Junction ESCALATION PROTOCOL: COV and MIR Junction of Champala and Zigoola Hexes

[Carduul Akahl]

Tags: Romul Saxon | Kjartan Hammer-Hand | Aurelian of Vandemar | Victport Graras | Zesiro | Evan Kade​

---

Carduul was, ultimately, a being of conflict. Of war. Whilst he would preferably be embroiled in the glorious, heart-pounding combat elsewhere, there came a need. Be it to embroil himself in the concerns of logistics and supply-chains, upon the more nuanced overview of troop movements and fronts, there had been a multitude of tasks he had undertook over his service to the Mandalorian cause.

Today, unfortunately, they had turned towards the matter of Alliances.

The Crusader was not fond of such. He had always, always, been a proponent of a Mandalorian’s sole ability to rely on their own. That such independence was true freedom for their kind to be unimpeded by outside powers. But, times changed. Though he was ever steadfast in his beliefs, he also knew there were times where compromise was necessary. He could only wonder where that ever-so-curious droid was, now. Antipater . Had the Diarchy seen it dismantled? Had they realized it was rotted and departed for their own projects? Or was it still there, somewhere, steadfastly believing in Imperial doctrine?

Nonetheless, perhaps he could finally live up to his promise from that time ago. A scant group of Mandalorians had once worked hand-in-hand with the Imperials against the Sith in times of need. Perhaps that was the sort of thing needed to prevail in these darker times. He was not familiar with many of the Imperials that were present- and it remained to be seen whether they would merely be bureaucrats with elevated positions or those who had the grit necessary to see this battle done.

The tell-tale sound of beskar resounded with each tap it made against the metal flooring of their chosen meeting place. When they had come together, there had been naught but a simple bow of his head offered to others present, before he had listened quietly in the background. After hearing several chime their opening thoughts, he had taken a moment to add his own.

“'Tis true that the Sith carry a host of industrial power, and the core worlds had met the very fate I had hoped to prevent.” Words grimly open. “I concur with the sentiment that decisive, swift action is needed- one tempered by the forethought of our capabilities. An all-out assault is impractical when comparing the raw resources against the Sith Order, at this current moment.”

There had been a tilt of the helm when the golden-clad individual’s, Aurelian of Vandemar 's, subject broached upon adding yet further. He had held distaste enough for one alliance. Just as Zesiro had alluded to, one alliance was already tenuous and fraught with dangers. To add another on top of that would surely be chaotic.

“Already, there are fools who protest against using that weapon from within their own ranks, despite the clear boon it has given them. A government that bickers with itself when decisive action is needed is the very reason why the core worlds fell in the first place.” Came a sterner remark towards the sentiment. T’was true- the more united the people the galaxy were, a solution would naturally present itself to the threat. But the fact was that the High Republic was, on cursory glance, far from ‘united’ upon the matter. From foolhardy court cases to the matters of the weapon, it seemed to flip flop in the measures they were willing to take to address the wretched threat. “The High Republic’s capabilities appear to be vast, but not ones that can be relied upon. Your notion of replication is a potentiality that will no doubt have to be investigated.”

There had been a small pace across the table, as his gaze focused inwards. Recollection had briefly seen him give a slight sigh at the next relent he would have to make.

“There has been contact made in the past. Specific cells and groups who work alongside the High Republic seem far more likely to aid in our crusade than any festering court. There are Jedi and soldiers whom lurk in the shadows, ousted from their homes and uniting causes- and carry a righteous wish to see their battles continued. Alliances have formed for less reasons. But I believe it more prudent to focus on what we have in our own hands rather than look to the stars for yet more aid.”

 

[R'ayne Asara]

bilbringi

​

dark aresnal • Draconic Scourge | Aura of Asara
tags • open

I arrived upon Bilbringi without ceremony, slipping into the conference chamber like a shadow that had remembered how to wear flesh. The great doors parted beneath the weight of my presence, and the voices of diplomats, commanders, Mandalorian chieftains, and Mahporeem allies continued their endless murmuring as though the galaxy had not spent centuries proving that words were the least reliable weapon ever invented.

I said nothing.

I simply took my seat among them, black and red robes settling around me like a funeral shroud, and allowed my eyes to wander across the assembled representatives. Mahporeem faces first, those I recognized, those I trusted only as far as the word would allow; then the gathered Mandalorians, whose armor seemed almost quaint beneath the cold illumination of the chamber.

I listened.

I always listen.

It is remarkable how readily intelligent beings reveal their weaknesses when they believe they are merely participating in conversation. Then Carduul Akahl began his familiar sermon about Sith industrial might in the Core Worlds. A quiet snicker escaped me.

Industrial might. Such a wonderfully mortal phrase for describing an enemy as though factories were gods and supply lines were divine commandments. I let him continue until his rhetoric had exhausted whatever dignity it possessed, then cleared my throat softly. “And tell me, Carduul Akahl , how has the war with the Sith fared for the High Republic and your Iron Covenant?” My eyes settled upon him. “It is this very line of squabbling that has allowed the Sith to expand, rather than take action.”

I leaned back slowly, letting the silence gather around my words like a grave closing over its occupant. My gaze traveled across the chamber once more, studying every face, every hesitation, every carefully concealed uncertainty.

“The Sith are not immortal, so why speak of them as such,” I said, my voice quiet enough that those nearest me had to listen rather than merely hear. “The Sith are not some boogeyman waiting beneath beds to drag your children screaming into the darkness. They are flesh. They bleed. They fracture. They can be defeated.”

A faint smile touched my red lips, devoid of warmth. “But not by sitting here contemplating action while the Sith themselves have been in motion for far too long.” I folded my hands before me, perfectly composed, while somewhere beyond the conference walls the machinery of war continued it's turning.

