Faction Great Purge - Fall of Prosperity [Jedi/Sith]

[Darth Prazutis]

Bold. Driven by the deepest desire for vengeance the Imperial Knight charged across the floor towards the Butcher King. Through smoke, blaster fire, and the raging battle surrounding them all. It seemed perfect then a life served to avenge the fallen of Tion, one of many worlds burned to ash by the Kainate, their dead screaming into the void serving the Dark Side's purpose one final time. It couldn't have been written better in the annals of stories and legends, to see your hated quarry so close, so very close in front of you. To have them in a penultimate confrontation to avenge every friend and family you ever lost, to carve their names in blood and battle. Out from wreckage came the brave Tydeus of Tion, out from certain death he emerged drawing blades designed for death, to fell monsters, his eyes locked on the Eternal Father. The battlefield seemed to slow as Tydeus crossed the deck, howling vengeance at the Dyarch. Right as he neared Kaine Zambrano, right as he loomed a few feet away. So close...so very close...

Yet denied his final reckoning.

Out from force augmented speed, the Shadow Hand crashed towards the side of the Imperial Knight with all the force of a nearly seven-hundred-pound locomotive at high speed. Xûl Qarnak gripped in His hands, the blade raged and howled with a deafening rumble, runework screaming bright on dark metal as it drank in death. A lightsaber designed for a Sith Titan to afford Him every advantage, to bring the full might of His inhuman power to bear as He swung it down towards the Imperial Knight. Apart the Eternal Dyarchy were apocalyptic threats, separate they were more akin to a natural disaster than any other word. But together? Words failed to describe the totality of danger when they fought as a single unifying force against a deadly threat. They'd been side by side buildng, ruling, conquering, killing for over a hundred years. Their bonds were so deep in the Dark Side of the Force they almost ceased being two individuals and became one yawning void in the force the closer they stood, their powers multiplying on themselves over and over. No one knew them better. It was a lifetime of connection that drew them deeper than even the closest of familial bonds, it was something different.

They could communicate without speaking, reach each other regardless of distance. Even while He charged it wasn't to save the Eternal Father from the Imperial Knight, no. To assume such was folly. It was the very moment where two became one to turn ones climactic moment into utter ruin, to transfigure it into ash in the mouth. Even as He crashed in the Shadow Hand was preparing, moving seamlessly in order to fold His attack efficiently into the Eternal Father's next move. The giants positioning designed to split Tydeus's focus far enough so he couldn't keep both of them in the same view, and precious seconds between them would matter between a blocked, parried, or evaded blow and a blow struck. But as His strike fell something else came. A telekinetic grip of overwhelming strength. It wasn't designed to freeze Him entirely, it was designed to seize him for just a moment, to let the abrupt and sudden nature of it wrench the Imperial Knight into confusion and delirium. To carve an opening just wide enough for the Eternal Father to exploit.

Darth Carnifex | Darth Empyrean | Lysander von Ascania | Naniti | Allyson Locke | Tydeus of Tion​

 

[Seo Linn]

Seo hit the lower deck only moments after Dalvos, boots slamming hard against the plating as blaster fire sparked wildly through the ladder well above them. The confined space amplified everything: alarms, sonic blasts, shouted warnings, the sharp hiss of burning metal where stray bolts struck bulkheads already half-ruined by the fighting, until the entire corridor felt as if it were vibrating around them.

She dropped into cover beside the doorway just as another burst of red plasma tore through the intersection ahead. The Sith were regrouping quickly, far more quickly than she liked, and Seo leaned out long enough to send several controlled shots downrange, forcing the surviving troopers back behind the damaged corridor split while Dalvos assessed their options. The left passage still held movement; the right looked unstable enough that one more bad hit might bring it down entirely.

Her eyes flicked downward for half a second. The scorch mark on his thigh armor was impossible to miss.

"You're hit," she said evenly, not accusatory, simply noting the fact as another bolt cracked past close enough to shower sparks across the wall beside them.

Dalvos's suggestion drew her attention back toward the damaged right corridor, and she judged the distance, the strain in the supports, the way the plating bowed under its own weight. "Cutting through may still be faster," she said, calm even as blaster fire hammered the doorway hard enough to force her lower. "If the left passage narrows, they can funnel us into overlapping fire."

She returned fire almost immediately afterward, driving the troopers back just long enough to buy them breathing room measured in seconds rather than minutes.

Then came his last comment. You're kinda crazy, you know that? Thermal detonator.

Seo blinked once at him, then gave the faintest shrug, strangely casual considering the circumstances. "I learned early how to improvise," she replied dryly, a flicker of humor crossing her expression despite the firefight raging around them. "And it was low yield."

Another shot cracked against the bulkhead overhead, showering them both in dust and sparks. Seo leaned back out and fired twice more toward the corridor split before glancing at Dalvos and the plasma torch in his hand.

"Cut fast," she said, steady and certain. "I'll keep them occupied."

Dalvos Thrakan @open

 

[Katarine Ryiah]

"Never Hide Your Heart"
​

Prosperity - Dock 4

​

The door hissed open.

Katarine felt them before she saw them.

The dark side rolled through the docking bay in oily waves, clinging to the mercenaries waiting beyond the threshold. Not all of them were Force-sensitive, but they carried its stain, of violence, fear, cruelty, desperation. The kind of people darksiders surrounded themselves with. The kind of presence she had spent years trying to avoid.

Her stomach twisted the instant it touched her senses.

And somewhere beneath the revulsion came hunger.

Her white blade snapped to life just as blasterfire erupted toward them. Crimson bolts slammed into the humming light and scattered in every direction. One ricocheted into the ceiling. Another tore through a fuel line in a burst of steam and sparks.

"Get to a ship!" she shouted.

The two families ran past her in panic, clutching children and bags while alarms began to scream throughout the dock. Katarine stepped forward alone, saber moving in swift defensive arcs as more mercenaries emerged from cover.

The pull intensified immediately. It always did when she was close to people like this.

The dark side was not inside her, but being near it awakened something terrible in her body. Like standing beside a fire during winter. Like inhaling smoke after finally escaping it. Every instinct told her to move closer instead of away.

