Star Wars RP

Register a free account today to become a member! Once signed in, you'll be able to participate on this site by adding your own topics and posts, as well as connect with other members through your own private inbox!

From Shame and Shadow Recast

Sarge Potteiger

Half-Glimpsed Dreamings
Somewhere near Fondor
Aboard the Bladed Twilight

The throaty bellow of bolters mingled with the sharp whine of blasters, filling the corridor with the reek of gunpowder, gore and scorched flesh. It was potent, even through his sealed helmet, and Hastings growled as a blaster bolt hit him in the chest, throwing off his shot and sending the bolt up into the ceiling. "These pirates grow bold." He mutters into his comm, and there's a muted chuckle from the other end.

Elsewhere aboard the Bladed Twilight, the Lord Inquisitor drove his black sword through a pirate's chest, the Rodian dying with a squeal on it's fluted mouth. "You worry too much, Captain." His steady baritone of a voice had hardened with time, and the damage done to his soul with Cira's death, while scarred, had never truly healed. As if in sympathy, his voice had grown harder, becoming a jagged boulder of baritone, rather than the quiet rumble it had once been.

"It's not worry that drives me." Came the response, distorted by the chatter of the bolter no doubt kicking in Hasting's fists. "But surely Fondor is no longer as safe as it once was."

Sarge shook his head, moving down the corridor, his boarding shield up before him. Blaster fire scorched it's paint, but the thick steel discouraged all but the heaviest of fire; the benefits of the small shield generator embedded within it. His blade came down again, opening a Twi'lek from collar to hip, and he pushed deeper, a pair of Purgation suited warriors coming up at his back. One raised a flamethrower, bathing the corridor before him in plasma.

Screams erupted, so loud his helmet cycled down their hearing to compensate for the volume, and he lowered the shield as the flames sputtered to a stop. Advancing cautiously forward into the blackened hallway, he brought up the schematic with a blink-command, studying the layout of the vessel. "Two levels up should be the bridge." He'd ignored the observation for now.

Somewhere, Hastings cursed. "We're pinned near the engine decks."

No one needed be told what would happen if they couldn't secure the engine rooms. Their jump to hyperspace could take them literally anywhere, and that would mean they would be stranded aboard a hostile ship. Despite his confidence, there was no guarantee they would emerge victorious, especially since one couldn't be sure if they were jumping to meet reinforcements or not.

No, it was better to be careful.

"Copy that, Hastings. I'm diverting Sepulcher Squad to your position."

There was a long pause, and Sarge knew Hastings was grinding his teeth in annoyance. "Fine. But they had better hurry."

Somewhere, deep in the recesses of his mind, something laughed.

Sarge Potteiger

Half-Glimpsed Dreamings
They pounded down an arterial corridor, their massive frames so broad they could only stand two abreast. Their third member covered the rear, but they were coming from 'friendly territory' on the ship, not that it stood for much. Around them, down side passages, through holes in the ceiling and floor, a symphony of war played out. Blaster fire flash-coated the walls a rainbow of colors, leaving black scorch marks in their wake. Solid slugs sparked and rang from every surface they hit, sometimes becoming wet and ominous when they impacted a body.

This ship was a cruiser, and the pirates had it. It didn't make much sense, but it also didn't take a genius to figure out a government had likely financed them. It was old, but too large for even a seasoned pirate crew to reliably operate without backing.

Up ahead, a strobe of blue flashed incessantly like a collision alarm, and despite the inability to truly parse out the individual weapon, Sepulcher Actual knew who it was before he got there. They continued at a jog, their ape-like armor giving them a hunched, lumbering run. "Form up." It was a simple command, given to the warrior who, even know, bathed the corridor in front of him with bolts from a rotary blaster cannon secured to the underside of his armor's right arm.

Giving a last burst of fire down the corridor, he pivoted and took point in the moment before the group would have over taken them. The rear guard chucked a grenade down the corridor in their wake, and they continued onward.

"Sepulcher, hurry the kark up." That would be Hastings.

"ETA one minute."