Mission Eat The Dreamer | BotM

[Darth Solipsis]

The Battle had been won, but at a cost.

They had stricken deep into the Core Worlds, despite countless losses in manpower and material, their presence was felt like a sickening plague festering on the heartbeat of the galaxy. Yet this victory was hollow, the valiant defense of Empress Teta and their scorched earth tactics deployed by the hands of the GADF had left the MAW little to scavenge.

They took the MAW’s greatest strength and stripped it from them.

The ability to pillage a world of man and machine to fuel their ravenous war machine had always spurred them onward where other mighty nations would falter. With Foerost’s shipyards set aflame, Xa Fel dismantled, and the hypergate on Empress Teta all but destroyed..

The only way.. was forward.

Supply lines would take too long to reinforce their position with fresh ships or slaves, they were on the precipice of claiming the ultimate prize. Tython was in their grasp and the galaxy was ready to respond in force to their transgressions. They would gather their armies, their heroes, and pragmatic dogma to wage war in the name of ‘hope’.

What a misguided illusion.

Dreams are messages from the Deep..

​

The Brotherhood of the Maw assemble their armies on the surface of Empress Teta and prepare for departure to Tython. Enslaving those who remain behind, those they can hope to bolster their numbers are tortured and forcibly pressed into servitude in a public display of mass-indoctrination.

The Heathen Priests sing the Gospel of the Hidden Maw to the faithful amassed at the ready. Warlords stir their tribes for battle and eternal glory, the Final Dawn finalize strategy, and the New Sith Order prepare to strike down their ancient enemies in the greatest battle yet seen within the Second Great Hyperspace War.

Objective 1: BYOO
​

Ready yourselves for the Annihilation, engage in strategy or faith, gather around the Heathen Priests or prepare yourself alongside the Dark Voice. Explore post-battle Teta and board the Crucifix II Destroyer docked that will lead the first wave into the battle to come.

Have fun, prepare for Tython.

​

 

[Romund Sro]

Location: Crucifix II

Sadly Romund was largely missing from the current conflict, though not for long. It can be how much a single thermal detonator can set one back. Secluded in his chamber in orbit above the war torn city planet Romund maintained his energy for the fight to come. Still new to, well, everything it felt like. A new body came with new challenges and obstacles to overcome. He now felt like he had the strength of a dozen wookies, though that feeling was likely hyperbolic. But still everything now felt so… fragile in comparison.

Learning of this mostly from his accidental feats of strength. Having earlier unintentionally crushed a medical droid that was pestering him earlier with the casual wave of his arm. He was now this odd collusion of gentry mannerisms that has taken the shape of a hulking monster.

Taking one last deep breath the bacta tank he lay in began to empty of its healing fluids. Stripping the oxygen mask from his face the glass door opened. Climbing out of the chamber he stood up into the cool air in the room. His clone servants rushed to his side, drying him off and giving him a golden and silky bathrobe so he wasn’t just the white underwear he wore into the bacta tank.

It felt much more odd now to see his own clones. Still the spitting image of himself, or at least who he once was. It was a good reminder of what he’d lost, good and bad. A subtle torment that supplemented his negative emotions. One of his clones approached and presented him with his old white cloth mask that had been repaired since noris. A simple garment he still planned to wear, even more so as to conceal his new unsightly appearance. Donning the mask he likely still had an odd appearance still. But his size and stature could not be so easily remedied, nor should they really.

Stepping out of the room he made his way into the rest of the ship, a crucifix destroyer. Walking the falls he thought to himself. Soon the big day was upon them. A day that will forever live on in infamy. Regardless if they succeeded or not. Funny how there was likely an ever greater chance of losing his life in the days to come than on Noris. Was all the effort in reconstructing him possibly all in vain? An upsetting thought, but for those damned to the dark side that’s mostly what they had to look forward to, just more upsetting thoughts.

Eventually Romund would reach his destination on the ship, the bridge. There he would step close, his hands behind his back in a rather regal pose as he looked out the transparisteel window. Gazing from orbit upon the battle he hadn’t managed to partake in...

