Public Great Hunt: The First Sith Conclave [All Sith]

[Srina Talon]

Tag: Darth Empyrean
Location: Conclave...?
____________________________________________________

Delicate fingers brushed against gnarled knuckles while her arm settled against his. The silvery-white braids that nestled themselves against waving tresses glinted in the light as she turned her gaze toward the conflict that played out behind them. This was a venue she would have enjoyed; however, she had not been invited. It was her husband who pulled her through the empty space between stars to usher her from the nothing…No one else. His greeting, though plain, would have caused light itself to scatter and flee in all directions. Srina was used to his tone and felt quieted, completed, by a growling snarl that could almost have been called a threat.

Such simple words could mean everything...Even when spat from the maw of a man who had long since died.

The spirit was still there. The soul…Tormented and trapped, but there, all the same.

"So…This is how I gain your focus. Merely, request your presence."

Some might have thought she was baiting the Sith Emperor, but her tone was infinitely cold…Too distant. He led her away from the others, but gold-hewn orbs lingered on Mercy and Darth Solipsis while things began to escalate. She had missed the earlier commentary—But the prominence of it was not lost on her. "Where your curiosity has ended…I find mine begins.", she murmured after a moment, taking in varying groups, battles, and an atmosphere that seemed made for her.

Srina was Echani…Combat was her language. This was all one loud…Very loud, aggressive conversation.

Empyrean seemed aggravated. Was it really the trivial antics of Sith politics that rankled him? What exactly had he expected from a fighting pit? The slender woman had heard many things about the Emperor in the Core, but she couldn't claim to find any fault with it. The Sith Order had fought the Alliance, dealt with their ilk, time and time again. They fought until the eleventh hour, which paved the way for others to cripple the Jedi. For a mind that was filled with pragmatism and operated on logic…

Let Sith rule the Core.

Let the Galactic Alliance die.

These were acceptable terms regardless of the banner that held Coruscant and who pulled the strings. Her opinion was subject to change…But unless given a reason? The more the Light suffered?

The more pleased she was.

"We face disappointment every day…. What is it that stirs you?", she asked softly, words seeking, rather than accusing. A little hubris and sly speak was to be expected when so many Sith Lords were crammed into a space ten times too small. Part of her was tempted to challenge Empyrean…If only to settle the steady skip of her heart, blackened and wounded, with age and time. The need to fight, to move, had been bred into her bones and was anchored by a lifetime of taking hits in one form or another so that she could come back stronger. Exchanging blows with her better half would allow her to see him without his throne, his dead flesh, or the weight of the present…Just the truth of what remained. It had been…Too long since she had truly seen him.

Far too long.

 

[Mercy]

Darth Solipsis kept making the same mistake over and over again.

He assumed because he had killed meek Jedi and forced spineless Darksiders into submission that this meant something. Except it didn't, not to Mercy anyway, who was trained by a living legend but cared little for what came before her. She was not a fragile Jedi searching for meaning and aching to die to make their mission seem larger-than-life. She was not a crawling Dark Side Elite who craved a purpose and sought it on their knees.

Mercy was a Sith Lord not because someone gave it to her or acknowledged her as their peer. She was one because she seized the power herself and made it her own.

And she loved being underestimated. That's how she ended up the last Sith standing in the Galactic Kaggath, while larger names had dropped out before the climax of the tournament was even reached.

Pathetic old men always thought they were on top, until their victory turned to ash. It had happened to the ancient Galactic Emperor of old, it happened to successions of Dark Lords from past Sith Empires. It would happen now, regardless of his desire, his control over the Force. Because when Solipsis moved to yank her arm down and then hurl her away... two things happened.

Her arm came down, yes, but the moment he tried to sweep her by hooking his leg behind hers and throw her, everything about Mercy came into play. Mercy was larger, she towered over men, she was heavier and stronger. But most importantly, while others spread themselves thin by trying to master every discipline known to the Force and beyond, Mercy mastered one thing above everything else: her own strength. In that pivotal moment where the proclaimed Core-Emperor tried to end the duel in his favor, he'd find that Mercy did not yield. Her body was a mountain and did not move a muscle if she didn't wish it moved.

"Sloppy."

Before the saber could ignite or he could try and crawl over her body like an insect to find another gap, she slammed her foot down. Either crushing his leg with it or pounding the ground itself.

Either way, what proceed was a seismic event: the ground ripped apart around them, waves of rolling rock traveling out from Mercy. Stone split in jagged seams, dust and blood spraying as the shockwave tore outward, the ground itself breaking like brittle bone beneath her weight, forcing them apart... by violence if need be.

Mercy smirked as she guided her charred hand to her lips, licking a bloody knuckle. His blood, hers, it didn't matter. Eyes tracking his movement as she reassessed her opponent. No matter Mercy's earlier words, speaking of decrepit men, old and brittle, she had assumed that the Emperor of the Core would be her biggest challenge yet.

But now the question kept coming back in her head: Had this Sith of old ever fought someone who didn't wish him to win in their heart of hearts?

