Invasion Fade To Black | GE Invasion of GA Held Arkania, Champala, & Ord Lithone

[Kylass Starhaven]

LOCATION AFTER POST: AT-AT wreckage in the snow
OBJECTIVE: Prepare to face Prowler II and Solan Charr
OPPONENT(S): Prowler II | Solan Charr
PROXIMITY TAG: Gavin Restur | Magdalena Bloodscrawl | Tiberius Zaarin

DECADES PRIOR…
“Master! Where are you!” called out Padawan Kylass, running through the thick mist and struggling to catch with her blue blade the barrage of blasterfire. The burning bolts bathed the churning bands of grey and black with their super heated colors. They shrieked through the depths and screamed against the veering thrum of the Arkanian Padawan’s attempts to keep her Djem So composed.

“Master Hijikata!” she called out again, straining her silvery white eyes.

In the mist, blasterfire and artillery explosions illuminated brief silhouettes of the battle ahead. FLASH. Kylass saw a group of Maw Warriors hacking at cornered Alliance Troopers. FLASH. She saw a Jedi whirling his saber to cut down his surrounding opponents. FLASH. Kylass caught sight of a troop transport crashing into the ground and blooming into a fire ball.

FLASH. Then another flash, much closer. KABOOM. A deafening shockwave slammed behind her and picked her up off her feet. The blast threw her forward and into the mud. Kylass rolled and only stopped when she struck a corpse. Terror took her when in disorientated clawing to get back up, she locked eyes with the dead Trooper’s blank stare.

“Yuchi’ttal!” Master Zanza Hijikata’s voice cut through the blasterfire, and mercifully, through the young Padawan’s fear. “You have to get up! You have to go!”

Kylass shot up, trying to stand, but tripped attempting to step over the corpse. Crawling and then stumbling upwards she kept rushing forward. She reignited her saber and swiped away more obstructing blastfire that poured out of the mists. FLASH. Another silhouette was illuminated by burning carnage. It was her Master! She could recognize her twin yellow blades.

“The Force Yuchi’ttal! Let the Force guide you!” her Atrisian Master called out.

The illumination dimmed. Her master vanished again.

“Master, wait! I can’t see you! I need you!” Kylass desperately called out.

“You don’t. The Force is with you! You have to wake up Yuchi’ttal,” said Zanza’s dimming voice. “You have to go now!”

“WAKE UP YUCHI’TALL!”​

…PRESENT…
The flesh awoke before Kylass’ consciousness could. Every nerve, sinew, and muscle howled through her in a bubbling torment that surged up from her guts, into her throat and compelled her to jolt awake. Kylass convulsed abruptly, shot up from her limp repose and maddeningly swiped at her armor’s face plate. Her shaking fingers trying to get ahead of the surging sensation threatening the back of her throat. She finally pressed the release locks on the face plate and with one talon grip, ripped it from her face and threw it away.

Then she threw up. She heaved everything out of her body as it finally remembered the trauma that ravaged it before the merciful quiet of unconsciousness. Everything splattered out of her, bile, blood, phlegm and mucus. Kylass choked on her own puke and then gagged from the onrushing frigid air she swallowed in panting gulps. The ferrous taste of blood sloshed in her mouth and dripped down her lips. Gingerly, Kylass felt her face. Her nose, lips, chin, and jaws were slick and entirely drenched in blood, still streaming from her nostrils and split lips. Kylass dropped her searching hand back down and brought it with the other to prop herself up.

The world spun in swirling shadows and blurring shapes. Sounds were muffled into myriad pitched of drones and hums, smothered by a single note, whining in a high shrill in her ears. She could feel the stim and bacta auto-injectors piercing her flesh over and over, trying to stabilize what Kylass's Templar-Class Armor’s biosensors were damage-reporting. The senses slowly came back. First came the feeling, which was nothing but rupturing pain and biting cold. Then taste and sound, bringing the flavors of burning bile and sour metallic blood, and the rhythmic booms and cries of battle. Finally her thoughts stopped spinning and the Force pooled back between them to reforge some resemblance of recognized reality.

Kylass turned her head to the side and saw the hulking carcass of the AT-AT she had been astride. Its carrier compartment was blown wide open. Armored plating peeled around the gaping wound on its side like a shrapnel rose’s petals. Black pillars of smoke rose and raging fires churning lapping bright orange flames. The front legs were a gnarled mess of shattered limbs and a vast debris field of personnel and machinery was sprayed out in a sea of unrecognizable ruins. Above the destruction, artillery still exploded in balls of fire and the dark shades of AT-ATs lumbered forward, stepping onto and over the dead and dying. It was all too much. Too much stimulus for her rattled mind. She could not rely on her senses to devise a course of action. So she decided to let the Force tell her.

Kylass turned one of her hands over and pressed her palm into the snow and earth. With the help of the meditation circlet crowned in the armored coif over her head, she tried to quiet her mind to let the Force in. The reach of the Force seeped from her and permeated into the ravaged environs around her. Like an echolocation beacon, it flickered waves in the Force that traversed over wreckage, corpse, and nature.

Every object washed over, outlined and traced its place to Kylass, and informed her on its condition. Slowly, but surely, the Force illustrated everything that was around and happening near her. In the unfolding battlemind, Kylass caught the lingering signature of her lightsaber. Then she felt the darkness, the Dark Wielder ( Prowler II ) in the AT-AT was somehow alive, if not as battered as she was. He was coming. But she felt another, the one who touched her in the Force with his voice - and his draining grip ( Solan Charr ).

Kylass grimaced and spat a wad out of her bloody lips. She needed to move. She was in no state to handle either of them. She needed her saber. Kylass summoned her strength to stand up but just as she put weight on one of her planting legs, it gave way and an immense pain streamed through her. It took all of Kylass’ will not to howl. Ripped from her Force meditation she looked down at her legs. They were pointing the wrong way. Her left leg was mangled and her right foot was grotesquely bent at the ankle. Kylass shuddered at what she was seeing, her legs were broken. She couldn't move!

She whirled her head around and looked to see if her saber was within her reach. Luckily it was within her grasp in the Force. Keeping the hand that pressed its palm against the snow stationary, she flung out her other hand and pulled the saber to her with a yank of the Force. Now she waited. Who would reach her first? No matter who, she would be ready for them - as the Force she had sent out to map the carnage around her, began to change into a commanding hold. Kylass began to turn that hold on all the surrounding debris into a preparing blast of ballistakinesis. But first she waited…and let the Force decide her fate.

 

[Voldran Molf]

Information and Tag

Shadow Lord, Prince of Nightmare, Dream Lord​

"Galactic Basic" | <"Mandalorian"> | ["Úr-kittat"] | ~"Telepathic" communication ~ | << comm. channel >>​

Objective: Find the Veeshas Tuwan, Sith library-temple
Location: Ground, Arkania
Equipment: Armour | Sword || OPBC-01m
Allies: Kaleb Sunwalker | Orran | Talon Draven | Prowler II | St. Thomas Barran | Khronas | Cesare Demici | Flannigan Tagge | Open
Enemy: Corazona von Ascania | Closed

Voldran wanted to scream when the demon finally seized control again and, only to hurt Cora, took on a physical form. He couldn’t, because the body was under the demon’s rule now, so instead it laughed wickedly, while Voldran’s consciousness howled within his own mind. Even so, he felt the pain as if it were his own when his arm broke from being lodged inside Cora’s chest. A few moments later, the demon shifted that arm back into smoke and pulled it out, leaving her to bleed. Only when it reshaped itself into full physical form did Voldran manage to claw back control.