 

[Darth Kentarch]

Burning skies will light the way. Nations shall rise to stop the coming tide, death and blood would great them. No man shall so mercy. Sun rays will turn black, and riven will become the world. The storm will sate itself on endless bloodshed, consuming heaven and skies until the light Ashla becomes crimson-​

Kentarch gasped as he woke. Pain in the chest, he found his sword hand clutching an old wound that should have killed him. Rining in his ears, splitting pain in his skull. Rising from his bed the Sith controlled his breathing, and in the passing minutes, the pain subsided. His breathing was controlled and he mentally told himself it was just a dream. Perhaps it was a warning through the force, if he even could believe that. Eyes flicked about the room as if someone would observe or take advantage of this moment of weakness. Yet there was no one. Finally, he rose from his bed and moved across the darkened chambers to the refresher, picking up a towel he wiped the cold sweat from his forehead. He splashed his face with cool water and focused his thoughts. Yet the doubt in his mind lingered, as much as he tried to steer his thoughts away from it.

The end of all things. Those who could not sense the force were once able to see it. Something of a prophecy. Yet despite all the power of the force, Jedi, Sith, and all those who wielded it could not see it or come to terms with it. Stories differ, but the message was the same. People rise to the heavens, they would find great warriors of light and darkness. The warriors would descend from the heavens, and lay ruin to all civilization. One day in one final battle those of light and darkness would destroy each other, and the worlds and people would be destroyed with them, bringing the end of all things.

Kentarch exhaled at the thought. What good was it to rule over ruins and ashes?

Dressing into his typically black-caped robes, he casually moved towards a window that looked out over the city of Cinnegar. From the window Kentarch watched the forces of the Maw assemble for the great battle to come. He knew what was coming. Many did not understand that the dark side of the force and Sith teachings had much latitude of interpretation. KIlling was one thing, genocide, planetary destruction was another. Perhaps his fellow Sith were irresponsible, or rather they lacked the ruthlessness to control their own wanton desires.

Kentarch looked over the army of the Maw, the New Sith Order, and the mass converts. Knowing what was to come, he was most displeased.

 

[Ronar]

​

It was a dark day for the man called Ronar. Once, he had been what they might call mighty. He had been a man of prestige, of position. When he walked by, people cast down their eyes. When he waved his hand, they knelt at his feet. Now, however, it was he who was kneeling. He who was casting down his eyes whenever one of the great leaders of this ravenous horde walked by. He who squatted at a campfire, surrounded by the constant shouting and scuffling and random blaster shots that were typical of an army drunk on victory.

It made him furious.

A thousand curses on his father and his ill-begotten advisor both! Curses on their weakness and treachery! It was not proper for a warrior such as himself to be bumping elbows with the lowest of scum, a mere foot soldier in what was obviously a great crusade of blood and death. He should be at the head of the column!

Alas, his late arrival to the campaign had forced this disgusting charade upon him. These people respected strength and strength alone, and Ronar had yet to prove his own. His stories and platitudes meant nothing; only victory on the battlefield would raise his status in their eyes. Ronar clenched his fist around the hilt of his vibroaxe, which he was meticulously sharpening by the light of the fire. Bloodreaver was thirsty; he could feel it in the blade. It echoed through his ears like a siren's song.

Rule number one, my son, his accursed father had once said, The one who survives, prevails.

Oh, Ronar would survive all right. He would survive, and he would flourish, just as he had in his father's court. He would prove himself on the battlefield, he would win glory and riches and slaves uncountable. He would rebuild his father's doomed regime; and this time, it would not fall.

 

[Darth Solipsis]

DARK LORD OF THE SITH | VOICE OF THE MAW
Cinnagar, Empress Teta

​

The ravenous hordes of ferocious zealots stood firm, called by the throat-sung Gospel of the Hidden Maw. Rows of crusaders, cut-throat marauders, and indentured slave soldiers were marked by the unholy favor of the Heathen Priests as they passed from one soldier to the next. They were all warriors of the Bogan, enforcers of the Sith’ari’s will.

The greatest battle of the war was at hand, with it a shatterpoint so powerful one would go mad trying to discern all the possiblities. He could see glimpses of what was to come, but could not see beyond the veil. They had to be ready for any outcome, any possibility. Remaking the galaxy was the crux of achievement for the Mawite faith and Sith doctrine combined, yet the premise of wiping out the entirety of the galaxy was a mixed bag among his Sith who preferred secrecy and shadow. The Banite numbers loyally followed their Sith’ari, but they were not chaotic like their Mawite kin. To say they hadn’t had reservations would be a lie indeed, yet they remained ready to see the promise of a new galaxy cast in their image.