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

S C O U R G E
o f
V A H L​

Darth Virelia | St. Thomas Barran | Drystan Creed | Lord Creuat | Barragh Nenn | Darth Vinaze | Talon Draven | Darth Bellum

Even after such a blow, she rose again from the ground, hoarfrost crunching beneath her, her frame smoking. Such tenacity. Admirable. He could feel her conviction. Her power. But in this moment, his body imbued by the whirlwind might of the nexus, she could not hope to match him. He gave her no time to gather her strength.

He held forth his hand and pressure built around her, building to crescendo as he agitated the very air molecules around her. Gerra snapped forefinger against thumb and particles excited into ignition.

KRAKA-DOOM.​

The air combusted all around Virelia in an explosion. It might not shatter or melt her armor, but the overpressure of the blast could liquify tissue and rupture organs, even beneath armor. To say nothing of the sheer, incinerating heat, that might cook her alive as an animal caught in vortex of flame.

In the wake of the flame, a new figure leaped into the fray, coming to stand by Gerra's side. The giant Vahla's brow furrowed. He did not know this one. The pair of them were soon opposed by one of the imperial lapdogs.

'BÀÀÀÀÀÀÀÀÀÀÀÀÀÀÀÀS!!!!'
​

The one-eyed Woad, in leaning on his culture's natural love for wit, cunning and guile, had called on the Avatar of Death as promised, but as soon as the focus was drawn towards his scarred, calloused knuckles, the pain began. It had taken everything to learn of the dangers of this technique, but in feeling that lesson pulsating from his wrists to his fingertips, newfound perspective would assail the Khan even further; however, as he tried to control the scraping sensation that felt as though it was going all the way to the bone, it began to form something of an outer shell to his hands. The black, carbon-like substance was hardening as the cold, numbing effect killed the pain to the root of it's emanation, and before long, Barran was able to ball these coated hands into fists once more.

Covered in a frozen, shimmering mist, Barran's hands were capable of more than mere combat, unballing his fists to test this ability through an entirely new medium of exertion, revealing something entirely new when the mind suddenly skipped to thoughts of environmental affectation. Turning his right palm upward to,"Blow the pretend dust away", and with pursed lips, the Khan did exactly that; only this time, the mist around his hands seemed to decay the ground around them, effectively running a scorched-earth counter to Force-Drain's greed for more.

'Hey, I couldn't help but notice you've got all these to yourself. Mind sharing?'
'Hiya, pal. That arrangement works with me, by the way.... More the merrier.'
​

Seeing into the Force itself with shatterpoint, Gerra examined this new foe and the wave of decay racing toward him across the tundra, then with a single stomp he shattered the ground. It shook as from an earthquake. A looming chasm opened up between the wave of decay and the Warlord of the Vahla and his new ally.

The Forgemaster examined the technique applied.

"Overwrought gibberish." ​

He waved a hand in dismissal, turning to regard Creed.

"Let us hope you do not similarly disappoint."

And still, the nacarat strands of Force Drain webbed out from his other hand, eeking life away from the Five whom he sought to touch should the threads connect: Virelia, Barran, Vinaze, Talon, and Bellum.

​

 

[Arris Windrun]

Khamul Kryze

The armored casing around Arris's hand cracked against the Mandalorian's beskar helm, sending shrapnel pieces scattering around them and exposing the cybernetic mechanics beneath. Her hand was still more durable than a 'ganic one, even in this state, but certainly less defended.

She drew back quickly as she always did. He talked, she did not.

As the phantom wave extended from his palm, Arris leapt high with hydraulic power and a little help from the Force. Had she not just gone round after round fighting Sith Lords and Jedi Knights in the Galactic Kaggath and the Raid on Kattada both, she might've been underprepared for that move.

Arris still had very little training in the Force, even under the tutelage of Darth Adekos , but she made up for it in heaps with pure combat experience. She mimicked her opponent's act - still airborne - and created a weaker concussive blast to push herself up and over his. In effect, it allowed her to flip above him, shy of his raw tidal wave.

While she was above him, the cyborg tilted her holster towards him and fired without even drawing her gun. The heavy slugger ripped violently through the air with only a few meters between them at most, if that. It fired a bioplasmic gel that stuck to anything and burned hot, like napalm. Krayt's Breath it was called, and she grew fond of it after battling a shirtless Jedi on Kattada. However, it was apparently made special to barbecue Mandalorians within their own armor.

She might just find out if that was true - unless her opponent could think, move, and act faster than a speeding shell at close range. Always possible.

Spoiler: Krayt's Breath

KRAYT'S BREATH SHELL: So... none of the other shells worked on your target, because your opponent is wearing beskar coated with phrik encased in cortosis weave. You're running out of options. Well, now you're in luck. The krayt's breath shell fires globules of bio-plasmatic gel that stick to the target like napalm. It won't penetrate the target, but it won't need to because it will turn their own armor into a convection oven and cook them inside it.

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Tyrant Queen."

Tags - Hasuras Na-Gerra



The air shrieked as the world around her caught fire. For a heartbeat, she stood within the furnace of a newborn star.

