Faction Everyone Needs A Place To Call Home (Inquisitorius)

[Alina Tremiru]

"Of the two groups, which do you think has more capability? Which is stronger?"

Alina stood aboard the bridge of a Star Destroyer, her gaze focused out on the planet below them. Shiva IV. Once, the Empire from before the Plague had tried to take the planet for themselves, only to fail when met with the resistance of the two main groups combined their efforts. The Humans, and the T'Syriél. But those days were long gone, forgotten by most. And with it, the accord that put the two groups in their alliance, too, was forgotten.

Below, the confederate capital of IIllyriaqüm was under siege by the Twelve Tribes. The battle had reached a standstill, with neither side advancing or retreating. Losses, innumerable. There was never a better time to strike than now. Not expecting an answer, the Sangnir turned her head to the Inquisitors gathered behind her. A soft smile formed on her lips.

"The answer is neither. Both. While they're still split we will make them both kneel. Take the 67th to the city. Bring the Calian Confederacy to heel. The rest of you, come with me. I'm in the mood for some ritual combat."

Two warrior cultures dominate the world of Shiva IV. One, the Calian Confederacy, rules the cities. Break through the ongoing siege and bring them to their knees. The Warlord is the prime target. The arrogance of the man had him turn down Alina's assistance. The Inquisitorius will not allow resistance to their rule. Kill him, break morale, and show not only the Confederacy but the Tribes outside just how powerful we are.

The Twelve Tribes of T'Syriél make up the other half the dominant force of the planet. They lay siege to the city, but a recent loss of their High Chief in the last battle has sent the tribes into a mad scramble to find a replacement. Under the representation of the Inquisitorius, prove that they should serve by bringing every tribe to heel. Ritual combat, a persuasive tongue, brute force. Whatever works, so long as enough survive to still be of use.​

 

[Rhynne Urdreth]

Rhynne followed behind her master silently, her voice often not heard by any but Alina. During her line of questions the girl watched the response of the inquisitors, wondering what their answers may be. In her own mind she couldn't say, in all this time she had seen very little of the galaxy or its people. Stepping up to the view from the bridge, the small hybrid watched the planet below, the ships closing in on it with every passing second as the ruins of the city from its war could be seen, while not possible, she felt she could smell the death from where they remained, her eyes trained on a wayward building as its supports finally crumbled and it began its descent to the stone below. Once the smoke cleared she turned around to view Alina once more.

"The rest of you, come with me. I'm in the mood for some ritual combat." Rhyn had yet to see her master in true combat, the ideas of what it might be creeping through her mind as she followed the precession, her eyes drifting between those present as she pulled up her hood to hide her horns. Looking down at her waist she could see the training saber dangling from its spot on her belt, though she knew it wouldn't likely be used today, what good would it do.

Alina Tremiru

 

[Kyrilu Storm-wracked]

Tribe Ka'Sosaan, one of the minor players among the Twelve Tribes, but formidable nonetheless with what Kyrilu had been planning. To call it a plan was a stretch, perhaps, but Ky hadn't been able to think clearly ever since he had left Formos. It had been enlightening, as far as Knight Haxim's teachings and instruction on the ways of the Sith, but Ky had felt like nothing so much as a failure since the Knight had shown him how a lightsaber crystal was bled.

He had spent days at Dresuoti, his embarrassment growing in the face of his inability to bleed his old jedi master valen's kyber crystal. He had left, returning to the side of his Master. He had not slept a proverbial wink during his travel. Every minute was spent attempting to impose his will upon the crystal, but for all the fear and hatred he felt within himself he could not complete even this simple task. Was it his old jedi loyalties, still with some sort of hold on his soul that prevented him from passing this test?

When he finally arrived in system, his master had sent instructions to dock with the star destroyer in orbit around Shiva IV. She was clearly busy co-ordinating the assault on the planet and so he was able to avoid her prior to the meeting on the bridge. He could not appear before her a failure, so that was fine with him. Instead, in his further frustrating attempts to bleed his crystal an idea came to him, so simple in its execution but so potentially lethal.

He had begun researching Shiva IV and its inhabitants from all the info already collated by his Master that had been delivered to him upon arrival on the star destroyer. Tribe Ka'Sosaan had stood out immediately as minor enough to be beneath the direct attentions of his Master, but large enough that should he succeed - in both endeavours - then he would return to Lady Tremiru not a pathetic failure but as a worthy apprentice.

Ky knew his avoidance of the last meeting at the bridge would not sit well with his master. It was typical behaviour for him, really, but that fear of reprisal only drove him even more to succeed. Ky waited in the cockpit of the Aegis, his jedi's lightsaber perched right on the console, it's accusatory, mocking stare burning a hole in his gut. Once zero-hour for the assault began, Ky gunned his ship out of the hangar and arced it down towards the planet. He would either embrace his destiny on Shiva IV, or he would die there.

 

[Daxa Zuul]

The bridge of the Star Destroyer was deathly silent. Shiva IV sat before them in the viewport, a small planet of swirling tans and browns, its surface pockmarked by the remnants of past wars.

Into that silence, Alina Tremiru spoke. “Of the two groups,” she began, “which do you think is more capable? Which is stronger?”

They are not groups, Daxa thought, reaching out into the Force to look upon the planet with a deeper gaze. They are tools, and they are only as strong as the hand that wields them.

“The answer is neither,” Alina continued. “Both. While they’re split we will make them both kneel. Take the 67th to the city. Bring the Calian Confederacy to heel. The rest of you, come with me. I’m in the mood for some ritual combat.”

As Alina led the others away, her little apprentice Rhynne Urdreth scurrying behind her, Daxa turned to the bridge and gained an officer’s attention with a piercing stare through the ice blue-haze of her helmet.

The man snapped to attention, radiating nerves. Daxa was no more physically imposing than any of her brothers and sisters, nor was she known for wanton violence, for she was more cold rage than burning wrath, but the scarlet hue of her Inquisitor armor cut a sinister figure, as if she was draped in blood.

In some ways, she was.

“Send word to the 67th to prepare for full deployment,” she said, her helmet mechanizing her voice into a low, raspy monotone. “I have an army to break and a city to capture.”