The Dark Voice stood atop a mighty podium overlooking the legion vast assembled before them. Adjoined by members of his personal retinue, Warlords and Masters of the New Sith Order alike, the Dark Lord of the Sith stepped away and set his gaze upon his chief lieutenants. Bold yellow orbs cast down a terrible glare of sulfuric hate, a devious smile forecast his foreboding presence full of dark grimace. The Sith’ari brushed past them all, descending to the ground level where his faithful of Sith religion, cultists among the Church of the Dark Side awaited him. At their head, Derix Tirall and Marlon Sularen .

Stepping past the High Regent and Grand Overseer of the Neo-Imperial Final Dawn, the Dark Lord queried.

“Ready the weapon.”

 

[Surea]

Freedom.

It was a concept she didn't understand. Surea stared at her new cybernetics, slowly flexing the hand that was now hers. Actually hers. A frown settled on her lips. What did it mean to own something? Not just her arm, but her clothing. Her lightsaber. Her gaze shifted from the metallic palm to the saber laid out before her atop a freshly rotting corpse. She was an assassin. That's what she'd been trained to be since she was first sold. The rot she had ensured even if she died in the process of killing her target she'd leave no witnesses. A rot that had been killing her.

The rot wasn't gone, but she wasn't dying from it any more. She was freed from her death. She owed everything to her master. The freedom to learn what it meant, that's what she treasured most.

The Miraluka reached down, lifting the helm that covered her lack of eyes back on. There were still rebels here. Still people trying to escape or even fight back on this world. For the sake of her master, they would all die. A red glow brightened the ruined building as she stood and walked towards the last of the survivors. Rot had claimed them, their body attacking itself in some vain attempt to survive.

"Please.."

It wasn't a plea to survive, Surea knew better than most the hell this rot brought. Her blade arced down, severing their head cleanly. Without even sparing a second glance she left the building, uncaring that her rot would spread. This was her freedom, after all.

 

[Darth Carnifex]

The fighting had quieted, though was not entirely silenced. Violence ebbed in unequal proportions across the world and neighboring systems. Some clung desperately to their rock in the middle of a vast, cruel, and uncaring ocean. It did not matter how desperately their fingers clung to the rock, they would be swept away in time. What had been accomplished had been little more than carnage, held together by the thin adhesive of unity that many among the Maw did not quite understand or refused to even acknowledge existed at all. An army only in name, a mongrel horde in practice.

Though He had inadvertently aided in their triumph, the Dark Lord remained apathetic to their ultimate ambitions. They were not of the same kind, a wolf to a boar. In the end, however, their success was His success. The greater a threat they presented themselves to those powers arrayed in defiance against the Dark Side, the greater their gaze would be fixed upon them. A lightning rod, one by design to bear the furious storm that coalesced around it.

Stepping over a piece of fallen masonry, the Dark Lord walked into the Iron Citadel's audience chamber. It was empty, yet to be claimed by the victorious Maw and their sycophantic allies. A tiered dais led up to an ornate throne wrought from artistically carved stone. The banners of the displaced dynasty that had sat upon it were strewn about in various states of destruction and disarray. Long ago, the Dark Lord had seen another dynasty sat upon the throne. He did not know who had replaced them since that long distant age, but that hardly mattered now.

Ascending the dais, the Dark Lord looked upon the throne with keen disinterest. Much of what He had heard of this invasion was to supplant the ruling dynasty with a new monarch that would be sympathetic to the Maw's charnel crusade. A coronation would be imminent, that was starkly obvious. Raising His right foot and placing the sole of His armored sabaton against the seat, the Dark Lord slowly began to push with His considerable physical might.

"A coronation?" He mused aloud, "What bad comedy."

A final heave knocked the throne loose from its fixture, the entire thing tipping back and crashing down the opposite side of the dais until it broke with a loud clatter on the ground below. He stood there for a moment looking down on the ruined throne, idly wondering if His solitude would be intruded upon by those who sought to take it for themselves now that the planet had fallen to the Maw. Would they be livid with Him? Cry aloud with all of their harrowing words? Or would they be like Him now? Looking at the ruin with contempt.

It did not matter, for He did not care.

But there was a noise at His back, faint as it was. He partially turned to look at the expansive room behind Him.

"I can hear you."

Spindle ​

 

[Ronar]

Surea

Ronar had heard many sounds in his young life. He'd heard screams, shouts, and begs for mercy. He heard the sounds of blaster fire and the clangs of blades. But nothing, in his opinion any way, beat the sickening crack of a broken jaw.