He seized on the demon’s arrogance, its smugness at having inflicted harm; too distracted to notice Voldran taking the reins again. He collapsed to the ground, writhing in agony; his entire soul burned with pain, making his broken arm feel like nothing in comparison. Gasping for breath, he screamed silently inside, his eyes falling on Cora’s wounded body. Voldran began dragging himself toward her across the floor. Even now, despite everything, he didn’t want to hurt her, he never wanted to. Yet now it seemed he might be the cause of her death, a thought that tore at his conscience.

Even if he himself was lost, even if the demon consumed him utterly, Voldran still wanted to help. Every movement was torture, cold sweat dripping down his brow as he pushed himself forward with his one good arm, inch by inch, until he was close enough to grab her hand. Too weak to crawl further, he pulled the bleeding woman closer instead. A few tears slid down his face, born of guilt and despair. When at last he managed to draw her into his reach, he pressed his hand against her wound.

"I’m sorry, my Lady… truly sorry." he forced the words out through clenched teeth, his voice trembling with pain.

Voldran called upon the Force, pouring his own life force into her wound, healing just enough to ensure it would not be fatal, that she would not suffocate or bleed out here. The cost was his own strength, and with every heartbeat he felt himself weaken as the demon’s influence swelled. One last thing he had to do: with the remainder of his strength, he wrapped his arm around her and teleported out of the library-temple and onto the snowy surface, praying his own people would find Cora and save her. He felt the icy wind, the snow beneath him… and then the darkness took everything and embraced him.

Moments later, Voldran - or rather, the demon that inhabited him - rose to his feet and brushed the snow from his robes. It looked down at the girl, a mocking smile curling its lips. Now the demon was in command, while Voldran’s soul writhed in torment, unconscious, trapped within. This was its chance to revel, to take what Voldran always denied it. Turning away from her without a second thought, the demon reached into the Force again and teleported back into the library-temple, to rejoin the Dark Side Elite. At last, this was its time, and none could say how long it would last.

The demon vanished, leaving Cora in the snow to die; without care for her.

Last post.​

 

[Skye Mertaal]

Bounty Hunter Name: Skye Mertaal
Bounty Hunter License: Link
Seeking Bounties on: x | x | x @Jacen Voidstalker
Toggle on: Verified

Skye leaned against the bulkhead of the small medbay, arms crossed tight as she stared down at the man strapped to the cot. TR23's faint whistles carried in from the cockpit, the droid keeping the Jedi's starfighter tethered in trail behind them.

Dragging him back to the Phoenix had been work enough. Getting Tee-Arr to wrangle the Incom into a steady course out of that cursed mountain range had nearly done her in. Now came the hard part. Keeping him alive.

She had done what she could, but her hands shook too much to pretend she was still the healer she once had been. Every stitch fought her. Every cut of the scalpel blurred under the dull ache pounding behind her eyes. The symptoms of withdrawal from the anti-force pills crawling through her veins had left her frustratingly clammy and weak. She had not been capable of much at all. The eye was gone. The avalanche had caused one of his retinas to detach itself loose beyond saving. So she had cut it out. Quick. Clean. As steady as she could manage.

The Jedi stirred, body shifting against the restraints. His one good eye cracked open, hazy, catching the blurred outline of the beige and black armor above him.

"Relax," she muttered, her voice low and rough, hoarse without the modulator. "You're not dead."

Her jaw clenched as she pushed herself off the wall.

Not yet dead, at least.


- Exit thread -

 

[Feridade Parthi]

| Location | Senate Chamber, Fondor
| Objective | Defiance

Feridade glanced at the puck and took in a deep sigh, "Only ten thousand credits? Here I thought the Galaxy's renowned bounty hunter never settled for anything less than a hundred thousand. I suppose that's some attempt to devalue my worth." His assumptions were proven correct, and the Empire had indeed put a price on his head. The low price probably meant they didn't mean to barter for his life or use him as a bargaining chip. He was to die a martyr most likely.​

​

The senator caught the binders as they were tossed to him, a look of disdain or disgust on his face. He glanced back at Koda as he unenthusiastically latched one end of the binder around one of his wrists with a soft click, followed shortly by the other. He began to move towards the ship as he spoke, "How very like the Empire to pursue its political enemies. Let's not fool ourselves Fett. You know as well as I do what the Empire intends to do with men like me. People like Solipsis would much rather have the satisfaction of watching me die in person than at the hands of some cutthroat, just to prove a point." moving quickly to avoid more bystanders and soldiers getting caught on the other end of the bounty hunter's blaster. ​

​

He stepped up onto the ramp in silence, possibly the last time to be seen alive within Alliance territory. Inside his coat, the datapad he had tucked away recorded and transmitted silently, hopefully to those who still saw something worthy of redemption; something to hold onto and fight for. ​

​

To allies and those who could be called friends - those who would fight the Empire and its dark followers with everything they had. ​

​

Koda Fett

​

 

[Makko Vyres]

MAKKO

Voldran Molf Corazona von Ascania

For a fraction of second he felt their bond grow dark. That bond was formed of a thousand memories, each strung out into a thread through the Force. They were happy memories, bittersweet memories and memories of the most hopeless times.

Together they were strong. They were unbreakable. So it terrified him when it went dark.

Then she was back and he honed in on her position, angling the bike up a different part of the slope. He didn't understand what had happened. There was no time to give it thought.

Snow started to fall upon the mountain side. It came down in heavy, silent flakes each one swallowing the sounds of battle. A part of his brain considered her being buried out here. When he caught sight of a figure he forced the bike to scream towards her. He leapt from the bike.

Makko forced his way through the drifts, every muscle protesting, every ragged breath drawing fire into his lungs. Something stronger than his own exhaustion pulled him forward.

Corazona lay half-buried, her figure stark against the blank expanse of snow. Her breath came faint and ragged misting the frigid air. Blood seeped beneath her. It stained her white robes and the white ground in a cruel splash of crimson. Makko’s chest tightened. His heart hammered with a desperate mixture of terror and hope.

He dropped to his knees beside her. His hand shook as it reached out, fingers brushing against skin that was far too cold.

“Cora,” he rasped, the name breaking from him like both plea and prayer. She was alive. He knew that intrinsically.

Her saw her eyes flutter beneath eyelids. He heard the rattle as she breathed and for a moment the world threatened to tear apart. Makko swallowed hard, fighting back the scream that rose in his throat.

“You’re not dying on this fucking mountain,” he whispered hoarsely, voice cracking.

He checked her wounds as fast as he could. Her chest was punctured. Perhaps by a sword. Not by a blaster. There were signs that some aide had been applied. She wasn't bleeding out any more, but one lung would be collapsed. There was little he could do.

He gathered her into his arms, pressing her against his chest. He tried to share what warmth he had left. He let out a feral growl of frustration.