To listen.

To sink into it.

Her pulse quickened.

Another volley came. Katarine spun gracefully through the barrage, redirecting bolts back into crates and railings while refugees disappeared toward the waiting freighter behind her.

"Aren't you coming?" someone yelled from the boarding ramp.

"Just go!"

She didn't know if she meant it, but the pull kept growing.

There were darksiders nearby.

Not here in the dock perhaps, but close. She could feel them like pressure behind her eyes. A familiar ache. A terrible magnetic call somewhere deeper in the station.

She just hadn’t decided if she was going to answer that call yet.

 

[Nima Torr]

Darkness had fully settled over the Prosperity like a funeral shroud, suffusing the air with a sense of foreboding as the distant cacophony of battle resonated like a mournful dirge, foreign and jarring to a sanctuary that had long been shielded from the turmoil beyond its walls. Within these hallowed halls, the focus had always been on nurturing the potential of its cherished students, many of whom were blissfully unaware of the gruesome realities unfolding just beyond their borders, their naivety shielded by those who had suffered in their stead, until the time came for them to take up the mantle.

Nima had hoped for their sake that they would have more time—a childhood filled with laughter and carefree joy, rather than the pervasive fear that seeped into the very fabric of the ship, until it felt as if she were choking on despair itself, the weight of impending doom pressing down relentlessly on her heart and soul.

Unfortunately, hope had slipped through her fingers like grains of sand; the time for dreams faded with the encroaching presence of the living nightmare that dogged their steps. Now, all that remained was the hard-edged truth, the bitter understanding that those who survived this harrowing trial might one day ignite a spark that could illuminate the path to a brighter future.

It mattered not if none of them survived today.

Nima moved purposefully through the dim hallways, her figure illuminated by the twin blades of azure that burned at her sides, piercing the inky darkness. As she walked, the air around her seemed to shimmer, with delicate, imperceptible threads of a gossamer web stretching out and weaving between the jagged remnants of a diseased realm. The ethereal web glistened faintly in her mind, each strand a fragile connection to the dwindling lights, and the cloying darkness that attempted to seep into the edges of her perception.

At the furthest reaches of where she dared to grasp, one particular thread twisted restlessly beneath the corruptive presence of the dark, its light flickering and dimming with each passing heartbeat. Sensing the urgency in its fading glow, Nima's strides quickened, propelled by an instinctive need to reach the fragile light before it was snuffed out forever.

As she approached, an inactive elevator shaft loomed in her path, its entrance sealed off by a heavy silver blast door. Time dwindled in the moment between heartbeats. With a calculated flick of her wrist, she channelled a surge of energy that erupted from her fingertips, and with a resounding clang, the seal shattered—metal crumpled inward, twisted and mangled under the force, the edges of the door bending inward with enough power to create a jagged opening that beckoned her deeper into the abyss. Another step carried her the rest of the way, as she launched herself forward, a lunge that twisted mid-air, driving through the gap as she landed upon a support railing on the inside of the elevator shaft, then kicked off to rapidly descend until she once again felt the tug of threads.

She was running out of time.

Tag: OPEN​

 

[Zark San Tekka]

OPEN

"Security override. Council clearance."

Master San Tekka remained perfectly still while a sensor beam swept over him. It was a multi-layered system that would compare his genetic sequence, retinal pattern, and voice print to records that confirmed his identity as a sitting master of the Jedi Council. Elsewhere aboard the Prosperity there were Jedi dying and padawans who needed protection but there was also a bigger picture.

Blast doors thick enough to withstand a turbolaser unleashed steam from the hydraulics' slow progress. He passed by more secure repositories on his way to the masked Jedi's final destination. The Bogan Collection. The Black Vault. Most of the New Jedi Order's treasure had already been plundered but there were still secrets on board the Prosperity that he could not allow their ancient enemies the Sith to possess.

Zark handed an empty holocron to a polysensitive grasper which placed the device onto a multispectral reader.

"Initiate Guardian Protocols."

Top secret data reflected off the Jedi's temple guard mask while the holocron vault copied millions of exanodes onto a single cube. Master San Tekka sensed the darkside looming closer but could do nothing except wait for the process to complete. He picked up the glowing holocron when it was finished and marveled at how something so beautiful could be a symbol of their defeat.

Like the coming dawn his lightsaber burned its way through delicate Jedi machinery. The vault's analysis chamber erupted in a geyser of sparks. Holocrons winked out one by one as a corruptive program wiped out everything Zark could not take with him. Sacrificing so much knowledge violated the Code's precepts but the alternative would inevitably lead to far worse disaster.

Distant lightsabers echoed off the Prosperity's bulkheads. Master San Tekka closed the blast doors behind him. He would do everything possible for the survivors still on board but it was imperative that the old man made it off this ship.

 

[Corazona von Ascania]

Lysander von Ascania | Naniti
​

Sometimes, when a moth was traveling toward a flame, it found something else that captured its attention.

Cora's next heartbeat sank into her stomach like a lead weight. There were many familiar aspects to the Propserity, the clustered presence of so many Jedi. Kahlil, Connel, Silas, Ko, Lily…

And then, one discordant note in the Force. Chaotic, but familiar in the most unsettling way. The sound of it raced over her skin, prickling every hair, coiling in her gut before she even realized what it was.

Cora caught the nasty glint of Nightstar as it reeled back, then whipped forward in a cruel arc. She reached out, but was too late to pull the Jedi back from his fate. The resulting spray of blood wasn't as tightly calculated as the wound it had come from.

It was grisly and final, and it painted a crimson smattering across her face and shoulder.

Cora caught the savaged Knight as he fell. Shallow breaths, choking on his own blood. Her hand pressed close to the wound stretched across his abdomen, close to his heart. Years of triage had taught her when a wound was survivable, and when it was not.

"Lysander!" she cried, voice edged with disbelief as it rippled through the hangar.

Those shallow breaths gave way to a wheeze, then silence. He was afforded the mercy of a quick death, one that hadn't been granted by the Sith's brutal blade.