“So please,” I said, almost pleasantly, “I am intrigued to learn the diagnosis of the Sith symptom.” My eyes narrowed. “And, if this assembly is finally prepared to stop discussing the disease and start treating it, I would be even more intrigued to learn how we intend to cure it.”​

 

[Koa Ahina]

​

[ THUNDER CORPS — FIELD ORDERS ]
UNIT: 33rd Thunder Corps Battalion
MISSION: Operation Black Sky
PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: The Sith batteries have made the sky dangerous; Thunder Corps' job is to silence them.
SECONDARY OBJECTIVE: Break the enemy's defensive line and support the Imperial advance.
SALVAGE PRIORITY: Heavy weapons, power systems, ammunition, and usable vehicle components.
STATUS: Deployed.
TAGS: Augustus Tassar | Open.

The High Republic, The Empire, The Trade Confederation and now...

The Mahporeem Imperial Remnant.

Koa had done it all.

His time in Cryogenic sleep kept him from a galaxy he used to know. It was difficult to survive when nothing was as it used to be. Minutes felt like days, days like months, and before he knew it years had gone by. The galaxy never felt this dangerous before, before it was easy to tell the bad from the good...but now he wasn't sure there were any more good guys left. Part of him couldn't remember how hard it was to survive. Although, credits were always a problem for a soldier, if they survived what was in front of them. He stewed on these thoughts a lot. It didn't matter what army or battalion, soldiers had their orders and they were never an indispensable resource.

That weighed on him, even now as he felt the low rumble of the Thunderback dig in. The heavy transport swayed and the harsh give of the engine broke him free from his thoughts. The interior of the vehicle was enough to fit eight of them, but the 33rd Thunder Corps Battalion was a scarce three. Just the right amount to operate effectively on the field of battle. The tracks dug deeper into the ground and the silence broke into a roar. A resounding blast in the distance shook the transport cradle. An immediate stop was all they needed. Was all Koa needed.

The doors swung open, Koa and two other troopers jumping out as a loud whine began to stir. Koa waited for the Thunderback transport to establish a footing before it splayed outward. The vehicle slowly turned into a Hydraulic Deployment System. The rear of the Thunderback began to lift and open, revealing the hidden weapon inside.

The TH-1 "Rumble" Field Cannon.

It was a true beacon of everything the Thunderbolts had achieved, every mechanical and engineering mind of the Thunder Corps coming together to build the magnificence that now stood before them all.

"Lieutenant, we're getting operations running in T-minus five!" Major Rovan Kest gave the command confidently. His armor dawned more established forms of new intake, the black plated armor resting on his shoulders a clear differentiator compared to Captain Varen Holt and Koa. "I'm moving to battlefield command post Delta, I'll have your orders soon." His voice was gruff, his age dripping through the ventilator in his dark imperial helmet.

Koa nodded and looked to Captain Holt then to the dark skies above. It seemed the Sith emplacements had their own artillery, hammering the empty air with a smog of smoke and starship wreckage across Pelagon. That's why they were here, deployed and ready to prevent the Sith from squandering another attempt of the Imperial fighter pilots ready to wreck havoc. Whatever the Thunder Corp couldn't take out, he had full faith in his comrades above that they would finish the job. Still, there was a job to do and one that required his full attention.

The Thunderback finished, thick metallic leg placements holding sturdy as they dug into the solid concrete with ease. Upon inspection, Koa chirped into the comms.

"Captain, we have stable ground." Koa paused, checking the clearance for the right amount of space for the line of sight structure on the core forward base of the TH-1. "We have clear lines for enemy emplacements, open air. On your orders, Major Kest."

There was a slight moment of eager anticipation. Koa checked the perimeter once more, the slight overhang behind their own ordnance location making it half bunker, half open. Not only would this allow the loud incursion of the Rumble Field Cannon to echo, but could confuse enemy batteries of their exact location. This wasn't a first for the 33rd Thunder Corp Battalion and Koa could feel it wouldn't be the last either. He gripped onto the manual override and cranked the thick metal base. Slowly the massive weapon turned and locked into place.

"Capacitors loaded, Captain bring me the heavy conduit." Koa shifted his gaze, the hatch of the maintenance panel catching his eye. Koa ripped the panel open, the charred marks and newly implanted parts staring back at him. His comms went dead and he spoke to himself. "That's new."

"Lieutenant, heavy conduit in place. Power is being routed." Captain Holt was firm, his stern voice seeping through like a stiff brick. He was a man of many talents and his best in the area of battlefield operations. Koa was lucky he served under him. There might have been less fortunate army placements given to him, some thrived in different parts of war, Koa was just glad he was hired at all.

"Lieutenant, are we ready to fire?"

Koa hesitated for a moment. He assessed the panel, each wire and the newly placed internal core reactor worried him. He felt something in his gut, a slight doubt before he turned the comms back on.

"Yes, Captain." Koa slammed the panel shut, whispering a saving grace to himself. "We are ready to fire, I'm climbing into the firing position now."
Koa lifted himself upward, sliding sideways into the curved fire control interface seat. His hands stretched and clenched into a fist before expanding again. Pre-combat nerves, nothing he hadn't dealt with before. He tapped onto the interface and his left hand wrapped around the manual calibration.

"Major, we are steady and ready to fire."

Koa listened to the Captain comm over. This was it and the pit of his stomach made him almost reconsider before the screen pinged back at him. He whispered to himself, hoping the new parts didn't get them killed.

"Come on...Don't embarrass me."


​

 

[Tyger Tyger]

Location:x Allies: Mahporeem Imperial Remnant

​

Tyger Tyger listened with trust for that hyper-specific noise the world makes as physics crumbles like a paper bag in the wake of the Far Star's departure from a scene, abandoning the bounty hunter to his controlled fall. Every few seconds, the thrusters from his boots, his jetpack, would engage, strategically slowing his descent as he dove and spiraled through the laserlight of anti-aircraft and the pyrotechnics of cluster bombs.