Her gauntleted hand clenched and violet light surged outward, a perfect shell of will. Force Barrier. The blast met it head-on, a storm crashing against a dam of pure defiance. The pressure hammered her ribs, the heat seared her lungs even through the filter, and the world shook as the wave washed over her. She staggered under it, cracks webbing across the barrier before it collapsed in shards of light.

Smoke hissed from her armor; every breath tasted like ash. Tyrant's Embrace still held, but her body felt its price. Muscles quivered, each step forward a battle of its own. Yet still she walked, halberd scraping through frost, violet eyes burning behind the black mirror of her helm. Each pace closed the distance, her will a tide too arrogant to recede.

Her laugh cut through the din, licentious and domineering.

"Let me show you," she purred, voice like a velvet whip, "how a goddess makes her monsters kneel."

Then she leapt. One last surge of energy carried her skyward, cloak snapping like the wings of a predator. She twisted mid-air, the halberd flashing low in a feint—bait for the behemoth's eye. From her free hand, the Force erupted, condensed into a blast of absolute fury.

 

[Darth Carnifex]

"Words, words, words. You all speak too much."

Whispers of cyanic flame faded to deep navy embers betwixt the Dark Lord's fingers, fading to curled black ash as He severed the connective tissue between His will and the sustenance for the flame's existence. Streaks of muted distortion discolored the land, voids where the Force had been mangled and shredded. He breathed in deep through His nostrils, exhaling out of His mouth as the Dark Side centered itself upon Him. Every inch of His flesh was energized with the virulent crackle of the Dark Side's umbral majesty, the tattoos writ in black ink across His broad chest and arms writhing as though animated with life.

"Only power and will are supreme. All else does not exist. Thrones, Crowns, Empires, Sith'aris. Useless and meaningless. You mongrels, leashed to the will of another, do not possess the right to speak. Animals can only grovel and whine at the feet of their masters."

He had His back turned to the approaching saint, the fiery warrior's broad blade striking squarely where the shoulder met the neck. The blade never even touched the exposed skin, the edge struggling against an equal amount of force and momentum as put into the saint's swing. A lattice of energy coated the Dark Lord's body from head to toe, hardening and meeting any oncoming physical threat with the same amount of magnitude energy as given to the attack. The counter-impulse had been generated moments before the blade struck, cancelling out momentum and neutralizing the energy expended.

But that was not all, the moment the saint even got approximately close to the Dark Lord, he would feel an insidious presence at work all around him. Whatever it was, it was meticulously severing the connective tissue between the saint and any hold over the Force he exerted, whittling away from the farthest edges and then moving inwards. It wasn't blocking or depriving the saint of the ability to use the Force, it was simply undoing the bonds that were already there as quickly as possible, though they still existed to be re-bound once again.

"Heaven and hell? Childish rhetoric."

The Dark Lord's head turned to face the saint, as did His entire body as it seamlessly morphed from facing away to facing towards him. He never actually physically pivoted around, His form simply inverted to face the opposite direction, at least from the saint's perspective. He then struck out at the saint, moving far faster than His large form might allude. He'd straightened out the fingers of His right hand, flattening it into an aerodynamic shape which He'd use to attempt to puncture through the saint's chest; His senses already working to divine the most effective shatterpoint to break through.

Darth Vinaze | Da'Razel ​

 

[Drystan Creed]

DESEVRO

"Me, disappoint? So far it's been the other way around." Drystan murmured, unable to contain a scoff as the battle unfolded—though he did smile when his aid was accepted. More pleased to be getting a piece of the action than to be helping anyone out.

Still, he couldn't help but find that the simplicity of combat had been overcomplicated by the esoteric and eldritch. He had the capacity and talent to learn such ways—had the chance during his time with the Jedi and even now—but refused.

No. He would carve his own path to power. And he would start where all life begins in its desire to evolve: within. It was an inner power, all things that were him—the mind, the body, the spirit—cultivated to reach their apex.

Holding his breath, he sprinted toward the fissure wall across them, created by Hasuras Na-Gerra 's stomp, feet light on the fractured terrain before phasing through it. He slipped beneath the surface, gliding toward the source of the decay like a living shadow, unseen and unfelt as he passed through the flooring.

Only when he was directly beneath his target did Drystan raise his prosthetic arm, palm aimed at the soles of St. Thomas Barran 's feet, hidden beneath the ground he phased within.

The earth cracked. The ground beneath his foe buckled as crimson light bled through the fractures, the node in his prosthetic's palm flaring dangerously bright before releasing a pillar of saber-like plasma, wide enough to devour a man whole. The blast tore upward with a deafening roar, shearing through the floor and scattering molten debris, while the terrain collapsed into a jagged, molten crater around it—uneven and precarious ground to trip and stumble over.

Hasuras Na-Gerra St. Thomas Barran Lord Creuat Barragh Nenn Darth Vinaze Talon Draven Darth Bellum

 

[Darth Empyrean]

"Not this.", he offered flatly, making no effort to glance at the battles taking place.

