribe?" He snickered nastily. "You know we're past all that, little womp rat. If you Jedi wanted to 'save' me, you should have been there four years ago."

With a furious war cry he charged in, swinging his dead blade one-handed in a quick swipe at her head. Though his aim was good and the blow was powerful, propelled by the superhuman strength of his cybernetic arm, he did not expect for an instant that he would actually decapitate her. Her laser sword or her Jedi magic would surely protect her from such a fate. This was just to test her defenses... and to distract from his other hand, which he'd stuck in his satchel of tricks. It now emerged holding a metal cylinder: a grenade full of anesthetic gas, surgical grade.

He'd had only mixed success with this particular anti-Jedi tool, but he was open to testing it again; different Force-wielders reacted differently to the various tricks he employed against them. His own filter mask would keep him safe from breathing in any of the gas, which would rapidly spread to fill the corridor. If she breathed it in, however, it would quickly go to work, pulling her toward unconsciousness. There would be numbness, slowed reactions, and a final collapse into the darkness of sleep. He couldn't defeat her blade to blade, not with magic on her side...

... but he could cheat mercilessly, as he always did.

 

[Kyrel Ren]

Allies: Bendak Crail Jaedec Ren BOTM
Enemies: SJC, Caltin Vanagor
Equipment: Vader's Bane Lightsaber, Kyrel's Armor, Kyrel's Necrochasis
Objective: 1


His bloodlust sought no end, even as Kyrel marched with a detachment of dead men behind him. He sensed the Jedi, and no doubt they did him. He couldn't recall how many Jedi he often faced in his lifetime, although he could recall those that met a gruesome end at his hands. Today it wasn't as much as trying to0 gain even more kills, then it was to defend what the Maw viewed as a place that defined the conquests they had long since held. The hulking brute marched, he alone with his dead man that had so lifelessly limped along. Blood and black liquid forming a sickly disgusting trail behind them.

His vision brought forth a group of Jedi, or more precisely from the looks of it a man of whom he suspected as a Jedi, and soldiers. It seemed the Silver Jedi had saw it fitting to play General? The thought seemed hilarious as he remembered a time where he openly sacked them, and they couldn't do anything against Imperial might. Now the raging force of dead men, Ren, and Barbarians would seem to handle things much differently then the last time. This time attacking in ferocity unlike they have witnessed. Not even the Sith were capable of what the Maw had been known to do. Kyrel was determined alone to show them why they would underestimate attacking the Maw's home turf, and then after Kyrel would see to it personally that the Silver jedi would pay dearly for this day. The thought delighted him, so much so that an ugly smirk had adorned his deformed face.

The dead men snarled and growled, as if spotting the walking bits of food before them. Yet through Kyrel's will alone he could not allow them to attack just yet. They stood waiting, the awful cries continued to flood the air. Kyrel's eyes fixated on the man, sensing the light radiate about him. There was no mistaking that this man was a Jedi, but the man seemed curious, as if never seeing one of Kyrel's like before. Something of which he took pride in, being the experiment of Sith Necromancy and the idea of two psycho Sith Lords that sought to unleash Kyrel upon the galaxy once more as a harbinger of death.

His blade remained ignited, pointing the blade tip towards the Jedi. Opening his challenge towards him, it had been too long since he faced a Jedi before. It seemed that the invitation itself showed how excited the undead monster truly was. "Jedi Man! Face me if you dare, but be warned I face you alone, my lovely creations well... Let's just say they have an appetite they can't resist..." He finished with a laugh, as the undead creatures let out a terrifying roar in unison. As if even under Kyrel's control they would attack at any moment like the ravenous horde they were. Kyrel himself slowly approaching the enemy group, unaware of what would come next. Only knowing that the desire for blood and vengeance had stoked the fires of his rage, ready to strike.

 

[Jacen Nimdok]

Objective II: Tip of the Spear
Tags: The Mongrel Marlon Sularen Sergeant Omen Amelia Venthyra Artemis Lu Damsy Callat
Location: In the jungle outside the Goshen War Camp

Consumed by pain, time passed in the blink of an eye for Pygar. One moment he was slung over Nimdok’s back; in the next, he was being handed off to someone else.