“Yes sir, Second Sister. By your leave…”

She waved the man away, turning back to gaze out the viewport at the planet below. She could see the battle to come shaping itself in her mind’s eye, like a bad holotransmission slowly coming into focus. Initial reports had placed an army of T’Syriel warriors amassed outside llyriaqum, laying siege to the gleaming city. If their general wasn’t a fool, then the T’Syriel would have a rearguard to protect the army’s flanks, and that is where she would strike. If she could take the rearguard quickly and march on the T’Syriel army mid-siege, then the battle was already decided.

So it is, and so it shall be.

With a battalion of AT-OTs, gunship support, and the infantrymen of the 67th, she would crush the besieging T’Syriel army against the shields and walls of Illyriaqum, and the Calian Warlord would welcome her with open arms. And then…

Then she would kill him.

She left the bridge, cape billowing in her wake.

​

 

[Venn Kolis]

Alina Tremiru Rhynne Urdreth Daxa Zuul Dyyr T'Pada
EVERYONE NEEDS A PLACE TO CALL HOME

The Eternal Siege Cruiser Blade of Fear, shuttle hanger
​

Klaxons sounded throughout the cavernous reaches of the hanger bay, as Eternalist fleet officers coordinated swarms of bustling crewmen. Külək gunships began to warm their ion engines, the sharp thrum buzzing in every ear.

Amidst the commotion, Targeth heard a voice calling his name. He turned to find Elso beckoning him over- the rest of the Amon-Sev were standing apart from the thronging multitude. Donning steel plate and gripping their polearms in concentration, perhaps 30 in all, they greeted Targeth mutely at his approach.

"What's the holdup? The first transports are deploying! Shouldn't we be first on the ground?"

"We have a new mission."

Stiffening, the Amon-Sev turned as their suzerain approached, his steps unhurried, his own steel armor ablaze with fiery script from the language of the Draelvasier. A bundle of cloth and his helmet were propped under one arm. It was always unnerving when Venn didn't wear his helmet; a stark reminder of his youth. Easily half the Amon-Sev were older, and not by an insignificant margin.

Now the Sith Apprentice stood in the midst of them, a dangerous smile on his face. "Tremiru offered to bring the Calian Confederacy into the fold, and they spit at her feet. She's called for no quarter. The new heir to the planet's legacy will be the High Chief of the T'Syriél... as soon as one has been chosen by way of ritual combat. It seems the Inquisitorius are turning their attention away from the siege of IIllyriaqüm to run off and play my favorite game." A sulfurous yellow flame leapt in Venn's eyes. "I intend to win."

Now aboard a pair of scarlet gunships, the little warband raced to the planet's surface. Targeth scratched at his thick beard nervously. The arrogance and excitement in his young master's eyes made him anxious. He'd seen that fire before. Balanced at the precipice of a question, Targeth finally took the plunge, if only to relieve his own stress. "Sir, what of the siege? We were to coordinate our forces with the 67th Legion. Without the Amon-Sev, or you yourself at the frontline, how will we control the Sithspawn hordes?"

The hold of the shuttlecraft was bathed in red light, and the pilot's voice came over the ampcom. {"Landing zone in sight. 2 minutes."}

Bolting upright at the announcement, Venn's face seemed to calm. Staring ahead vacantly, he twisted the ring of black steel on his finger, his touch making the red letters burn and shine. Silence. The rumble outside the little ship. Then...

"IIllyriaqüm no longer exists. It might as well have been a fantasy."

The assembled beastmasters of the Sith felt a creeping claw in the pit of their stomachs when they saw the grin that came over Venn Kolis' face then. This was no musing smirk, but a cruel slash of teeth that rejoiced in violence, wide eyes still staring into nothing.

"I've sent them Tyro T'Pada."

 

[Alina Tremiru]

"Are you frightened, little sheep?" Alina's gaze eventually fell to Rhynne as the two entered their own shuttle. Twelve tribes, twelve different groups to take over. Her other apprentice was already off to do his work on his own. Ah, hopefully he would survive. For a moment she turned her gaze to where she could sense him, eyes narrowed in thought. He was still forbidden from his lightsaber. The Force. No, he should be fine.

So long as he didn't get too arrogant.

Instead her attention returned back to the hybrid beside her. A small smile formed for just a moment. "Pay close attention."

The shuttle touched down just outside one of the tribes camp. Multiple tribes, by the banners here. That was the point, after all. As many tribes gathered together as possible for a show of strength was one of the better ways to make them all bend the knee. At least in Alina's opinion. She may or may not just want a fight. Hard to tell, especially with the fanged grin that took over as she stepped off the ship.

Around her the Inquisitors that came along followed, stoic in their armor. Blades on their backs.

"Twelve Tribes! You know why I'm here. I challenge your strongest against my own!"

The guards that stood there glanced to each other. Said nothing. It was a group of older T'Syriél. Elders. Leaders. Then glanced between each other, then to her.

"And why sh-"

He didn't get the word out before Alina was in front of him. To the normal eye they couldn't follow her. She simply appeared, her grin now a far calmer smile. "The others are already in agreement. Send me your strongest to fight mine so we might join forces, rather than devolve to war on a second front, no?"

He swallowed, but nodded. The other three simply scoffed and turned away. Scoffed at his fear, but each felt a chill up their spine as her gaze fell on them. They hurried along, letting the Inquisitors alongside Alina in.

"There. Now the fun can begin."

Venn Kolis | Rhynne Urdreth | Daxa Zuul | Kyrilu Storm-wracked

 

[Kyrilu Storm-wracked]

None noticed Ky as he slipped through the paltry defences at the rear of Tribe Ka'Sosaan's camp. Clearly they expected opposition only on the front lines, which made Ky's job that much easier. Hooded in deep grey robes, he strode for the centre of the camp where a large circle had been marked out and a handful of large T'Syriel brutes clashed weapons with each other. The Ka'Sosaan warriors were honourable and did not have any aspirations on leading the massive warhost the T'Syriel had amassed. Fielding only a few thousand tall, muscular warriors, they knew their place in the hierarchy and would serve whatever High Chief was chosen by the larger tribes. It was admirable, in the way that a good soldier knows his place, but today it would be the reason for their submission.