The unfortunate sap beneath him coughed, spraying blood into Ronar's face. The warm touch stoked a fire in Ronar's breast, and he smiled and struck again, his cybernetic right arm sending his target's head whipsawing back the other direction. It was a miracle the man's neck didn't snap. As it was, he went out cold, and Ronar stood to his feet, roaring in triumph.

The assembled marauders around him grumbled, passing stacks of credits around as Ronar wiped scarlet stains from his bone armor. The unconscious soldier lying in the mud had evidently been favored; Ronar watched as the few individuals who had placed faith in the newcomer jeered and gloated. The victory was satisfying, and his own cut was substantial, but the aching void in Ronar's soul refused to ebb. The fight had been brief, a few minutes at most, an improvised duel to vent frustrations and soothe impatience. It was far from the thick of battle, and Ronar longed for more.

A pair of burly onlookers dragged Ronar's unconscious victim out of the improvised dueling ring as a second set of fighters took up battle stances. Ronar observed for a second, but quickly grew bored. He needed real blood, not this watered down war-camp play-wrestling. Sliding his stack of winnings into a hip pouch, Ronar began to meander away from the gaggle. Maybe if he was lucky, he could catch some slave trying to escape.

As if by some divine providence, as soon as he reached the perimeter of the camp, Ronar caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. He whirled, drawing his pistol as he scanned the debris-strewn ground, a smile creeping onto his face. He saw nothing, but that only made him smile more. He loved a good hunt. With a thought, he flipped his cybernetic eyes to thermal mode.

As clear as day, he saw a glowing humanoid figure scuttling across his vision. It seemed like the figure was holding something, by the way their hands were arranged. His smile showing teeth now, Ronar unslung his vibroaxe and began to shadow his unfortunate target. Like a shadow he stalked his victim as they moved from cover to cover, away from the war camp. After a moment he picked up his pace, quickly gaining ground as he prepared for a final pounce.

So focused was he, that he didn't notice several more heat signatures appear in his field of vision before returning his eyes to their normal configuration. With a battle cry he leaped over a final rock, hurtling through the air to bury his vibroaxe in the head of a bedraggled man carrying a small supply box. He laughed as blood sprayed, soaking the front of his armor. He withdrew the axe and stood over his kill, eyes wild and chest heaving.

Then he heard a whimper, and his smile broadened again.

 

[Surea]

Faces bled into one another. Or just bled away. Surea wasn't sure. Had she remembered anyone she'd killed before? .. Just one, now that she thought about it. One she'd kill time and time again if she ever got the chance. But these rebels? They were nothing. She stalked through the ruined streets, hacking apart anyone in her path with her lightsaber. Even dead their bodies caught her rot. Spreading her disease little by little.

That was fine with her. Anyone who dared to try and help her victims would only contract the rot themselves. Perfect bait to clear out more of the remaining enemies of her Master. Her savior.

But she wasn't the only one here killing these fools. Motion, anger, caught her attention. Bloodlust. She peered around the corner as her latest victim fell, letting the Force act as her eyes. She'd been doing that all her life, hadn't she? That's what her master explained at least. Ah. A Maw soldier? She stepped around the corner, in full view. Her red saber stayed active in the grip of her mechanical hand as she moved closer.

Then cut down another of the group Ronar had descended upon. No words to exchange. They were here to massacre.

 

[Ronar]

At first, Ronar did not sense the approach of the newcomer. The sounds of more victims had sent the blood roaring in his ears, and he was quickly descending into the primal mindset which years of raiding and murder had honed to a razor's edge. A second rebel fell, not from him, but he was already burying his axe into the chest of a third. The woman choked, falling to the ground. With practiced ease the warrior whirled, knocking out the legs of a fourth who attempted to rush him with a rusty knife. A scream was cut off sharply as the axe fell again.

How many were left? He couldn't tell, and he didn't care. He laughed as blood pooled on the ground, the siren's song of Bloodreaver rising to a thunderous pitch. The sound of footsteps reached his ears, as yet another rebel attempted to flee. A well-placed blaster bolt ended their plans, shooting through the man's thigh and sending him tumbling to the earth. Ronar stalked up to the unfortunate fool like a manka cat stalking prey. Begs for mercy echoed and faded as he raised the pistol again.

A shot to the arm, a smile. A shot to the ribs, a bigger smile. A moment to savor the screams, and then a thin red line to silence them.