"The Maw petulantly worships a man who hasn't won a campaign in decades, then ordain me a coward for not interfering his kaggath. The reaches they go to justify their sycophancy is appalling. In spite of that, however, I am unsuprised."

"They are predictable, if nothing else. I'm more interested in what this 'Covenant' intends to gain. At least they're something novel."

Srina Talon

 

[Eurydice]

Eurydice paused on the precipice of approaching the temple.

All of this was far, far above her proverbial pay grade. The girl would be incinerated, pulverized, maimed, electrocuted, speared, and ripped apart in an instant if she lingered in the wrong spot, another minor casualty in the war between gods who had come here to wage war on...another entity entirely.

"Nope."

The terrified acolyte abruptly turned on her heel and fled back towards her shuttle.

 

[Veno]

With the world seemingly being torn apart, Veno understood how utterly out of his depth he was. You could never say no to your Emperor, and while that was maybe something he had in common with those of the Sith Order, he still partly wished he had. In amongst all the chaos, his vision scattered left and right in the hopes he wasn't going to be jumped by someone ready to shoot lightning from their fingertips.

Instead, Veno managed to draw the ire of a Sith acolyte that felt especially emboldened by their masters display of power. Coming in close, Veno shot the Houk at close-range a half-dozen times. The large body crumpled, falling over and flattening Veno underneath. As was his plan, of course. Now he could lay here, seemingly dead and no one else could target him.

 

[Srina Talon]

Tag: Darth Empyrean
Location: Conclave...?
____________________________________________________

He ignored the fight.

She did not. Opposites though they were…She couldn't help but note the strengths of all present as well as weaknesses when they bubbled to the surface. It was viewed with the efficiency of a micro-computer that stored the information, cataloguing, even while the willowy Echani carried on a conversation. Her evaluation would continue in the same way that her eyes noted ingress and egress points as well as the potential for an all-out brawl. "Analyzing technique, regardless of who it comes from, is not without merit. Everyone has something to learn…. Including Emperors."

Empyrean didn't need to be interested in the fighters to absorb information that was freely given. The way Mercy focused on complete bodily sovereignty, while Darth Solipsis challenged it with technique and precision, was telling. She hadn't seen anyone deactivate their saber during a duel like that in a long time. Not since she had unknowingly made the faux pas against her own Master many, many moons ago.

Interesting that it conjured that particular memory.

Srina did not bristle at the dismissiveness from Darth Empyrean , nor did her glacier expression shift at his words. She had long since learned that her husband felt a certain disdain for the world around him, and it was not easily contained. The tone that he wielded against sycophants and failures could cut anyone within reach. Thankfully, she was not just anyone.

Her hold on his arm tightened fractionally against his while they walked. Not with affection, but in reminder, with her touch becoming the smallest anchor. "When did it become the norm for the words of others to twist your ire so swiftly? They will call you a coward because they do not see. Let them…"

Her chest rose slightly as she breathed in, head tilting, while she took in a new group of combatants.

"It is easier and more straightforward than admitting blindness."

Her words were not a barb. They were truth…Those who had not witnessed all that the Sith Order had persevered in the last decade couldn't possibly understand the depth of strength it took not to strike when offered direct opportunity. Her head turned back toward her husband, aureate eyes taking in his profile in a quiet study. They often saw things differently…But it had never mattered.

If Empyrean had wished for someone to always agree with him—He would have never married her at all.

"You may dismiss them…But never me.", her tone was frost, soft as glass sliding into place, but there was a subtle finality to it, no matter how lightly she addressed him. "Even if this Covenant is novel…They are what we are. New and bold, perhaps, but Sith are oft cut from the same black cloth.", a little tilt of her head while she considered it. Having her near to assess what was offered was far from the worst idea. She was more tactically minded than most. "Still. They may be worth watching but…"

A faint smile pressed itself into the kiss of her mouth, fleeting, with the barest curve of her lips that was there and gone in an instant. Empyrean would feel it more than see it.

"...Wouldn't you rather fight me instead?"

 

[St. Thomas Barran]

EDITED FOR ACCURACY

TAGS
Friend: Darth Solipsis Darth Vinaze Dodhorn Harert Sahar Lord Creuat
Darth Bellum Khamul Kryze Talon Draven Darth Apophion Maestus Da'Razel
Donne Toulemonde Darth Virelia

Foe: Emissary of Strife Darth Anathemous Vestra Tane Tamsin Starfall
Anet Raine Mercy Arris Windrun Hasuras Na-Gerra Darth Strosius
Darth Carnifex Helix Darth Adekos Lirka Ka Barragh Nenn Elani Zambrano
Darth Empyrean Drystan Creed

THE GREAT HUNT
4

​

SITH TEMPLE, DESEVRO,
OUTER RIM TERRITORIES (903 ABY)

'Ha! Clever boy....'
​

With the ground cracking and breaking apart beneath his feet, bring up molten fire from the deepest of the sudden cracks below, the Heathen Saint couldn't help but appreciate the power of his opponent, though it was more akin to gladdened relief. This foe was powerful enough to make a lasting first impression, and for the first of his recorded feats against this fledgling, burgeoning Galactic Empire, this new opponent was going the right way about earning his reputation on the next battlefront; not bad for a first engagement, and for all it was worth in these tense, maddening moments, Barrran in particular would not forget it any time soon.

