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

[Khamul Kryze]

The Unchained

Loadout: Mandalore's Lament, Regret, beskar'gam

Engaging: Arris Windrun

Darth Solipsis , Darth Vinaze , Da'Razel , Lord Creuat , Dodhorn Harert , St. Thomas Barran

Theme

The push came and went, all in a flash, but at the same time so slow, as if time itself had bent its will to the Mand'alor. He had not willed it so, but the perception of a true warrior was more than any common individual could understand. He reached out to the darkness, seeking guidance as to his next move. That move came, though possibly too late... as he spun his body, attempting to avoid the round that was aimed nearly point blank to his body.

The round landed, and though at first it seemed inconsequential, as the moments passed, the unignorable sensation of burning crept up his free arm. It wasn't enough to put him down. The Unchained had spent too many years enduring far greater pain than this. He chose to let it simmer, using it to fuel his own rage as he began to lash out at his opponent.

Mandalore's Lament slashed... and slashed... and slashed again, it's hellish presence presenting a crimson flurry of strikes against his opponent.

Worms... he would think to himself. None of them could possibly understand the true will of a warrior.

His blade continued to hack and slash, leaving little room for his opponent to adapt. If they could... then perhaps they may survive...

He almost hoped they would.

 

[Arris Windrun]

Khamul Kryze

Arris landed to a flurry of razor attacks from her opponent's deadly blade. She hadn't encountered a weapon like it - at least at a glance - but knew it for what it was when the hot edge melted across her chest. Synflesh sizzled, and her subdermal armor, too, had been lacerated by the powerful energy. This was a lightsaber, or at least something like it.

That made what she had to do next much simpler. The cyborg picked up the pace and found a groove. Turning potential death into a dance with violence. She moved and dodged as her steps backpedaled. She took a nick at her shoulder, another below the eye, and a cut along the armored casing of a leg. The movement bought her co-processor enough time to mark his weapon and himself.

She pushed herself back with the Force and drew both guns. One aimed at his blade - fired a shell of cortosis dust called a 'saber breaker' which'll short a lightsaber out on impact, if only temporarily.

The cyborg didn't wait to measure her success. With a kick of hydraulic power, she charged forward and entered a controlled slide along some icy mud and fired her other weapon. This time it was the old familiar, the scorching hot biogel, aimed for his sword-carrying side.

Spoiler: Saber Breaker

Link

SABER BREAKER SHELL: This shell is simply packed with a cortosis dust. Fire it, it bursts, your opponent's lightsaber shorts out. Ideally.

 

[Barragh Nenn]

The Halberd discorporated.

The Whip withdrew, fading back into the shadows.

If Hasuras Na-Gerra wished to parley with Darth Virelia then so be it.

Unseen eyes observed, paying carefully attention to the subtle tics and nonverbal cues of both parties. Eyes flickered to the battle between Drystan Creed and St. Thomas Barran too but he did not intervene. The Vahlan was his priority for the moment so long as no one struck against him he needn't be concerned with their actions.

Elsewhere Sith dueled. A Kaggath called. Lords of repute such as Darth Solipsis and Mercy engaged one another, Arris Windrun fought against Khamul Kryze

It was all very interesting.

 

[Veno]

He was a bit bored beneath the corpse, and it was starting to feel a little too heavy. Bloodshed brought a certain sense of fun, even if it often meant that the giants were stomping around on the ants. Even if Veno preferred not to be crushed underfoot, sometimes those more irrational urges rose up to the surface, bubbling.

Veno wormed his blaster out from beneath the Houk laying on top of him, taking aim at the pale freak known as Barragh Nenn and slammed a finger down on the trigger.

 

[Darth Carnifex]

The light was blinding, scouring shadow and abstracting the silhouettes of all caught in it's radiance. At the epicenter, the Eternal Father, clad in power both dark and majestic. He alone weathered the greatest brunt of the eruption, expression unwavering as all became naught as light and ash. Rather than pulling away from the intense reaction, the Eternal Father seemed to lean into it, to push forward until He truly stood at the center of the mass expulsion of energy and radiation.