If he closed his eyes, there was no denying he had been here before -- Crashing upon the planet like a dropped orbital pod was how he had begun his time with the First Order, after all. It felt like a decade ago, on the other side of known space, in an experience that should have been so much more alien to this one…but, somehow, it was still the same.

Because, when the galaxy constantly expands constantly in all directions, everywhere is the center.

Tyger Tyger breathed in, then out.

Cutting through the haze of noise of near-misses and not-even-closes, he heard the familiar hum and whipping whirr of one of the most iconic and unique pieces of technology to ever exist. Opening his eyes, he saw it.

A red lightsaber, spinning at his face like a razorblade, guided by the Force.

Tyger Tyger drew his bowcaster from his side, the 4-way prod set fanning out with the same satisfying thunk and recoil of having opened an umbrella. He raised it to block with a muscle memory so deeply ingrained it felt detached from his own mind. In the nick of time, with the prowess of a thousand times, he met the plasma sear with the cortosis underbelly of his weapon of choice.

The whirr hushed, the red light flipped off, and the hilt was sent tumbling dumbly through the sky like some half-heartedly chucked flashlight. Tyger Tyger searched the encroaching terrain for his assailant – Cultural awareness guiding his eyes over every silhouette and black cloud tarnishing what should have been a holiday water resort with Misery Fashion.

He was about to land in what remained of a pretty impressive fountain…well, presumably. What remained of the centerpiece was a pair of legs and a central pipe extending through the hips like an exposed spine, spurting water in a gore-y, rhythmic gasp as though it were choking up a hairball. Tyger Tyger didn't so much land in the stagnant shallows of no-longer-blue as much as he crashed, executing a parachute landing fall so as to not overbrace and instead tumble and roll along the ground to ultimately expel the excess force through his legs. He pushed himself to his feet instinctively, as a hand moved to wring out some of the water from either of the plush tiger legs of the toy adhered to chestplate, when, suddenly, he heard that unforgettable sound again…

He hit the deck, falling forward on his chest, his eyes canning to see its trajectory. He found it shortly after the lightsaber passed overhead, the buzzsaw spinning toward a lean shadow of what Tyger Tyger tended to refer to as a "warlock;" not a brute force Sith, but a Sith who thought themselves especially clever. The Warlock's hand was outstretched, the focus required in controlling the spinning blade inadvertently telegraphing where the Forcer wanted it to go. Tyger Tyger leveled the bowcaster and fired at the open hand, attempting to beat the lightsaber to its master…

"AYAAHHHH!!!!"

It did.

The bowcaster kicked, and an instant later, the Warlock's entire arm was gone past the elbow. The returning lightsaber spun past its catcher, clashing against the fountain floor in with a splash, a spark, a sizzle, and a continuous trail of darkened steam. The Warlock grasped his wound, looking back at his sword with intent.

Tyger Tyger gave him no quarter, pushing off the ground in a low-grav spear. His boots and jetpack engaged, flinging the bounty hunter forward in a brutal tackle that sent them both crashing into the plaza stones.

Yet, not-quite-shockingly, the warlock forced himself back up, desperately trying to switch the script. Leaning heavily on his remaining arm, he reclaimed his weird posture and, fighting to hit his full height, he hitched his jaw and forced a shaky, blood-slicked harlequin grin—an almost heart-breaking attempt to look like an unflappable, unhinged monster despite the contents of his veins rapidly joining the rest of the muck.

Tyger Tyger, all too familiar with this brand of edgelord posturing, remained entirely unconvinced, and it was written all over his face.

​

 

[Prystill Oasay]

Objective: Attend the allied strategic gathering on behalf of the Mahporeem Imperial Remnant
Location: Burennaar'gam, Iron Covenant Flagship — Bilbringi System
Outfit: Ministerial Uniform
Tags: Victport Graras | Romul Saxon | Zesiro | Aurelian of Vandemar | Carduul Akahl | R'ayne Asara | OPEN

Prystill Oasay was late. Not catastrophically late. Not make an entrance and force everyone to acknowledge it late. Just late enough that the Minister of Foreign Affairs was acutely aware of it. And it was not her fault. "This is ridiculous."

"Your objection has been noted, Minister."

Pry's reddish eyes cut sideways toward MX-4X as the protocol droid kept pace beside her. "Max."

"I was merely confirming that I had recorded your objection."

"You have recorded it seventeen times."

"Eighteen, Minister."

Pry stopped. The two women following several steps behind stopped with her. That was precisely the problem. One wore the unmistakable armor of a Mahporeem trooper, though the weaponry she carried had been appropriately restricted for their presence aboard another government's vessel. The other was considerably less obvious. Civilian clothing, unobtrusive manner, nothing immediately identifying her as anything more than another member of Pry's staff. Which was, naturally, exactly what one expected from Intelligence.

Recent events on Shinbone had apparently convinced someone that the Minister of Foreign Affairs required protection beyond Max and whatever security happened to exist wherever diplomacy took her. Pry disagreed. Vehemently. Apparently ministerial authority had limits when Internal Affairs, Intelligence, or whichever collection of paranoid bureaucrats had devised this arrangement decided that a twenty-six-year-old Theelin diplomat could no longer walk down a corridor without two armed shadows.

She turned toward them. "You stay here."

The trooper's helmet tilted slightly. "Minister—"

"The meeting is already underway. I am representing Mahporeem before foreign governments, and I am not walking into a diplomatic conference looking as though I expect someone inside to shoot me."

The intelligence agent spoke more quietly. "Our orders—"

"Are to protect me." Pry smiled pleasantly. "You can protect me magnificently from this corridor." Neither woman looked convinced. Pry didn't particularly care. "If the ship comes under attack, you may come inside. If someone begins shooting, you may come inside. If I scream for help, you may come inside." Her smile sharpened. "If none of those things happen, you are going to remain right here and discover the exciting diplomatic practice of waiting."