"Warriors of the proud Ka'Sosaan Tribe!" Ky bellowed as he neared the edge of the training circle. Canine faces turned towards him in surprise, then confusion, then anger. Growls erupted from throats of the fighters in the ring, armed already with an assortment of melee weaponry they were fearsome indeed. Ky felt only a flutter of trepidation in his stomach as he plastered a smile to his face and stopped, just shy of the circle limits. The T'Syriel were clearly unsure what to make of the relatively smaller being suddenly appearing in their camp. Some looked round at their fellows, others took small steps forward, weapons tight in their fists. Ky's force sight told him many more were crowding at his back, but none dared make a move, wary of some sort of trap.

"I am Kyrilu Storm-wracked, apprentice to the Lady Tremiru of the Inquisitorius," he began, turning to regard every warrior around him, arms out wide. "And I have come to accept your pledge of loyalty to my Master!"

Peals of laughter mixed with snarls of annoyance from the gathering crowd, and Ky smiled through it all. One warrior, a large hulking brute with sharp longswords in each of his meaty paws, stepped forward from his place in the circle. "And just why would we do that, little blind human?" He laughed, an edge to his voice, the threat implicit. Ky shrugged off his heavy robes, exposing the twin vibroswords sheathed at either side of his belt. He laughed at the being's ignorance. This far from the core worlds, he would not have expected them to have encountered a Miralukan before. They would underestimate him, then - all the better. Ky gestured to the weapons at his waist.

"Because I am going to make you."

 

[Daxa Zuul]

​

The 67th Legion landed under the cover of night, less than a quarter day's march from Illyriaqum.

While the Colonel oversaw the men, leading them in the preparations, Daxa led a company of scouts and saboteurs across the desert to a low ridge that overlooked the enemy camp. She wanted to look upon the T'Syriel with her own eyes and take their measure.

The moons sat low in the sky, their wan light hidden behind the horizon. The camp was a sprawling sea of tents and cooking fires arrayed around a tall pavilion, spread across a stretch of scraggly flatland. She saw a large makeshift pen where large reptavian creatures grazed on desert shrubs, and on the opposite side of the camp, what looked like rows of mobile anti-aircraft cannons. Orbital scans had put the full might of the T'Syriel army at 60,000 strong- Daxa guess there were about 10,000 of those warriors in the camp below, a sizeable rearguard by an measure.

She didn't need the Force to know that the T'Syriel warriors below were bored and aimless, guarding against Calian reinforcements that would likely never come; the nearest Calian city, K'avor, was half a world away and half conquered besides. Still, the anti-aircraft cannons were too great a threat against her gunships, and the reptilian mounts could prove troublesome in an engagement on open ground, given the number of them.

Massed foot soldiers could be gunned down easily beneath AT-OT fire, but the same could not be said of cavalry, especially given the sheer size of the creatures.

Her course forward was clear. She had to destroy the cannons- most if not all- and scatter the mounts. "Captain? How many thermal detonators do your men carry?"

The black clad trooper set his macrobinoculars aside. "Every trooper carries at least two, ma'am."

"Good. I'll take twenty of them. Hold this position until I return."

Daxa sensed his burning curiosity- thermal detonators were scarily powerful- but he refrained from questioning her and departed to do her bidding.

She had already spoken with the Colonel and his majors regarding her plans for the coming engagement; the Legion would march within the hour to catch the T'Syriel rear guard in the waning hours of night, while the desert winds were still cool and the gauzy haze of sleep still muddled their minds.

And she...she would sow chaos.

The captain returned a few moments later with a satchel full of detonators that was heavier than she expected. As Daxa accepted the bag, she wove over herself a layered suggestion of look-away, don't-hear, notice-me-not, and with her pack secured, sprinted down the ridge and across the shifting sands to the T'Syriel camp.

Venn Kolis Alina Tremiru Rhynne Urdreth Kyrilu Storm-wracked ​

 

[Dyyr T'Pada]

Daxa Zuul Alina Tremiru Kyrilu Storm-wracked Rhynne Urdreth Venn Kolis
Everyone Needs a Place to Call Home​

Shiva IV, Dryland outskirts of IIllyriaqüm, half a klik from the Calian defensive line​

Tyro Dyyr T'Pada was nervous. He was standing on a moonlit hillside, gazing down at the entrenchments blockading the city of IIllyriaqüm about a quarter mile away. Thousands of Calians were huddling in the trenches, crouching behind cover, and watching from the gun placements. In the distance, a horde of T'Syrielian Marauders were galloping away to regain strength and return for another skirmish. So the battle had fared since sunrise that morning. However, that pattern was changing.

Everything had gone to plan so far. The T'Syrielians had granted them passage through the siege on the condition that they would help them take the city. The Calians had had no indication of any new advancing threat. No variable had been changed; all was proceeding to plan. Still, he was nervously fiddling with his comlink. The tiny device was clumsy in his massive hands. He was used to the seamless, elegant transmissions of Bryn'Adul mindstones, but now he was reduced to manual means of communication with distant troops in the field. He raised the device and growled into it.

"Move out commander. It's time for the real battle to begin."

There was a long pause before the terse reply came back. "Confirmed. Moving out."

Baedurin troops emerged from the foliage across the plain, making a quick, quiet advance on the recovering Calians. It wasn't until they were about to cross into blaster fire range that they were noticed. Shouts rang in the air as the Calians tried to hail the figures looming in the darkness.

T'Pada felt nervousness pricking at him again. He'd had full confidence in his plan until he'd seen his troops marshalled in the field. The Calian defences were strong, well tested, and fully manned. The Baedurin below him numbered less than 1000, spread in a long, thin phalanx before their enemies. If the Calians surrounded them too quickly, they would not only be snuffed out before they could put up a real fight, it would ruin the plan he had formed. Consequences would be just as severe if only part of the Calians engaged, or if they settled for whittling the Baedurin down with blaster fire, though that would take them hours. And Kaehus forbid they find air support. He caught himself scanning the skies nervously.

