Junction Echoes of the Gravesong - Undeath comes to the Diarchy (DIA & ME junction of Brath Qella/Placeholder

Diarch Reign · 2025-06-07T00:30:45-0400

Location: Yaga Minor – Surface City of Vjunhollow
The industrial surface city of Vjunhollow was a symbol of the Diarchy's power, a city of forges, ship parts, and orbital anchors. Now, it's on the edge of becoming a grave.

The necromancer Harrow has arrived. In his wake, the Gravesong has awakened the dead, spreading through the corpse-disposal sectors, maglev tunnels, and sub-city catacombs. Within hours, half the city has fallen. Entire battalions are silent. The dead are coordinated and fast

The orbital elevator platform is the last functioning evacuation route for survivors and wounded. Diarchy forces have transmitted an emergency call for reinforcements. The Mandalorian Empire has responded. However, Mandalore's help isn't free. As leadership convenes to discuss terms, the dead march on..

they must reach an agreement. But the city is collapsing. And the dead are not slowing down.

Objective 1: Purge the Lower Districts

(PvE – Survival Horror)
The surrounding sectors of Vjunhollow are lost. Entire districts have gone offline..no lights, no comms, no signs of life… except for movement in the dark, and a song that seems to permeate the very force itself.

Strike teams are being deployed into the lower housing blocks, collapsed rail stations, and silent corridors once used by thousands. These areas must be cleared to reinforce the elevator sector, but the Gravesong has soaked into the walls.

Sweep arcologies, loading zones, and tunnel access points.
Recover missing fireteam logs, survivor caches, or data cores.
Destroy or collapse any passages leading into the command zone.

Expect isolation, psychological terror, and close-quarters combat.

You are not alone in the dark the dead are everywhere

Objective 2: Hold the Platform

(Defense – Medical & Evac)
The orbital elevator's surface anchor is under siege. Thousands of wounded soldiers, engineers, and civilians are trapped at the foot of the tower, awaiting shuttle extraction. Field medics are overwhelmed, ammo is running dry, and evacuation shuttles can't come fast enough.

And the dead are coming.

This is a final stand. You may not hold forever, but every second counts.

Objective 3: Bring Your Own Outbreak

The fall of Vjunhollow offers endless opportunity and personal horror.

Write your own survival story, tragedy, or revelation. You don't need orders you just need to live through the night.

Harrow · 2025-06-07T01:30:28-0400

YAGA MINOR - LOW ORBIT
Above the dying world, the storm returns.

The stars above Yaga Minor blurred past him in streaks of blood and shadow. Harrow flew. Not danced. Not sang. Not laughed. Flew.

There was no mirth behind his painted smile now. No joy in the ruin, no delight in the screams that echoed from below. Only cold intent. Only fury.

The last performance had been sloppy. Too indulgent. He’d let his Troupe loose like children at a festival, and what had it earned him? A corpse. One of his.

He would not make that mistake again.

The necromancer extended a gloved hand, fingers twitching once...and the space before him tore open.

A vertical gash of crimson light split the void, its edges lined with seething runes that hissed and spat like wounded beasts. The portal pulsed with malevolence. Rage poured from it, thick as fog. And from within, he stepped forward.

Bound in chains of black iron, the entity emerged. His shape was humanoid, but wrong. Twisted. Fury rolled off of him like heat from a blast furnace, and his voice cracked like thunder when he spoke.

“Release me, clown.”

Harrow didn’t flinch. Instead, he floated downward, robes fluttering, eyes glowing like hell-lit coals, and cupped the creature’s face gently between both palms.

“Now is that any way to thank the man who fished your sorry hide from the pit?” Harrow cooed. “Do you know how hard it is to find someone still mostly intact in the Netherworld?”

The entity snarled, fangs bared. Harrow’s grin returned. But it was all teeth. No joy. No humor. Just promise.

“I’m not here for games,” he said, voice like a blade dragged against bone. “Not anymore.”

With a flick of his wrist, the portal shimmered and warped, revealing flickers of Yaga Minor’s surface below. Fires. Screaming. The Gravesong itself: a chorus of despair that echoed in the Force, howled through blood-slick streets and hollowed-out arcologies.

“The city will fall by morning,” Harrow said, voice low with finality. “But not because I’ll stay to watch it burn. The Gravesong has been set loose, but we won’t anchor it, not this time. The spell will unravel on its own, collapse inward once its work is done. Just long enough to finish what matters. We won’t linger like on Taris. No encore. No mistakes..."

He stepped back.

“There’s an artifact buried deep beneath the surface. Long forgotten by the Diarchy and meaningless to their kind. But to us?” He tapped a finger to his temple. “To our Troupe?”

“It’s everything.”

The chained entity spat at his feet. “Why should I do your dirty work?” Harrow’s expression didn’t change. But his voice grew quieter. Deadlier.

“Because I gave you a second chance. And I can take it back just as easily.” He stepped forward again, his shadow stretching across the creature’s form. “Because in the depths of that pit, you wept for freedom. For purpose. For life. And I can give you all three.”

Silence. The entity’s breath slowed. Rage cooled, but did not vanish. It focused.

“…So be it.” he said at last. Harrow clapped him once on the shoulder, and the sound echoed across the stars.

“Atta boy.”

Chains shattered. Light flared. And with a snap of the necromancer’s fingers...The entity vanished.

Down into the world. Into the dark. Into the bowels of Yaga Minor, where the dead already walked and the artifact awaited. Where battalions of corpses mined endlessly at the bones of a world too slow to realize it was already dead. Harrow turned, floating backward into the void, arms outstretched like a conductor before a bloody overture.

The living would tremble. The Troupe would grow stronger. And soon, when the missing piece was finally claimed...

The Gravesong would never end.

Diarch Reign + Diarchy,

Aether Verd + Mandalorian Empire

Aether Verd · 2025-06-07T01:59:27-0400

EN ROUTE TO YAGA MINOR
"The dead don’t sleep. Neither does Mandalore."

The bridge of the Resolute Dawn was silent.

Not in fear. Not in hesitation. But in the way soldiers go quiet when they are waiting for war to begin. Through reinforced glasteel, the planet below burned. Black smog curled through the clouds like a serpent, and if you listened hard enough, you could almost hear it. That sound. That cursed song.

Aether Verd stood at the heart of it all, crimson plates still and gleaming, arms crossed against the weight in his chest.

The Gravesong.

They thought it was theirs alone to carry.

It began on Zanbar. A backwater warzone turned graveyard, where the dead clawed up from the mud with empty eyes and laughter stitched into their skin. Then came Taris: a jewel world shattered into dust, where Harrow’s Troupe turned a relief mission into a stage play of ruin. The Mandalorians bled for that rock. Fought with everything they had. And when the screams faded and the smoke cleared, that was when the Diarchy finally appeared.

Not with thanks. But with threats.