Thus the Bloodhound was forced to dig deep within himself, and for the second time that night; first, for the Heathen Incantation-coating around his own hands, and yet, with the ground falling, and fire ascending, the second would, instead, require every ounce of his focus to endeavour advanced telekinesis like never before. Two separate methods would be needed, with both required to be achieved in rapid, echoing succession, and it all centered around his Suspended Sabre method, an endeavour the Khan knew was to be tried on his first (and only-) attempt. Starting with a guided slash at the molten outpour behind him, St. Thomas would then latch a grasp on his curved Makashi hilt as the lightsabre itself pulled him through the gap, and all in two-step motion.

And with the last squared foot of ground at the Bloodhound's disposal - he endeavoured that exactly.

The activated sabre would pull Barran through the shortening gap with more impetus than expected, but for all the luck he had in making it through the closing dome of molten spray, neither of his boots had made it through the evasion unscathed, but St. Thomas would not shirk his small blessings. Even after landing, prone, and seemingly undignified, even after sitting up to remove his boots, down to nothing but the trousers by then, the Khan would not look this gifthorse in the mouth. Not on this night of nights, not with the fight still at hand at the time, and when he finally arose to look his foe in the eye, the curiosity took hold once more.

'Ha! You're a wee chite for that one, lad.... But well-played, I commend it.'

Barran's arms then began to spread out, almost as if he was on the verge of taunting once more, but with hands still open, unballed from the fists he promised himself to use combatively, the Khan had chosen to utilise his abilities instead. Fully intending to display something from his own little bag of tricks, and just like his opponent, fully intending to utilise suchlike abilities before engaging outright, quite content in his process of sussing out this opponent's nature in combat. But that depended entirely on whether-or-not his Sith opposition survived this next attack, as there were no guarantees of survival after the frozen, coated hands met in the middle, nor of calculation of volatilities in suchlike situations, and especially not for a feat of the sort Barran was thinking about.

'My turn.'

[CLAP]
[WHOOOOOOOOSH]​

Like a rushing, gale-force wind, the frozen bite of Death's Kiss, within an instant, froze the billowing, overflowing lava-spray, rendering molten violence into frozen, brittle rock. Likely reaching down just far enough for the Khan's idea, but with grander, wilder aspirations, he would not allow for maybes or perhapses this time around, thus one more clap was offered to solidify the bottle-cork effect. This marked a display on why the Bloodhound never liked to play with matters of seismic, volcanic concern, but for this one special outing, mayhem would dictate the most-frightening of lessons in natural physics - and St. Thomas would, once again, acquiesce to the stupidity that dictated feats of the sort.

Amidst the escape, and with the wall of lava-spray still billowing in it's wake, it had been difficult to discern the exact position of his young opponent, but there he was, phasing into the topography around him at the time. The Khan would shake his head when he saw this, an unlikely warning to an enemy he knew would be better off dead, cautioning silently of other dangers to worry about, fully aware of the risks he incurred by shaking his head in that moment. Not that the Bloodhound ever cared much for these things, still perpetually seeking means of growth through adversity, but when the low-rumble could finally be felt beneath his bare feet, the warning's merit increased tenfold.

'You feel that?'

[CLAP]
[WHOOOOOOOOOOSH]​

This only stopped the ground-shaking crescendo for a few moments, just a short few seconds of stillness before the rumbling returned, stronger, and wider-reaching than before, and once again, the intensifying low-rumble would be allowed to intensify some more. Like an overzealous concierge with an unsuspecting champagne bottle, the rocklike cork was being tested to it's absolute limits, and though it seemed the molten, glassy stasis was not much in scale for the task, the volatile, frosty lid was still wide enough in diameter to make something fantastical of the long-expected eruption.

It was then that the Khan's widening grin would reach it's pinnacle, almost ear-to-ear by then.

[CLAP]
[WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSH]​

For good measure, and with satisfaction enough to step back and prepare for catalysm, the Khan's anticipation would finally take precedence after the last, deathly clap of applause, looking once more to his newfound opponent as the deep rumbles gradually made way for dry, cracking partitions down below. Reaching from up the broken bedrock, all the way to the very architectural foundations that sat atop it's surface, and the Khan's bare feet could feel every last part of it, from head to toe. The next indication of impending eruption would be the hot steam, hissing as it slipped through the first of the seismic cracks, heating up the ground considerably; but before long, there would be no more warning signs, only the most-volatile of volcanic chain-reactions.

Bracing then for mayhem, the Bloodhound tapped into the last of his suppressed Midichlorian power, and despite the madness that was just seconds away from unfolding, he was still smiling that same, devious grin as excited anticipation took hold of his soul. His subordinates had called it,"Dropship Fever", for decades by then, considered the catch-all term for all-things thrillseeking in peace and war alike, and for as long as his adrenal receptors remained active, the rush of willing idiocy would continue to dictate the nature of his offensive strategy.