There was a pause. "Understood, Minister."

"Wonderful." Pry turned away.

MX-4X followed. "Minister, I feel obligated to observe that assigning a security detail following an incident involving—"

"Max."

"Yes, Minister."

"Not another word."

"Of course." They entered.

The gathering aboard the Burennaar'gam had progressed considerably without her. Pry recognized some faces immediately and others through the briefing Max had provided while they made their delayed journey toward the chamber. Victport Graras was naturally the first person she sought. Pry gave the Mahporeem leader a small apologetic inclination of her head before quietly taking her place with the Imperial delegation. Max settled behind her, conspicuous in precisely the unobtrusive way only a protocol droid seemed capable of achieving.

She listened before speaking. That was something Pry had learned was considerably more useful in diplomacy than arriving with the cleverest thing one could think to say. The Sith were stronger. The coalition could not afford to meet them strength for strength. More allies were desirable. More allies were dangerous. The High Republic might be valuable. The High Republic might be unreliable. Scientists should cooperate. Intelligence should be shared. Strategic targets should be identified. Existing resources should be used rather than waiting indefinitely for governments that had yet to commit themselves. And eventually the discussion arrived at the most important question. What were they actually going to do?

Pry folded her hands lightly before herself. "If that is the question before us, then perhaps we should begin with something considerably less exciting than fleets and targets." Her gaze traveled around the assembled representatives. "Promises."

She allowed the word to settle. "For those who do not know me, Prystill Oasay, Minister of Foreign Affairs for the Mahporeem Imperial Remnant. And my apologies for arriving after discussions had already begun." She glanced briefly toward Victport before continuing. "His Excellency has already raised the question of who else might be brought into what we are building here. I agree that we should ask it. I also agree that we should not make our ability to act dependent upon the answer."

That acknowledged both sides of the argument surrounding the High Republic without committing Mahporeem wholly to either. "We can continue speaking with the High Republic. We can speak with others. There should always be another chair available for a government prepared to meaningfully oppose the Sith." Pry's expression became slightly more serious. "But before we concern ourselves too greatly with filling that chair, I believe those already seated around this table should determine precisely what sitting in it means."

She gestured gently toward the gathering. "Are we promising one another military assistance against the Sith? Access to ports and repair facilities? Supplies? Transit rights? Intelligence? Scientific cooperation? If intelligence is shared, who receives it and how much?" A brief glance went toward Zesiro. "An ally does not necessarily require knowledge of every Mahporeem deployment to be an effective ally."

Her attention returned to the room. "And when one of us proposes an operation, what obligation does that create for everyone else?" There it was. Not glorious. Not dramatic. But Pry had served enough governments—and watched enough supposedly permanent arrangements disappear with them—to understand the importance of the questions.

"We appear to agree upon our enemy. That is a beginning. It is not yet an alliance." A faint smile returned. "I would suggest we begin with a limited framework. Mutual logistical access where practical. Compartmentalized intelligence sharing. Scientific cooperation concerning Sith weapons and countermeasures. Regular consultation between our governments. And military cooperation against objectives upon which participating members have agreed."

She leaned back slightly. "Nothing preventing deeper agreements between individual members. Nothing requiring one government to inherit every conflict of another. And nothing preventing us from expanding the arrangement when someone else decides they are prepared to occupy that empty chair."

Pry looked toward Romul, then Aurelian and Carduul before finally returning her attention to Victport. "We do not need to construct the perfect alliance today." Her fingers lightly touched the edge of the table. "We need to construct one that still exists tomorrow." Behind her, MX-4X remained dutifully silent. Which, considering the morning Pry had endured, might have been the greatest diplomatic success of the day.

 

[Romul Saxon]

W A R M A S T E R
Bilbringi

THE GREAT UNKNOWN
​

Tag: Carduul Akahl | Kjartan Hammer-Hand | Aurelian of Vandemar | Victport Graras | R'ayne Asara | Zesiro | Evan Kade | Prystill Oasay

“And tell me, @Carduul Akahl , how has the war with the Sith fared for the High Republic and your Iron Covenant?” My eyes settled upon him. “It is this very line of squabbling that has allowed the Sith to expand, rather than take action.”

Romul rustled in his seat. "Mind your tongue," he growled. "The Iron Covenant has bled enough against the Sith. Let no one accuse us of inaction." The ceaseless platitudes were stretching the Old Boar's patience to its breaking point. Politics. He hated it. Saying so little with so many words, caution and calculation in every sentence. Romul was a battlefield commander, and that was what made sense to him, not this thin veneer of cooperation.

"If all are done with their speeches," the Alor rumbled with a dark hint of sarcasm, "I do not wish for this mediation to devolve any further. There is no question over the matter of the Sith. We are already at war with their ilk. The Iron Covenant's entire purpose, and mandate, is to eradicate their kind from the galaxy. Thousands of our warriors have died in this cause, and tens of thousands more will. Will the rest of you fight with us? Will you die with us?" These were the questions Romul truly wanted answered. An ally that did not pull their weight was no ally at all.

 

[Siv Dragr]

G U N S L I N G E R
Pelagar, Pelagon​

Tag: Darth Avida

Only a couple of dead stormtroopers quietly snuffed out at key checkpoints remained as any sort of trail of Siv's move into enemy territory. He was playing a game of hide-and-seek against hundreds who didn't know they were seeking; yet at the first instance of awareness that their perimeter would be breached, Siv would surely be a dead man.


Darkness had eclipsed the platform-city, shadows darker and deeper, easier to slip in to and through. Night was his ally. And --

A red column illuminated the two of them suddenly, her blade springing to life the moment she caught sight of something too reflective in the dark.

"I don't suppose you'd take a rain check, given the circumstances, would you?"