One of their own arrived like a blade hidden behind protocol, sharp-tongued and seething with contempt. She spoke of incursions. Of rebellion. She walked over the ashes of the fallen and dared to preach sovereignty to the Iron Empire of Mandalore. Had it not been for the voice of her liege and the restraint of the Mand’alor, Taris might have birthed another war that day.

And yet...Here they were.

Yaga Minor trembled beneath the weight of the same song. The same rot. The same scent of death that made veterans of Taris tighten their grips and say silent prayers to gods they didn’t believe in. Entire districts had gone dark. The city of Vjunhollow was being devoured in real time, and the dead were dancing again.

But this time, the call hadn’t been late. This time, the Diarchy asked.

And Aether Verd answered.

The sky above Yaga Minor split open as the ships of Viper-Alpha arrived in formation: sleek daggerheads and ironclad warbarges bearing the sigils of Mandalore. Not one of them broke orbit. Not one touched ground. Because he hadn’t given the order.

Because this time, Mandalorians would not die without cause.

Azure light flickered and sparked as the signal began, and across every Diarchy command vessel, his image appeared. Mand’alor the Iron, seated, still, statuesque on his throne of crimson steel.

“I am Aether Verd,” his voice rumbled through the signal, calm and unmistakably cold. “Mand’alor of the Empire you once scorned.”

His gaze sharpened, helm unmoving.

“We’ve fought this enemy. Bled for worlds you did not defend. We turned back the Gravesong before...and we can do it again.”

A beat.

“But I will not send my sons and daughters into fire for nothing.”

The hologram leaned forward, just slightly.

“Bring me your liege. If your nation wishes our blades, our dead, then terms must be spoken. Not whispered behind banners or wrapped in poisoned words.”

Behind him, the shadows of Viper-Alpha loomed across the stars like wolves circling flame.

“Mandalore awaits your answer.”

And with that, the image vanished. Let the Diarchy decide what their lives were worth.

Liorra

Conrad

Reshim

Itzhal Volkihar
@Lilara Daeva

Valah Hagen
@Khairem Tal

Vytal Noctura

Suleiman Lok

Kyrida Verd
@Sar'ila Kandosii

CT-312

Nephthys Nardithi-Verd

Hanna

Jonah

Diarch Rellik · 2025-06-07T02:57:48-0400

Location: Aboard the DSD-Vault - Yaga Minor Space

The bridge of the DSD-Vault is shrouded in cold light. Tactical holoprojections illuminate the room. The entire Command deck is on alert as Diarch Rellik receives transmission from Manda'lore himself. The recent battle between Laphisto and Zara have given him all he needs to know of the recent events on Taris. Had he been there, nothing of the kind would have happened. Yet, their sector had been expanding quickly and he was busy. He had not even known of the relief effort until the event transpired. Officers speak in hushed tones at the signal, but the center of it all is Diarch Rellik. Cloaked in black and red, his face partially shadowed beneath the soft blue hue of the holofeed.

"Great Manda'lore, we have not met but I am the co-head of this sector. Diarch Rellik. I apologize for the meeting upon Taris of our people. We have been honored by the nature of Mandalorians who have joined our strife, and accept you now with civility. I have studied your rise with great interest and am pleased to meet you. From what I know you summoned Mandalorians once before on Zanbar and then Taris. The laughter that rose from the mouths of corpses, this plague - was defeated. Now Vjunhollow joins them. It seems your intelligence is strong and your action decisive being here so quickly. So I will do the same on behalf of my people in negotiating their aid."

The Diarch was a man of history and precedent. Where others dived, he did so with books and intelligence. There was no reason to believe Mando'a would attack with a virus against his people. It was a weak way to wage war. This was simply something traveling the stars and spreading its affliction.

"All are welcome into Diarchy space so long as they keep the peace, so I offer this as a deal between our people. Echoy'la - a world filled with Mandalorians who I can promise have been treated with great respect; within our sector will be treated as a holy world, Mandalorians can visit anytime peacefully, Echoy'la citizens are dual citizens, they may come and go as they please. Along with your own people to the world under tourism or visa's."

These were rulers, not just governors. The Diarch would need to fully reach out to Manda'lore to get the deal finalized.

"Echoy'la beskar mining for the Diarchy stops and existing beskar is given to the Mandalorians, We are willing to continue paying for the mining practice but if you wish to handle it yourself, so is your birth rite. All I ask for in return is an offer of Neutrality and an agreement of payment for this current aid and aid in the future at the costs of filling your purse or bringing new worlds into your fold Great Manda'lore. I honor your rule, your help, and offer my individual own in return if so requested."

Rellik gave a slight head bow to the man. It was not servitude but mutual. This was a kindness laced with power dealing. Nothing in the galaxy was free but the Diarch would do his best to make it amicable. The Galactic Alliance and Diarchy were nearing bordering. The Mandalorians as their nearest neighbor could not be attacked nor threatened into submission. They would rather die in mud and blood. The best course of action would be to sign a deal. If this accord could be finalized, the Diarch would be free to unleash his conviction upon the world of Yaga Minor and aid in its relief.

Looking to his second officer aboard the command deck he gave a simple command. "Call to Laphisto or the Lilaste order as a whole. Inform them Defensive measures are needed upon Yaga minor. Than reach out to Maldor Mecetti and Vyllia Santhe in regards to their shipyards on the planet. We must defend the elevator shaft reaching to the shipyards. Furthermore, call Merion Oreno , I have been reading his profile and he might have some clues in regards to this... deathly case."

Aether Verd

Ze'bast Verd · 2025-06-07T06:33:42-0400

AD_4nXfb6ZtMHMw1aVvDFleVyxi9nA-QE1P1hqm0MDa7i-DBrZEMz5px0GD77CZkLROxzvmxqHr72zqrbPjng1Yc0BLHr7mdGmIOS1Y9XYcV_3QDHNtolDp5pwqZiyl5gS7BARBYQqtc

TAG:

Aether Verd /

Diarch Rellik + Open

OBJECTIVE 1: PURGE THE LOWER DISTRICTS

Ze’bast stood quietly aboard the Kom’rk-class transport, its matte-black hull gliding like a wraith alongside the Resolute Dawn. Inside, the bay was dim, lit only by status lights blinking softly above drop seats lined with armored warriors. The muffled hum of the ship’s engines was the only sound, a steady pulse beneath the weight of their silence.

His squad of Supercommandos sat in their deployment harnesses, heads bowed, weapons checked and rechecked with ritualistic precision. Each one clad in battle-worn beskar, each one carrying the scars of battles won and comrades lost. No words were needed. The silence was sacred. A rite before war. In that stillness, prayers were whispered to ancient gods, to ancestors, or to no one at all. Just time to think, to breathe, to prepare.