He reached for the Force, trying to flow healing energy through her form. No miracle came. He could feel her pulse continue strong but he couldn't repair the damage. Makko had never been a skilled healer, but he should have been able to do more.

There had often been just the two of them locked together against everything. It had never felt as real as this moment. Alone on the mountianside, feeling her start to slip.

---

"Help, I need help!" Makko cried out. The Alliance medical facility behind the front lines was still running. It had been a desperate ride through imperial forces to get here.

"I had some bacta but she's barely breathing!" he shouted as a group in alliance military fatigues rushed to him. He refused to let them take her from his arms, instead carrying her to a bed.

They talked about scanners and bacta and drugs he didn't know.

"We'll stabilise her," one of the team said, gently pushing Makko back. "But we'll get her on the next shuttle to a medical frigate. It's too risky to operate here."

Makko didn't sit down. His legs gave out as he was guided away. They both knew the risks. He'd returned to the Jedi Order assembly point with a light blaster wound. He'd rarely starred down this possibility, imagined the gaping hole her departure would leave in his soul.

 

[Kelig Ward]

Half a kilometer deviation from the Baktoid Armour Workshop - Ord Lithone

Direct Tags: Da'Razel | Vireth | Ronhar Tane | Keilara Kala'myr

Indirect Tags: Ines Pen-Ar-Lan | Caelan Valoren​

More billows of smoke arose from the workshop’s roof, with explosions rattling its frame, shaking the ground the Marksman lay on.

Mid-sized enemy forces. Hold exits. Prepare intercept enemy exfil.

With a grunt, he rose from his resting position, stowing the macrobinoculars in the field-pack at his side. His hands clambered to take hold of the readied rifle. The cushioned stock pressed just at the right spot, not too far onto the shoulder and not too close to the chest. Just right. He tilted his head, eye settling behind the scope, and swept across the exits he covered.

The plan was simple: Da’Razel and the others would exfil on his side of the area of operations, under his support. But one of the exiting doors opened for someone else. A squad of dark-clad commandos, their armor Imperial in looks but unfamiliar.

Ward’s brows furrowed. Allies or not?

The answer came from Zealot’s own orders, echoing back to the Marksman. If they were unknown, they weren’t the Empire’s. Such a confusing sight, but Ward didn’t need clarity. His job was his people. If he can draw the ire of these commandos towards him instead of Da’Razel and Vireth. So be it.

His breath steadied, falling into rhythm, readying himself for the fight. A tap to his wrist device made, he’d signal the scouting probe to depart from its surveillance. Designating it to make an approach upon the Commandos from above, and self-destruct.

It would take time, but it’d make for a great diversion. Potentially for the Marksman’s escape.

Ward drew in a final breath and adjusted the scope with two clicks. His finger tightened on the trigger. The rifle spat a crimson bolt across the gap, racing to potentially meet its mark.

Hit or not, the suppressive fire began. The Marksman shifts subtly between angles, attempting to force the commandos to either fall into cover or die.

 

[Dynamis "Dynas" Ultra]

ARKANIA: OBJECTIVE I​

---

"After destruction, comes creation."

The words reverberated through the empty void, Dynas's voice carrying not only across the battlefield comms but also into the unseen lattice of the Force. In the digital realm of his crystalline mind, silence and darkness reigned where once there had been countless lights. Nothing but the void.

And into that void, he began to weave.

From his core radiated streams of light, threads of fresh algorithms and codes spiraling outward in elegant arcs. What had been shattered and torn, he now gathered and reshaped, pouring his own essence into the reconstruction. Where once a red sphere of hostile command had turned like a malevolent moon, a new one now grew—blue, vibrant, pulsing with his will. Each line of code was a stroke of his spirit, each algorithm a piece of his philosophy: harmony, unity, renewal.

But creation bore a heavier cost than destruction. In the material world, Epyon rattled violently, its frame straining against the tide of data surging through it. Blue light poured brighter from every seam until it seemed the chassis might burst. Finally, with a loud mechanical groan, Dynas's gem-like body detached from the combat frame, floating above it like a radiant star torn free of its shell. His crystal form pulsed with azure fire, every flicker of light a signal of strain as he forced his will into the network.

The sphere completed itself at last. The void filled with a singular, resplendent azure globe—alive, luminous, beating with the rhythm of his consciousness. It hung there like a new sun in the synthetic sky, a command node now his to wield.

And then he spoke again, his voice resonating in every circuit, every servo, every bolt of every machine upon the battlefield.

"To me. My. Machines."

The blue sphere flared brilliantly. Across the snowy fields of Arkania, the tide shifted. Walkers stuttered, tanks froze mid-stride, starfighters dipped in formation—then turned, as one. Turrets realigned, droids recalibrated, every machine bound beneath Dynas's singular will. Even those once under Imperial command fell seamlessly into his grasp.

This was the culmination of his ritual—the apex of mechu deru. The battlefield's machinery no longer carried the weight of divided allegiances; all of it was his now, unified and obedient.

And with a single utterance, he unleashed them.

"Take them."

All hell broke loose. Fighters of imperial and alliance make screamed overhead in flawless formations, mechanical wings slicing the skies as they tore through Imperial lines with hellfire. Turrets calibrated to nanometer precision fired in unison, their volleys devastating the most optimal targets, whether flesh or steel. Walkers groaned and thundered forward, stomping and crushing, their massive frames wreaking havoc under their new master's command.

This was the epitome of his art. This was the living expression of mechu deru.

This was unity.

FINAL PHASE: Assimilation (Machine Reclamation)
Neural lattice engagement: COMPLETE INTEGRATION
Force-channel routing: CONTINUOUS
Shard core resonance: ABSOLUTE UNITY
Combat uplink: MERGED NETWORK — ALL SYSTEMS OPERATING UNDER DYNAS CONTROL

Additional Effects OBJECTIVE WIDE:
Allies:

• Integrated with commandeered enemy systems, vastly expanding available firepower and support assets.
• Acquired units and weapons operate under allied combat protocols as if they were native to the network.
• Battlefield coordination incorporates both original allied forces and newly turned assets seamlessly.

Enemies:

• Remaining automated units and mechanized systems are forcefully overwritten with Dynas's control algorithm.
• Incompatible organic-operated machines become nonfunctional or locked out from their crews.
• Once-hostile turrets, droids, vehicles, and ships actively engage their former allies without hesitation.

CT-312 Solan Charr @Warposters

​

 

[Dangal Olderem]

TAGS: Khronas
LOCATION: VEESHAS TUWAN

The clash was thunder and steel. Each strike rattled the hollow bones of the tomb, sparks showering as blue and steel carved across the runes. Dangal pressed forward, his blade a storm, but the Siniteen did not break. Khronas absorbed the flurry with unnerving patience, his counterstrikes heavy and deliberate, every motion dripping with cruel precision. Then it came. A feint too sharp, a shift too sudden. Dangal's guard caught late—just late enough. The Sith's blade screamed across his side, tearing cloth and flesh in a searing line of pain. He staggered, breath hissing through clenched teeth as the smell of blood rose around him.