“Get him to a medic,” Nimdok said. “He’s wounded in the leg.”

Pygar felt a pair of arms wrap around his torso, then his feet left the ground. He hung facing downward, hanging in the tight grasp of a Mician mothman. With the exchange, the darkness of the dungeons was dispelled by the bright light of day. Humid tropical air clung to his clammy skin, and the stench of war and industry assailed his nostrils.

A second pair of arms sprouted from the sides of the Mician, reached behind him, and pulled out a rather large slugthrower. Still another limb pressed a blaster into Pygar’s hands. It was only his leg that wasn’t working, after all, not his trigger finger.

It proved rather difficult to aim, though. The Mician never stopped moving, darting out of the path of a barrage of incoming projectiles with incredible deftness and speed. He fired at anything that got too close, but the focus was on getting to the relative safety of the jungles.

An explosion below marked the destruction of the tank at the southern entrance. The blasted remains of the massive vehicle sat blocking the door, the pilot and presumably the rest of the crew occupants having been killed. Pygar knew there were other tanks, but he was unsure how the rebel forces would deal with the obstacle now posed by the dead tank.

Looking ahead, Pygar saw a skirmish in the skies between the enemy ships of Marlon Sularen , the lone vessel of Sergeant Omen , and the Shi’ido bombers. Smoke and shrapnel rained down upon the battlefield as they fought to protect the forces below… but a few stray bombs slipped past the valiant defense, releasing a strange vapor upon impact.

The Mician was flying well out of range of the deadly gas, but Pygar could still see what was happening. Within seconds, various Shi’ido on the ground had collapsed into piles of goo as the Wretchedness took hold. Those who weren’t instantly affected were quick to flee as they saw their comrades fall, disappearing back into the thick undergrowth.

Yet even as they retreated, the mist began to disperse, blown away by a supernatural wind. Force Users on the ground had quickly deduced the situation and used their powers to dissipate the Wretchedness, pushing it as if by the wind toward an unoccupied stretch of rainforest.

Right into the path of Pygar and the Mician.

Pygar sensed his rescuer’s muscles tense. Then he was falling, plummeting down toward the trees below.

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Objective 2 - Tip of the Spear, West Wall
Foes - Glossa, The Mongrel
Allies - The Dark Inquisitor , Starlin Rand
Omen led the craft in a sharp climb up into the sky to evade any missiles that were coming into view. "U7, you there?" Soon enough his Q series droid appeared in the cockpit, beep questions like where that Padawan had gone. "She is off the ship right now. And yes I know you are shy and that's why you didn't want to talk to her and stayed in my cabin but that isn't important right now. I need you to jack in and fly this brick while I'm gone and before you say it yes, you are going to be in control. I need to get to the ground and help her and I need you to get this bird to safety so we can escape. Now, this is what I need you to do, I need you to stall this bird out over the base just like we practiced okay? Then I need you to fall down like you got hit out of the sky, zeroing in on a set of cages that contain wild insects. Do me a favor and blow those and their keepers up for me with the guns while diving on them. Then I need you to circle around in a big left-hand turn and attack the corner between the South and West wall with the torps that we have. And finally, I need you to make a pass over the West Wall so I can then drop into the fray from the ramp before you get this ship to safety. Did you get all that bud? I don't need to replace the hyperdrive again." The green droid twittered in the affirmative and give him an affirmative with his lighter attachment, giving Omen an excuse to light one of the improvised cocktails he had made from his brews before they had gotten to this system and giving the droid an affectionate dome rub. "Good luck then Bud and know that the force is with you too." With that, he let the droid get on with his job, his jacking appendage going into the droid port before the droid convinced the ship's computer to do one more run. Evidently, he succeeded with the ship stopping its accent and instead had started falling to earth once more. Thank god we watched those dogfighting movies together and made this little piece of tin that I call friend want to be a pilot. He stayed in his seat as the ship started to fall like a rock back towards the base and the droid lined up on the unsuspecting beasts and their masters. Then when everything was set and only then did the rattle of chainguns and turbolasers fill the air, the rounds penetrating the steel cages and killing any reserve beasts that hadn't already been released as with their Maw Masters. A satisfying end if Omen would say so to such a threat.