And when all was said and done, and the light dimmed to nothingness amidst a waste of scorched earth and blackened bones, there He stood. The wind clutched and tore at Him, though the cloak at His shoulders, weighted by the scales of Beskar, nary moved an inch in the tumultuous gale. Skin, blackened and charred, creaked and crackles as He moved to look about Him. He was unrecognizable, a blemish of blackened ruin held together by armor that smoked from every joint and crease.

Then, He reached up towards His face with blackened claws, running them over the great scar that was His head. As the fingers ran along the length, long strands of midnight black hair sprouted from His scalp, pieces of blackened flesh cascading down in uneven clumps as the ruin fell away like a veil. Muscle and skin rapidly reknit over fire-kissed bones, the Eternal Father's visages replenishing itself as the world around Him grew dim and colorless; the Force leached away and flowing into Him in all it's vast multitudes; Light and Dark.

No soft fabric had survived the explosion, only the hard alchemically-wrought steel did. Beneath it the Eternal Father was clad only in bare skin, regrown from the energies of the Force He'd devoured moments before. To the careful eye, there was a difference in the black-inked tattoos that covered His body from before the explosion to now. Chiefly, there were more of them and in greater accumulations upon His skin, some of them even haphazardly woven into one another.

Such power always came at a cost, and flesh was not an exceptional conduit for such energies.

Breathing in deep, the Eternal Father let out a short bark of a laugh as He stood on His lonesome amidst death and ruin. "Saint of Flame indeed."

Darth Vinaze | Da'Razel ​

 

[Barragh Nenn]

The Blaster shot actually struck cleanly however it would deflect harmlessly in the process.

The Shadowcloak he wore incorporated an underlay of shell spider silk which was renowned for its ability to deflect fire from weapons such as they one fired at him.

In the aftermath the Umbaran turned his head in the direction the shot had come from, eyes narrowed and scanning for movement while he backed away.

He'd sink deeper into the background, the shadows and dim light causing him to blur until he disappeared completely and was rendered functionally invisible again. Others might sense him via the force or they might track him by a vague heat signature if they could see into the infrared spectrum but otherwise he would be difficult to see and nigh impossible to take a clean shot at.

Veno

 

[Veno]

Seeing his newly made opponent glance around, searching and then disappear, Veno decided the best strategy was to instead remain hidden beneath the corpse. He tucked his arm back underneath the Houk, feigning dead once again. His smaller frame buried quite neatly beneath the larger, oversized body. Even if a touch too heavy for comfort, it was better than letting that thing find him.

Barragh Nenn

 

[St. Thomas Barran]

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

Foe: Emissary of Strife 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
5

​

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

'Not bad. That was a neat trick,'
'Heh!'
​

The one-eyed Woad would have answered in proper gratitude, just moments away from offering good grace in the makings of a covenant between adversaries, but something happened that caught St. Thomas' attention, and in a way he never once expected. At first, it was the obvious breaching of a scabbard's catch, followed by the metallic scrape of a sword unsheathing, auditory clicks and scratches of which the Bloodhound recognised better than most under the stars that night; a recogition so jarring it left him cussing underbreath, stemming mostly from regret for leaving his songsteel on the flagship, having believed it too important for this outing among Force Users.

Without a chance to see what sort of blade he was facing in the ashen cloud, the Khan could only listen on as the hidden blade whirled and sang in the distance.

It was not until the lattermost phase of the distant motion when the method could apply itself, and with and all sense of meaningful potency at that; fortunate the Khan was that the desired, priority target was the ground-hugging, ashen fog after all, sending the haze outward to thicken on other segment's of the inundated Desevran battlefront whilst the clear, skylit chunk of visibility set the stage for the young opponent's next attack. Revealing a pretty canopy of stars for all that the revealed segment could see in the fight, the Bloodhound chuckled in appreciation of the dim lit setting it illuminated around him, smiling blissfully before that nagging sense of hypervigilance assailed his sense of wonder, stifled as if by way of garotte-wire.

'Bloody Nether! I can't even take a second to enjoy it, an' the worst bit? I don't even think I'll be seeing these stars again for a while, if at all.... An' here I am, back t'business.'