The warrior stood unopposed, truly satisfied. Then he turned to further muse on his accomplishment, and caught sight of another.

Who is this? he thought, curiosity overcoming him as he saw the strange mask and red-bladed laser sword of Surea . He cocked his head inquisitively, weapon at the ready. This woman appeared to be one of the leaders of this horde, the space magicians who relied more on their strange powers then on hard steel. What had brought her here?

 

[Surea]

Blaster fire filled the air. Surea turned, letting the bolt pass by her before she thrust her blade out. Impaling the shooter on it's crimson edge. An expression of.. Nothing. No emotion, no life. Her eyeless scarred face under the mask was the last thing they saw before their life ended. Then danger. Her sixth sense activated just as another rushed forward. Vibroblade in hand. The blade cut through her flesh arm, releasing a spray of rotting blood.

Her lips turned to an angry frown. She needed to do nothing, not now. Her blood hit the man, who turned to bring their blade around. Ready to strike again. But the Rot made quick work of them. Where the blood hit flesh started to burn. Blacken. He helped as he dropped his weapon, scrambled back. A cruel fate as he ran away, or tried, as the rot took hold. Surea just let them run. They were already dead, after all.

Her head turned to at least look like she was looking at Ronar . Still she said nothing. But she did let her saber extinguish.

 

[Chassella]

Location: Cinnagar - Empress Teta
In Vicinity: Darth Solipsis Derix Tirall Marlon Sularen

By the time she found her obligation and gave him the end he was due, he was already half-dead.

He had been a typical coreworld nobleman, grown fat on other people’s labor and all the more lazy and arrogant because of it. In his hubris, he had refused to evacuate until it was too late, believing that the Royal Palace was untouchable and that no enemy could breach its bejeweled gates.

Oh, how wrong he had been.

In spite of the weak, broken state he was in when she found him, Chassella had slain him with an impatient, nigh-berserk bloodthirst, after having searched the area around the fallen skyscraper for hours, seeking a Tetan noble that would fulfill her obligation. She had tried and failed to slay the Jedi, separated from him in the aftermath of the skyscraper’s collapse, due to being forced to escape from its deadly radius. Regardless, after completing her obligation, Chassella presented her kill to her priest and the mysterious, dark-clad Sith had initiated her into the ranks of the Church in a short ceremony amidst the ruins of the Palace.

Now, she waited.

It would be mere days before the Church embarked on its greatest undertaking yet, a crusade with the potential to remake the galaxy in the purifying fires of the Dark Side or cast it further down the pit of decay. Having only recently followed the currents of the Dark Side towards the Maw, it went without saying that the Elzeri had not expected to find herself in the midst of a galactic shatterpoint so soon. As an Agent of Chaos, Chassella had believed that Discordia’s mission alone would shape the galaxy. Now, she saw that the Dark Side was the ultimate font of power, far more so than any idealistic mission or crusade.

Only a few meters from her place in the rows of cultists from the Church, the Dark Lord of the Sith looked over his assembled legions, followers, servants, and cultists. And yet, clad in a dark robe which made her almost indistinguishable amidst the crowd of similarly-dressed cultists, Chassella dared not even glance in his direction, for fear of being struck down by sight alone. Even so, she could feel his descent towards the ranks of the Church, his presence palpable in the currents of Force even to one such as her, who was blind to it.

His next words were as if the blood had been ripped from her veins.

“Ready the weapon.”

 

[Spindle]

TAG: Darth Carnifex

While her fellows reveled in destruction, the Nagai's attentions turned forward. There was much to be done for the final assault and where some found might in their violence, the Weaver's methods were more complex. Her creeping influence did better to aid her comrades in name by weakening the forces of light through more abstract methods. Where some would turn to meditation to bolster their forces, her own rituals and machinations would seek to turn readiness to caution, concern to dread.

At least, that had been her place in the most current battle. But as the violence progressed, fear itself became self-replicating, no longer needing her webbed encouragement. And so the gaunt apprentice had turned her focus toward the second goal of her journey here. Curiosity and the promise of acquisition sent the pale woman ahead of the Maw forces. The Iron Citadel featured a place for gathering, she could only imagine a place for collecting, too, or other gems hidden among the wreckage.