Cora kept her senses honed on Lysander as she rose. All but sight.

She could not look at him. Not at the cold, ornate face of his visor. A shaky breath was drawn in through parted lips that trembled ever so slightly, disappointment sinking into every shadowed feature of her face.

"This is what you've chosen to become? A man who runs with butchers and slavers?"

She'd never quite been ready to accept the reality of who Lysander was, but no longer could she afford him the benefit of the doubt. Her selfishness had cost lives.

In a cruel trick of memory, she saw light streaming through the high windows, caught in his golden curls. The way his little hand tried to turn the page of the book before she'd even finished reading this one aloud.

Then, there was the way his tiny finger traced the illustration of the knight. How he'd stare at it for minutes, taking in every detail of valiant, shining armor.

That recollection faded as quickly as it had come. The knight disappeared, and all that was left were the harsh, impersonal lines of her brother’s chosen helm.

Cora finally settled her gaze on the totality of Lysander. She held his gaze - or rather, sought it - through the slits in that visor.

"You're here to kill Jedi, are you not?" He'd effectively shaken her, and she didn't hide that. Cora’s expression firmed, dipping almost into a frown, a rising intensity to the gentle sister he'd known.

"This is what your masters told you to do?"

Cora spread her arms out to her sides, now holding Lysander in her unwavering line of sight.

"Then do it. Become the monster you're trying so hard to be. Strike me down, brother!"

 

[Katherine Holt]

Outfit: Link
Tags: Kahlil Noble | Silas Westgard​

When she had made the decision to leave her self-exile, Katherine knew she’d not be able to fully disconnect herself again. She had opted to return home, to spend time with Torin Emberlain . But now she could feel the Force, how it flowed outwards, stretching across the galaxy, and then returned in faint echoes.

And one night, Katherine’s peaceful slumber was interrupted by a vision.

The Prosperity surrounded by darkness. Its shadows were reaching out from all sides, attacking. Some slithering forth like snakes, others lashing out like blunt instruments.

It startled her awake, the sudden movement causing Torin to stir beside her.

“Kat, what’s wrong?”

“The Prosperity, it’s under attack, or going to be attacked…I dunno. I need- I need to-” Katherine went to leave the bed, only for a hand to wrap around her arm. She turned, just in time as Torin gently pulled her close and kissed her.

It calmed her thoughts immediately.

“Go,” he said, his voice calm but resolute. “Just come back, you hear me?”

Katherine couldn’t help but smile. “Promise.”

-x-​

Her first point of contact had ended up being Corazona von Ascania . Katherine had kept in touch with her ever since she began reconnecting with everyone, especially so with the Ukatian and the ever adorable Luciana. The redhead had been aboard the same ship when the distress call reached them, giving them the means to catch up with the Prosperity.

During that time, Katherine had been meditating. Her intent was to focus her energy, her connection to the Light Side of the Force inwards. By the time they arrived at the last stop, the Force was practically buzzing within the winged Jedi, waiting to be let free.

She followed in pace with Cora as they left the bridge. A younger Katherine might’ve not followed her instruction, feeling a direct confrontation with the Sith was better. But it had been a long time since Katherine had risen above that mindset.

With the holomap in hand, she stepped off the shuttle and onto the Prosperity proper. Katherine moved with purpose, her lightsaber already in hand. She let the Force flow out of her, the Light Side of the Force pushing against the Dark; the smothering shadowy smog that was perpetuating across the vast vessel. Whether it was from direct action by the Sith, or just the sheer presence of so many Dark Side users.

Katherine’s focus was towards the Jedi that were still trapped. Especially to the younger Padawans, whose fears and doubts were no doubt being preyed upon by the attacking Sith. She was a beacon of Light, of warmth and comfort, a wordless assurance that they were here to help, to follow it to safety.

As the winged Jedi continued moving, she felt familiar presences throughout. Two in particular caught her attention, one which had been someone she hadn’t seen a good long while.

Master Kahlil?

 

[Renard Fenn]

The Dark Side detonated outward from her like a bomb. The corridor shook violently as walls cracked and corpses skidded across the deck beneath the pressure wave.

They called this technique Force Repulse. Although not inherently Dark Side like a Sith spell, it was often used in moments of desperation and anger, with destructive effects. Most Jedi forbid it to their padawans and did not allow it taught except in theory.

It struck the Amaran like a bursting bomb, slamming into his tiny body and sending him flying back through the corridor along with all of the debris and bodies and fallen weapons nearby.

Ren tumbled across the floor, lost his grip on the violet bladed lightsaber, and slammed into the side of the corridor wall. He would have moaned, but all that came out was a weak hissing, bubbling noise from his collapsing throat. He could not breathe.

And yet…

And… yet…

"Strangle slowly for me." She cooed, her voice raspy from the lack of breath as six violet lenses burned into him. "I want to watch the light leave your eyes the same way it left mine."

The words fell upon his ears, which twitched, folding back flat against his skull.

He could not speak, for her invisible grip around him still tightened, but now he pressed his own will against it - as if sliding a hand between his throat and a chokehold. The pressure eased, but still he could only rasp through a partially collapsed trachea.

His chest hurt. His throat hurt. And now his head hurt from the impact with the wall. But he put one foot under himself, then another, and rose. He still held his green shoto in one paw and though he could not speak, he projected his thoughts outward with his mind.

I am a Jedi Knight.

There is always Light.

There is always Hope.

Even for you.

He reached out with his off-paw toward her as their wills warred against one another. Not in a gesture of violence, but open and inviting. Even through his pain.

Darth Virelia

 

[Lily Decoria]

Location: Prosperity
Outfit: Jedi Attire
Equipment: Arwr Da, Hydrangea Moonblade (concealed)
Tag: Darth Prazutis | Darth Carnifex | Darth Empyrean | Corazona von Ascania | Tydeus of Tion | Lysander von Ascania | Connel Vanagor

Lily heard the comms from Corazona and from Connel, she tapped to reply to Connel. His words were concerning to her, "Connel, don't think you are the only one handling the red targets. And don't lose yourself to the fight, we will need you after this. Our priority is preventing this being the massacre the Sith wish it to be." Lily's voice was calm and layered with understanding from the many battles that she had fought. It was easy to desire to be in the thick of battle. To put fear of the Jedi into the hearts of the Sith. But today there was too much going on. Too many dangers to prioritise personal victories.

