South: The Galidraani Front
Toraaz of the Cirihut charged without fear.
It was his day of dying; the Heathen Priests had told him so. In the Great Plan of the Avatars, each of the Three had a role. War strengthened a marauder, granting him birth into the cycle of suffering that dominated the galaxy - and allowing that strife to make him powerful, winnowing away his weakness. Rebirth was a marauder's reward, his final deliverance from that same cycle, if he fought well and brought glory to the gods. But it was Death, holy Death, that determined his fate - paradise or ignominy. Toraaz was going to die today, but
how he died was left to be determined.
They caught the oncoming NIO troops as they were clambering onto the plateau, their forces divided by the ridge. Momentum was on the Cirihuts' side as they charged downhill from the very lip of the excavation, the last bit of hill the enemy had left to climb. Scattered, unsteady blasterfire lashed out at them, but the dark blessings of the Heathen Priests held, and their ensorcelled flesh - covered in runic tattoos and scarification - repelled the energy as if it were heavy armor. Then they closed the distance, and the blaster rifles of the enemy ceased to matter in the melee.
This was what the Cirihut were born for.
The disciplined Galidraani troops were fearsome at medium to long range, able to unleash disciplined volleys of fire in strong lines - the very technique they had used to soften and ultimately defeat the Rough Rider charge. But this was different. This was hand to hand combat, where strength and brutality and size triumphed over discipline and order, and the Cirihut had the advantage in all three. Were they outnumbered? Of course. They were but a small portion of a small honor guard, and they faced an army. It was their day of dying... but they would turn this plateau into a charnel ground.
When they died, they would not die alone.
Toraaz and his power mace ripped into the enemy lines, scattering foes with bursts of energy from the weapon with every swing. Between his own brute strength and the potent electo-repulsor discharge of each impact, none could stand before him... and he was but one of many. The Cirihut were not dumb grunts or wild fanatics, they were the ultimate battlefield zealots, utterly devoted and darkly blessed. The enemy, fighting back with entrenching tools against the dedicated man-ripping weapons of the marauders, were surely outmatched. Taking this hill would cost many lives.
Galidraani troops fired with carbines at point-blank, trying to cover their fellows as they hauled reinforcements up to the shelf... but the Cirihut were already there, and in far greater numbers for the moment. Toraaz led his warriors forward to split their skulls and crush their bones, for they could shrug off blaster shots far better than these soldiers could survive the brutal wounds that power maces inflicted. They were few, but they were the most elite of the Maw's ground forces, and they would not be carved through as if they were nothing. They were much too blessed for that.
Out of the corner of his eye, Toraaz caught sight of
Aemilio Valaar
skewering one of his warriors through the head. The Cirihut captain roared a challenge and started toward the Galidraani officer. Over seven feet tall and a hulking mass of muscle, he was confident that he could clear a path to his foe - and the result would be a worthy death for at least one of them. Sweat and blood ran down his exposed skin, trickling over the trinity patterns carved into his chiseled skin, and his knuckles tightened around his massive, two-handed war mace. A single blow could shatter a man's torso.
Grinning savagely, Toraaz prepared to swing at Aemilio.
At the same time, the hillside was breaking apart once more, consumed by the power of competing Sith and Witches. Boulders crashed, fissures tore open, and magma erupted in great spouts, all seemingly at random. The effort to save Korriban, it seemed, involved destroying most of its surface, ravaging the dead world even further than before. Entire squads were consumed in the tectonic upheaval, tumbling to their deaths in pits that suddenly appeared or being crushed in fresh landslides. The ledge itself began to crack and slide, only making it even more difficult to climb...
The Battalion's spell was ripping Korriban's terrain apart.
-------------------------------------
Northwest: The Ashlan Front
At the bottom of the hill, the NIO execution squads combing through the fallen Rough Riders for survivors soon found that they had been assigned a more dangerous duty than they'd first thought. It should have been easy, if grisly, work: just shooting fallen men, acting as battlefield ghouls by executing the wounded. But the Mawites wouldn't let them have easy kills. They had all armed their anti-vehicle grenades, and whenever the squads came close to a fallen Rough Rider who had survived, the wounded man blew his entire bandoleer. Callousness was met with fanaticism.
Death bloomed in explosions along the riverbed.