Oh feth. Siv's blaster was already in hand, raised at the Sith -- he wasn't an idiot -- confronting him. The thought of a life or death duel now, after a whole day of a siege, made Siv's mind weary at the thought. But it was do or die. "I haven't tried to kill you before, have I?" His finger squeezed the trigger of his blaster pistol, crimson bolts erupting in a fierce storm towards his foe.

 

[Tyger Tyger]

Location:x Allies: Mahporeem Imperial Remnant

The Warlock sneered, a cobra spitting venom, "All that metal, old man --"

Oh, here we go.

Tyger Tyger took advantage of intermission, drawing one of the oversized quarrels from the quiver that hung off his hip belt. He was careful not to look too disengaged, lest the Sithling abandon his attempt at Dun Moch.

"—and you still don' see the cage you've built around yourself—"

That was the problem with it, really. Ever since Tyger Tyger found out that they called this something – that they specifically trained in the smack that non-Forcers did automatically – he couldn't get over just how autistically corny it all was. These little exercises to hack the emotional processors of the normies, all serving to underscore the subtextual implication that this Darkside Otherness and Exile was entirely self-imposed.

The Warlock was projecting. All this power, and his weapon of choice was to vomit his psychology all over the ground. His remaining arm twitched, "Watch your precious toys turn to ash –"

And there we are.

Tyger Tyger switched his bowcaster's setting to 3, slotted the oversized quarrel –

--as the Warlock's arm raised, "—when we BREAK THE WORLD!"

The Force Wave hit. Tyger Tyger's jetpack thrusters roared, fighting the wall of turbulence. Instead of dodging, he thrust the heavy bowcaster straight into the teeth of the invisible energy. The kinetic hammer-blow slammed against the weapon's front stirrup, leveraging the Sith's own power to rack the heavy mechanism back—a piece of rebar violently chambered into a nailgun. The heavy bows bent back in submission, errant electricity crackling off the weapon like a video game character charging a super-move.

Something resonated in his mind, far off like an emergency siren in the night.

"We."

A heavy, rhythmic tremor shuddered through the earth—not from the Warlock ahead, but from the darkness directly behind Tyger's heels.

He glanced back over his shoulder. Emerging from the night was a massive Sith Juggernaut. His polished obsidian armor was nearly unseen, save for its shine and the pale, bald, tattooed head resting between what appeared to be two shoulder-mounted rocket launchers.

The Juggernaut's blast gates dropped.

Yep.

Tyger went to gun the thrusters and split the gap, but his throat hit an invisible wall. The air left his lungs in a sharp wheeze as the Warlock—laughing madly now from his spot across the clearing—slammed a Force Choke onto his neck and hoisted him off the ground.

His boots and jetpack engaged automatically, trying to wrench out some slack in the constriction, but to no avail. He drifted in the air, suspended right between them—held out as a stationary clay pigeon for the Juggernaut's incoming artillery assault.

Tyger Tyger didn't wait to respond, clicking the 2 setting in his trigger well. The bowcaster responded with a dissatisfied CLARNGH, forcing the increasingly pent-up energy into remission, and chambering, instead, an exploding quarrel. With a glance and the practised calculus of an old pro, the bounty hunter let a shot fly straight into the ankle-deep stagnant pool of the overzealous Warlock.

It exploded. The compressed, shallow water instantly weaponised the blast, a hydraulic hammer shearing the Warlock's legs off and folding him in half at the knee before incinerating them entirely. The geyser of mud and fire launched him upward and forward at Tyger Tyger as though he himself jumped to the man, hoping to be caught.

And he was. Tyger Tyger's free hand snatched the human starfish from the sky, spinning on a non-existent axis with the aid of his propulsion system, then casting him backhanded at the incoming barrage of RPG fire with some gentle advice. "Watch your back."

With a whine of fear, agony, and anxiety over being humiliated in public, the Warlock tumbled in the sky, his own heightened parasenses scrambling to respond to the danger he could feel with every poisoned cell of his being. Leveraging the Force to turn in midair, the harlequin challenged the rocket barrage with a crackle of purple lightning, detonating the armaments in midair shortly after they left their ports and even destroying one of the launchers entirely.

The starfish-man dropped to the ground as though he had landed on his knees—forgetting he didn't have them anymore. Panting, he attempted to stand at whatever height he could muster, his mind racing over and seeking solace in The Skywalker Passion Plays, desperately likening himself to Anakin after that fateful encounter on Mustafar.

CLARNGH.

The weapon violently reset, snapping back into its maximum configuration as the trigger broke. The Warlock wouldn't hear what came next – the monstrous expulsion of energy as the oversized quarrel ripped off the rail, threatening to punch a hole through space itself – seemingly growing in mass for a split second as it flickered in and out of its own gravity well. The Sith was a corpse before he even left the ground, torn from the muddy water and hurled into the air, until he crashed into the armor of the Juggernaut beyond, rattling against the metal like a skeleton in a box. The Juggernaut roared out, the quarrel having punched through his armor and gored his ribcage, leaving him leaking like a dented Campbell's soup can—saved from immediately spilling his vitals into the fountain only because his buddy's earthly remains were currently plugging the entry wound.

The Juggernaut lurched forward anyway. With every heavy step, the dead Warlock's arms and stumps bounced against the obsidian chest plate like the floppy appendages of a… well…

…a stuffed animal.

"Hey, me too!" Tyger Tyger taunted. His voice was strained behind a pained wince as he tapped the stuffed tiger duct-taped to his chest plate twice with his hand, the plush squishing out a heavy stream of foul swamp water in response.

Between the hard fall and all the sudden maneuvering, his own bum knee had finally given out. Slumping his back against the hip-high masonry, Tyger slid down into the mud with a heavy grunt and allowed the heavy bowcaster to rest across his lap. With the methodical, unhurried precision of a man clocking out of a shift, his wet fingers began popping the latches on his belt pouches until, finally, fishing out the generic grey casing of a back-alley healthstim.

Tyger Tyger breathed in, then out.

And pressed the healthstim to his thigh.