"They haven't had air support all day," he reminded himself, "and even if they do send word for airborne soldiers, they'll never arrive in time. This is going to work. We'll crush them."

Just as that thought crossed his mind, a hideous red glare lit up the entire field. T'Pada looked down to see the front rank of the Calians burst into flames and disintegrate. One of T'Pada's soldiers had opened fire with a Blaze Wolf. Now the Baedurin had the Calians' undivided attention. He saw the Baedurin bearing the Blaze Wolf leap behind his brethren as the Calians returned fire. The initial counterattack felled many of the shield bearers. T'Pada winced as fresh troopers picked up the fallen shields and filled the holes in the bulwark. It didn't take long for the Calians to learn the impotency of blaster fire. T'Pada's hopes rose as he saw the foremost defenders forsake the battlements and prepare to charge. Another blast from the Blaze Wolf deterred them less than T'Pada would have expected. He noticed with interest that the attackers sprinting towards the Baedurin seemed to have entered the infamous Calian Berserker rage.

"Steady. Not yet."

His eagerness mounted as a rank of Calians formed to charge the Baedurin. He watched as the Berserkers surged forward, but grimaced as he saw that only the first rank or so were closing the distance while the others remained stationary. They all had to abandon the battlements for his plan to work.

"Charge you cowering callots, charge!"

 

[Venn Kolis]

Alina Tremiru Rhynne Urdreth Daxa Zuul Dyyr T'Pada
EVERYONE NEEDS A PLACE TO CALL HOME

Shiva IV, Outlands, Longknife Spire​

Out from the shade and shadow they came. From deep splits in the dusty rock, from caves perched atop imposing cliffs, from tunnels that ran like veins in the ancient sand, they came. And they carried weapons. Tall of stature, fierce of face, the T'Syriel marched. Families gathered with relatives, and those caravans joined with trusted friends, until small tributaries joined and joined again into two great rivers of beings. Weary, suspicious, parched, determined.

Solar light rained down blindingly, and the harsh light meant that the two tribes could see the stadium for several kliks of walking before they reached it. Despite approaching the huge building from roughly the same direction, the two processions never once acknowledged the others' existence. They spoke and jeered and bandied with their own, but would not so much as look at their kinsfolk, maintaining several meters of space between the two caravans.

No youths marched that day, nor did the elders, nor their women who were with child. These were warriors. And with every step in the sand, the fight was drawing closer.

Now the stadium was before them. It had been built of cement, and much of the building was under the ground, built in the lee of a huge standing stone. It stood defiant on this vast empty plain, where scraggly flora grasped at life with desperate fingers. And beside the stone sat something that should not have been there. A squat and blocky starship, its engines cool, crouching on its landing gear.

Pandemonium at the sight of it. Both tribes fought with all their willpower to continue to ignore each other, despite the accusatory thought of TREACHERY that leapt to every mind at the sight of the unfamiliar gunship. Carefully, slowly, the two warchiefs leading each band turned to each other in unison, eyes landing on each other in the same moment. When they saw the outraged question that was on both their faces, a cold realization settled over the both of them. This had been neither tribe's doing. Something was very wrong.

The rites, the traditions, the colored banners and rehearsed words were all forgotten. Pushing, shoving, the T'Syriel surged forward into the subterranean adobe as one people, clamoring for answers. They filled the cavernous space, gaping in disbelief. The slits in the clay ceiling allowed beams of muted sunlight to shine on the gathering: baffled T'Syriel warriors, confronting Sith interlopers in this, their holy site.

Venn rose from where he'd been casually reclined. Flanked by the Amon-Sev, he spoke loudly to the gathered natives. By his side stood a woman of steel and ceramic in a simple black robe. She repeated Venn's words in the local Calian dialect, and consternation rose through their ranks, much to Venn's delight.

"I claim the Right of Challenge!"

​

 

[Alina Tremiru]

The fight was more one sided than either group figured it would be.

Alina watched impassively as the Inqusitors she'd brought along made quick work of their bouts and fights, if it could even be called that. The ritualistic combat the Twelve held themselves to was just.. One sided. Even without use of the Force to throw their opponents away they were skilled enough to see the incoming strikes. Sense, more accurately. On one hand, it went to show just how strong the Inquisitorius was. How useful they'd be.

But also it didn't show much at all. No challenge meant no chance to show off.

The Sangnir let out a sigh as another of these matches ended with her own as a victor. This wasn't fun. This was boring. Her gaze shifted to the nearby Chieftains, glancing through. Scanning their faces, heartbeats. Anything to see how they felt. They seemed more frustrated than she was bored. Alright, she could make use of that. Her smile brightened as she cast a wink towards Rhynne and motioned the girl to follow.

"Chieftains! I feel this display is just too one sided. My faithful few are built to overwhelm these sorts of fights after all. And your men and woman surely have more skills than a fight with solid blades. I suggest a change. Bring out your strongest and let them use what they'd use in a real battle."

The one from before, a younger Chieftain at that, glared right at her. Stepped forward with his head high. They'd lost, but this was just insulting.

"Your group is strong, but that does not give you the right to mock us."

"Not trying to mock you. But everyone knows to face off against something like a Jedi takes more than a steel blade. No matter how clever you are, technology is how the field is leveled. My Inquisitors fight Jedi with the Force, Chieftain. And unlike a blaster you can't simply put it down or turn it off. It would only be fair if your best were kitted out in their best."

Quiet mummering from the peanut gallery behind the man, which he seemed to be able to hear. His brow twitched, but his glare at least softened. She was right. And worse, all these losses were bad for morale.

At least this way there could be something to salvage. He simply nodded, and Alina's smile brightened.

"Perfect. Then I look forward to the next round. Tell them not to hold back, at all."

She turned, leaving the group to talk among themselves. Then grinned down towards her apprentice with an all too dangerous glint in her eyes. "Shall we see how far your training has come along, Rhynne?"