Then the deep, all too familiar cold sensation came through the Force. Lily knew what it meant, she had felt it enough times to know that some of the most powerful Sith had bordered the ship. Which was even worse, since it was the direction that the Jedi were going to head towards to ensure that the Sith were pushed back, or stopped. Cutting the heads of the snake to prevent the body from attempting to fight further. But Lily suspected that these Sith Lords wanted to draw attention to themselves. Bring the Jedi to them. And unfortunately for Lily, she was unable to convince herself of not heading that way. It was where she was going to be needed the most as a warrior. As someone who prided themselves as one of the best fighters within the Order.

It did mean that Lily needed to fight through a small horde of Sith and soldiers, only finding small moments of respite just before she arrived at the hangar where these Sith Lords were gathered. Inhaling deeply, Lily focused on battle recovery for a moment, stepping into the hangar after leaving a trail of dead Sith and soldiers behind her. There was small amount of sweat from her battle but the Jedi Knight was in her element now. She gave a short nod of her head to the other Jedi that had arrived. Then her silver gaze shifted to the Sith, she twirled her crossguard Lightsaber in her hand.

"So, which one of you thinks they can handle fighting me?" Lily spoke with a smirk on her lips, which was echoing the cocky confidence that her words were framed with.

 

[Delsin Shaw]

EQUIPMENT:
| Armor | Garb | Mask | Ring | Riteblade | Saber |
TAGS:
| Sian Sestoi |​

The station was dying.

I could feel it through the deck plating beneath my boots. Every shudder of stressed metal. Every distant detonation. Every emergency bulkhead slamming shut somewhere within the labyrinth of corridors. The Prosperity groaned around me like a wounded animal, bleeding atmosphere, fire, and people in equal measure. Most heard chaos.

I heard patterns.

The smoke hung thick enough to swallow the corridor whole, turning the emergency lighting into dull crimson stains smeared across blackened walls. Fire crackled somewhere beyond the adjoining passageways. Oxygen-fed flames roared through ventilation shafts and maintenance ducts, spreading faster than the station's failing systems could contain them. The air tasted of burning circuitry, scorched insulation, and blood.

A great many people would die here.

That much had become obvious some time ago.

The question was where.

My gaze drifted down the junction before me. Three evacuation routes had once converged here. One now lay buried beneath collapsed durasteel. Another had become an inferno. The third remained open, though only barely. It had become a bottleneck through which fear, hope, and survival would inevitably be forced. Every evacuation effort relied upon assumptions, and every assumption eventually became a weakness. After spending the last several minutes studying troop movements, structural failures, and the desperate flow of refugees through the station, the conclusion had become difficult to ignore. If there was a point where the evacuation effort could be broken, it was here.

Which meant someone would come.

Not a frightened civilian. Not a wounded archivist. Someone capable. Someone dangerous. Someone intelligent enough to recognize the importance of the route and determined enough to risk using it despite the danger. The realization had come to me nearly ten minutes ago. Since then I had simply remained where I was, allowing events to continue unfolding around me while the station slowly narrowed the possibilities on its own.

The riteblade drifted lazily beside me, their mist-like form weaving through the smoke without sound. The Obsidian Shard remained secured at my side. There was no need for it. The trap had already been constructed. Not through explosives, barricades, or ambushes, but through probability itself. Every decision made aboard the Prosperity had steadily funneled events toward this corridor, reducing countless possibilities into a single likely outcome. All I had done was identify the fracture and position myself where the pressure would eventually gather.

Moonlight's Vision caught the movement long before it became visible to ordinary eyes. Heat signatures flickered beyond the smoke and bulkheads, shifting through the station's wounded infrastructure. Most were frantic. Panicked. Running. One was not. A lone figure moved with purpose, advancing beneath the densest layers of smoke while carefully navigating the corridor network. There was caution in the movement, but not fear. Every pause carried intention. Every adjustment suggested evaluation rather than uncertainty. Whoever approached wasn't searching blindly. They were hunting.

The thought almost made me smile beneath the mask.

For several minutes she had likely believed she was following a trail left behind by the enemy. Blood. Violence. Evidence. Something tangible to pursue through the chaos. The reality was far simpler. She wasn't following a trail. She was following a conclusion. Every route she could have taken, every choice available to her, every priority demanded by the situation had steadily narrowed until eventually they all pointed toward the same destination. This corridor. This junction. Me.

When she finally emerged from the smoke, the station's logic felt almost reassuring in its predictability. Female. Armed. Focused. Her posture spoke of discipline. Her movements carried purpose rather than desperation. She evaluated exits, cover, and sightlines almost immediately upon entering the space, her attention moving with the efficiency of someone accustomed to surviving dangerous situations. Competent. More than competent, if first impressions were to be trusted. The station had sent exactly the sort of person I expected it would.

The riteblade drifted forward and settled naturally into my hands, solidifying from mist into steel as I watched her close the remaining distance. There was no urgency in the motion and no overt threat. By this point there was little need for either. We had both arrived exactly where circumstances demanded we would.

"You know,"

I said calmly, my voice carrying through the mask as another distant explosion rattled the corridor around us,

"I was beginning to wonder how much longer you were going to make me wait."

My gaze remained fixed upon her as the smoke curled between us. There is a moment in every hunt when anticipation gives way to certainty. Not when the prey is caught. Not when the trap closes. The moment when both hunter and hunted finally become aware of one another and realize that neither arrived here by accident.

Those moments were always my favorite.

 

[Aveline Cuiléin]

Engaging: Canm-Bulnu Bi | Nearby: Ko Vuto ​

Aveline fired maneuvering thrusters instinctively, trying to throw the Delta-class out of the path of the incoming plasma burst. Not enough. The crackling wave clipped across the Delta-class' starboard side. Shields flared brilliant across her cockpit canopy. Every display in front of her flickered violently. For one awful second the targeting reticle vanished, replaced by static and warning sigils. Warning lights exploded across the console and several of her weapons systems rebooted.