​

 

[Shae'ri Mor]

Pelagon

Equipment • Scrapborn | Scrapfangs | Scrapveil
Sidekick (occasionally) • Clunk3r
Command • x20 Scrap Hounds | x35 ZQ Infantry Support Unit | x 275 Coretroopers | x960 Drakonis Praetorian Guard {updated (1)}
Location • X
Allies • Lothar Braeyek | Shade | Augustus Tassar | Tyger Tyger

The last Sith emplacement burned beneath a sky choked with smoke, its once-imposing fortifications reduced to fractured duracrete, twisted metal, and embers glowing like dying eyes. Shae’ri Mor stood upon the ruin in her Scrapveil armor, surveying the docks below as the remainder of her assault force made landfall.

Troopers poured from transports and landing craft, forming ragged lines among cargo containers filled with supplies while battle droids and scraphounds mechanically moved onto the shattered dockways.

Her chestplate comlink crackled.

“Casualty report, Knight Mor,” an Imperial officer said through the static. “Forty-five confirmed dead. Fifteen wounded, five critical. Lost five hounds and ten droids. Two "Cohorts" were destroyed and one "Ronhar" crippled. We estimate the Sith emplacements where merely to stall us than defeat us, judging by how quickly they were assembled or the numbers would have been much higher.”

Shae’ri stared across the platform without expression. The numbers were unpleasant, but numbers were honest. War had no sympathy for the dead, and neither did she.

Another burst of static interrupted the report. “Knight Mor, this is Patrol Squad Aurek-Seven.” The voice was strained, breathless beneath the distant thunder of blasterfire. “We located a surviving Sith force approximately two hundred meters east of the docks. Sith troopers have barricaded themselves inside a shipping factory. They’re being commanded by a Sith, repeat, confirmed Sith presence. Our patrol attempted to advance, but we’ve been pinned down by heavy fire. We’re taking casualties and cannot maneuver.”

Shae’ri’s eyes narrowed toward the industrial district. Through the smoke, the silhouette of the factory rose above the shipping yards like a blackened tomb. “Aurek-Seven, hold your ground,” she ordered. “Do not advance. Do not pursue them. Keep that Sith occupied.” A pause followed before the squad leader answered, “Understood, Knight Mor.”

Shae’ri thumbed the channel closed, then opened another frequency. “Captain Remy, this is Mor. Assume command of the assault force. Once the last units reach the docks, get them assembled, reorganized, and ready to advance. No movement until you have everyone accounted for.”

Remy answered immediately, his voice steady. “Understood. And you?” Shae’ri looked toward the factory. “I have a Sith problem.”

She stepped down from the ruined emplacement, boots grinding over broken Sith masonry and bodies. Ten Drakonis Praetorian Guardsmen emerged from the assembled ranks when she summoned them, their weapons already in hand.

Shae’ri pointed toward the distant factory. “You ten. With me.”

There was no speech, no ceremony, and no promise of survival. They simply followed. Shae’ri broke into a run across the dockyard, her Scrapveil armor moving heavily with every stride as the Praetorian guards thundered behind her. Blasterfire flashed between the shipping containers ahead. Somewhere inside that industrial building, a Sith had decided to make a fortress from durasteel and she intended to make it the Sith's graveplot. ​

 

[Zesiro]

Objective: Bilbringi
Interacting with: Romul Saxon | Prystill Oasay | R'ayne Asara | Carduul Akahl | Aurelian of Vandemar

The exchange between R'ayne and Carduul drew Zesiro's attention away from Pry, though she remained silent as the disagreement sharpened. She understood the frustration behind it. Everyone in the room had arrived because the Sith represented a threat none of them could comfortably ignore, but there was a considerable distance between agreeing upon an enemy and agreeing upon everything that should be done about them.

Romul apparently had considerably less patience for that distance.

His growled warning brought Zesiro's blue eyes toward the Warmaster, and she listened as he stripped away most of what had occupied the discussion until only the question he actually cared about remained. Would they fight with the Covenant? Would they die with them? There was something about the bluntness that Zesiro could appreciate, even if the question itself wasn't one she had the authority to answer for Mahporeem.

She certainly wasn't going to volunteer anyone else's life.

"I think that's exactly why Pry's questions matter," Zesiro said after a moment, her tone calm despite the tension that had entered the room. Her gaze shifted briefly toward the Foreign Minister before returning to Romul. "If people around this table are going to fight beside each other, they should know what they've actually promised before somebody starts dying over it."

It wasn't an attempt to avoid Romul's question. If anything, Zesiro thought the answer deserved more than an enthusiastic declaration made across a conference table. She had lived through too many wars, served too many causes, and watched too many governments change to mistake willingness to bleed for a plan.

"As for me personally?" A faint smile touched her lips. "I've fought Sith and Mandalorians before. I'm still here."

That was as much as Zesiro was willing to make about herself. Whether Mahporeem committed soldiers, ships, resources, or anything else was for Victport and the people responsible for those decisions to determine. Internal Affairs could worry about what happened once those commitments existed.

She settled back again, glancing between Romul and the others. "I can't promise you who Mahporeem will die with, Warmaster. That's not my promise to make. But if our people are sent to fight beside yours, I'd rather make certain everyone understands what they're fighting for before the shooting starts."

For Zesiro, that was considerably more meaningful than another promise made because everyone happened to hate the same enemy.

 

[The Arkanian]

BLASTERS 'LL SHOOT 'EM
SLUGS 'LL SCOOP 'EM
BLADES 'LL MUTE 'EM
GRAVE FILLERS, SITH KILLERS, THEM MANDO THRILLERS

Slumping his back against the hip-high masonry, Tyger slid down into the mud with a heavy grunt and allowed the heavy bowcaster to rest across his lap.

"Now what's all this then?" asked a voice muffled by a helmet.