Rhynne Urdreth | Venn Kolis | Daxa Zuul | Dyyr T'Pada | Kyrilu Storm-wracked

 

[Daxa Zuul]

​

With the Force wrapped about her like a cloak, shaped into a ward against attention, Daxa seeded the camp with explosives. She started her work at the anti-craft cannon encampment that ran along the eastern face of the camp, then made her way through the rows of tents and cookfires, around the towering command pavilion, even along the trenches they'd dug as latrines, and finally, when she had run out of detonators, she made her way to the pen where the reptavian mounts were kept.

Their minds were like most predators, though dulled by their herd-like mentality, stubborn to change but not particularly difficult to conquer, far more simple than the mind of a sentient. They resisted, but only just so, too dimwitted to defend against her mental domination. It was like Battle Meditation writ small, made elementary by the simplicity of their minds.

There she waited, as silent as death, until the 67th crested the hill beyond the camp, AT-OTs lumbering in the vanguard, gunships flying low. A T'syrielian scout somewhere sounded a mighty horn, and the camp came alive with noise and scrambling soldiers.

Stampede, she told the reptavians, feeding them a stream of mind-numbing fear. Almost as one, the mounts took off running through the T'Syrielian camp, trampling the burly warriors, crashing into tents, and making a massive mess of things. The camp was swiftly falling into chaos, the shock of the approaching army morphing moment by moment into sweet fear. Daxa scented it on the air, felt it flare in her lungs, for the fear was naught but power, to one like her.

She detonated the thermal explosives, and with a deafening boom the fear reached a crescendo of raucous flame and heat before sinking into despair. Task accomplished, she drew her lightsaber, activated one-side of its blazing, scarlet blade, and released the impression hiding her from notice.

Onward the legion marched.

Alina Tremiru Kyrilu Storm-wracked Rhynne Urdreth Venn Kolis Dyyr T'Pada

​

 

[Kyrilu Storm-wracked]

Alina Tremiru // Rhynne Urdreth // Daxa Zuul // Venn Kolis // Dyyr T'Pada

/////​

The rules of engagement were agreed upon. The combatants chosen. The traditional rites observed. All that remained was the killing, and Kyrilu had no plans to die today. Twelve duels, twelve opponents to slay back to back.

"I will honour our ancestors this day, Chief So'Ruu," said the tall, dual-wielding T'Syriel who had spoken up earlier. The brute rose from bended knee in sight of his entire clan, turned to face Ky, a frown on his great slab of a face.

"Tell them who sent you, when you meet them," Ky said, a predatory twist to his mouth. The brute snorted, swinging his swords in a flourish. Ky regarded Chief So'Ruu, nodded to the towering giant that loomed, impassive, his appearance calm but his emotions were broiling under the surface, to Ky's Sight. The colossus raised one hand high, then chopped it down.

Ky's opponent bellowed, charged forwards. Ky simply waited, hands empty and relaxed at his side, the same sick smile on his face, as the brute lumbered on. A downward, diagonal chop, easily avoided, then a mid-level horizontal swing meant to cut Ky in half. Faster than the crowd could see, Ky ducked under and to the side, fleeting behind the warrior with a kick to the back of the leg strong enough to force him to one knee. A thud in the sand, then a sharp crack as Ky drove his fist into the warrior's spine at the back of his head. The brute dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, its neck broken.

A groan went up from the crowd, a few growls, as Ky turned back to the Chief.

"NEXT!" Ky roared, his bloodlust just barely sated. And so fell the next, and the next, until ten duels had been won, ten warriors each more mighty than the next slain. The mood in the camp soured duel by duel, till Ky could feel the hatred and the fear burning inside every warrior in sight. They were all waiting, hoping, for their chief to say the word to tear Ky limb from limb, ancient rites be damned. The ease with which Ky had dispatched each T'Syriel was every time a fresh insult to the tribe's honour, and the smirk on the Miralukan's face as he did so only served to fan the flames. Ky drank it all in, the passionate warriors unable to realise their own tempers only fuelled his strength.

The blood from the tenth victim still hot on his blades, Ky turned Chief So'Ruu, stalked towards the edge of the circle. The warriors around him bristled, stepping in front of their leader. Ky stopped yards away, raised one sword sharply, flicking their comrades' blood on the guarding warriors. A yell of outrage followed, only silenced by the chief placing a huge hand on the shoulders of his people and stepping through, silent as stone, to face Ky.

"Your warriors bore me, Ro'Suu! I chose Tribe Ka'Sosaan to conquer for the legendary tales of its mighty champions, yet you present me with feth all. Am I to assume your bravest died in your siege of Illyriaqum?"

Ky Saw the chief tense, his heavy brows knot in a frown. "Be careful, Storm-wracked. You have tested the limits of our Trial's rites of honour. At my word, my warriors would grind you to less than dust. Do not continue to test the limits of my patience."

Ky nodded, then performed an elaborate bow. "As you wish, great Chief," Ky began, knowing from the patient fury of the big T'Syriel that he had hit the nerve he was hoping for. "Let us finish this, you and I. Your last two champions will face me in the circle...as will you."

The crowd was silent as the giant brooded. All hung on the chief's word. "Bring me my War Panoply."

A howl went up. Ky grinned. His victory was near.

 

[Dyyr T'Pada]

Daxa Zuul Alina Tremiru Kyrilu Storm-wracked Rhynne Urdreth Venn Kolis
Everyone Needs a Place to Call Home​

Shiva IV, Dryland outskirts of IIllyriaqüm, half a klik from the Calian defensive line​

T’Pada’s nervous annoyance was pulsating with the precursors to panic. Another wave of Calian grunts charged. And another. And another. Still, the vast bulk of their army stagnated, using their blasters and gun placements where they could. The Baedurin line was literally crushing the Calian troops, but this was a standoff he couldn’t hold. From this distance, he couldn’t be sure if the pile of carcasses growing against the Baedurin shield line were Calians or his own troops. Was the phalanx shrinking? How quickly? He could still strike a considerable blow if he sprung his trap before they’d stepped in it. Was he being patient or stubborn? He was teetering on the verge of action when he recognized what he was feeling. Fear.

In a moment of pure instinct, he turned from his view of the battle. Fear is not for you to feel. Fear is weakness. You are not weak. You are Bryn’Adul. You cannot afford to act weak in a moment like this. He had recited such things to himself many times. It was a reflex from the Kad'Maera. But as those reflexively recalled words drummed in his head, new words accompanied them.