Khronas loomed, triumphant in the dust and shadow. "You see, Jedi… even resolve bleeds."

Dangal gritted against the agony, grounding himself in the Force. Pain became focus. Fear became clarity. His saber swept up, forcing Khronas back a single step—just enough. He didn't linger. To stay here was to drown in darkness.

He reached outward, through the roar of collapsing stone, through the choking dust, and the Force answered. Snow and wind howled down from the fissure above, the storm itself rushing to meet him. With a sharp exhale, he leapt, body carried skyward on a surge of will. Hands caught the fractured edge of the ridge, boots finding purchase as he climbed, dragging himself out of the tomb's suffocating grip.

The world above had shifted, Dynamis "Dynas" Ultra will surged through the machines of war, walkers now turning their massive frames against their former masters. Alliance lines fought with renewed precision under the mechanical storm he commanded. Yet chaos remained. Trench lines still burned, soldiers still bled. Dangal hauled himself over the ridge, breath ragged, one hand pressed to the wound along his side. His saber hissed shut, the blade extinguishing as he straightened. The troopers' eyes met his, questions unspoken, fear still raw.

He gave them only what they needed. His voice, rough but resolute:

"If you're still standing, so is the line. Best not make me a liar."

All around him, the battle was staggering toward its end. AT-ATs smoldered where they'd fallen, artillery fire slowed to scattered bursts, and the endless tide of soldiers had thinned to ragged remnants. The Alliance forces, bloodied and scattered across the ridges, were pulling back into knots of resistance—regrouping, dragging their wounded, and rallying under battered flags still standing in the snow. Dangal took his place among them, the wound burning at his side, his breath tight in the cold. The storm howled above, the Empire pressed still at their lines, but the field had shifted. The victor still unknown. His hand lifted the comlink from his belt, thumb brushing across its frozen casing.

"This is Jedi Knight Olderem," he rasped, voice steady despite the pain. "I'm clear of the Sith temple Veeshas Tuwan. I need covering fire and immediate transport—escort me back to the main line… we did what we could."

Static crackled, then an Alliance officer's voice answered, ragged but resolute: "Copy that, Commander. Gunships inbound. Hold position—we'll punch you a corridor."

Dangal clipped the comlink back to his belt and straightened, snow whipping across the ridge. Around him, the remnants of his unit braced their rifles, tired but unbroken, rallying once more to protect their commander as the rest engaged in a light exchange with stragglers near the temple in efforts to clear a path and get them the hell out of there. They didn't want to be on high ground when the ships arrived, that much was certain.

He pulled his hood over his head as he followed behind the unit, limping as he hastily moved for extraction, one hand pressed hard to his bleeding side. A low grunt escaped through clenched teeth, but his tone remained dry as he muttered to himself:

"Note to self—never follow a Sith into a hole in the ground. They're always far too comfortable there."

 

[Fal Gore]

​

LOCATION

Roxuli



Fal Gore opens his Holopad from his office on Roxuli, sipping a fine concoction of sulken Jawa Juice, ordered by ChissDash. The smoke ran rife over the cup, spilling onto his hand as he laid the cup to the side and leaned forward in his seat.

His stomach grumbled. The caffeine from the juice was causing his bowels to move a bit... faster than usual. He ran to the bathroom, sitting on the toilet and leaving marks on his knees from his elbows. You know, those types of marks that you're definitely done using the bath, but you're doomscrolling on the Holonet and just can't seem to break away.

One look at an article, and Fal couldn't let the thought go. He immediately ran to his social media.

"DARTH "LITTLE HANDS" SOLIPSIS AND HIS JACKBOOT THUGS SHOULD LEAVE ARKANIA.

NOT GOOD! BAD FOR ECONOMY, BAD FOR TRADE. BAD WEEK FOR THIS EMPIRE!

A DEAL SHOULD BE MADE QUICK BEFORE IT GETS WORSE FOR HIM.

ALLIANCE SHOULD FIX THIS PROBLEM SOON BEFORE I BECOME THE SOLUTION.

#MOREGORE #GOREWAVE #FALGORE

-FG"

​

 

[St. Thomas Barran]

TAGS
Friend: Voldran Molf Artam Macek Sharad Dhavale Tiberius Zaarin
Darth Apophion Flannigan Tagge Meliant Wymar Tyro Lok Prowler II
Khronas Lord Creuat Talon Draven Damien Zannen Cato Panaka

Foe: Dynamis "Dynas" Ultra Makko Vyres Corazona von Ascania
Gavin Restur Dangal Olderem Jacen Voidstalker Kyric Ko Vuto
Solan Charr Ailuros Skorvek Bernard Magdalena Bloodscrawl
Alexandra Feanor

FADE TO BLACK - FINALE

​

ABOARD THE MV: HEART OF MAR'ZAMBUL,
ARKANIA, GALACTIC CORE COLONIES (903 ABY)

'Ersethy Magnarra fights well, give her credit.'
'Completely fair, but - who are these people?!'
'Woooooah! She regenerates? Helpful much?'
​

'Lads, we need to prep for exfil! The least you could do is trust the Magnarra an' get on with the work at hand.', the one-eyed Woad interjected, left with no other option but to rain on his Darkhans' parade, though there was nothing else for it by then. Naturally, there would be a grumble or two in response, as all entertained minds are wont to do when torn from their rapt, engrossed state, but the Khan's closest active subordinates acquiesced to his sound reasoning, fully aware that the Doomsayer squadrons would be needed to complete the operation. So the Darkhans' returned to their stations at the bridge's helm, poised to act when Barran finally exclaimed,'Ready six Doomsayer squadrons - I want 'em all aboard in one, fluid manoeuvre.', silently priming comm-link pings for response as the Khan's gaze returned to the holomap projections.

<"Bloodhound to Shadow Four! If your frigate's too far, you can refuel here on your way back.... Grub's good too. Bloodhound - out!">​

'He did good, represented our allies well down there.'
'Doctrinal precedent in that, somewhere. Might be worth considering, Great Khan.'
'Noted.... Seems innocuous enough.'

Despite the setbacks, Barran was gladdened that Mawsworn and Imperial alike had adapted well to the situation, handling the developments in stride where others may have failed in their place, though the clear adversity they faced could not be ignored. There was an increasing desperation in the way their enemies fought, and as much as it seemed like the dying throes of a civilisation's downfall, the Khan could not help but think it was likely to be a sign of the way the war was escalating; as most wars were waged in the wake of the Second Great Hyperspace War, and in the understanding that the wild abandon was becoming a norm across the Galaxy, the need for stronger offence was becoming far too difficult to ignore in turn.

'Next time, I'm returning to the frontlines.... We fight together from here.'

AUXILIA
FINALE

​

TUWAN GLACIER, SOUTHERN LURON VALLEY,
ARKANIA, GALACTIC CORE COLONIES (903 ABY)

'Alright, Brother! Lets begin!'
'LETS FETHING GOOOOOO-'
​

Jumping off from their starting points at a sprint, blade tips bared with an intent that transcended the base need to survive, the unlikely duo started their relief effort with raucous enthusiasm, and at a trained pace that revealed one of the extents of their Khan's tutorship. Known by many in the Galaxy as the Duelling Launch, practiced by many since it's rediscovery in the earlier years of the previous century, it was an expected facet to warfighting excellence of a higher, and higher-powered degree. Utilising a common trait of the Bloodhound and the Mongrel alike, turning fundamentally-physical Force abilities into an engine for power derived from Inherited Will instead, ejecting Midichlorians from the equation for the perfect, attainable NFU-derived replacement.