The Clone's face stretched from the G-forces being pulled as the ship pulled up just above the camp's various structures, clipping one building's comm transceiver and making it fall to the ground and crushing an unsuspecting Maw soldier as he tried to carry more ammo to the Southern wall. Well, at least it was one more thing that the Maw won't be able to use... His hands clenched to the pilot's armrests as the droid executed the tightest turn imaginable and firing the ship's volley of proton torpedos at the corner between the South and West walls, with the purpose being to breach them. Whether they would or not Omen didn't know but at least they should have a fighting chance.

As the ship straighten out and positioned itself to go over the West Wall, Omen quickly unbuckled from the pilot's seat and got set to fly through the sky. He already had his weapons and utilities such as his Verp pistol and the LPD-43 Reckoning Assault Cannon that he had "borrowed" from the armory for testing purposes. Live fire testing... He wrapped the bandolier filled with grenades across his chest and grabbed the scrap metal shield in the shape the Mandolarian police of his day used to use. He had forged and painted with gold trim and had the white symbol of the SJC overlaying a green background with the smaller gold mark of the Mythosaur in the center of the foreground. If this didn't tell both friend and foe who he was, they were probably blind. He had put the effort in to make this piece of flat metal to protect himself from stray blaster shots. It wouldn't protect him from lightsabers or vibroblades which would cut through it like butter but hopefully, no one would be close enough to try that. Well... It was time... "May the force be with you bud... Keep my Baby safe..." With a sorrowful whine from the droid who didn't want to see the Trooper go, Omen ran from the cockpit and down the exit ramp, and with a force-aided leap, he flew into the open sky. It was just then that he noticed the flaming cocktail in his hand and with a startle he threw it into the nearest wooden watchtower, hoping to set it alight with the fire of freedom.

The clone-turned bird then landed on the wall with a heavy "thunk", his prosthetics taking all of the fall damage with ease. His eyes went wide as he looked around. This part of the wall was deserted, the turrets having done most of the dirty work and he could saw a few mutilated corpses from where the Padawan had made her mark, he could even see her in the distance, racing off to kill another soldier. Man, that Padawan had more bloodlust than he thought she did. He might have to stop her before he killed the whole war camp on their own. But before that, there was something that needed to be done. He quickly went to a flag pole on the wall and pulled down the Maw colors and put up his own flag with the same design as his shield's artwork only this time, it had a message in the foreground. "DEATH TO THE MAW!" He quickly staffed the Maw flag in one of his belt pouches before hopping off the wall. The West Wall had been secured and now it was time to move on. A radio call would fizzle into the Padawan's helmet as the ARC raced to catch up with her. "I got your six! Keep pushing until you can't push anymore!" Suddenly some message from another holoflick he had watched started to blare from his suit speakers as he pressed a button, and oh how it rang true. As Omen raced off after the two female fighters, only wishing his brothers were here. That would really be a fun time.

 

[Mrurh'en'lase | Hel]

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

​

Mrurh'en'lase's eyes dropped only for a moment to watch the man's rifle clatter down the jagged hill, then back up to the man himself as he slid down to follow it. Briefly, she acknowledged that he had also seemingly ordered his "troops" to fall back further, their weapons pressed tightly against the bodies of their captives. One wrong move by the Hybrid, and they would die at the hands of these monstrosities. The young Padawan shifted her stance defensively, awaiting the man - this monster in of himself - to attack with whatever weapon he decided upon in place of the rifle he so carelessly dropped. The Force? A Lightsaber he hid within his great cloak that fluttered like devil's wings in the sharp wind? A hidden blaster pistol that he could whip out and fire in a second's notice? Too many options for a man whose expression was beyond reading, a monotonous static that gave nothing in the way of showcasing the vileness in his heart.

While her answer to the question was gained rather quickly, her anticipation of his attack was not justified just yet. A sleek black lightsaber was now held in his hand, hanging loosely by his leg, but not yet ignited. No crimson blade to clash with her blue. Instead, he chose to speak once again, which seemed to be a favorite activity of his.