Stained fingers trailed along scorched walls, leaving behind their own trail of inky oblivion. Falsely pointed ears caught the grind of something heavy pushed along stone, a crash shortly following. The thought to pause her investigation, wait for others lest the cause of the crash be beyond her capabilities vaguely passed through Spindle's mind, dashed almost as quickly as it was thought. If whatever it was was a danger to her, then surely it would be a threat to the prizes she sought.

"Oh." She didn't think to stop the syllable as she rounded a corner, feet stopping short as she took in the decrepit throne room. Beady gaze shifted from the crippled throne to the figure standing where the throne once rested. And while her first instinct was to slip back into the shadows, the turn and words of the stranger drew her out.

"Not one for furniture, I take it?" she offered with a short nod to the wreckage and a click of the tongue. "What a shame, I was so dreadfully curious what such a chair would feel like. Oh well, no trap door there, is there?" There was a creeping warmth in her voice, curious and friendly, so long as that curiosity remained. After all, there was no need for unpleasantries, not yet.

 

[Ronar]

As Surea extinguished her lightsaber, Ronar let his own weapon lower, ever so slightly. He stayed on his guard, but it appeared that this woman was not a foe. At least, not yet. The primal rage was fading now, and Ronar's eyes flickered to the scene of carnage that surrounded them. In all, nearly ten rebels lay dead or dying on the rocky ground. The warrior felt energized by the bloodbath; this was far better than a measly dueling ring.

His eyes returned to the woman, who stood silently before him. He wondered what he should do. Should he say something? Do something? What sort of space magician was she? Was she one of the arrogant ones who expected pronation and supplication? He would give nothing of the sort, though he would respect her for trying. Then again, it would be strange for someone of such position to be in such a place as this. He had heard that some of the warchiefs, or whatever they were called, of this mighty horde maintained personal soldiers; assassins and bodyguards and the like. Was she perhaps one of these?

Rule number 2, my son, his father had said, Every pack has its hierarchy. To survive, you must know your place, and that of others.

"Who do you serve?" he finally asked.

 

[Surea]

Surea hooked her saber back on her waist, turning her head as if she was looking over the slaughtered field. She was, but she didn't need to turn her head. Just making sure the Rot wasn't spreading, not too far. Content that it wasn't she turned her face to Ronar . Who did she serve? .. No, her master told her not to tell anyone. So instead she crossed her arms over her chest.

"I am Sith."

 

[Vesta]

cinderella's dead​

She had not watched Teta struggle, its ardent defenders flounder, but it had been by design. Stand or fall, Teta had only been one of the many routes that would have led them towards the ultimate goal of their dark master. Mori, for her part, had only arrived as the violence was reduced to petty demonstrations by rogues in the street; her attention hadn't been on this planet, its people, or anyone that had been participating in the battle that saw it turn away from Alliance control. Forever on the future, eternally on freedom, she did not see the subjugated world as favorably as the rest - only a necessary means to an end, one which justified everything they had done thus far.

"There are talks of preparations for the end," She heard someone say in a hushed voice, their words lowered as she strode by them. It was bold of anyone to speak in such an anxious manner about the next world on the Brotherhood's long and tired list, it implied concern - doubt. She didn't blame them. "Why're you even going then?" Another one asked, less restrained, and she realized that they must have been heading in the same direction as she had been, towards the Crucifix II that would ferry them to Tython. "It's.. I have to see it with my own eyes." The other said, confirming what she had thought she felt creep into his words with his admission of doubt. "What is there to see? If it's the end then you won't really.. y'know.. remember it, won't you?" Said a third voice, someone else who clearly shared the same weak nerves as the first.

"There will be plenty to see." Mori said aloud, revealing that she had been listening - eliciting a gasp and the sounds of slowed footsteps as she did.

Her lips pressed thinly into a grimace, not at all looking forwards to the herculean effort it'd require of more than just herself despite all that she'd dedicated towards getting this far. It all felt too much like Bastion again, like she was going to have everything she wanted slip right through the cracks in her fingers just when things seemed to be going in the direction favorable to her, but it was just fear whispering into her ear over the myriad futures that this one battle splintered off into. "No plan ever survives contact with the enemy." She admitted, both to herself and to the three that trailed slightly further back now, as she broke away from the path that most others that had arrived late took towards the destroyer.

There was someone she had to see first.