And the Rogues-in-chief were moving like never before.

Their embattled subordinates would need every last ounce of slack the Darkhans could cleave out for them, though the lessening pressure would be felt most in the disarrayed second line, definitely in greater need of aid as the dead closed in around them; likely breaking shortly after the recovered Keshig corpses started rising from their eternal slumbers, there was not much hope for those on the snow-covered tundra, but it would not stop the Rogues-in-chief from trying. Closing the distance between the Rhypalm crevasse as GA destroyers blotted out the sun overhead, drawing ever closer to the real madness whilst they felled every undead soldier within reach, it was then that Rook finally growled,'Its now or never, Brother! Incantation - call on Mother War!', readying to call upon the power of the First Mother, the first of all incantations they were ever taught to use.

'Guerra!'
'Kasuur!'​

Using their blood as catalyst fuel, the palms of their hands would run upward from the hilts of their blades, igniting their Darlings in the most-intensely burning flames on the move, and just in time for those flames to give way for the glowing, forge-hot surfaces of the blades they wielded. It would be guarantee enough that the glowing blades had become their own, searing instruments of destruction, a swift finality of the likes none possessed on the ground that day, but the rest would require endurance to toil and fatigue alike; the mettle to see the task through, the sway and clout to rally those who remained, as every reserve of strength would be required when the second-line Keshigs eventually turned north once more.

All would work in their favour, however, as the very rush of enthusiasm that kept them upright was being fuelled by Ersethy in these moments, giving further strength to empowered arms as their burning hot blades sliced through armour, flesh and bone like cake. Dropping the undead, one by one, as the pressure on their comrades gradually lessened, the numbers who remained to rally behind the advancing Rogues-in-chief were a scant few at first, but this number would swell before long. Thus others began lopping heads off as their superiors were ahead of them, though some preferred just to shoot or smash through helmets and bone matter instead, creating quite the cacophony of madness as the resurgent Mawsworn steadily brought their part of the battlefront to order.

'THE DEAD MUST REACH THEIR ETERNAL RESTING-PLACE - OUR KHAN IS WATCHING!!!!'

Before long, though the endeavour had felt as though an age had passed since the first leap, Mt. Tuwan's lowest rises would be reached, and with a hundred rallied Keshigs the Archon-Elect called a halt. This was where the thinking mind of the rogue Arkanian came into play once more, and with little more than a glance up to the Veehas Tuwan temple, Rook would quickly deduce,'No point climbing up, waste of time.... Lets bait the dead down from the rocks instead. Potshots should be enough.', to the cackling approval of his subordinates. After that, whatever undead remained to climb toward the temple would make for a paltry showing against the Dark Side Elite, and within minutes, the Rogues had completed their task.

All that remained was their expected return to the Rhypalm Crevasse, and return they would.

The added rejuvenation would work wonders at this point of the battle's final phase, much of it being owed to the power wielded by Ersethy, a truth of which the Darkhans knew would add urgency to their northward advance. After all, they did not know at the time whether the Ulusarra had survived or not, as there was no way to trust the extent of their rejuvenation until proof of life could be assured, giving the second line all the more reason to express the truest of gratitudes, to fight shoulder to shoulder with those who help Marauders in need. A thought of which would remain in their minds for as long as it took to sprint back to the Heart of War's Crucible, but when the relief force finally made it to the deeping gap, they found Ersethy alive after all, though it was clear she had fought hard in all that time.

'Ah, so we weren't the only ones using the War Mother's flames.'
'Coming back to the Heart, Ulusarra?'
'Might as well, Ulusarra.... Looks like this one's a wrap.'

As the snowstorm swept through the frontlines, everyone lowered their weapons, and to each a Marauder, all stood still, looking around to the white droplets covering the disrupted glacial surface in a blanket of soft, calming serenity. Covering their enemies' retreat as much as it covered their reprieve, it would become clear soon enough that the fighting was drawing to a close, and as the last shots fired out in anger, the Mawsworn couldn't help but take it all in. But what the others did not know at the time (though Slicer himself could sense it somewhat) was the extent of the nostalic feelings this storm had uncovered in the rogue Arkanian's heart, taking him on a journey back through time, soaring back to the childhood days he spent before his life was changed forever.

And with that, the others would never see the tears shed beneath the visor of his Hound Armour's helmet.

'It is done.'

[EXIT THREAD]

 

[Prowler II]

Wounded and desperate faces fixated and watched in horror as Prowlers physical vitality progressively returned to him. The observes, and victims, below forcibly letting go of a shaking wail. The souls very own death rattle. The veiled face of a AT-AT copilot and an officer grew grey, gaunt and skinny the longer the elders hands was placed apon them. Attempting to scuffle away they failed to recognize the weight of years fall apon their bones and very beings. In a manner of minutes they waned, they withered and they died. Leaving naught but shrunken corpses and faces of dread petrified on the frozen cadavers. Midst the foul transfer of life essence, Prowler took in a breath of relief, saturating himself with stolen mortal years. Though this was not without cost. His swollen eye and broken cheek bone had mended back together in a manner that seemed inaccurate. Deformed. His lungs and broken ribs could expand with greater ease and yet even this was not enough.

Whatever injury that was the source of his limp had been mended, yet the soreness of such a injury remained like a lingering phantom. Almost as if Prowlers own nervous system was not fast enough to process all that had occurred midst channeling force drain. Standing back up with a groan, the elder tilted his body left and then right in a stretch that sounded with an audible pop.

Like a reek he exhaled harshly and drew a alchemical obsidian relic from a holster on the belt. A sith dagger. Prowlers hand gripped it firmly and inspected its sinister toxic edge. It was meant for the boy. Kyric. The arkanian lifted his gaze to the AT-AT wreckage and began to prowl forward. His offhand rising to cradle a demented looking amulet around his neck and hanging loosely near his heart. With care it was grasped and then perverse words uttered.

" Zami. Imiwsi naishas." The words of power rippled out as a command for the dreaded talisman hanging around him. Its image of a face opened its eyes and its maw gaped wide in a image of pure terror. Mimicking a scream where none came. Stalking the through the wreckage Prowler honed his presence to diminish smaller and smaller. The vastness of his metaphysical figure waning, in till all that remained was something to small. It might of well of been nothing at all. In a blink his form crossed through a veil and vanished.

Several minutes past. A tactical use of delay. The icy winds howled and snow fell. The wreckage settled further. Shifting, moving and groaning eeriely in its twisted metal position. In those moments of unnatural silence he struck!

In the blink of an eye! Prowlers figure appeared and presence unleashed in startling explosion of controlled hatred and malice. Manifesting out from the hidden void and into the open! Closing the gap with force assisted dash. Dagger raised over head in a reverse grip, its obsidian toxic edge smiling down at Kylass Starhaven 's flesh. Prowlers visage and gaze locked, looming over the jedi like a phantom. His white eyes bloodshot, skin paler, beard stained in blood and edges frozen.