His new chief, (Or rather his master. The new terminology vexed him.) had for weeks been trying to explain where power in the force came from. He had demonstrated that power came from an individual’s emotions. “Peace is a lie, there is only passion.” He was very fond of saying that. Those words were now drifting above his typical affirmations like an unpredicted storm. That peace did not exist here was certainly true, but where was the power to be claimed in the emotions he felt now? If he acted in spite of his unsurety, would he unlock the secret to some apocalyptic strength? If he did, would that be enough to make up for the strategic advantage he would be sacrificing? He looked out over his troop transports, trying to cut through the choking indecision. Had his plan failed?

* BoooOOOOoooom. *

T’Pada whirled around. Far to the west, he could see clouds of smoke and dust illuminated by leaping flames. He felt a pressure wave, scarcely perceptible, brush him like a breeze. Some kind of explosives had been detonated against the T’Syrielian siege. T’Pada’s fist clenched. They had been outmaneuvered. The Calians had somehow managed to blast a hole in the siege while he had been idle.

His attention was attracted by a clamor rising from the Calian trenches. The soldiers manning the defenses were shouting with triumph, raising their weapons, pointing at the explosion in the distance. But as he watched his enemies revel in their unexpected fortune, he saw a resolution to his own conflict. Perhaps they were intent on taking advantage of the disarray in the T’Syrielian enemies. Maybe they wanted to eliminate all relevant threats while morale was high. Perhaps they had simply given in to baser instincts. Whatever the reason, a cry finally rose up from the Calian army, and they charged forward. They spread to surround the Baedurin and smashed heavily against their shield wall. T'Pada smiled as they stacked against his stalwart troops. Even the auxiliary wings of the entrenchment rushed to join their fellows. The time had come.

"Sate yourselves!"

 

[Daxa Zuul]

​

The battle was a slaughter.

The armored battalion rolled over the camp first, supported by a half squadron of atmospheric gunships- the other squadron remained in the clouds, keeping watch on the T'Syrielan forces gathered around the city. The troopers followed, wave after wave of black-armored death, killing what the gunships and AT-OTs had missed. And all the while, Daxa danced among the flames and death and destruction, a blur of blazing red, claiming lives as if she was the Reaper herself.

When the slaughter was done, and the camp was naught but a smoldering waste, she returned to the ridge where the twenty soldiers still waited. As she had ordered. The captain was standing at attention when she arrived, his mind a mix of frustration and anticipation.

"Take the landspeeders and hunt down the T'Syriel who fled from the battle. They cannot be allowed to reach the main army. Go."

They complied without complaint, even though her orders had seen them waiting here on this ridge while their brethren did battle in the plain below. Such was their training. Could the T'Syriel warriors be trained into such unflinching obedience? Could the Calians?

While the troopers made fortifications in the ruins of the T'Syriel camp, Daxa pondered her next move.

The remaining 50,000 T'Syrielian warriors were spread across the city, divided amongst its great gates, half spread on one side of the city, half on the other. A smart tactic for siege, to better envelop the city, but with their strength spread out, it meant that she could march her legions and break them all piecemeal, crushing each battallion one at a time.

She would have the legion march later in the morning, after a short rest to recuperate and consolidate. And then...

Then the game would begin anew. In the meantime, she had reports to gather and preparations to make.

Alina Tremiru Dyyr T'Pada Venn Kolis Rhynne Urdreth Venn Kolis

 

[Venn Kolis]

Alina Tremiru Rhynne Urdreth Daxa Zuul Dyyr T'Pada
EVERYONE NEEDS A PLACE TO CALL HOME

Shiva IV, Outlands, Longknife Spire
​

It began the way the rest of them had begun.

A snarling T'Syriel warrior stepped into the dust of the arena, facing off against a steel-clad member of the Amon-Sev. The alien raised his scimitar in readiness, the veins of his neck pulsing. But rather than repeating the salute with his spear, the Sevite paused, as if something had occurred to him. Holding up a hand, as if asking for patience, he stepped quickly from the circle. A few jeers flitted through the crowd of watching T'Syriel. The mirth was short-lived. The Sevite, having briefly conferred with his liege, was now doffing his steel armor one plate at a time. His brothers stepped forwards to help him, as the watching native warriors protested loudly in their strange tongue.

Venn could only chuckle. The Amon-Sev had triumphed in all seven of the duels fought so far. Two of the losing T'Syriel had perished, another three had lost a limb. The indigenous warriors sported armor that was much less effective than the fullplate of the Amon-Sev, and yet when the crowd saw the next Sith warrior slated to fight was handicapping himself, they clamored in rage and embarrassment. How foolish. An advantage was an advantage. The concept of honor was something Venn certainly believed in, but it had little to do with one's enemies. Honor was something one saved for their fellows... specifically fellow Sith. Honor was an appreciation for the Order that kept the most powerful masters of the century from starting an entirely separate civil war from the LAST civil war to decimate the Sith, resulting in an enormous amount of pointless destruction and death, when their enemies were gathering strength across the galaxy-

Shaking from his mutinous thoughts about the current Triumvirate, Venn looked up to see that Loruel had finished removing his armor. Laughter and mocking had begun among the T'Syriel. Venn guessed that they found Loruel's long brown hair hilarious, seeing as the entire people seemed to have very little hair or none at all. With a calm expression, the man stepped back into the ring, now wearing only simple black clothes and his armored boots. Twirling his bladed spear, he gestured his readiness.

Immediately the T'Syriel raider was rushing to close the distance. Facing the Sith cultist's spear, he had no choice but to get inside the polearm's reach. Anger frothed on his face, as he thought of how his opponent had removed its steel skin to give him a chance at victory. As the tribal warrior charged, he prepared to avoid a thrusting attack.

That attack never came. Rather than try to make distance, Loruel stepped into the advance of his foe. The haft of the spear spun to clock the angry raider in the side of the skull, dropping him to the dust in one move. The watching natives of Shiva IV erupted into clamor, and not simply at the quickest loss their people had suffered, (though it was- the young warrior was not getting up from the dirt.)