Heavy boots stomped through mud and the dented, pockmarked, plasma scored red and white armor of a Mandalorian Neo Crusader came into view. Two enormous reptodogs padded along on either side of him, tongues lolling out of mouths bristling with wickedly sharp teeth.

Haran Ha'rangir, the Arkanian, offered a hand out to the imperial slumped in the mud. The gloved gauntlet was caked up to the elbow in gore, presumably Sith in origin. A blaster bolt pinged off Haran's beskar helmet, knocking his head to the side. He righted his head and chuckled dangerously.

"Come on then. Can't let you do all the work here, eh aruettii?"

Tyger Tyger

 

[FN-999 (restored)]

Tags: Romul Saxon | Aurelian of Vandemar | Prystill Oasay | R'ayne Asara | Zesiro | Victport Graras | Carduul Akahl

For most of the conference, FN-999 had been content to sit back and observe.
​

Even a man of his size could be concealed fairly well as long as he stayed still and did not draw attention to himself. It was how he had survived a dozen losing battles and regrouped to win two dozen more. Here, FN-999 laid low not to strike at his erstwhile allies, but to absorb their perspectives.

After all, as sophisticated as his information network was, it was not all-knowing.

Furthermore, some of the players at the table were far newer than others. Prystill Oasay in particular was an individual FN-999 had little high-level intel on, yet as Mahporeem's newest Foreign Minister would play an important role in any negotiations between the assembled powers. She spoke with the polish of a career politician, yet her occasional witty remarks suggested that there was real passion behind her appeals for closer cooperation. Though interstate relations were perhaps better suited for Prime Minister Gudo or Foreign Minister Dalgun, FN-999 felt as if he could have productive conversations with her later down the line.

Meanwhile, Romul Saxon acted exactly as FN-999 had expected of the man who served as Warmaster of the Iron Covenant. Firm, direct, unyielding in his speech and unquestionably clear in his opinion. FN-999 had worked under the command of similar men decades ago, and eventually came to nurture lieutenants who upheld those same values. More even than Foreign Minister Oasay, FN-999 felt he could strongly sympathize with the Warmaster.

FN-999 would be content to sit a little while longer before speaking his piece if not for the petty bickering that was already beginning to emerge between the Mahporeem and Covenant camps. Seeking to bring the core cause of their meeting back into focus, FN-999 rose from his chair to take the floor.

"The Commonwealth of Caragach will fight with Mahporeem and the Iron Covenant." declared the Marshal.

"As I believe everyone else here has already made abundantly clear, the Sith pose an existential threat to us all."

"Every moment we spend feuding over insults real or imagined is another moment we give to the Sith to grow their industrial base or raze yet another planet to the ground. What we need more than anything else at this moment is a clear plan of action."

"To begin, we must assess how we got here. To borrow Science Minister Asara's fitting metaphor, we must be able to find the patient zero and determine how they spread the Sith disease where it was not before."

"Some would argue it was Carnifex, others Prazitus and still others Talon. In any case, the key link is a Sith Lord of immense power. Through their strength in the Dark Side of the Force, they gather acolytes, and not only of the Force Sensitive type. Throughout galactic history, Sith Lords have built or taken over hundreds of front corporations. It is through the vast profits of these corporations that they begin to worm their way into government, corrupting everything they touch."

"Once any opposition is bought off or mysteriously persuaded to the side of the Sith, they take over the entire government. There may still be civilian leaders, but their strings are being pulled by the Carnifexes and their vast network of acolytes. The Sith Empire and Sith Order are merely more advanced versions of this scheme, where the Sith have taken such firm root in society that they no longer need to conceal their intentions behind puppet chancellors."

"With these facts in mind," remarked FN-999, "we can begin to develop a treatment for the Sith disease."

"I strongly recommend ceasing all and any economic activity with any corporation even suspected to be a Sith front. Even if they are not producing equipment used to attack Mandalorians or Imperials, there may be spies within their boards eager to gain information on our economic situation. The fewer avenues we give Sith agents to infiltrate and infest our societies, the better."

"As for the military end of the Sith, they seem to have innovated little from their predecessors aside from the Force wall around their space. Though their means may vary greatly from Sith to Sith, their ends are all the same."

"Fortunately, that makes them predictable, and also allows successful strategies used against the Sith in the past to remain useful."

"The best thing I believe we can do against the Sith is to concentrate our efforts on their most valuable Lords and assets." asserted the Marshal, his helmeted gaze sweeping across the assembly. "Kill, capture, or incapacitate Carnifex, and both the Sith Empire and the Kainite will fall into a crisis of succession. Destroy the Mors Mon, and the Sith Order's ability to project power will be nearly fully erased overnight."

"Even simply weakening one of the major Sith Lords, however briefly, may be enough to destabilize the Sith as a whole as their rivals attempt to usurp his power. The tradition of Sith acolytes backstabbing their masters is millennia old: we simply need to accelerate that process to the point where Sith society fractures at its seams. If we are exceedingly lucky, we could even turn the Sith Empire against the Sith Order, causing a dynastic struggle that greatly weakens both."

"If we can secure the support of the High Republic, that would grant us a significant boost to our industrial might and military strength. But it would also broaden the front of the upcoming war to include nearly the entire galaxy and risk creating far greater tension in our compact compared to what I am already seeing."

"In all, this is a promising initiative, one which may prove very necessary very soon. However, its success will depend on holding onto the one quality we undeniably hold an advantage in over the Sith: trust between our allies."