Just as it had on that night of nights.

'Tic.... Tic....'

[BOOOOOOM]​

First came the shockwave, intense enough that it likely contained enough power to cause more than a few unsuspecting warriors nearby to lose their footing, but hot on the shockwave's heels would be the pressurized, frozen husk of the molten spray, scattered into a canopy of burning projectiles in every possible direction. The space between them (and all around the beligerents on both sides) was naturally inundated by a blast of that magnitude, changing the cold, wide, growing battlefront into an array of smouldering hazards in the blink of an eye, and to such an extreme that it would have been impossible for the average, Non-Force Wielding soldier. Yet this would count as (yet another) one of the few blessings for the Bloodhound as he lay cackling on his back, seeing stars before the smoke, dust and ash followed the rocky shockwave, and before everyone knew it, the entire area was covered in an ashen cloud, stifled in a haze that felt like the Fog of War had finally found a living embodiment.

'BAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!!!! YUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUSSSSSS!!!!!'

 

[Avarice]

Darth Carnifex

Avarice watched all that was going on trailing at a 'safe' distance from Darth Carnifex . At some points, Avarice averted his gaze keeping his hands close and arms crossed. He made no motion to attack or draw any weapons as he padded along taking in the horrific sights and various bouts of chaos. He watched the Master at work taking silent notes and staying primarily out of the way of most things.

 

[Barragh Nenn]

The Umbaran had sunk back into the shadows where he could be forgotten. Easy to overlook, easy to forget; especially with the chaos that transpired around them all.

His Shadowcloak meant he would go unseen if not unfelt in the dim light and darkness.

Waiting for another target.

He would not have to wait long.

As Darth Virelia leapt at Hasuras Na-Gerra the bilari chain-whip snapped out from darkness again.

She feinted with her halberd, the electro-chain whip stretched out in a single fluent lashing while she was in mid air to wrap around the polearm. A subsequent stiff backwards pull was made in contrast to Virelia's forwards momentum to wrench the polearm from her grasp. If she maintained her hold on it the sudden pull in defiance to her own forwards momentum would certainly make things awkward for her if not rip her out of the air for a hard landing.

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

S C O U R G E
o f
V A H L​

Darth Virelia | St. Thomas Barran | Drystan Creed | Lord Creuat | Barragh Nenn | Darth Vinaze | Talon Draven | Darth Bellum

"Me, disappoint? So far it's been the other way around."

“Hah!” A grin spread upon Gerra’s features and he watched with mirth as this newcomer sprinted off to bring ruin upon the foolhardy imperial cur.

Then from the depths of the crackling flame, where he’d thought her ruined, the armored demon emerged with a halberd come to bear, leaping for him.

"Let me show you," she purred, voice like a velvet whip, "how a goddess makes her monsters kneel."

Then she leapt. One last surge of energy carried her skyward, cloak snapping like the wings of a predator. She twisted mid-air, the halberd flashing low in a feint—bait for the behemoth's eye. From her free hand, the Force erupted, condensed into a blast of absolute fury.

@Barragh Nenn’s whip from the shadows came for her halberd even as her blast of hatred came down upon him, crackling with ethereal black flame.

Raising a hand before the blast, Gerra took its full brunt upon his palm. The burnished metal of his gauntlet overheated to a cherry red and flesh steamed and warped and cooked beneath the blast. His hand glowed. And the blast’s power sucked into him, siphoned into his being and lending aid to the tendrils of energy of Force Drain.

He severed the one leading to Virelia.

Reaching toward his shadowy aide in the Force, the Umbaran, he pressed for a moment of truce.

“Enough,” he rumbled, ripping free his terentatek helmet and tossing it side so that he might speak as doth a mountain, amid the thundering of Drystan and Barran’s yonder clash, “Peace. You fought well. Do not waste your blood upon the tundra here. Do you serve the Corpse Emperor of the Core?”

 

[Quinn Varanin]

//: Mercy //: Delsin Shaw //: Kirie //:
//: Attire //:
//: Gyðja //: Lightsaber //: Miritalmë //:

Before Quinn could step away, Mercy reached out. The woman's hand came along her jawline, gentle but firm, forcing Quinn to meet her eyes and see her victory in the kaggath. The kiss on her cheek surprised Quinn, but she accepted it, assuming it was for specific reasons. They were Sith, and weakness was exploited.

"Of course," Quinn smiled as she pulled away. "I'm always watching, my Herunín." Her eyes lingered for a moment as the weight of her words hung in the air. Mercy wasn't her concern here; she could handle herself, especially after challenging the Emperor of the Core in the kaggath.

The thought made Quinn breathe a small laugh as the collision sounded behind her. An excellent start to a fight.

She hurried her handmaiden along. The woman had only just begun her Force training, and this was no place for her, not with so many searching for ways to tear down what belonged to the Sith Empire. The barrier Quinn created around them was enough to get through most of the already war-torn field — until she heard the tapping against the dome.