With his armor removed, Loruel's speed had increased considerably. The Decoction Terentakus in his veins meant that when he'd stepped in to strike, the onlookers had nearly missed the movement. The effect was similar to Force Speed, but the Amon-Sev were not Force Sensitive. This was alchemy. Every one of the Sith Eternal beastmasters were biologically mutated. Sentient monsters. Self-aware Sithspawn.

Now Venn stood from his seat. His Darkspear, his Amon-Sev, this group of ragtag orphans and refugees had humiliated the T'Syriel in their own home. In the faces of the two chieftains dwelt naked anger and shame. Venn's triumph, his glee at victory, his pride in his soldiers, woke up the sulfur fire in his eyes.

He drew a black longsword from his waist. Orange flames burst to life along the broken blade. Cries of dismay, as the T'Syriel warriors in the back of the procession realized the way out of the underground arena was blocked. The stairway was slowly filling with creeping predators, who stalked the T'Syriel with intelligent eyes. A pack of Maalraas, twenty strong, and a pair of Gharzr, barbed tails whipping dangerously. The Amon-Sev's greatest weapon. The warbeasts of the Sith.

Venn raised a pale hand. On his finger, his ring shone with cruel malice as he proclaimed,

"Rejoice. I will show you truth."

Before the protocol droid had finished translating Kolis' statement, the T'Syriel had begun screaming.

 

[Dyyr T'Pada]

Daxa Zuul Alina Tremiru Kyrilu Storm-wracked Rhynne Urdreth Venn Kolis
Everyone Needs a Place to Call Home​

Shiva IV, Dryland outskirts of IIllyriaqüm, the Calian defensive line​

He ran as fast as he could, plunging down the hill toward the distant conflict. It didn’t take long, however, for him to hear the sound of massive, panting beasts bounding over the coarse grass to overtake him. Within seconds of unleashing them from the carriers, T’Pada was surrounded by thousands of Kohsehv Drones, all hurtling forward, desperate for blood. They moved with obscene speed, galloping down the hill at their blissfully oblivious prey.

There was a chill creeping into T’Pada’s veins as he ran. The thrill of battle. He was familiar with it. As his enemies drew near, the ice in his veins almost seemed to burn. As they crossed into earshot of the Calians, some of the unengaged troops turned in time to see the wave of grasping claws washing down on to them. Detecting that glorious moment of fatal realisation from those few unlucky men in the back rank, T’Pada screamed. The answering scream of the pouncing Korsehvs was enough to stop hearts, exactly as intended. The Baedurin roared in response to the Korsehvs and pressed what strength they had left into their shield wall, crushing the Calians against the flood of drones.

T’Pada had to run hard to find victims for his glaive. The Calians were being slaughtered faster than they could turn to face the new threat. Their charge against the Baedurin became a full rout, and the only ones left to run were those who managed to break from the crush of bodies before they could fully make out the source of the screams. Mere minutes after the initial clash, T’Pada was looking at his field commander, breathing heavily, studying the strange heat that accompanied the chill his veins were so accustomed to.

The massive Baedurin hefted his Blaze Wolf, an uncharacteristic smile on his savage face. “That went off without a hitch! Look at the mynocks scampering back to their city! We’ve driven them off!”

The commander lifted his weapon over his head triumphantly as he said this, and his fellow Baedurin bellowed in response. T’Pada’s head whipped toward the fortifications to see many Calians were indeed flying toward their idle gun emplacements. The flames in his veins leapt. If they can reach those cannons in time…

“We didn’t come here to drive them off, we came here to eliminate them! Don’t let them reach the trenches! Run them down!”

The lull on the field was replaced with sporadic shrieks from the Korsehvs as they eagerly took up the pursuit after their leader. The Korsehvs were fast, but they wouldn’t last if the Calians could lay down artillery fire against them. All his patience and planning would be wasted! The strange heat surged with those thoughts through his mind, spurring him toward the Calian trenches with renewed vigor. His fear of defeat had taken on a new meaning. Before, it was a weakness to be uprooted. Now, whether he recognized it or not, it was a fuel. His icy blood was aversive to the fire, but as he dove into the Calian trenches to tear the men away from the guns, that fire served him well.

Once the Korsehvs had joined him, the Calians’ final hope was smothered. This is how they would take IIllyriaqüm. He had been told to expect reinforcement from other Sith insurgents. What their plans were and whether he could count on them he didn’t know, but that didn’t matter. The Calians had been given a chance. Now, their city may as well have been a fantasy.

 

[Lin Zanula]

Daxa Zuul Alina Tremiru Kyrilu Storm-wracked Rhynne Urdreth Venn Kolis Dyyr T'Pada​

She would have the legion march later in the morning, after a short rest to recuperate and consolidate. And then...

Then the game would begin anew. In the meantime, she had reports to gather and preparations to make.

As the moons rose to their apex and the 67th regrouped, others of the Legion were only beginning their missions.

An unnatural mechanical sound seemed to brush across the treeline, seeming to weave through the hills separating the 67th from T'Pada's Baedurin. It seemed to be alive, the sound dampened as if by a giant invisible cloak, and yet changing in brief bursts into a dire metallic whine. If one were to look in time, one would have been able to see the rising moon shine off the ghostly blood-red armour of platoons of Sith jetpack troopers 'on the bounce', falling and jetting up in arcs, weaving between the forests and the hills, tracing a line towards the battleline.

Leading the pack was an armoured figure, her armour seeming to drink the moonlight and expel it through her jetpack in flashes of light too infrared for humans to see. Her jetpack made little noise, the roar of wind seeming to be stretched out torturously into a discordant yet eerily suppressed wail.

The Fifth Sister and her Alaudae Venatores were on the hunt.

Silently, signals were exchanged. A squad broke off from the main group, then another, until only two dozen accompanied the Inquisitor leading them. As they fell to the earth again, they adjusted their heading, going in a straight line towards the ongoing battle, rocketing up. This time they did not stop, going higher and higher until one would be hard-pressed to make them out through sight alone.