"Ah, kriff-"

The two starfighters tore past one another in a violent blur of light and momentum.

Too close. Way too close.

Ahead, fragments of the Prosperity and the battle surrounding it drifted through the battlefield. Shattered hull plating, broken docking arms, entire chunks of twisted framework tumbling slowly through open space.

Given that he had temporarily killed her window to quickly return fire, Aveline accelerated directly toward them.

The Delta-class answered instantly despite the damage, darting downward beneath some drifting wreckage. Metal debris spun lazily through the battlefield ahead of her, illuminated by distant turbolaser fire and venting atmosphere.

"Come on then," she muttered under her breath.

Aveline risked a glance over her shoulder display, searching for the Umbaran ship through the chaos as she armed another burst from her cannons.

If he followed her in, the fight was about to become very personal.

 

[Kadann]

Kadann moved quickly down the corridor, guiding the rescued Jedi toward the hangar. His silver-white blade remained lit in his hand, casting clean light against the damaged walls. The sounds of battle echoed from multiple directions.

Two presences in the Force appeared ahead. Dark. Hungry.

They stepped out from a side passage to block his path. One was a tall Sith warrior with a double-bladed lightsaber already spinning. The other, smaller and quicker, carried two crimson blades and wore a cruel smile.

They said nothing. All that he heard was their eagerness as a dance in the undercurrent of the Force.

Kadann stopped and raised his blade into a neutral guard. For a brief moment, doubt flickered in his mind. Two against one. Both strong in the Dark Side. He was not as young as he once was. This was possibly going to end badly.

He pushed the doubt aside. The Force had brought him here for a reason.

"Step aside," he said plainly. "There is no need for this."

They attacked together.

The double-bladed saber came in fast and heavy. Kadann parried the first strike and sidestepped the second. The dual-wielder darted in low, trying to flank him. Kadann spun, caught one red blade on his own, and kicked the man hard in the chest, buying space.

They pressed him hard. Strikes came from both sides. He felt the Dark Side clawing at his focus. For several long seconds he was purely on the defensive, his blade moving in tight, efficient arcs.

Then the Force whispered. He drew in a slow breath and felt his focus honed to a sharp edge.

Kadann exhaled once and moved.

He lunged forward into the taller Sith's attack, accepting a shallow burn across his shoulder plate. His silver blade flashed up and took the man's sword arm at the elbow. As the Sith screamed and staggered, Kadann spun and drove his saber straight through the warrior's chest.

The second Sith roared and came in furious, both blades whirling. Kadann caught the first blade, then the second. He stepped inside the man's guard, slammed his forehead into the Sith's nose, and finished with a clean thrust under the ribcage.

Both Sith lay dead on the deck.

Kadann stood still for a moment, breathing evenly. Blood trickled from the burn on his shoulder. He deactivated his saber and looked back at the wounded Jedi.

"Keep moving," he said calmly. "The hangar is not far."

Tags: Open

 

[Sian Sestoi]

Engaging Delsin Shaw

Sian had tracked the scent of devastation for quite a while, but her body suddenly stiffened as an unexpected feeling enveloped her. This was not the usual suffocating wave of the dark side but something entirely different. It felt more refined as it pressed against her already overwhelmed senses.

She took a slow breath realizing too late how much of the toxic chemical air had already managed to sweep past her makeshift barrier and enter her lungs. Her throat burned and the sweltering heat of the fires roaring nearby caused beads of sweat to come trickling down onto the fabric of her protective tunic.

Her eyes wandered over to the figure Delsin Shaw emerging from the fog then narrowed to the strange weapon within their hand, a blade that seemingly solidified out of thin air. The Force had led her through this secondary corridor to establish an evacuation path for the remaining crew on the station.

However, she felt as though she was being tested, possibly even brought here to die beneath the crumbling structure and fade from history as a lone Jedi Knight in a sea of Sith. Regardless of the path that lay ahead of her, one thing was clear: her opponent would be no cakewalk as she noticed the white hair peeking from beneath the imposing mask.

It was a clear indication of an Echani or at the very least someone whose body had aged rapidly due to extreme stress. If this was indeed a genuine Echani, she was in serious trouble; their culture revolved around combat and the ability to read body language. By the time she shifted her muscles even slightly, they would already know the direction of her attack and know how to counter it.

"If you're waiting for me to apologize for the delay, you're out of luck," Sian replied, her voice a smoke-filled rasp as her lungs were cleared partially with the assistance of the force. She didn't move from her defensive stance, refusing to be goaded into attacking first or giving the Echani any early momentum to read.

"This station is going down, and there are civilians trying to reach the docks. Stand down and surrender. You don't have to die with it." With a swift, practiced motion of both wrists, she unclipped her weapons. A twin snap-hiss echoed through the burning corridor as her green lightsabers ignited, casting an emerald glow over the corridor walls.

 

[Delsin Shaw]

EQUIPMENT:
| Armor | Garb | Mask | Ring | Riteblade | Saber |
TAGS:
| Sian Sestoi |​

The emerald glow of her lightsabers washed across the corridor, turning the smoke between us into shifting shades of green as the station groaned around us. For a moment I simply watched her. The stance. The breathing. The way she held her ground despite every instinct likely telling her she had walked into something dangerous. Most people entered situations like this already thinking about how they intended to win. Sian was thinking about how many people she could save. Admirable. Predictable.

My attention never truly left her. Words were useful, but words could lie. Bodies rarely did. The set of her shoulders remained rigid despite the smoke clawing at her lungs, and her stance hadn't shifted an inch since igniting her blades. Even now, some small part of her remained focused on the corridor behind me. Not on victory. Not on survival. On passage. On the route. On the people she believed were depending on her. Every observation settled quietly into place alongside the others, fragments of a larger picture slowly forming as the riteblade rotated lazily within my grasp. Its mist-like edge unraveled and solidified again without urgency or threat, moving almost absentmindedly while I continued studying the woman standing before me.

"You keep mentioning civilians."