Without a word he attempted to strike, knowing full and well that he had perhaps one or two opportunities to strike true.

 

[Solan Charr]

Solan left the battle around them fade into the background, let his mind wander as he stepped across the frozen surface of the planet and steadied himself. Each thought continuing its assault on him, pulling on him to take advantage of the death around him and to use it when he had already betrayed who he was once already today. Unlike Prowler II who had emerged with such vile corruption in the air, had sought a blade of poison and searched through the sorcery of some sith amulet, Solan fell back onto the teachings of his old friends.

They were words he had treasured even now after all this time. Sochi Ru and Coci helping him to find such momentary peace. Away from his past, away from the conflicts of the outer rim and away from the suffering of war. All those things that had brought him to this point and had left him suffering like he did normally.

But, as his steps came closer to Kylass Starhaven , he could sense it. The change in the air and the feeling of the dark reaching out. He knew something had happened, something had changed and his feet dug down into the snow. He rushed forward, pushed himself out and reached out through the force. He willed for it to come to him and to help him, to ensure that his ally was harmed no further because of his actions.

Soon though, Solan could no longer sense Prowler, and instead he let his body react.

His body coming close to Kylass, not quite over her, but she would see him appearing before her, standing there and the same sensation she had held before thanks to him reaching out was there. She would know by a single glance he had been the one to use that accursed sorcery, but rather than using it again, he did something different. She would see his hand pulling out a few seeds, casting them forward and as Prowler appeared the life would spring forth too.

Solan's own life force was used, not having the time to call upon the energy of the land around them, to coax the growth of the plants naturally, and instead thick vines rushed out. The Vines layering, spreading and in a moment Kylass would find a shield of green forming between her and the assailant who soon enough brought their blade down. Solan hoped this would be enough, his body stumbling and his blood starting to fall from his nose as he did this though.

"No more death." He stated, his voice hard as he stood there and looked on at the two, breathing heavily and his hand shaking while the other let his own saber fall into it.

 

[Fal Gore]

​

LOCATION

Roxuli



Senator Gore remained on his toilet, even though he was finished. The social media app called to him, he couldn't break away from it, he couldn't stop reading the comments and people ripping into his posts and commenting beneath his statements.

"CODY

HEY CODY STOP WITH THIS IMPERIALIST PROPAGANDA BS IN MY COMMENTS

CODY I KNOW YOU POSTIN DOWN THERE I DISAVOW YO SHIT DAWG

ON GOD FR FR

STOP TYPIN ALL THAT SHIT CODY YOU FALSE FLAG IMPERIALIST SYCOPHANT

ERRYBODY KNOWS YOU AINT SHIT STOP BUSSIN IN MY DMS

AY NERF HERD THIS CODY ON GOD YO BABY MAMA GONNA TAKE YO KID CODY I AINT BOUT THAT CODY KEEP IT A BUCK

-FG"

​

 

[Jin Taeyang]

| Location | Battlefield, Arkania​

| Objective | Help the GA Out - AND RIDE A BIG FUCKING FROG​

| Tags | Open ​

​

​

Pak's curses still crackled in his ear, but Jin barely registered them. Something else had caught him- not sight, not sound, but a tug in his chest, sharp and insistent, pulling him sideways through the storm. The battlefield roared around him, artillery pounding, blasterfire streaking red across the snow, but all of it dulled against the strange, urgent call in the back of his skull.​

​

He didn't know how, didn't know why, but he knew exactly where to go.​

​

"Hold tight, big guy," he muttered to Ugly, jerking the reins hard. The Oggdo shrieked and surged into a turn, carving through bodies and ice. Jin leaned into the motion, eyes narrowing as the smoke cleared just enough to show her: armor cracked, face bloodied, saber clutched like an anchor in her trembling hand. She wasn't dead yet. The Force around her thrummed raw and desperate, like a cry he couldn't ignore.​

​

Jin vaulted down before the beast stopped moving, boots crunching deep into snow. He dropped to one knee beside her, shadow cutting across her broken form. Her lips were slick with blood, her breath shallow, but she was still fighting to stay upright.​

​

"Easy," he said, tone low and steady. "Let's get you out."​

​

She hissed as he slid an arm under her shoulders, body stiffening at the pain. Jin's jaw tightened, but he didn't slow. With a grunt he lifted, dragging her against him, her weight heavy with armor and blood. He slung her across Ugly's flank, securing her against the saddle's side. The beast growled at the weight. Jin smacked its jaw. "Behave."​

​

A bolt cracked past, searing the snow. Jin's pistol cleared leather in the same breath, his shot dropping the trooper before the man even finished aiming. Then he was vaulting back into the saddle, eyes sweeping the churn.​

​

"Pak," he barked into the comms, voice taut but even, "I've got a Jedi. She's alive. I'm hauling her back now. Clear me a lane."​

​

Cover fire sparked bright across the trench line. He recognized Pak's rifle in the rhythm of the bursts, punching gaps in the Imperial press. Jin spurred Ugly forward, dragging another half-dead soldier up onto the beast's back along the way. Others stumbled toward him, Alliance survivors scrambling into the wake Ugly carved.​

​

The ship's silhouette cut through the smoke ahead, ramp lowered, engines shrieking against the cold. Pak stood just short of it, rifle hot in his grip, detonators hanging loose at his hip. He looked every bit the marine he used to be.​

​

Ugly skidded to a halt in a spray of snow, and Jin slid down fast. He caught Pak's eye, a half-smile tugging at his mouth even through the mess. "Stop glaring and give me a hand, handsome."​

​

Together they lifted Kylass, careful of her shattered legs, dragging her limp weight up the ramp. The astromech squealed from its slot, panels rattling as the ship's systems warned of incoming fire. Jin shoved Kylass into the waiting arms of crew and medics, then turned back toward the battlefield.​

​

"Pak," he said, wiping blood from his palm onto his coat, "get as many stragglers as you can- I have a weird feeling someone's gonna come looking for this one if we stay much longer." ​

​

Ugly bellowed below the ramp, tongue lashing at any white armor still pushing close. Jin's eyes flashed, sharp and alive, the strange pull of the Force still thrumming in his chest as he shot a look back at the injured Jedi. ​

​

Pak Jaehyun | Henna Ashina | Jannik Morlandt | Kylass Starhaven | Corr | Inosuke Ashina​

​

 

[Da'Razel]

BAKTOID ARMOUR WORKSHOP - ORD LITHONE
​

Tag - Direct: Kelig Ward | Vireth | Ronhar Tane l Ines Pen-Ar-Lan | Keilara Kala'myr
Tag - Indirect: Zuv Ralen | Caelan Valoren
Equipment: Bōchōr | The Vow of Saud | The Helm of the One-Eyed Prophet | Korrûg Kuûr

Fire and flame engulfed his sight, the scent of charred flesh sizzling in the air. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the ruinous sight unfolding before him.

Clawed digits twitched, his iron-veiled visage spasming from left to right.

The euphoria of the blaze washed over him.

He had restrained his inner inferno for too long. Now he sought release.