Turning her head, she saw the grin of Delsin Shaw. The man still hadn't answered why he flew a ship painted with her likeness along its hull.

She ignored him once, but the second time, she knew she needed to respond. A hand pushed Kirie forward, pointing toward the building being defended. Someone who cared for Kirie as much as Quinn did was holding the door.

"Go on, Kirie, I'll be there momentarily." Her voice showed little strain as a small black cat appeared, curling around the Weikian's legs and guiding her toward safety.

Now Delsin had her full attention. Quinn folded her hands gently behind her back as she looked at the man outside her barrier. He was usually careful and deliberate, but today he seemed eager to take risks.

"Play?" Quinn asked, tilting her head. Her eyes burned, already knowing what he wanted. They were Echani; battle was in their bones from the moment they were born.

"I have wanted to play with you for a very long time, Delsin Shaw." Her voice was smooth, almost teasing, as she let the barrier fall. A sudden shockwave of the Force burst from her, its focus on his chest, meant to send him flying into the crowd. She wanted to hunt him, to find what he feared, and to see what made him break.

He wanted to play. She would play — if only to see if he was worthy.

 

[Da'Razel]

SITH GATHERING - DESEVRO
​

Tag Direct: Darth Carnifex | Darth Solipsis | Darth Vinaze | St. Thomas Barran

Tag Indirect: Hasuras Na-Gerra | Donne Toulemonde | Darth Bellum | Mercy | Talon Draven | Darth Virelia

Equipment: Bōchōr | The Vow of Saud | The Helm of the One-Eyed Prophet | Korrûg Kuûr

His war cry raged with righteous self-belief, proclaiming itself rich in glory.

In a fell swoop, his massive oscillating cleaver came crashing down upon the Dark Lord, yearning to slice his feeble form in two, to dethrone a king who had sat too long in a forgotten palace.

But alas, Bōchōr would not taste blood this day, nor would its eerie gong, a church bell tolling on a death march, sound. Its wielder buckled in anticipation of the strike, expecting the cleaver to crash against impermeable armor.

Instead, the blade froze. Suspended, caught in its final breath of motion, held in place by a unseen hand, a gravitational force, only fingers' breadth from its mark.

No matter the strength he poured into his grip, the cleaver did not budge.

His roar became a scream, an overburdened, desperate plea to tear the blade through the false god.

Like fly in a web, he could feel the terrifying pin needle arms of the governing arachnid pluck his wings, and limbs as the surge of power was drained from him, flame snuffed out like a candle robbed of air.

His scream cracked into denial, rage, hatred, and the terror of suffocation in the Dark Lord's grasp.

He had been a fool to strike the Patriarch of Kainite alone. Behind his helm, eyes pressed tight in torment, he cast his gaze left, searching for his masters and allies, but found none.

Never before in battle had he felt such isolation, standing against a shadow greater than he could comprehend.

His attention returned only at the last gasp of his mantle's flame, before it peeled away, his celestial, avian wings scattering, embers dissolving like ash in the wind.

His scream faltered, then cut violently short.

Sarrassian iron punctured deep into his chest.

His head snapped back as crushed lungs drew a last gurgling breath.

Bastion, Cademimu V, Ord Cantrell, Ord Lithone, Arkania, Coruscant...

Frantically blinking, he only sought to know if this was the end of his thread.

Yet no crimson spilled forth.

Instead, a yellow radiance pierced his tissue, molten gold flowing from a mortal wound, rays of sunrise breaking through the night into a valley below.

His body flared. Then erupted.

Like before, upon the Sepulchre. But that had been the rage of a forest fire. This was the birth of a sun.

The fire-resistant fibers of his mantle seared, glowed, and tore away like dying shadows at dawn.

The golden plates of his armor pearled off, dripping like molten snow, revealing not Korriban-hued Devaronian skin, but a silhouette wrought of light.

Flesh incandesced living plasma, shaped into the outline of a man.

The glow grew unbearable, pure white.

A star born.

The transformation was instant. And in the next, the world came undone.

As volcanic eruptions shattered the battlefield, a cosmic one followed.

The first signs were unseen, radiation bursting from him like a brittle dam at last undone by a storm long withheld.

Snow and ice vanished in an instant, vaporized into hissing fog that dispersed as swiftly as breath in a gale.

Their peripheral tore itself free from a thousand years of memories shackled in white. The scorched ground a darkened barren mass.

Then sound caught up. A single godly clap split the world, a thunder strike echoing in temperatures this ancient battlefield had never known.

Electronics burst. Polarities seized. The very air was set ablaze.

Expanding shockwaves of searing heat ripped sinew from bone, burned bone to ash, and printed ashen outlines like shadows of the fallen into the ground.

Amidst rolling flares of light, Da'Razel's own mortal tissue gave way to radiance. His body collapsed into pure brilliance, expending a life time of energy into a single heartbeat, a shrine candle made a solar flare.

As the sun scorched patch of earth was seared asunder, the form clad in white, shaped voiceless words, signed by silhouettes of lips.

"For the God-Emperor…"

 

[Delsin Shaw]

Now this was interesting.