My gaze drifted briefly toward the smoke-choked passage beyond her shoulder before returning to her as another distant detonation rolled through the station. The deck plating trembled beneath our feet and somewhere deeper within the Prosperity something large collapsed, the sound reverberating through bulkheads already strained to their limits.

"They're the reason you're here."

It wasn't a question. It was the answer. The answer to why she had chosen this corridor. Why she had ignored safer routes. Why she had willingly followed the scent of blood and destruction into a dying section of the station. She had come because she believed this route mattered, and because she believed the people attempting to escape through it mattered even more. Conviction was far more useful than pride. Pride shattered the moment reality struck it hard enough. Conviction adapted. Bent. Endured. Understanding the difference often determined how a confrontation unfolded long before the first blow was exchanged.

"You could have chosen any number of routes through this station, yet here you are."

My voice remained calm as the smoke curled lazily between us.

"Out of everyone trapped aboard the Prosperity, you've decided I'm the problem worth spending time on."

The statement lingered between us, not as an accusation or criticism but as an observation. Slowly I shifted my footing and stepped slightly to the side. Not enough to clear the corridor. Not enough to allow passage. Just enough to subtly alter the shape of the confrontation and force her to consider a possibility she hadn't been considering before.

"If I move, how many of them make it to the docks?"

The question hung in the air as Moonlight's Vision filtered information through my perception. Structural failures. Heat signatures. Movement through adjacent corridors. Panic spreading through sectors neither of us could currently see. The Prosperity was running out of time, and unlike many Jedi I had encountered, I wasn't interested in pretending otherwise.

I watched carefully for the answer she wouldn't give. Not with words, but with instinct. The tightening of her grip. The hesitation before a response. The way her attention flickered toward the evacuation route before returning to me. People revealed their priorities long before they realized they were doing so. Every reaction narrowed possibilities. Every possibility discarded brought the shape of the situation into sharper focus.

"More importantly, how many don't if I don't?"

Another tremor rolled through the station as distant screams echoed faintly through the smoke.

"You came here to save lives, yet you're standing here negotiating with me instead."

The words were delivered calmly, almost conversationally, but that made them no less effective. The station itself had become part of the discussion now. Every distant scream. Every collapsing bulkhead. Every groan of twisting metal pressed against the decisions she was trying to make. I found myself far more interested in how she carried that weight than whether she could wield those sabers. One told me how she fought. The other told me who she was.

"They're running out of time."

Again, it wasn't a threat. It wasn't even a warning. It was simply true.

"Every second we spend speaking is another second they spend waiting. I wonder how many of them believe help is already on the way."

The thought settled between us as naturally as the smoke. There was no cruelty in it. No malice. Only possibility. Enough possibility to hurt.

My attention shifted briefly toward the twin emerald blades before returning to her. She had ignited them before I had made a single aggressive move. Despite the offer of surrender. Despite the desire to save lives. Despite the objective she claimed had brought her here. She had arrived expecting violence and simply hoped I would provide the justification for it.

"You keep offering me surrender, yet you ignited your weapons before I made a single aggressive move. You arrived expecting violence. You simply hoped I would make you feel justified for it."

The riteblade lowered slightly toward the deck plating, not in submission or weakness but in certainty. Even then my attention remained fixed upon the moments between actions rather than the actions themselves. The silence after a statement. The subtle changes in posture. The way people instinctively measured themselves against questions they hadn't expected to answer. Those moments were often more revealing than entire conversations, and one by one possibilities continued falling away until only a handful remained.

"The difference between us is that I already decided who wasn't coming home."

The station groaned again around us as another distant explosion reverberated through its dying skeleton. My gaze never left hers.

For the first time since she arrived, I gestured beyond her toward the evacuation routes disappearing into smoke and fire. The question wasn't for me. It never had been. The choice had always belonged to her. I had merely ensured she could see it clearly.

As I watched her standing there amidst the smoke and dying light, feeling the weight of collapsing corridors, burning decks, and unseen lives pressing against every decision she could make, I found myself less interested in whether she would fight and more interested in what she would choose. Because that was the true question hanging over the corridor. Not whether she could stop me. Not whether I could stop her. But whether she was willing to pay the price required to do either. Most people only discovered that answer after it was already too late.

"Have you?"

 

[Canm-Bulnu Bi]

Ko Vuto [ Nearby ] | Aveline Cuiléin [ Opponent ]​

Teuthid looked at the viewscreen in the cockpit as his plasma cannons successfully hit Aveline Cuiléin 's fighter. However, it didn't fully disable the craft as he had hoped, likely due to the extensive countermeasures in place, as the two ships screamed past each other, narrowly avoiding them both be turned into space dust.

As his ship stabilizers went to work, a cold bead of sweat trickled down his brow sliding down his facial tendrils. He flicked a switch, releasing a fine mist of coolant from the overhead vents, the artificial chill providing a fleshing glow to his skin which needed to be moistened due to his species limitations.

"Kriffing hell," he growled, "Why is it always so incredibly hard to take down one, single, foolish pilot?" His scanners flickered, outlining the path of his opponent's movement. He caught only the fading blue ion-trail of her engine as the Delta-class fighter dipped behind a dense cluster of twisted debris, the skeletal remains of the Prosperity's external docking arms.

A cruel, thin smile stretched across his face, his tentacles twitching in anticipation. He didn't want to enter into the debris field due to his craft's limited maneuverability so would have to force them out of hiding as his hand hovered over terminal to activate the Advanced Bomblet Generator, as his reactor core began to produce potent energy bombs.

He pushed both sticks forward as his ion engines went full speed ahead above the rapidly forming scrapyard, heading towards where he had last picked them up on the scanners. The bomb chutes opened beneath his cockpit, sending several of the bombs descending into the debris field where they exploded on impact.

 

[Sian Sestoi]

Engaging Delsin Shaw

Sian had little recourse but to listen to Delsin Shaw words though each sentence was dripping with psychological poison designed to erode her resolve. He spoke of the collapsing corridors, the failing infrastructure, and the inevitable doom of those trapped aboard the Prosperity with clear certainty as if the Force had granted him a vision of this encounter's natural conclusion.