By order of Mand’alor, they waited. But Ze’bast did not mistake waiting for inaction. Every heartbeat was a step closer to cleaning things up. This was the Gravesong War and today, the fight had come to the gates of the Diarchy. From orbit, the world below simmered with malignancy. He didn’t need sensors to tell him something was wrong. He felt it. A cold stain in the Force, like oil in water. A darkness that clung to the soul, that whispered in the silence and threatened to unmake the living, to twist the dead.

He could taste it on the air, even sealed in his helmet: rot, arcane power, and the nether’s song.

The dead rose endlessly from the soil. Perverted by sorcery. Raised without honor. It was an abomination. The fallen deserved peace. It was either through remembrance, or through a warrior’s end. Instead, they were puppets to an enemy too cowardly to stand in open battle. No banner. No face. Just endless, mindless legions that clawed and screamed and overwhelmed.

Whole families erased, not by conquest, but by the dead. Too many had seen loved ones returned as empty vessels. It was not just war anymore. It was a desecration of history. Of kin.

Ze’bast clenched his gauntleted fist.

This deadlock would end. They would end it.

The blaster fire, the shrieks, the cursed spells—it would all fall silent beneath the crushing boot of Mandalorian iron. They had fought worse. They would not break. They could not.

His HUD flickered with the fleet’s formation map. No new orders yet, but the Mand’alor’s voice would come soon. And when it did, Ze’bast and his warriors would descend like fire from the stars.

Red Mobius · 2025-06-07T07:17:22-0400

Wearing: Red's Personal Mobius Steel Armor

Armed With: T-7 Ion Disruptor, Enclave's Herald , Obsolete Grenade Launcher, Besragr

Equipment: Heavy Ammo Belt

Grenade Rounds:

Napalm (10)

Plasma: (5)

Shotgun Rounds:

Explosive (10 Reloads)

Incendiary (5 Reloads)

Disruptor Reloads (Five)

Kassandra Beskar'ad , a freed Nuetralizer that worked for Red under the cover of being a simple assistant HRD, widened her Droid eyes as she spotted Red loading up her weapons of choice into a recently purchased Skipray Blastboat.

"Are you trying to kill Zombies or erase them?" Kassandra questioned.

"There's a difference?" Red quipped as she loaded up her weapons.

"Well, technically, considering the Zombies are already dead--"

"I was joking, Kassandra."

Kassandra raised an eyebrow.

"Oh."

"Trust me on this: If there is ever a reason to use a weapon like a T-7, it's on an enemy like this." Red replied.

"But you would use such a weapon on the living?"

"I have used such a weapon on the living." Red replied. "In Clan Mobius, we have a saying: War is cruelty. There is no use in trying to reform it. The crueler it is, the sooner it's over."

Kassandra's eyes widened once more and her mouth fell open a bit.

"That...that saying..." She trailed. "It's one of House Io's rules."

This caught Red's attention.

"No way that's random..." Red replied quietly. "That statement has been a saying in my clan for centuries...she must have encountered us at some point...but when?"

"Much of Laertia's early life remains unknown. What we know of her is what she told us..." Kassandra replied. "Though, I suppose given later revelations, I shouldn't be surprised she probably still has one or two secrets left."

"Was she always a psycho?" Red asked as they both got in the Skipray.

"The case could be made..." Kassandra replied, trying to hide her sadness. Red caught it but said nothing.

They were soon taking off from the Class Five Protected Transport Red was using as her central base of operations.

Mand'Alor had summoned the Warband to Brath Quella.

Her Skipray was decorated with her Clan Sigil, that of a Mythosaur Skull above a Mobius Strip. Red had been settling into a routine, even as she hunted down all the known strongholds of her clan for clues as to how they ALL could have vanished. Answering the call of the Mand'Alor made it easy to focus.

"So we just wait in orbit until your leader gives the word?" Kassandra asked.

"That's the plan. Mandalorians don't bleed when there is no need to. Or when we are not properly compensated for the blood loss..." Red replied. "And

Aether Verd seems particularly keen on enforcing that sentiment. Besides...not like we owe the Diarchy. But they WILL owe us for the time and effort."

Kassandra tilted her head.

"If only my mother had been so pragmatic..." she admitted.

The Fighter took off into hyperspace...

Present...

Every other clan in their fancy ships absolutely dwarfed Red's humble Blastboat as she flew through their lines, her friendly I.D. transponder active. She didn't have much to go into battle with, and little in the way of support beyond this HRD she had freed and offered a job...

But she wouldn't be thought of as a coward. When Mand'Alor called she would answer. Even if it meant risking her life and mission. Success meant little if she squandered the honor of her clan or disobeyed the Six Actions...

Her ship wasn't all that far away from that of

Ze'bast Verd 's as she came to a stop in orbit.

"With the blessing of the Oversoul...and a little luck...we shall taste victory this day..." Red said to herself more than Kassandra as she waited for the fun to begin...

Vytal Noctura · 2025-06-07T07:33:24-0400

Aboard the Resolute Dawn

Vytal hated politics. She hated being the one that had to participate in them, specifically, and all of the constant bickering and deliberate twisting of words that came with it. All that being true, she stood on the bridge of the Resolute Dawn as the Mand'alor opened dialogue with the Diarchy to negotiate a price for their services. Unlike that irreverent Sith playing Mandalorian, Zlova Rue, Vytal wasn't going to use her magick to bypass Aether's invisible blockade of the planet -- not of the Diarchy, but a blockade of the Mandalorian fleet. The man had a plan for this circumstance, and reason for it, so she would wait as it played out.

That being true, her emerald eyes turned toward the planet with a shadow of a scowl. "He is here," the Nightmother intoned.

She'd not meant to speak, even being off screen, but the shift in tides had been too momentous to keep quiet. Harrow's presence -- and something else -- presented an opportunity. One that might grow swiftly and force their hand; or at least force her own. Considerate as she'd be to Aether's rule as the partner she'd advocated on Dathomir, there came a time when even that must be put aside for the greater good. For everyone's sake, pray to all the gods and goddesses such action would not be necessary.

Aether Verd |

Diarch Rellik |

Ze'bast Verd |

Red Mobius | OPEN

Rokul · 2025-06-07T08:29:02-0400

Location: Yaga Minor
Tags: Open
Objective: 2

Rokul had given up on ranged assaults already. It would be ammo wasted on him. Instead he had passed his weapons off to the nearest other soldier and prepared to get his hands dirty. It was what he did best at the end of the day. Getting into the thick of things whilst he took attention off people. This was different to what he used to at the end of the day however. Rokul was used to being on the offensive, to be a wrecking ball that broke through enemy lines, but there was no breaking through these enemies. The undead would continue to march onwards...and Rokul would continue to smash whatever he could against their corpses, even as his gauntlets dripped blood onto the ground beneath him.

He would bleed for the Diarchy. He would fight for the Diarchy. He might not have been born in the Diarchy, but they had given him a purpose. A life. He was not some farmboy on Dantooine anymore. Help might not come on this day, the evacuation shuttles might stop coming, but as long as Rokul had breath in his lungs and fire in his blood, he wouldn't back down for a moment. They might be alone in this fight, but Rokul never asked for help. He never looked for it. He'd fight for as long as he could. Nothing was going to hold him back.