The one-eyed gaze of the Khan had returned to the sword his young opponent was wielding, and within a moment of catching it's form, he saw the way it glinted; and in that moment, that one tiny instant, Barran knew it to be Songsteel. It was a different, heavier density than the swords the Khan had faced in years bygone, thus drawing St. Thomas even further into his appraisal as he drawled,'Atrisian katana, evolved, but the new design additions are sleek enough t'pass.... It's features speak for themselves, though. I can see a pressurized trigger-mechanism there, an' judgin' by the charge-level there, its not just for show. I quite like it, to be fair.', nodding then with clear approval as he trailed off, already deep in consideration of the Songsteel-on-Songsteel clashes that awaited future engagements.

A return to imbued swordfighting glory, lying poised in wait for a,"Next-encounter".

'Have you been wise enough to give 'er a name, at least? I would like to know who my Chantress is meeting next time.... An' by the way, I'm Nokhoi Khan - known to the Galaxy as Thomas Barran.'

 

[Quinn Varanin]

//: Delsin Shaw //:

Quinn smiled faintly at his jab.

"She's not an Echani," she said evenly. "She knows enough to understand what matters."

The words carried calm authority, but her thin smile never touched her eyes — a warning in itself. Dropping Kirie's name in this nest of vipers wasn't a clever move, and he knew it.

Then he moved. The rhythm of his approach was unmistakable: the snap of lightning, the shift of weight, the displaced air before the strike. She read it all.

The first jab — sidestepped. Quinn's body rolled with Echani economy of motion: a subtle pivot, the strike grazing air as she let momentum pull her into position beside him. No wasted flourish. No grand theatrics. Just precision.

The second strike came, lightning laced through it. Quinn drew in a thin breath, hands rising as the Force tightened around her palms. Tutaminis. The bolt struck her open hand and hissed white-hot — hairs lifted, bones thrummed — before she folded it like a seam and redirected it. Sparks crawled up her forearm, arcing back toward his wrist and chest.

His stomp cracked the ground, a shockwave of electrified energy racing outward. Quinn bent with it, letting it wash through her stance instead of bracing. The wave became torque. She spun inside his guard and brushed a hand against his ribs — enough to shift balance, not wound. A reminder: she could be anywhere she wanted.

He had never seen her fight like this. People thought her a distant wielder of the Force, but she was still Echani — molded by Srina Talon herself. This was her inheritance, and she would show it.

Quinn's chest rose slowly, measured. One hand feathered along the inside of his forearm, her other sliding toward his collar to shift the balance further. Her hazel eyes stayed locked on his, her lips curved with playful arrogance.

"You wanted to play," she murmured, her voice low, steady. He could hear the rasp of amusement in it, the thread of desire for combat woven through every word. "Now show me if you're worth my attention."

Her foot snapped out, kicking toward his planted knee. Lightning surged through her muscles, strength honed by what she'd absorbed. She wasn't pushing him away; she was pulling him into intimacy — the closeness where Echani read more than movement, where every twitch of muscle betrayed thought.

 

[Drystan Creed]

DESEVRO

Drystan let out a quiet sigh, enjoying the fresh air, then inclined his head toward St. Thomas Barran in acknowledgement. Despite the explosion's damage, he seemed in high spirits—smiling, content.

"Chantress. That's a pretty name. Looking forward to meeting her. Mine's called Jetstream. Found the old thing in a temple on Dorin. A little old fashioned but I've kept it up with the current times."

Behind the visor his eyes glimmered as he smirked. He hefted the weapon over his shoulder, posture loose, almost at ease—as if the battlefield were nothing more than a stage for a casual conversation. A gloved finger tapped the scabbard at his hip.

"My name is Drystan Creed. A fellow warrior." He huffed and stepped forward, content to keep moving.

"Glad I didn't miss this party. I was looking for some action." He sheathed the blade again. Unlike most warriors, this was a dangerous stance to face—his style favored a quick draw amplified by a ballistic payload: a giant piece of steel launched at slug-thrower speed.

"I'm no Sith like the others here. I just like to stretch my legs every now and then—like now."

There was no swaggering arrogance in his voice, just casual cool. He didn't sound like a man chasing glory or validation; he spoke with the ease of someone who'd already found what he was made for. A warrior by nature, content in the clash of steel and will.

He placed his main hand above the pommel and pressed his offhand's index against the scabbard trigger, positioning himself in striking range—more than happy to accept that he was squarely within his opponent's reach.

St. Thomas Barran