He was trying to plant the seeds of despair, to make her believe that her presence here was futile. And for a fraction of a second, the street rat turned Jedi from the slums of Devaron told herself that he might be right, the station was dying and they had not brought enough ships to save everyone.

"If this entire sector turns to ash, and just one person gets through the gap I leave behind... that's a win. I don't care if I'm not around to see the tomorrow they get. I just need to make sure they get it" Sian stated, her voice taking on a determined tone after banishing her darker thoughts to the back of her mind. Her eyes shifted to the mist-like weapon in his hand, her expression barely changing beneath her barely formed Devaronian horns.

No effort was made to counter his other claims, as they served merely to distract her from overcoming this obstacle. Surrender had been offered even at the point of a blade, and she had done her duty according to the principles of the Jedi Code though she barely followed them.

He had made his choice so she moved not in anger nor because she had been goaded into a mindless assault but because remaining idle any longer meant allowing the civilians to perish by default. She was determined to fight, and she would continue to do so until the Force itself told her it was her moment to fall.

Sian proceeded carefully down the corridor, her boots firmly gripping the trembling deck plating below. She launched her first strike with her right hand, her emerald blade swinging in a heavy, deceptively sluggish arc toward his shoulder. It was a movement that practically invited a fluid counter.

But halfway through the arc, just as her muscles should have committed to the weight of the blow, she altered her stance by purposefully slowing down her strikes into heavy, dragging feints, only to instantly explode them into hyper-accelerated slashes a millisecond later.

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Vengeance."

- TAG: Renard Fenn

Throughout her entire life, Virelia had convinced herself that it was the galaxy that had wronged her. That every person around her—from the Jedi, to those she loved, to the Sith, and every figure in between—had sought to stop her rise. To stop her specifically.

She had told herself that the hatred directed at her was beyond her control. That she was the innocent girl the galaxy had corrupted through lies, deceit, and cruelty. For years, she had convinced herself that it was Valery Noble 's fault. That the blade through her heart had set her upon this path. That if they had been true Jedi—true to the principles of the New Jedi Order—they would have saved her on that fateful day.

She had convinced herself that the Sith collectively despised her. That they had plotted and schemed to deny her rightful dominion. That every sleepless night on Polis Massa, every apprentice she trained, every dark bargain she made with the remnants of her soul had somehow earned her obedience, loyalty, and respect.

She had believed that the comet striking her apartment on Manaan was proof that the galaxy hated her. That every failed love she pursued was another betrayal committed against her. That no matter what happened, no matter how many people she drove away or how many bridges she burned, it was always someone else's fault.

Never hers. And now those words echoed within her mind. The words of a dying Jedi. A reminder that no matter what choices she had made, there had always been another path. A better path. A more humane path. One that demanded the surrender of pride and ego in exchange for something infinitely more precious.

Friendship. Love. Companionship.

A life where she could have possessed all the things she had secretly craved since childhood. The things she cried for when no one was watching. The things she tore down walls for, only to discover they could never be seized by force.

All she had to do was let go. Just say no. Stop.

The Jedi had revealed something so profoundly true that it struck deeper than any lightsaber ever could. She could have ignored the Dark Side holocron. She could have treated her friends better in the Temple. She could have joined the Sith and served beneath a master, learned patience, compromised, earned authority through responsibility rather than demanding it through fear.

She had always possessed a choice. Even now. Right here. Right now. If she reached for the Light, she could fight the Dark Heart within her. She could seek a cure for the curse she carried. Perhaps she could even find peace in the arms of someone she genuinely loved. Just one word.

The realization struck with such force that it felt as though something inside her had finally shattered. The fog lifted. The entitled young noble who had spent her entire life blaming the conditions around her seemed to fall away, piece by piece.

It had always been her fault.

And for the first time in her life, she accepted that. The Force Choke remained, though it loosened slightly, granting the little Jedi a fraction more breath as her will held firm while her thoughts churned.

 

[Delsin Shaw]

EQUIPMENT:
| Armor | Garb | Mask | Ring | Riteblade | Saber |
TAGS:
| Sian Sestoi |​

Her answer arrived long before the strike did.

The words themselves mattered less than the conviction behind them, and by the time she began moving I had already learned what I needed from the conversation. There had been no hesitation when she spoke of sacrificing herself. No uncertainty. No instinctive attempt to preserve her own future at the expense of those she sought to protect. Whether I agreed with the conclusion was irrelevant. What mattered was that she believed it completely. The conviction wasn't manufactured for my benefit, nor was it some desperate attempt to appear heroic. It was genuine, and that alone made her far more interesting than many of the opponents I had encountered before.

As she advanced through the smoke-choked corridor, emerald light reflected across wet deck plating and blackened walls while the station continued its slow collapse around us. Firelight danced through the haze, casting shifting shadows between us as another distant tremor rolled through the Prosperity. Despite the chaos surrounding the engagement, my attention remained fixed upon her. Not upon the weapons she carried, nor the danger they represented, but upon the woman herself. The placement of her feet, the rhythm of her breathing, the subtle adjustments in posture she made while moving through damaged terrain all carried information. Every detail had value. Every movement revealed something she likely wasn't aware she was revealing.

The first strike came from her right side in a broad, deliberate arc that immediately suggested commitment. At first glance it appeared heavy, almost sluggish, as though she intended to force a direct response through weight and pressure alone. The attack itself interested me far less than the expectation it was attempting to create. Many duelists became fixated upon weapons and trajectories, allowing themselves to react to the strike rather than the intent behind it. My attention remained fixed upon the sequence of movements leading into the attack, and within that sequence the discrepancy became apparent. The slowing momentum, the slight adjustment of her stance, and the subtle redistribution of weight all suggested that the apparent commitment of the strike was itself the deception.

The acceleration that followed confirmed the suspicion. What had initially appeared to be a heavy, committed attack transformed midway through its execution into something significantly faster and more explosive. The transition was smooth enough to suggest practice rather than improvisation. This wasn't a technique discovered in the moment. It was something she trusted. Something she had likely relied upon before. The realization carried value because techniques people trust inevitably become techniques they return to, and habits reveal themselves eventually, especially when pressure begins mounting.