Whilst he might not be afraid however, that did not mean the rest of the troops weren't. Stray panicked shots spread out throughout, as fear was clearly setting in for some of their fighters. It made sense of course. Who wouldn't be terrified to see the undead, perhaps some of their own loved ones marching towards them? The shambling masses that just seemed to keep growing in size and didn't seem to stop. That was the worst part about fear. It was a killer. An infection that would spread if you didn't deal with it. And so that's what Rokul decided to do, making his way to the firing line.

"Off the line. Now. You're wasting your ammo. Hand it off to the person next to you. Come back when you've got a level-head."

Rokul had never been one to give orders. He had always taken them. Followed them to the letter. But that had changed now, as he headed down the line, repeating the same order to everyone who appeared to be far too nervous or terrified to be on the line. It was possible that some of these troops wouldn't come back to the line once they had calmed down, but Rokul had faith that some of them would. The Diarchy didn't train cowards. They didn't train traitors.

With that hopefully making some kind of helpful impact, Rokul picked up two knives he could find off some of the dead. Sure, punching out the undead could be fun but it wasn't as efficient as he could be. Plus hey, it wasn't like they were using the weapons. Rokul was alive, so it was more important for him to use them. And so once more he charged out against the horde, once more unto the breach.

Manti Wyrvhor · 2025-06-07T09:15:35-0400

		
"Here's why you can't exterminate us, aruetii. We are not huddled in one place - we span the galaxy. We need no lords or leaders - so you can't destroy our command. We can live without technology - so we can fight with our bare hands. We have no species or bloodline - so we can rebuild our ranks with others who want to join us. We're more than just a people or an army, aruetii. We're a culture. We're an idea. And you can't kill ideas - but we can certainly kill you." 

- Mand'alor the Destroyer​

Objective: To be Determined

Location: In Orbit aboard the Resolute Dawn
Tags: 
			 
		 Aether Verd
 
		 Vytal Noctura
 
Manti stood silently on the fringes of the bridge, leaning against the far bulkhead next to the entrance. The gravesong, it sounded almost pleasant. Like an ode to the lost, or a battle chant. This, what was happening below, was far from beautiful. Already Manti's hand rested on Nau'ur Kad'kyr, the long knife resting in her belt which had already cut the strings of one servant of the gravesong, thus earning a name: to forge death. Perhaps it would earn another today. Regardless, Manti waited for the order to be given to go below.

The Mand'alor's speech was a good one, though Manti would have preferred to simply land on the planet, repel the invasion, and claim the world for the Mandalorian Empire. If this 'Diarchy' was too weak to keep their own world then she saw no point in defending it for them. But, perhaps, that is why she did not lead. When the transmission ended, Manti would shift and offer her opinions on the matter in four simple words:

"I don't trust them." she spoke, but not in reproach or to challenge her mand'alor. He had shown interest in her opinions before and now she brought them before him.

Too many times Manti's clan had been tricked or double crossed by those calling themselves law bringers, mostly petty warlords on back water planets. But this Diarchy? This was new, and that made them even more unpredictable.

Adonis Angelis IV · 2025-06-07T11:07:09-0400

Objective I
Tag:

Ze'bast Verd

851e51123e67c776bad5c4777f05069c8c786e67.pnj

The air aboard the transport shuttle was thick with anticipation.

Brothers and sisters moved with purpose, strapping in, running last-minute diagnostics, exchanging quiet glances beneath the steel glow of status lights. You could feel it, the weight. The kind of tension that settled in your bones like cold metal. Not fear. Something deeper. Heavier.

Anxiety, Adonis thought. It was inevitable. Even for warriors.

Taris had proved that much.

They'd fought through the undead once before, watched friends torn apart by things that should have stayed buried. Even now, the scent of ash clung to him. The screams echoed if he sat in silence too long. And every time his eyes closed, he saw the fire. That wasn't something you walked away from- it followed. It waited.

Rest, he'd long since learned, was a luxury of the saved. Not the saviors.

His father had warned him. If you choose to be good, if you choose to be noble, you will never sleep right again. Heroes bled twice: once in the body, and once in the soul. That was a truth Adonis Angelis IV had swallowed young. Now, he lived it with every breath.

He looked across the cabin toward Ze'bast Verd, a brother not by blood, but by blood shared. Honor was thicker than lineage. Jonah had conscripted him into Clan Verd, handed him a legacy he hadn't been born into but would carry like a blade. It was a gift. A weight. A creed.

And Adonis hadn't looked back.

This was his chance to prove himself again. To Mand'alor. To House Verd. To the galaxy. But most of all, to himself. That he was what he claimed. That he could still carry the fire.

He sat across from Ze'bast, scattergun in hand, running the soft cloth over the barrel with a soldier's grace. Ritual more than maintenance. It helped him think. Helped him feel ready.

Because whatever waited below, it wouldn't be like Taris. Harrow had learned. And the monsters born of necromancy learned fast.

The holos didn't show you that part growing up. They taught you the villains were arrogant, doomed to fail by their flaws. But real evil? Real evil adapted. It came back sharper. Hungrier. And the so-called good guys? They just had to carry more of the slack.

That was what Mandalorians were for, it seemed. Cleaning up the mess the rest of the galaxy pretended didn't exist until it was at their doorstep.

He shifted, glancing again at the others in the hold. Their armor whispered stories of past wars. The smell of oiled weapons, charged packs, and old blood hung thick in the air. A war hymn, unspoken but understood.

Adonis flipped the scattergun over, rechecking the fit of the barrel.

Then, calm as ever: "Tell me, brother," he said, voice smooth, the kind of steady born from having already made peace with death, "what do you know of this Diarchy?"

His tone wasn't skeptical. It wasn't cold. But it carried weight, an edge just beneath the surface. Not just curiosity. Readiness.

Because Adonis was already counting the seconds until the ramp dropped.

And down below, the song had already started.

Merion Oreno · 2025-06-07T11:27:06-0400

Diarch Rellik said:
Furthermore, call Merion Oreno Merion Oreno , I have been reading his profile and he might have some clues in regards to this... deathly case."

Out of pride, Merion Oreno lived his life under his middle name, to stand or fall by his own judgment and his own hand, so far as that was ever possible for him. But pride was not always the priority. An outbreak of undead on Yaga Minor certainly rated higher. So did orders from on high, skipping several steps of Chancellorate of Commerce hierarchy, to bring information.

Since Oreno was his middle name, such moments conferred options. Unpleasant, costly, but valuable in proportion.