"But you haven't. There are the ones you seek to provide freedom. You could have killed my horde quite simply and retreated with them to secure their lives. Yet, here you are, composing yourself to fight me over saving them. Over keeping the peace - assisting in their revolution. You value killing over freeing. All the mannerisms a Jedi should not reach for. No, you are no Jedi - not yet. Something inside you is eating you. Something longing - yearning. I want to see what it is."

The words stung, despite not being entirely true. She could have fought the horde and saved those few lives they had taken captive. Hell, she should have, for that is what a true Jedi would do. But that would not have solved anything. That would not have brought the peace she sought. That horde was merely a symptom of something much more dangerous to the wider population.

It was not that she valued killing over freedom or peace - those were the very reasons she was here, as she said so herself. They very reasons she fought in general. The truth, as she saw it, was that she valued fighting the source of the evil that prevented freedom and peace from being maintained, even when the battle had been won. If the root of infection was not cut out and salved, the rot would continue to spread until the body shut down. This was something the Hybrid had seen time and time again in her youth throughout the criminal underworld and her experiences with the Dark Side. The Brotherhood's very existence was proof of that. The Sith Empire had fallen, its allies dispersed into fractured warlords, and still the Brotherhood - an organized society of sin - marched and conquered barely abated by resistance. Where the boils and pustules were lanced and drained, the core of the disease remained latched in the arm and it grew. For all the freedom and peace the Jedi and the New Imperial Order gained with their defeat of the Sith Empire, nothing lasted. It was all taken away immediately.

And you hated that, didn't you? That's why you are here. To enact your vengeance for your people. For the Chiss.

The Shroud. An appearance at last, imperceivable now but certainly to take physical shape in her mind's eye soon enough. She always wondered if her foes could see it too, or if it was only her. Was it that powerful? Or was it merely insanity?

They are tyrants who faced few consequences for their actions. If any. They must be stopped at all costs.

She was right, in her own way. The Brotherhood destroyed Csilla like crushing a gnat and continued to take worlds as if nothing happened, like Lao-Mon. They continued to slaughter as if the millions of Chiss lives they blinked out of existence meant nothing. To Mrurh'en'lase, the only way to achieve peace and freedom from things such as that was through fighting and killing. It was the only way, and if there were any other way, she would have taken it. But for such callous violent things, talks and diplomacy were impossible. They knew only the sword and the fury it wrought, and the Hybrid was more than glad to match it if it meant she could wrest the worlds from their evil and prevent Csilla from happening again. If that meant...that ten or twenty or thirty had to die at the hands of the visible infection so that she could save ten thousand, twenty thousand, or thirty thousand by killing the root of the disease...then their sacrifice would not be in vain. The needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few, a terrible fact of life that even the Jedi had to concede to.

Hypocrrrrriiiiiteeee.

And so, when that resounding blast of plasma went off and dropped the captive to the ground as a mass of angles and flesh, she held back her tears for the sacrifice and strained more against the dying emotions that fed into her. Steeling herself once more, she watched as the man ignited his blade, at last - the crimson peak of the Dark Side burning a hole into the ozone of this world. It was a horrific sight to see again, after so many months without seeing one. Her stance dug in deeper into the scarred earth as she listened to his words again.

"There are morals you can't abide by when it comes to the Force. You either give in to your emotions or continue to be eaten away until there is nothing left but a vessel of melancholy. Nothing about you represents the ideologies of the Jedi Order, save for your hatred towards us as a whole. Perhaps you should set loose that hatred. Maybe then you might kill me, and focus on the task given to you."

She gave no verbal answer to his statements, only nodding to herself in the affirmation that what she was about to do was for the greater good of not only Lao-Mon but the galaxy as a whole. She would not kill him out of hate, not in its entirety. Where hate finally ended in her assault, she would use her acceptance that this - to kill him - was surely born out of necessity. To prevent Csilla from happening again. She was in control. Not it. Not the Shroud.

She charged at her foe, leaping forward from her grounded position and kicking up chunks of earth into the sky. As she traveled through the air like a cannonball fired at Mach-speeds, the Hybrid reared her arms back and above her head, holding her lightsaber at a roughly forty-five-degree angle. With a roar of aggression, Mrurh'en'lase swung her weapon down in the standard Djem So move of the "Falling Avalanche," the screaming blue blade aimed directly for the man's collarbone.