Once the Korsehvs had joined him, the Calians’ final hope was smothered. This is how they would take IIllyriaqüm. He had been told to expect reinforcement from other Sith insurgents. What their plans were and whether he could count on them he didn’t know, but that didn’t matter. The Calians had been given a chance. Now, their city may as well have been a fantasy.

Shiva IV, Dryland outskirts of IIllyriaqüm, the Calian defensive line​

And then an almighty shriek descended upon the battlefield. Jetpacks switched into terror mode, white hot flame illuminated the red armour of the Venatores as they fell upon straight down upon the entrenched Calians and their rear lines, backed by the high-pitched blood-curdling shriek of their jet turbines finally allowed to scream again. The Sith troopers opened fire with their blaster cannons even before they hit the ground, a rain of blaster fire shredding the confused defenders. As soon as they hit the ground their flamethrowers oponed up, high-pressure incendiary fuel splashing across the Calians as they scattered in fright. Those in the rear area abandoned their artillery pieces and readied trenches as the enemy fell into the trench with them; artillery and trenches that would have shot up the Baedurin once they made it past the first trenches. But even a full retreat towards the city walls would not save them, as Lin Zanula seemed to soar between concentrations of the enemy.

Enchanted warglaive hand, she cut a swathe through the fleeing Calians, slicing them in twos and threes. When some attempted to rush her, she drew her shoto, counter-charging the soldiers and making short work of them in close quarters.

It was over in a few minutes. The Calian lines had collapsed and T'Pada's drones washed the rest of the line away like a tide, while the Sith troopers hunted in packs, taking out those that had strayed too far too fast.

Lin deactivated her jetpack as she fell to the blood-soaked earth, sheathing her Lightshoto. Her glaive remained in hand as she approached Dyyr T'Pada .

"Shaman. How goes this front?"

 

[Dyyr T'Pada]

Daxa Zuul Lin Zanula Alina Tremiru Kyrilu Storm-wracked Rhynne Urdreth Venn Kolis
Everyone Needs a Place to Call Home​

Shiva IV, Dryland outskirts of IIllyriaqüm, the Calian defensive line
​

T’pada vaulted off his polearm towards the gunner. He grabbed him by his chestplate and threw him down onto one of his fellows. The massive gun fell silent as he leapt down on the surviving guard. The man raised his blaster, but T’Pada’s glaive flashed, swatting the man’s arm off as he plunged down. He looked out at the battlefield, scanning for where his troops were weakest, as he wrenched his weapon from his fallen enemy. He could see several repeating cannons blazing into the Korsehv swarming the trenches. If they suffered enough casualties, they would lose their momentum. He had to stay one step ahead of the Calians.

Just as he thought that, the stars started plummeting from the night sky. They sounded like a swarm of massive glowing Dryade swooping down to dive bomb their prey. After the initial shock T’Pada realized they weren’t stars, they were men. They opened fire with their blasters as they came screaming out of the air. Once they’d landed, some of the jet troopers began belching gouts of fire. High grade armor, specialized weapons, advanced tactics.

“Who are these people?”

Just ahead of him, one of the jet troopers was streaking across the field in a rocket powered leap. T’Pada noted with relief they were attacking the Calians. The heavily armored trooper came hurtling through a retreating crowd, cleaving them asunder. Some of the soldiers turned to charge them. T’Pada dashed to help but slowed his pace as they cut each of the Calians down one by one. When the last of them had been dispatched, the red plated figure turned and strode to meet him.

"Shaman. How goes this front?"

Shaman? Hmm.
It had been a long time since he’d been called by that title. This person knew who he was, and more importantly what he was. These had to be the Sith reinforcements his master had mentioned. He couldn’t risk his drones attacking the jet troopers in their frenzy. They were out of their element in these scattered melees. Now with the arrival of the Sith, regrouping was his best bet.
“We’ve had to adapt to circumstances. Get you men on these guns! I’ll pull the drones back and ready them for another charge. If we keep this momentum, the city will crack by daybreak!”

 

[Daxa Zuul]

​

The legion marched upon the T'Syrielian battalion in the wee hours of the morning, before the sun's rays could warm the sands and brighten the skies. The T'Syrielian armies were split between the four great gates that led into Illyriaqum. The two on this side of the city were, based on her intel, about thirteen thousand strong, give or take a few hundred, with full accompaniments of anti-aircraft and siege cannons. As such, her course forward was clear.

She sped ahead of the army, a streaking blur of carmine atop the dry earth, cloaked in the Force. The scouts would follow behind, amassing upon a ridge that peaked out over the field where the anti-aircraft cannons stood. Something didn't feel right, and she knew in her heart that she would need them. She did not dally among the cook fires and tents, heading straight for the anti-aircraft cannons. They were arrayed in long rows on either flank of the army, guarded by squads of soldiers and roving cavalry patrols.

And then that nagging feeling of wrongness presented itself. A large T'Syrielian warrior stepped into her path. A heavy cape hung from his broad shoulders, and upon his brow rested an ornate helm decorated with the teeth of some vicious beast. He was looking right at her. He's Force sensitive, she realized. And not just sensitive, but trained.

"Sith," he spat, like a curse, pulling a wicked blade from his belt. It glinted sharply, even in the dim gloom of waning night and waxing morning. "I know of your kind."

Daxa smiled beneath her mask, even as her mind raced. The anti-aircraft cannons had to be destroyed. She wouldn't risk losing a single gunship on this glorified backwater. "Then you know that I am your death."

The T'Syrielian scoffed and tossed his cape from his shoulders. The legion appeared on the horizon. The T'Syrielian army looked like nothing so much as a swarm as they hurried to their positions, an odd uniformity to the chaos of the assembling warriors- a result of assembling a force from warriors of different tribes. The one across from her seemed separate from it all. Above it. He's their commander. As soon as the thought hit her, she knew it to be true.

"Your army?" the burly T'Syrielian asked, gesturing towards the 67th marching steadily across the barren field. The AT-OTs lumbered above the press of black clad troopers. "I will kill you, and then my men will crush them."

Daxa activated her saber, a thin line of searing red. She had no more words for the commander. Only violence.

​