After the Diarchy call — he was piloting a long-range shuttle back from Brath Qella with weapons tech samples and diplomats — he steeled himself against the task and called one of his maternal grandmothers. A woman who'd kidnapped and pressed him into service; a woman who, in her own way, was any necromancer's equal. Ritualist, resurrector of self and others, teller of foolish stories from her audacious misspent youth.

In particular, he recalled how she'd once taken a sniper rifle to a world of flying equines, to a valley of flowers and undead; he recalled, too, how she'd used a certain low-orbit slingshot maneuver to tear an undead fortress from the soil of Odacer-Faustin, and how she'd bragged of walking the dead landscape of Mugg Fallow, and how she and a notorious Sith had conspired to suppress the Blackwing plague, and how his other maternal grandmother had fought in the Dark Harvest crisis, and a dozen other dubious tales.

They talked. Once an adoptee of Clan Ordo, once or twice the Savior of Manda'yaim, she had vested interests already and was unusually forthcoming.

Merion began putting together a file. It was not framed as 'I asked my grandmother.' It was not not framed that way either.

Aether Verd · 2025-06-07T12:07:21-0400

Assets: Beskar'gam | Basilisk
Darksaber | Resolute Dawn

OBJECTIVE I - YAGA MINOR ORBIT

The Gravesong howled beneath them.

Aether Verd stood at the helm of the Resolute Dawn, surrounded by the low hum of command systems and the quiet gravity of war. Outside, the stars were black knives against a choked sky. Viper-Alpha drifted into low orbit like a slow-turning axe. The fleet had come, warriors in their hundreds, ships in their dozens, but none had broken formation. Not yet.

On the largest display, a constellation of IFF pings pulsed in green and gold. His gaze followed them as they settled into position.

There. Ze’bast, ever the vanguard, with his Kom’rk gliding like a shadow alongside the destroyer lines. And nearby… the humble Skipray of Clan Mobius, stubborn and small, but bearing a crest older than many republics. Aether’s visor lingered there, just for a moment. Even the smallest blade could cut the deepest when wielded with conviction.

Beside him, the quiet weight of Vytal Noctura pressed steady against the air. Her presence was a constant: a storm tamed, but never silenced. Though she hadn’t moved, her words hit like a spearpoint through silence.

“He is here.”

The Mand’alor’s jaw tightened beneath his helm. Harrow. Of course he was.

The bastard had slipped away at Zanbar. A smear of laughter in the ash. One of his troupe had fallen to Manti’s blade, and the necromancer had vanished before they could finish what had been started. But not this time. Not again. The Mandalorian Empire had come ready to bury him.

But the tension on the bridge wasn’t just about the enemy below. It was Manti’s presence, silent and sure. She was standing near the bulkhead with Nau’ur Kad’kyr sheathed but not resting. Her blade had ended a chapter of the Gravesong once before, and her eyes now said what her words did moments ago.

“I don’t trust them.”

Aether turned slightly toward her and gave a short nod. Not command, but rather agreement. They were of one mind.

Any nation that allowed the blonde one to speak as their voice on Taris was not a nation easily trusted. Diplomacy had saved them from further bloodshed then, but only just. The knife had been halfway unsheathed.

And then came the signal.

A holo bloomed to life mid-bridge and from within, the co-head of the Diarchy finally made himself known: Diarch Rellik.

The man spoke with civility and a tactician’s poise, cloaked in deference, offering apologies laced with awareness, his voice woven with understanding of who, and what, stood before him. Aether listened, silent but not unthinking, arms crossed as the offer unspooled.

Echoy’la, declared a holy world...unimpeded access for Mandalorians.
Dual citizenship granted to its people....freedom to move between Empire and Diarchy alike.
Beskar mining ceased, all existing reserves surrendered to Mandalore.
Future mining rights to be governed under Mandalorian supervision.

And all of it, in exchange for neutrality, and the creation of a retainer contract: Mandalore as sword for hire, paid in credits or galactic expansion. Standard terms. Familiar language. The Diarchy knew what mattered. Which strings to pull. How to wrap necessity in cultural reverence.

Clever. Too clever. Aether looked to Manti. Then to Vytal. No words exchanged. None needed.

He turned back to the holofeed and stepped forward, the lights of the bridge catching on his crimson plates as he spoke. Not with grandeur, not with fire, but with the quiet finality of a vow.

“Very well.”

“Let it be known that the Mandalorian Empire accepts these terms as stated. Echoy’la is now designated a holy world of Mandalore. Your forces will not impede our peoples’ passage, now or ever. Her people, born beneath your banner, shall carry our name in equal measure. Dual citizenship. Freedom of movement.”

“Beskar shall be returned. No drills, no forges, no coin pressed from its veins without Mandalorian eyes upon it. That is our birthright, and your compliance, our due.”

“And so we agree to neutrality.”

He paused, letting the words settle like ash on a battlefield.

“Furthermore, the Empire accepts the formation of a contract between our peoples. Like others who seek our strength, you may retain Mandalore for your conflicts. In return, payment shall be rendered. Whether by credits or the conquest of new stars, so long as the agreement is honored.”

“We will fight the Gravesong. We will bury it. But know this...”

Aether’s voice cooled further.

“Should this accord be broken...should your word prove false after our dead have joined yours in the dirt...then Yaga Minor will not be the only to suffer."

He took one final step forward.

“If all you’ve said is true, then we have an accord. Confirm it, Diarch.”

And with that, the feed dimmed to silence. No music. No celebration. Only the whir of systems and the soft echo of his words in the air. Aether Verd did not speak again. He stood, still as steel, gaze fixed on the planet below.

If the Diarchy honored their word? Good. If not? They would hear a new song rise from the ashes.

The song of Mandalore's war drums.

Diarch Rellik

Diarch Reign · 2025-06-07T12:40:55-0400

Objective I

Location: Vjunhallow | Yaga Minor
Tags: Aether Verd Diarch Rellik @Open

The Diarchs had come to Yaga Minor, a quick visit to see how its people were adjusting and to tour the newest shipyards that Maldor Mecetti and Vyllia Santhe had formed under their union.

Having visited the oribital shipyards, Reign had utilized the orbital platform to descend to the planet’s surface. Looking to meet with planetary leadership and citizens alike to gauge morale.

He was in the midst of one such meeting at a local cafe when the terror had first reached him. Noise like a dark song descended upon the planet, and a tremor in the force the likes Reign had never felt. Yet from his visit on Taris, he knew what had come.

The call from the Diarchy to Mandalore had been Reign’s, he and Aether Verd had reached a civil end to what could have been bloodshed. The Diarch made no pretense in thinking that the two were friends, but fellow warriors? Perhaps.

As the transmission came through, Reign was evacuating the fleeing citizens from the sub levels and organizing a strike force to head in.

But when he heard his brother take up the negotiations, he breathed a sigh of relief. Stalking to his ad hoc command center near the entrance to the sublevels, Reign himself signed on to speak, his normally refined look somewhat rattled as he had been in the heart of the chaos.