The enemy AFVs were doing their best to take advantage of the Legion's retreat, trying to mow them down like cannon fodder... but that was not so easy as it first appeared. Visibility in the sandstorm was almost nil, and the lugubraa clambered over craggy rocks and craters, not open fields. If the tank gunners expected a mass of easy kills, they were bound to be disappointed. Legionnaires fell, but many more retreated to the upper lip of the excavation... or burrowed into their positions, waiting to ambush those who passed by. Among the whirling sands, they could still "see" with heat and sound.
... but those with human eyes were easily ambushed.
The lugubraa who reached the final fallback position at the hill's summit used the heavy weapons they had scavenged, raining down grenades on the approaching NIO forces along with their heavy repeater rounds. When the enemy drew close enough, they would fight hand to hand, doing whatever it took to hold; if they were pushed
into the excavation, after all, it was all over anyway. The enemy would just rain down fire on them from above until they were dead. Better to die here, in a position of relative advantage, taking everyone they could with them. Better still, of course, not to die at all.
The lugubraa were mercenaries, not fanatics.
The Galidraani carbonite shell tore into their ranks, badly weakening their defensive position as lugubraa went down with frozen shrapnel wounds. Survivors filled the breach as quickly as they could, but their numbers - so tiny compared to the onrushing NIO force - could not easily replenish the losses. The ground shook beneath them, and new fissures opened in the cracked and broken hill, perhaps buying them a little time. Ruulavon's mind raced as he considered his exit strategy. These young lugubraa were expendable grunts, but
he was an elder, deserving of salvation...
... and there were a few shuttles down in the excavation.
The Legion of the Leech held as best they could, firing down madly on the next uphill charge, trying to target the officers who led with drawn vibro-rapiers. They would fight literally tooth and claw, for now that there was no place to retreat to, they could let their full savagery show. But Ruulavon was already making his way down the slope, toward the small area of the excavation that had been dug into a flat landing zone. Trying to fly one of the transport shuttles out past the raging electrical storms and tectonic instability was probably suicidal, but it was a better chance than staying here.
After all, the whole hill was falling apart.
-------------------------------------
The Hilltop
The sandstorm howled, and the ground shook. The Mongrel did not know it, but the dark mystical forces competing over Korriban's fate were at their peak, and the planet was being torn asunder in the contest. Even the effort to save the Sith homeworld was doing terrible damage, with earthquakes and magma eruptions burying tombs and tearing apart temples. When all was said and done, even if the planet itself kept on spinning, would it even be recognizable? Would any of its heritage be saved, or would it all be shaken to pieces in the aftermath of these mighty rituals?
The Mongrel did not know or care.
Gowrie came on at him, navigating the uneven terrain and countless obstacles - not to mention the pain of his injuries. Good. Even if Korriban burst all around them and all these armies were concerned, the marauder had no intention of letting their duel be interrupted. They took up their positions once more, staring each other down, each watching the other's movements to see who would spill the first drops of blood on the unearthed ruins of the ancient Sith.
"Crushgaunts," The Mongrel replied, answering Gowrie's question.
"My enemy ambushed me from above, and we grappled."
The memory was painful.
"I learned a harsh lesson."
Indeed he had. The Mongrel had learned that he must expect an attack from any angle and at any time - and so he had installed a sensor package in his mask to aid him in seeing such attacks coming. He had learned that ferocity alone could not hold back superior technology and training - and so he had chosen powerful replacement arms, no longer so vulnerable as his flesh had been. And he had learned that his foes would seek to interrupt his plans, cutting them short with quick attacks - and so he had learned to improvise better, to plan movement to movement, to react more swiftly.
He had suffered, but he had gained strength, too.
"I would be glad to teach it to you," The Mongrel said, raising his warblade in a pointing gesture that was half salute and half threat. Perhaps he would take Gowrie's arms and thereby repeat the lesson... though rapid blood loss and the madness of this chaotic battle would probably mean the man would die, and the lesson would have to be left for his mentor to learn from his corpse instead. Thinking of Barran, The Mongrel called out with the same phrase he'd heard so often on Ilum, a mocking imitation of the skilled old general.
"What are you waiting for, Gowrie? Again."
He braced himself, preparing a swift counter.
DECEASED Aron Gowrie
,
Siyarr Ahan-Mitharran
,
Mikhail Grayson
,
Darth Petrichor
,
Damsy Callat
, Fiolette Fortan 
The Mongrel
,
Alars Keto
,
Tegan Starfall
, @Laertia I