 

[Kjartan Hammer-Hand]

---

---

​

OBJECTIVE 1: BILBRINGI
LOCATION: ABOARD THE BUURENAAR'GAM
TAG:
TAGS: Romul Saxon | Carduul Akahl | Aurelian of Vandemar | Victport Graras | @R’ayne Asara | Zesiro | @Prystill Oasayu​

​

KJARTAN HAMMER-HAND​

THEME​

​

As master of the Buurenaar’gam, and chieftain of the fleet; Kjartan Hammer-Hand needed no introduction. He sat upon his chair within the meeting room radiating an air of silent authority as only a warlord could. The fingers of his mechanical hand intertwined with that of his ‘good’ hand atop the table, and his keen eyes appraised each representative in turn. He was content that Romul had undertaken chairing this meeting, if for no other reason than that Kjartan simply didn’t want to. There was a reason the Hammer-Hand had insisted on pitchers of ale being present at the table, and as the rest of those within the chamber bandied words betwixt each other, he set about exhausting his first mug of the frothy substance.

Even still, Kjartan was not oblivious to a sense of decorum, even though his own brand of it may well have been different from others. He refrained from draining the brew with his usual gusto, which in turn prevented it from dripping down his beard and onto the table. Instead, his beard remained braided, oiled, and free from the stink of ale (for now). One might question why the presence of such refreshments was necessary, and if so, they would find Kjartan’s response to involve an uppercut with his cybernetic hand, followed by another drink. The only thing that delivered him through the meeting with the Far Worlds Alliance, was the presence of that Corellian Whiskey.

Or was it Mantelian?

Regardless, Kjartan was not a mere drunk. As a former pirate, alcohol was a means of subduing his latent aggression, and further adding to an appearance promoting being underestimated. Perhaps those who lacked direct knowledge of his identity would give in to such, granting the old pirate the upper hand. Those who assumed the man to be a fool, often found themselves buried 6 feet under a pile of scat behind the Wanderlust Cantina on Ord Mantel, next to the Askajian pleasure house...

A story for another time.

For now, Kjartan listened as the Imperial Remnant set about trying to gain the upper hand within the meeting, specifically through expressing uncertainties about the security of Covenant Intelligence, and something about ‘How the war was going’?

“The war is going well enough to avoid being shattered into a damn Remnant.” Kjartan finally interjected, and in such a fashion that probably didn’t help the situation. But it likely attracted the attention of those gathered. The old Hammer spared a glance to Carduul Akahl , nodding at the former Mandalore. It wasn’t often that the Voidbrand came to the Neo Crusader’s defense - in truth, he was often the source of Carduuls consternation - but perhaps moments like these made up for it.

Kjartan smiled broadly, revealing the glint of gold teeth intermixed within his jawline. He spoke again, yet this time his tone was laced with honey; the roguish charm he was often capable of marshalling. “But only for the moment. The truth is, neither of us will last long if we fight the Sith separately.” He met Romul’s gaze this time, but then returned to the Imperial delegation. His tone shifted to a more serious cant - that of the Warlord who had fairly recently commanded hundreds of warships against the Sith host. “We can bandy words like the politicians of old, but at the end of the day - we’re all better served if we cut through the osik and remember why we’re all here. Our people have struck first, and we will fight until we can’t. An accord with you and yours, will extend that time to the point where perhaps victory is achievable.”

Kjartan nodded to Aurelian of Vandemar . “He’s got the right o’ it, sure enough. We can’t fight a conventional war with this lot.” He scratched his beard, allowing his fingers to stroke his braids as his voice turned pensive. “They ‘ave a literal crawler that deflected a turbolaser shot back to the warship it came from. I would have thought such a thing impossible and against the laws of physics and technological possibilities... but apparently their voidcraft is beyond rational understanding.” He shook his head. “We deny them battle unless it’s on our terms. We strike them where they are vulnerable, and rip their karkin ‘eart out o’ their damn chests. Karkin’ lighting bolts and all.”

His metal hand balled into a fist and shook violently, as though he could feel the heart of a few such ones in his cold hands at this very moment. His eyes closed as he let out a breath and grimaced, but they soon opened again. He scanned the table. “We can work out the specifics if you wish, but let’s move forward with our common goal in mind. This meeting isn’t meant to make new enemies, but to mayhaps forge a partnership.” Kjartan’s eyes fell on Victport, and the faint memory of what went down in orbit over Mon Calamari crossed his mind. ‘Well shit.’ he mentally cursed. Hopefully the Imperial agreed with the Hammer-Hand’ss words here, rather than focusing on the bill the old pirate probably ran up at his own expense.

​

 

[Romul Saxon]

W A R M A S T E R
Bilbringi

THE GREAT UNKNOWN
​

Tag: Carduul Akahl | Kjartan Hammer-Hand | Aurelian of Vandemar | Victport Graras | R'ayne Asara | Zesiro | Evan Kade | Prystill Oasay | FN-999 (restored)

Romul harrumphed. The minister's conciliation and the Marshal of Caragach's declaration had restored some of his faith in the steel that these states brought to the table. When Kjartan rose to speak, Romul was nodding along deeply with the Hammer-Hand, emphatically approving what the admiral of the Mythos Fleet stated. "We must cut off the head of the snake, burn its body to ashes, and then annihilate the soil upon which it stands." He rumbled. "The Marshal speaks with reason. Yet it is easier said than done. The Hammer-Hand speaks with practicality. Conventional siege warfare will only buy us more death. We must strike asymmetrically, to burn rather than conquer. As to the economic fronts of the Sith, I say: do not embargo these corporations, but destroy them. Seize what may be useful, destroy what is not. The Sith Empire fell once, yet all of their dark actors remain."

The Warmaster rose to his feet. "We are aware that the Sith remain entrenched behind the Blackwall. First, their outposts in the Core must fall. We must needs liberate the center of the Galaxy." He tapped a finger against the palm of the table. "As to the High Republic. . ." he looked knowingly at Akahl and the Hammer-Hand. What he was about to say, only they knew. "We have received communications that they mean to send an envoy to us, to treat."

He swiped his hand as if to dismiss the notion. The question of the High Republic would be sorted out with time. Only one other question remained: that of the pretender's Empire. "Spy," he rumbled towards the inconspicuously dressed worker Evan Kade . "Come forward."