“Great Manda’lor, thank you for coming so soon. The words my brother speaks, are for us all. As was on Taris, we have an accord.”

He stepped away from the projector then, explosions could be heard and felt beneath his feet. Turning to his Myrmidons, he began barking orders.

“I need to know what’s going on down there! Get me eye dammit…”

His command was cut short by a burst of comms chatter

“Oh GODS! THE DEAD! The lieutenant was just ripped apart by a corpse in Legion armor! We need support down here!”

Reign’s eyes widened as he took in the new information. He needed to move, his people were dying. Quickly he moved, flanked by the first cohort. Val keeping stride.

“Reign, there’s only the first cohort here, the ten of us can’t hold this storm. The second legion is inbound, and I’m sure Lilaste is on the way. I’ll put out the call for all 12 cohorts to convene”

But Reign was already gone, he trusted his second to do what was needed. He needed to get to his people.

Kandosii Ka'rta · 2025-06-07T13:38:44-0400

Objective 1: Purge the Lower Districts

Equipment: Beskar'gam, JT-13 Multipurpose Jetpack, PK-45 "Peacekeeper", M874-C Lever-Action Banger, Mandalorian Vambraces w/chamber-shot slugthrower, Enclave Bowie Knife, Pack of Fiora Ivory Cigarras
Tags:

Aether Verd

Jonah

Ze'bast Verd

Adonis Angelis IV

The Mando cowboy sat in the armory of the Resolute Dawn, smoking a cigarra as he took stock of his weapons. Them Jedi folk had their fancy floating meditation, the Sith had....he didn't really know what they did to meditate. Probably something violent. Point is, going over his weapons, loading them, counting mags and shells? That's how Kandosii meditated.

With the trained fluidity of a gunslinger with a hundred years under his belt, he loaded his selection of hollow point .48 slugs into the lever action rifle propped up between his legs on the bench. As he loaded the slugs, Kandosii thought to himself the path of events, the number of flags that had brought him here. First, outlaw, then lawman, then Mando. Eventually dar'manda, then back again when the Enclave rose up. Some off the records work with the Black Hand Gotra in Mos Motesta, and now a Mandalorian Protector, about to exterminate some zombies.

What a strange galaxy we live in, he thought to himself with a chuckle as he puffed his cigarra.

After slinging the rifle across his back, the Morellian took his bowie knife from its thigh sheath, turning it over in his hands and testing its sharpness on his vambrace. As he did so, he caught sight of another Mando in the reflection on the flat of the blade. "Could ya pass me one o' them whetstones if'n ya'd be so kind, friend?" Kandosii asked, Morellian drawl thick enough it could catch a slug.

As he left a thin scratch on his vambrace, he chuckled. "Ya know, I seen a lotta things over the years. More outlaws'n you could shake a knife at, giant space worms on Kestri, them Jedi folk with their fancy glowsticks, but zombies? No siree, I must say zombies'r a new one fer me."

Laphisto · 2025-06-07T13:39:32-0400

Objective 2 transitioning to Objective 1

Pre-flight and arrival
The moment the first fragmented reports filtered in, Laphisto's brow furrowed. Yaga Minor wasn't some backwater colony it was a fortified world in Diarchy space, industrialized, structured, resilient. For whole districts to vanish off the grid without a signal meant something worse than sabotage or a raid.

He paced the bridge slowly, claws tapping a measured rhythm against the deck. His eyes flicked over datafeeds, garbled transmissions, thermal overlays showing entire zones gone cold. No survivors. No heat signatures. No comms. Just...movement. He felt it. A weight in the Force, low and wrong. Familiar in the worst way. He'd felt something like it on Taris just briefly. A hum beneath the surface, like static crawling beneath his skin. At the time, he'd dismissed it as fallout from chaos. Now he wasn't so sure. He didn't know what it was. But he knew it wasn't natural.

The assault ship he was on dropped from hyperspace into low orbit, angling toward the scorched skyline of Vjunhollow. Even from this height, the destruction was clear pillars of smoke rising from blacked-out districts, the orbital elevator shuddering under wave after wave of evac traffic. He spotted the Mandalorian fleet immediately. which sat above the planet like a hanging blade. he opted not to bring his fleet as they were in deep diarchy territory. and yet apart of him half regretted that choice now.

"Captain," Laphisto said, voice clipped. "Low orbit. Directly over the central plaza. Begin coordinated deployment." The command deck surged into motion. Officers moved with precision. Hangar bays opened wide as two full battalions Tarain's Sword and the Red Lancers prepared for drop. Heavy walkers were mag-locked to descent skids. LO-class gunships lifted into position, engines whining under full load.

"I want both battalions on the ground immediately," Laphisto continued. "Secure the elevator complex, all adjoining districts. Fortify every street, corridor, and access shaft within a five-kilometer radius." A pause, then: "After drop, all gunships are to begin immediate evac runs. Prioritize wounded, noncombatants, and comms personnel. Anyone who can't hold a rifle gets off this rock." He turned to the tactical display. Sub-city tunnels lit up in red. Too many paths. Too many unknowns.

"If any of those tunnels are compromised," he added, "collapse them. Controlled charges. Don't wait for confirmation. If it looks quiet, assume it's worse." Outside, gunships peeled away from the assault ship, carrying Red Lancer squads and Tarain's Sword into the burning city below. Dozens more circled back, already prepping to lift evacuees from overwhelmed zones. Whatever was down there, it was spreading fast. The kind of fast no conventional enemy ever managed.

Planet side after touch down

When the LAHT touched down, theside doors hissed open and Laphisto stepped out without hesitation. Dust swirled against his armor. Screams echoed down broken streets. Blasterfire crackled from too many directions at once. The orbital elevator loomed behind him, its stabilizers glowing dull red as it strained against the weight of non-stop evac cycles. Medical tents flickered with emergency lights, and wounded soldiers were lined up in triage clusters some stable, some screaming, some no longer moving.

Behind him, with a thunderous impact, Vraen dropped to the ground his Basilisk War Droid shaking loose a plume of dust on landing. The creature-beast-machine snarled low as its weapon systems adjusted, tail rudder flicking side to side with a faint clunk of alloy and hydraulics. Its visor snapped forward, tracking movement among the wreckage but when it turned toward Laphisto, it chuffed once and padded close, pressing the side of its armored head briefly against his shoulder.

"Stay close," Laphisto murmured without looking. "Watch the upper platforms. And keep anything you don't recognize from getting near the med line." Vraen gave a low affirmative growl, then slunk to the flank like a giant metal hound, sensor modules pulsing as it scanned through layers of debris and corpses. Ahead, the perimeter was holding but just barely. A section of makeshift barricade had already collapsed under sheer numbers. The dead were fast, coordinated, wearing shredded uniforms from both sides. Not wild. Not mindless. Worse.