The Saint's summoned burning wave crescendoed at the end of the hallway, moments later he discerned the beat of boots on metal.

Insolence…

The Imperial troopers who had flanked this enemy squad moments earlier were nowhere to be found.

Instead, his quarry fled.

Lips curled into a vile grin beneath his horned helm.

They were running straight into Kelig's sights, panic leading to a hasty withdrawal feeding perfectly into the patient artistry of the sniper's trap.

In all his years of service, few men carried an aura of death like Kelig. A weapon that knew it was a weapon, transcending mortality by emulating perfection as this weapon. Such purpose.

Tonight, metal slugs would harvest souls, tear them asunder, snuff out their light. Candles blown out, a space thrown into sudden darkness.

As Da'Razel reveled in the thought, his reaction dulled just enough: a clatter before him, the thud of metal striking metal. A small orb.

His vision was swallowed once more by flame, though this was no ordinary blaze. A rainbow firestorm erupted with devastating power inside the iron belly of the facility.

Da'Razel roared in agony, claws lifted heavenward in prayer to unseen gods as he staggered forward, wreathed in pyre.

At first it was a vortex of orange hissing tongues, spilling hungrily into the corridors. Then, suddenly, violently, like a great beast wrenched back by its tail, the flames recoiled, dragged into rotating columns, bent into a tunnel of molten hues by invisible hands.

The Saint tasted the fire, let it roll across his tongue, licking his lips as it stings. But once he discerned its origin, he spat it out like spoiled wine.

Rhydonium…

He remembered the scars it had left him with before.

But flame was his to command.

The writhing tunnel of fire split, funneled across ceiling, walls, and floor, parting just before his feet as he strode through it. Fumes pooled to either side, air beneath his knees scorched hot to drive the toxin away.

Like a prophet performing a miracle, he rounded the corner and found his adversary.

A single lone soldier.

His already twisted grin spread hideously, white fangs and raw flesh carving an ugly distortion against the red, sandpaper hue of his skin.

The lone warrior meant nothing to him. Kelig Ward would butcher the stragglers. Vireth would extract with the stolen blueprints as planned. Only later would he learn of her fate, her rescue by one named Mercy, Keilara Kala'myr , a debt now owed to a stranger. And much later still, when the night's logs were reviewed, Da'Razel himself would be questioned on reports that Agent Ines Pen-Ar-Lan had been captured by Jedi hands.

His gaze returned to the armored foe before him. He sensed nothing.

The Devaronian raised his arm, and the tunnel of fire behind him roared, its form collapsing into a surging wall, propelled forward like a cavalry charge, galloping embers meant to reduce the man to ash.

Da'Razel spoke no word. Did not glance back. Heavy steps became a sprint as he raced to rejoin his team at exfil.

The Emperor would be pleased.

His tapestry had been spun. An image of a Galaxy in flames.

 

[CT-312]

//: Dynamis "Dynas" Ultra Solan Charr //:
//: Arkania //:
//: Attire //:
//: WEARING: GAHA-32 Lionheart Commando Armor| Contact Lenses| M.I. 'Halo' jump boots //:
//: EQUIPMENT: GABB-15 Talon II | M.I. Model 6 hybrid pistol | Shiva Knife //:
//: ADDITIONAL EQUIPMENT: Taozin amulet | 1 x Arrow head of Absence | LK Spider Slicer Droid | Navi/Barca//:
//: Objective I - Fire & Ice //:
//: Bounty Hunting - Shadow a Jedi//:
//: Bounty Hunting - The hand or eye of a Jedi Master//:
​

CT-312’s head tilted slightly at the Commander’s choice of word. Filth, to describe the enemy. Coming from an Alliance, it was sharper than she expected. Ferocity. Definitely not diplomacy. Her attention snapped back as she noticed the Commander’s eyes on her. A smile. Seemingly… sincere. It confused her more than the intensity of words dealing with the enemy. Eyes narrowing behind the visor. Uncertain what to make of it. Rarely did anyone look at her like that. Unexpectedly, it reminded her of Quinn Varanin . Authentic. A dangerous thought. Reminding herself quickly that the smile wasn’t for her. It was for “Ashe”.

The Commander’s words carried weight. Her Lord would answer for this style of war. Even within the Alliance, it seems that this style of fighting wouldn't be approved of. Ashe gave a curt nod. Keeping her answers simple. Respectful. “It’s reassuring that our lives aren’t thrown away like fodder. If his ruthlessness spares us… Well, let’s hope the Alliance sees it that way.”

Suddenly Master Dynas’s voice swept over everything.

"After destruction, comes creation."

Focus solely on the Jedi Master. His chassis rattled violently. Light bursting from every seam. A loud mechanical groan soon followed. CT-312’s HUD briefly lit up. Text crawling across her optics: Harmony. Unity. Renewal. A gem-like shard tore free from the droid’s frame. Floating. Pulsing with azure fire. Her onboard system BARCA chimed.

[ BARCA ]
[ Adaptive / Countermeasures initiated ]
[ Recording still in progress ]

It was made apparent that the ritual had reached its apex. Not just to the Alliance war machines, but to the Imperial ones too. All bent under Master Dynas’s command. Total unification. Within that chaos, CT-312 moved.

Sprinting forward, she snatched the glowing crystal shard that was floating. Shoving the flaming rock into the snow, hissing. Burying it deep enough to kill the fire. CT-312 shoved it into a pocket. The edges of the crystal still faintly warm. Her gaze fell on the empty shell of Epyon. The frame twitched once as the servos spasmed one last time before falling silent. The droid chassis was lifeless now. A husk. ‘Was this crystal… him?’ Jedi Master Dynas. There was no time to speculate.

CT-312 crouched low. Arms hooking under the frame. The chassis was heavier than it looked. Dense alloy and plating. All dead weight without power. God she wished she was equipped with her Halcyon armor. It would’ve made this effortless. Heaving the ‘dead’ body across her shoulders, settling it in a fireman-style on top of the bag with his separated arm. Metal dug into her pauldron as sparking wires brushed against her back. One dangling limb thudded against her thigh plate with every step. The snow crunched under her boots as CT-312 staggered for balance. Adjusting and shifting until the load was firm and balanced across her shoulders.

Grunting softly in the confines of her helmet. Carrying a droid this size solo was madness. Especially in open ground. But madness hiding in plain sight was her speciality. CT-312 straightened. Turning towards Commander Vaal. Giving a crisp salute. “Commander. It was nice meeting you. Thank you for the chat, but we must be off. Until next time.” Moving out of the area, back towards the front lines. CT-312 weaved against the Alliance troopers. Gradually peeling further to the side. The weight was straining, but the disguise was perfect. To anyone watching, she was just another Alliance soldier recovering a fallen asset.

Her path shifted more and more to the flanks. Slipping through the chaos around them. Disappearing from the battlefield. CT-312’s mind churned. Realizing… She had a Jedi Master in her pocket. Literally in her pocket. As well as his offline body slung across her shoulders and his arm in a bag.

What the heck was she supposed to do with these?