Every day I learned more about this woman. Who she kept around her. Who she held to a high regard. Mercy and this other woman who were near her. I did not miss the names. They seared into my mind. Kirie, an apprentice? side piece? I knew that Quinn spoke and worked with a number of individuals. But to see all the more of them in this location truly showed me how many connections she had with so many. Even more so, the woman's words of this not being a game. I chuckled at that moment before the shield dropped and a blast of the force threw me skyward.

Quinn unleased the force at me. Instinct took over and my hand reached out. Grabbing a hold of the ground to yank myself back to the floor. Landing a little hard on the ground with a solid thud. My head snapped up to Quinn as she now spoke of wanting to play with me for a rather long time. The smile upon my face only deepened. We have had our share of pleasantries, and niceties. Now, I wanted to see if she really could handle herself. Sure, We had fought side by side, and knew very well that our strengths and weaknesses had very little overlap. Tilting my head from side to side, audible pops came from my neck. Standing up straight to face her.

"Looks like Kirie does not know of the Echani O'kindred."

Directly name dropping her friend. My words filled with a sense of malice to induce more out of the Echani woman. The chuckle escaped my lips. Knees bending low, arms held out open hands ready to do whatever was necessary. Head still keeping direct contact with hers. Never looking away before my body became the very lightning I controlled. Lancing out to cross the distance before a fist came at her. A left handed jab to cross the distance and to set the pace. Before a right hand came out. This time, sheathed in lightning. Striking at such a close distance so that should I miss, maybe some of it would arc from my body to strike her.

"And how long have you wanted to play my dear?"

Taunting before the drop. My left foot slamming into the ground. Releasing a shockwave of electrified energy across the floor. Not just to knock her off her feet, but attempting to stay rooted, will turn her into the grounding source. Hopefully, keeping her in pace for another onslaught of strikes that would show her how much fun this was going to be.

Mercy | Kirie | Quinn Varanin

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Tyrant Queen."

Tags - Hasuras Na-Gerra Barragh Nenn



The whip sang out of shadow, metal links hungry for her halberd. Virelia felt it tug, wrenching her momentum mid-air. She let it go without hesitation, cloak flaring as she twisted in the blaze of her own fury. She landed in a low crouch, smoke curling off Tyrant's Embrace, the tundra hissing beneath her boots.

Her helm tilted toward the giant as he cast aside his helm, flame and shadow painting his form in raw brutality. His words rumbled like stone ground against stone. Peace.

She rose slowly, elegantly, as if exhaustion were a costume she would not wear before an audience. Violet eyes burned behind her mirrored mask, shifting like facets of some insect god. When she spoke, her voice dripped velvet and iron.

"No corpse commands me," she purred, each syllable a caress with teeth hidden behind it. "I serve no Emperor, and I kneel to no throne. I rule the Dark Court — and it serves me."

Her hand traced the air idly, as though shaping smoke into crown and scepter. A gesture both licentious and mocking, the suggestion of dominion in every line.

"You fight like a god from ash and ruin," she admitted, the respect in her tone edged with hunger, "but I am no priestess to worship you. I am another sovereign. And where sovereigns meet, blood is wasted only when pride demands it."

The halberd dissolved into nothingness, dismissed like a toy she had already outgrown. She stood unarmed in the kind of arrogance only a predator could carry.

Her laugh was low, intimate, amused.

"Pride, it's all around us."

 

[Drystan Creed]

DESEVRO

Drystan's brows furrowed beneath his visor as the supernatural frost sank into his bones, stinging cold lancing through him. Heat turned to chill dangerously fast—too fast to be natural—and despite himself, he smiled. This was getting interesting.

He knew what would come next. Hot and cold never played nice, and this would be no different. He braced as the rock around him shattered under a sudden flash of blinding light, the explosion cracking through the underground. The shockwave, the heat, the sheer force of it buried him beneath rubble, ash and smoke now claiming the space where snow once lay.

A dangerous silence formed.

Then, a hand burst from the ground.

Drystan clawed his way free, loosening rock and soil as he dug out of what should have been a shallow grave. His armor was dented, a crack tracing down his visor, and scratches and bruises marred the bit of skin visible on his lower face. His right shoulder hung loose from its socket; he let out a sigh before snapping it back into place with a wet crack.

"Not bad. That was a neat trick," Drystan called out, voice cutting through the eerie silence. He stood, patting himself clean as his gaze swept across the fog-choked surroundings.

Once, he would have welcomed such an environment to exploit—to use it as cover, to hunt unseen. But now it only dulled the thrill. He scoffed. This wouldn't do.

He unsheathed his blade, letting its tip rest against the ground, holding it loosely as he inhaled. Then he spun—an abrupt whirl, followed by a vicious slash. Pure physical prowess drove the motion, displacing the ash in a violent spiral. A gust roared outward from him, a miniature storm that banished the cloud from his immediate vicinity, carving open a wide, clear space around him through sheer strength alone.

Hasuras Na-Gerra St. Thomas Barran Darth Virelia Barragh Nenn