Laphisto moved forward, his comm crackling to life. "Command, this is High commander Laphisto. I've made contact with ground teams at the base of the orbital elevator. We're reinforcing the defense line now. Tarain's Sword and the Red Lancers are deploying in waves. Civilian evac is underway. Standby for status updates." the thunderclap of landing repulsors split the air as several LAET/C gunships swept overhead, thier tow clamps releasing with a magnetic snap. An AT-AE MKIII dropped into the street like a falling god, retro-thrusters firing in short bursts to stabilize its impact. As soon as it touched down, its forward cannons rotated with a mechanical growl, walkers and gunners falling into pre-assigned formation
Medics dragged the next stretcher toward the gunships. Screams still rose from beyond the barricades, but they were fading replaced now by orders, callouts, formation shifts. Structure. Resistance. Vraen growled low beside him, limbs tense, sensors twitching. The droid wanted to move. To fight. Laphisto didn't. Not yet.

He looked out over the chaos with sorrow. He had seen too many cities like this. He had walked the ruins of Taris after Malak bombarded it to slag, the ash thick in the air, the screams already long gone. He had stood on the steps of Ossus as the supernova bloomed above, guiding Padawans to the last transports as the ancient temple collapsed around them. He had watched his own homeworld vanish beneath the stars lost not to time, but to war. So when he looked now at the wounded, the terrified, the hopeless there was only one thought in his mind: Their homes would not become ash. Their lives would not be forgotten. Not if he could stand. Not if he could hold the line.

Rokul

Runi Kuryida · 2025-06-07T14:24:09-0400

Runi spread her hands out along the edge of the holotable as she leaned forward to regard both horizontal and vertical displays of the city below and that of the space elevator. It was much like Taris. Urban warfare would undoubtedly be bloody. Casualties would be high. Fighting fierce. Countless places for a foe to lurk and little time to thoroughly check every shadow -- and even then their enemy could use mystic, dark powers of their own. A cleared room could soon harbor new, lethal foes. And if the negotiations were successful their warriors would have little choice but to wade into the midst of it all. They were trained for it. They were ready for it. But that did not make these any more ideal of conditions.

Her right hand swept out over the map to draw attention to a particularly hot spot. With a finger she called out several choke points for defensive positions to be established. Several lines to buy time for the civilians to flee the area. If necessary, they could perform a controlled fallback toward the elevator and the landing zones. It would be coordinated with Warmasters of the Great Heathen Army, of course, as being the supreme commanders of the various armed forces just below that of Aether himself.

Likewise, and of personal interest, the Shaman's gaze turned toward the orbital elevator's base itself. "Ensure sufficient medical facilities, but the defenses must hold. Create trenches. Erect blockades. Establish stun field zones. Whatever it takes to slow and kill the enemy. Protect the people at all cost to the city itself." Buildings could be rebuilt. Too often people lamented the loss of inanimate objects that while they held meaning and significance to the living were not nearly as important as the living themselves. Their adversary would not care for the condition of the city left in their wake, and the Mandalorians could not afford to be hobbled in doing so themselves. If they had to drop a building to block a boulevard it would be done, so long as those fleeing the fight were not needlessly cut off.

Her hazel eyes rose at the call that

Aether Verd ,

Diarch Reign , and

Diarch Rellik seemed to have reached an accord. Then it was time.

"Knights, the Manda has given us great gifts in order to protect our people. We may be far from home, but always remember any soul may come to the Manda given the chance, and that our enemy fleeing our campaign now seeks to establish their command in another land. We shall not allow their efforts to succeed. Wherever they go, whatever horrors they unleash, we will be there. We will not be deterred. Our will is victorious. By your hand, and in your hearts, this will be done."

Orders were sent to the Knights, including their assignment to various other squadrons or divisions of the Army's forces to make effective use of their gifts. Some might be martial, others healers, but each would carry with them the dignity and honor of the Empire.

Rokul |

Laphisto |

Kandosii Ka'rta |

Red Mobius |

Vytal Noctura

Maldor Mecetti · 2025-06-07T14:56:51-0400

Objective 2 - Hold the Platform
Yaga Minor Shipyards

________________________________________________

"We've been directed to secure the lift to ensure a continuing evacuation," Vice-Director Jaecen announced.

Of course they had. The Diarchs could not help themselves. They honestly cared about the well-being of their citizenry as deeply as the well-being of their nation-state. It was damned inconvenient. Velran would've taken the lift up and bombarded the site from orbit. Probably. Velran had also been crazy, so it was anyone's guess.

Maldor had no idea what method had caused the city to erupt with teeming hordes of undead. Some shade of Sith magic, no doubt. The Galactic Alliance had suffered similarly during their war with the Sith. Those passion-mad cultists had unleashed undead across a dozen sectors. Maldor had avoided the bulk of that interaction back then.

It seemed his luck had run out.

But he had concerns. The methodology of the magic was unclear to him. It could be a Dark Side force merely extended into bodies, animating them with borrowed pseudo spirits taken from the fabric of the force itself. But it could also be some sort of Dark Side corrupted virus, re-animating cells in a nearly biological fashion.

If it was a virus, it was also possible that the living could be carriers of the contagion.

And so if they helped refugees evacuate to the Yaga Minor Santhe-Sienar shipyards, then the contagion could spread across the shipyard and thereby to the galaxy at large.

"As of this moment, nothing leaves the shipyard without the direct authorization of myself or the Lady Santhe," Maldor ordered. Still Lady Santhe, just as he was still Maldor Mecetti. But not for much longer. Everyone knew the union was forged in all but ritual, now. House Sancetti had a unified business structure, tens of thousands of employees, legal frameworks across a dozen worlds.

Maldor looked to the Vice-Director. One of Vyllia's men, and not actually bound to answer to him. Still, Maldor had found that he was accorded proper deference. You didn't want to upset the boss' fiance', after all. That deference would likely survive until and unless Vyllia countermanded an order Maldor gave.

The same was true of Maldor's own holdings. No one there would question Vyllia's orders.

"Also, get word to Agent Praz. Tell her to discontinue whatever she was doing. She has only one Directive, now: Protect Diarch Reign. Get him to safety." Maldor ordered.

Velda was a member of the newly minted House Sancetti Secret Service. She had ostensibly been meant to secure the surface zone for Maldor and Vyllia's meeting with the Diarchs before descending the elevator together to inspect the city. But plans had a way of going awry no matter how short a leash you kept them on.

"The Lady Santhe will be here shortly to take over. Until then, I'd like all refugees isolated in pressurized hangar bays. No more than one-hundred people per bay. If there is a contagion, it will be limited.

I have sent for a Diplomatic Cruiser to rendezvous here. When it arrives, it will have thousands of security forces aboard who can coordinate with Lilaste personnel in securing the elevator site.

Until then..."

He frowned, knowing Vyllia wouldn't like this.

"I will be going down to assist in securing the elevator base myself."