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Location: Fort Tagge
Taral-type Sith Trooper Armor Mk. II
Bounty Hunting

​

Having breached the shattered frame, Lysander found himself quickly swallowed by holodisplays. To his surprise, the floor was already slick with the darker stain of spilled blood. His boots clanged against twisted metal grates and the echo leapt ahead of him like a warning, yet he pressed without hesitation.

Highly attuned, he quickly noted how the air screamed with panic. Scientists in torn labcoats darting between shattered tanks, faces of different sentient species alabaster with fear. He could taste their terror on his tongue, sharp and coppery.

Perhaps that was why the Force guided him toward the heart of the chamber, where a cluster of Arkanian geneticists huddled around a data terminal. Their hands trembled as they struggled to salvage holographic schematics.

And it wouldn’t be long before this place collapsed under bombardment.

Something shifted in the teen’s mind; he strode forward, among them like a storm, his presence folding the chaos into something controlled.

The acolyte ignited his blade in a haze of red light, its hum a familiar lullaby that froze the scientists mid scream. One of them stumbled backward, eyes wide as the saber’s glow carved shadows across his features; Lysander extended a hand, channeling the Force into a constricting vice around the man’s throat.

Veins bulged under purple skin; the scientist rasped, until there was complete silence from him. All defiance slowly drained from his limbs. And so, the body went limp before long, a puppet severed from its strings. The others would find themselves unable to look again, unaware they’d already fallen into submission, eyes rimmed with tears.

Their heads bowed next, a language he’d seen time and again. Stuncuffs were drawn from his hip, each one nestled in its foam cradle. The cold metal kissed his gloves as he snapped the first cuff around a trembling wrist, its ratcheted teeth clicking home. Finality. Blue energy danced around it. His second cuff found its mate on the opposite wrist in a similar ritual. They were tight enough to bite into their veins, without tearing the skin, leaving only a warning should they attempt to flee.

The already fractured bulkhead shook violently, the other survivors protesting, but now his attention was fixed on the main prize: there was one source for their genetic schematics, and of course, the living minds to apply that very data.

He pivoted back to the central holo-terminal before snatching the slender data spike from his belt, slotting it into the auxiliary port with a click, glancing over the cracked holo-screen through his helm as readouts danced rapidly. Keying in an override command, it rippled through the circuits. Beside him, the chief geneticist shrank in fear, as they were forced to speak the final access codes in a voice that echoed with terror. The woman's lips hesitated on forming the last syllables of the data-lock clearance; clearly, a desperate attempt to stall the inevitable. But it was too late. The download began, the strands of information spiraling into the spike's core.

There was no denying Lysander felt a reflection of joy, woven into twisted desires. He finally yanked the spike free with a faint, knowing smirk, born of triumph. And then, with another satisfying click, the spike was securely put back in its place.

Lifting an arm, he motioned them forward, their feet dragging like wounded creatures. Sparks rained from overhead, distant detonations growing louder by the second. The entire building groaned under relentless assault.

With another sharp beckon, he guided them through a haze of smoke and debris, their feet dragging in obedience.

As they pressed toward an exit, the same chief scientist with hollowed cheeks, suddenly threw herself onto the ground.

She whispered a plea for mercy.

It was not enough.

In a single, remorseless motion, he called upon the darkest currents that he could conjure, and the scientist’s spine snapped backward. Her body crumpled to the frost covered floor, and in that instant her fellow companions cried out in alarm. At least, any chance of more defiance, in that moment, had truly been extinguished.

His jaw tightened as the matte obsidian hull of his Bevelle-Class freighter receded into the distance. Once more he was striding across the blasted tundra with four scientists.

By now, his Force-suppressed sigil flickered in the gloom; he wouldn’t be able to hold it for much longer. Above, Star Destroyers were like specters on the horizon, but Lysander’s focus remained on the procession at his boot's heels, for in their minds, and the slender data spike nestled in his belt, lay the key for whatever Darth Anathemous’ ambitions were.

Half a klick away, a piercing cry shattered the wind’s roar as another researcher, a Mirialan, collapsed at the floor. This one gasped for breath too, but rather than from choking, it was the shock of hypothermia clawing at her. He didn’t look at her as a sentient being, not as someone worth saving, but as a token. Twenty-thousand credits wrapped in frostbite. The only reason he paused faintly was the weight of that bounty.

But time was bleeding out fast.

The heat of the battle pressed in too quickly for his taste.

Lysander resumed his march, leaving the fallen scientist half-buried in a cradle of silence.

The wind carried her final whimpers.

Mercy was a luxury he could not afford.

At last the freighter’s ramp yawned before them, a welcoming maw, and Lysander ushered his living cargo aboard. The prisoners were herded into secure compartments. Outside, the ramp sealed with a hiss. Lysander found his way to the personal quarters. After removing his helmet, retrieved his datapad while the ship’s engine was still warming, and then scrolled through his contact list; his fingers skimmed over names he knew by heart. Then he clicked on Danger’s contact first; the name stood out in bold letters, a small reminder of the one person he could always trust.

He tapped an area to take a picture; not for memory, but for proof. Holding the device before him and angling it so the scientists were visible behind him, he tilted his head, almost smug, his favorite mask to wear. With a snap, he captured the moment, the faces, the truth. Attatching the file, he began typing his message while headed for the cockpit.

Danger Arceneau

Thought you should know.. I’m not in the Outer Rim for once. Ended up on Arkania, of all places. Picked up a few nerf flies while I was there. Couldn’t resist. Cold as hell, but the chaos was awrite.

A few minutes later, the ship’s lights dimmed, preparing for hyperspace. The engines grew louder. Outside, Arkania was swallowed by stars. Nestled comfortably in the pilot’s seat, another bounty hunter's name lit up. He stared at it a little too long. No words yet. Just in the present, a message waiting to be written.

Skye Mertaal

Hello, are you out there? Are you trying? Are you patient? Are you with me?

Anyway, it went smooth as a Twi’lek in a spice den. (Not that I would know)

Not gonna lie, I could definitely get used to the quiet while working solo.

Kinda nice.

But I doubt it's been quiet on your side.

If your existence has become completely dreadful without me (let’s be honest, it probably has), we can totally rendezvous after I wrap things up on Echnos.

He needed to keep moving. But there was one final person.. a sister he hadn’t seen in over a year. Her signature tugged at something deep, something he couldn’t ignore, even if he tried.

The younger blonde had felt it back on the ground, but the coward in him had forced the feeling down.

Now, the ache of guilt bubbled up in his chest.

Corazona von Ascania

Made it to the Core. I keep hearing news of the Galactic Alliance, so you've been on my mind more than usual.

Feels like the right time to say it.

I still miss you, Coco.

I think it's finally time to come home...

I just need a little more time to sort things.

With a final glance at the stars ahead, Lysander exhaled, and his ship slipped into hyperspace.

​

 

[Corazona von Ascania]

Corazona von Ascania

Made it to the Core. I keep hearing news of the Galactic Alliance, so you've been on my mind more than usual.

Feels like the right time to say it.

I still miss you, Coco.

I think it's finally time to come home...

I just need a little more time to sort things.

Three weeks passed before Lysander’s message would be met with a reply:

Come home. You’ll know where to find me.

You are my brother; nothing will ever have the power to change that.

With All My Love,
Coco