Darth Solipsis

 

[Ljóðolfr Eyðimǫr]

Location: Empress Teta

It is as if Kad Ha'rangir himself had selected this planet for purification. By fire, faith and fury, this world had its corruption purged and tested, those whom were too weak were send screaming to whatever underworld, whether to be reforged for a new existence or merely to suffer, I know not or care. But for those with the strength, with purity in their heart. What will they make of us?

Kneeling within the ashes, Ljóðolfr breathed heavily, accepting the scents this world offered and reveling in them. The thick scent of smoke, the sharp tang on his tongue of blood in the air, the sickly sweet scent of corpses burning over fire. This was as it should be, the end of one cycle and beginning of another. Opening his eyes, the Mandalorian looked out across the slaughter, the briefest hint of a smile tugging at his weathered cheeks.

A planet nearly engulfed in modern civilization. Wildlife driven to extinction, the land chocked with housing and flora removed to allow lanes for speeders. There was nothing more perverse than to twist the natural cycle because you were too weak to survive, too pathetic to face it's challenges. And yet, instead of perishing to ensure that their weakness could not spread, those who had dwelled here had instead huddled within their steel cages, certain of their victory against the night and the horrors it contained.

How Wrong they are.

He had arrived upon Empress Teta many cycles ago, trusting that the Destroyer God would lead him to his next hunt, his next challenge, his next test.
When he had stepped onto this world, it had almost been too much for him. There were no wild herds to hunt, no fresh game to feed upon and he had nearly succumbed to weakness himself, considering accepting packaged food in exchange for services. It had been when he had sat crouched in an alley, trying to imagine what this world had once looked upon before enlightenment had struck. As the rains began to fall and those who wandered the night streets hurried and hustled, he realised the truth. There was most certainly herds here and meat in abundance.

When the purifiers had came and put the surface to the flame, Ljóðolfr had included them in his hunt, discriminating not in whom he stalked and fed upon, but in time even he had fallen to the hordes that now occupied the world.

Heavy chains now held him bound to the earth, sinking deep into the ashes as the others taken captive during the battles aftermath shivered next to him. Looking around at those whom were armed, he bared his teeth as he searched for one whom would listen.

"I...DEMAND....CHALLENGE....CHALLENGE....OR...FREEDOM!" he roared, his voice croaking with disuse. Straining against the chains, veins bulging, he began to pound a fist against his chest in hopes of gaining the attention of the horde.

"I...DEMAND....CHALLENGE!"

 

[Ronar]

The response from Surea was short and to the point. She stated it as if it meant something great to her, this "Sith" term. Ronar had heard it before, bounced around the camp, though had done little investigation into its meaning. It was generally spoken in one of two ways: with disgust, or with awe. Ronar felt neither in this moment. It was clear this woman was strong, but he had seen many strong warriors. He saw nothing worthy of sustained adoration. Her prowess earned a guarded interest, nothing more.

But, she was indeed skilled in the art of war, not like other space magicians who just flailed their arms about and spoke in strange proverbs. If all "Sith" were like her, than maybe they were some kind of warrior order. They obviously had status in the horde, for their name to be spoken with such conviction. If so, maybe they could help him find a pathway to reclaiming the status he deserved. Perhaps it would be prudent of him to allow guarded interest to become marked inquisitiveness.

"What is, "Sith"?" he asked simply.

 

[Surea]

Surea froze. What is Sith? Wasn't it obvious? She opened her mouth to explain, but.. Nothing came to mind. What was Sith? Her Master had taught her the code, the basics of how to manipulate the Force. How to get strong, or at least why she was able to get stronger when she let her hate flow. Questions she'd have to ask her Master the next time she was able to get a lesson. Or another Sith, if they didn't attack her on sight.

For now, though, she could give Ronar some kind of answer.

"Those who rule this galaxy."

 

[Ronar]

Ronar cocked an eyebrow beneath his helmet. The Sith were the ones who ruled? That didn't sound quite right. They had not ruled his father, at least not that he had ever known. In his time in the war camp he had heard mentions of other forces, the "Jedi" and the "Empire" and others like them. If the Sith ruled them, then why were they at war? His father had often sent his reavers to controlled territory, to extort tribute and remind the people who ruled them, but he had never had to fight a full-blown war within his own borders. He had always said that rebellions were to be crushed quickly, swiftly, and mercilessly, before they could grow.

Ronar scoffed slightly. If the Sith claimed to rule this galaxy, they might be as weak as his own failure of a patriarch.

"So you are a champion?" he said to Surea , changing the subject, "Sent to kill this rabble by your Sith warchief?"