Merion Oreno · 2025-06-07T15:01:05-0400

As commanded by

Diarch Rellik , a file began to circulate through coordination protocols to

Diarch Reign ,

Laphisto ,

Aether Verd ,

Maldor Mecetti and relevant others.

The file was a report prepared by Merion Oreno, a long-haul navigator with the Chancellorate of Commerce. It knew way, way too much to have come from him. It compared Yaga Minor recordings, reports, and geographical data against a partial corpus that covered eight different kinds of 'undeath' effect — three strains of Blackwing alone, Nightsister magic, Mnggal-Mnggal, everything.

The report carefully suggested a strong likelihood that the Yaga Minor situation was being continuously caused by Force practitioners as opposed to viruses or other possibilities. Even more carefully, it suggested that the outbreak patterns indicated a small number of practitioners, perhaps only one deadly individual acting alone. The report suggested testing this possibility with ysalamiri, Brotherhood farseers, or certain rare, arcane sensors that could pick up on disturbances in the Force.

Because this was rare and niche subject matter and time was critical, credibility was a top concern. Therefore Merion reluctantly signed his name as Merion Oreno Varanin.

Sahan Dragr · 2025-06-07T15:12:06-0400

SHIP:

"Ure'adtr" Howler Basilisk War Droid

ARMOR:

Besk'gathr Mk III

WEAPONS:

Tusurki'aa Ta'hye Beskad
M.I. Model 6 hybrid pistol
"O'dteyase Saranuhlr" Modified Vora-Class Verpine Hand Cannon
M.I. Model 12 shatter rifle

ITEMS:

AMMO:

Gas Canisters (12)
Slugs (100)
Grulyr'bedtr CryoSlugs (1 Mag)
RB-02 "Salt" Rounds (1 Mag)
RB-04 "Droid's Bane" Rounds (1 Mag)
RB-03 "Force Breaker" Rounds (1 Mag)
Tracyn'wuta Pyro Slugs (5 Mags)
Hurdisi Photonic Blackout Rounds (5 Mags)

While the newest rendition of the Mandalorian Empire was waiting for orders, a lone rogue had already been sweeping through the streets and tunnels of undead Yagai -- unbeknownst to anyone else -- to drop detonators and burn the walking corpses with his plasmacaster.

Sahan Dragr had not yet been to meet this new so-called "Mand'alor," and would not recognize him either way. In Sahan's mind, only one man deserved that title. Still, brethren were brethren. And fighting was fighting. When he had learned of another undead plague rising again, he came out to Yaga Minor to combat it. Seemed this one was a Dark Side thing, not a virus. It did not matter. Undead burned just the same no matter the cause.

Not strictly being part of the Empire, Sahan had no idea

Aether Verd was holding the rest back from engaging. It would not have mattered if he had known. He was not here to take orders, not even from a brother. All that mattered was ridding the Galaxy of undead menaces and whoever this scum Forcer was that was creating them.

The Legendary Golden Dragon, the Forgemaster of Clan Dragr, known across the Galaxy as the Kyron Devotee, was here to make sure not a single one of those survived. And as good as he was in the Forge, he was even better in battle.

It was just a matter of finding where all these undead were, and hunting down the one(s) responsible.

TAGS: OPEN

Ze'bast Verd · 2025-06-07T15:54:07-0400

TAG:

Aether Verd /

Adonis Angelis IV /

Manti Wyrvhor /

Runi Kuryida /

Rokul /

Laphisto /

Kandosii Ka'rta /

Red Mobius /

Vytal Noctura

Ze’bast knelt down as his movements were methodical, exact. The familiar hiss of mag-clamps and soft mechanical clicks echoed as he double-checked the attachment points of his jetpack and the reinforced harness securing the backpack-fed HV-37 Squad Repeating Blaster. The weight pressed against his back was not unwelcome, but grounding. He had designed the weapon with House Verd engineers, a project born out of necessity. It was built to bring firepower where other platforms faltered. It was to be wielded by the Warhost in battles exactly like this.

He hadn't had the luxury of testing it in the field often. But this war was anything but ordinary. These undead were not just risen corpses. They were cursed echoes of fallen warriors and civilians, twisted by dark alchemy and nether sorcery. Resilient. Relentless. Wrong.

Ze’bast stood, adjusting the weapon across his back, and rolled his shoulders beneath the weight. It was perfect. Balanced. Lethal. He wouldn't allow any margin for error, not this time. Not with the cost of another vod lost.

He turned his helmet toward the voice that broke the tension. It had been Adonis, the newest among brethren. A warrior recently sworn into House Verd’s ranks. Ze’bast had kept an eye on him, as any good Field Marshal would. New blood came with new burdens and potential. He had proven enough to him to stand with him in combat.

Ze’bast leaned back against the cold durasteel wall of the transport, arms crossed. The glow of his HUD flickered softly behind the emotionless t-visor as he listened. He weighed his brother’s question not with contempt, but with the quiet gravity of a man who had long buried the luxury of hope.

When he spoke, his voice was low and measured, but firm with resonance of command.

“Vod… It's hard to give an ounce of trust to any representative who dared to bring war to our soil rather intentional or not. That’s not something I can just let go.”

His visor tilted slightly, as if looking Adonis straight in the eyes.

“But… they seem to look after their civilians, at least from the surface. That much I can respect. Outsiders, though?” He shook his head slowly. “I don’t trust them further than I can throw a dreadnought.”

A moment of silence followed, a respectful pause for the fire that burned in both of them.

Then he continued, his voice quieter, but heavier. It was weighted with command and expectation.

“Just remember this: we’re here because of Zanbar… Taris. Because something ancient clawed its way into the living world and tried to wear our dead like armor. We’re here to end that cycle. Not start a new one.”

He stepped forward slightly, close enough for his presence to reinforce his words.

“Until the last shot’s fired, treat these people like you’d treat a fellow vod. Give them your discipline, not your suspicion. Find humility in the storm, no matter what insults get thrown. Let your actions be a representation of The Iron’s will and his will only.”

He let the silence settle again, then added simply:

“Glory to Mandalore.”

That was all he needed to say. His men didn’t need rousing speeches or firebrand fury. They needed clarity. Purpose. Restraint forged in beskar. These were Supercommandos—Mandalore’s elite. He trusted them to do what was necessary.

For now, they waited. Awaiting Mand’alor’s command like a taut wire waiting to snap.

And when it came, they would descend like thunder.

Junction Echoes of the Gravesong - Undeath comes to the Diarchy (DIA & ME junction of Brath Qella/Placeholder

Lord of the Diarchy

iScream, uScream

K I N G

Lord of the Diarchy

Character

Tormented Prophet

N I G H T M O T H E R

Character

Character

The Breaker

Space oddity

K I N G

Lord of the Diarchy

Morellian Mando Marshal

High Commander of the Lilaste Order

S L A Y E R

Diarchy - High Chancellor House Sancetti

Space oddity

The Golden Dragon

Character

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