The riteblade rose to intercept the attack, though I had little interest in contesting the strike directly. The mist-like edge curled and shifted as I redirected the force rather than attempting to halt it outright, allowing momentum to slide past instead of colliding against it. My boots shifted across the deck plating as I deliberately surrendered a few feet of distance between us, not because the attack demanded it, but because the space itself interested me far more than the strike.

Distance asks questions.

Every duelist answers them differently.

Some rush to erase it immediately. Others hesitate and reassess. Some attempt to control it while others surrender it willingly in pursuit of a larger advantage. The attack itself reveals what a fighter can do. The pursuit reveals what they want to do.

That distinction mattered.

The corridor mattered to her. Time mattered to her. The civilians mattered to her. Every step she took forward reinforced the priorities she had spent the last several minutes defending. Every inch I surrendered presented another opportunity to observe how those priorities influenced her decisions once words had been replaced by action. People often revealed themselves most clearly when they believed they were making progress.

The silence that settled between us felt more useful than conversation ever could have. The first exchange had already revealed more than several minutes of dialogue. She favored commitment over hesitation, but the commitment wasn't reckless. It was structured. Disciplined. Beneath the creativity of her technique there remained an underlying foundation of training that guided her choices. She wasn't merely repeating lessons learned from instructors, nor was she abandoning them entirely. Instead she had adapted them into something personal. That adaptability increased the threat she represented while simultaneously creating patterns that could eventually be understood.

As another tremor shook the station and distant screams echoed through collapsing corridors beyond our immediate surroundings, I found myself paying less attention to the dying structure and more attention to the reactions it produced. Most combatants revealed themselves through moments of stress rather than moments of confidence. The body moved toward its priorities long before the conscious mind acknowledged them. The direction of a glance, the timing of a shift in footing, the instinctive protection of one line of attack over another all revealed truths that words rarely could. Every reaction narrowed possibilities. Every possibility discarded refined the shape of the engagement unfolding before me.

The riteblade moved again in another defensive motion, pale tendrils of mist curling from its edge as I redirected the next line of attack and continued allowing the distance between us to fluctuate according to my design. I wasn't retreating. I wasn't yielding control. I was creating questions and observing the answers. Every time space opened between us she would be forced to decide how she intended to close it. Would she rush? Would she maintain structure? Would she sacrifice defense for pressure? Would she preserve caution despite the urgency driving her forward? Each possibility carried value.

My attention never left her as she advanced through the firelight and smoke. The green glow of her sabers reflected across black armor and drifting ash while the first outlines of recognizable patterns slowly began taking shape. They remained incomplete, little more than fragments waiting to be connected, but they were enough to suggest that the next exchange would reveal more than the first and the exchange after that more than the second. The duel had only just begun, yet already the shape of it was becoming clearer.

Another measured step carried me backward as I guided the tempo of the engagement without appearing to resist it. To an outside observer it might have seemed as though she was steadily forcing me down the corridor. The perception itself carried value. Fighters behaved differently when they believed momentum belonged to them. They became more confident. More comfortable. More willing to rely upon instincts rather than caution. The more ground she believed she was gaining, the more likely she was to reveal the truths hidden beneath discipline and training.

As the station continued dying around us and civilians fled through corridors neither of us could currently see, I found myself focusing less upon the outcome of the duel and more upon the woman standing before me. The strike had revealed a technique. The pursuit was revealing a philosophy. One spoke of training. The other spoke of character. Both mattered.

Because long before a duel was won by the sword, it was won through understanding the hand that wielded it, and understanding was rarely granted freely. More often it was cultivated one observation at a time until the shape of a person emerged from the chaos around them.

Sian was beginning to take shape.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Corazona von Ascania Connel Vanagor Naniti
Darth Carnifex Darth Prazutis Darth Empyrean Allyson Locke

Armor | Helm of the Twin Suns | Nightstar
​

Ragged breaths clawing, a choking cough, and then the final slump 'twas the belated verdict of Nightsar. Death was a familiar companion in the young Sith's existence; such endings were the cost of standing in his path. But what dragged him deeper was the vivid streak of crimson across his sister's cheek. That single mark struck him with a memory he wished not to face; something as simple as a scraped knee from childhood games outside of Ascania’s manor in their youth, then many more followed. Lysander’s spectral gaze slid from bloodied skin to the prosthetic where her hand had once been.. a colder reminder of everything that had been torn between them.

Then his name pierced the haze; it might've even felt close to warmth under the helm pressing against his skull. But the Dark was spreading its poison through every nerve and smothering him. Just a few syllables emerging from the bottom of a well; they were distorted, meant for a boy long dead. Under the mortality, duty stirred. Worst of all was knowing that they were watching. The Kainite needed not to stare directly; their presence haunted his every step. Any vulnerability was a death sentence.

The Dark recoiled violently at her intrusion, lashing out to reclaim it's cold grip on his fading mind. It bristled against everything she tore into daylight. Amid this encroachment, she remained, like a guardian from a life he’d tried to bury.

“Where were you?” The words slipped hollowly through the vocoder.

Nightstar dipped low and cast a shadow over the fallen Knight lying in a pool of blood, a grave bridging what was and what could never be again.

“Need more proof?” came as the blade traced an arc toward the lifeless form.

Silence stretched as visions of sunlight and laughter blossomed then died.

“Still think I’m becoming something else?”

Better to stand as a monster than kneel as a false saint..

The sword rose again. “No. You don't get to stand here after all these years and tell me what I've become.”

Ashla’s faithful were due for another lesson before nightfall. The end of an era.

Between them, the void quivered.

“The next to stand where you stand dies.”

One last breath, one last choice. “Move, Cora.”

 

[Sian Sestoi]

Engaging Delsin Shaw

Sian quickly realized that her staggered attack strategy had not surprised him. When her blades clashed with his weapon, there was no force behind it as Delsin Shaw moved back, allowing the center of his blade to deflect her momentum without exerting any effort to resist.

With each swing of her blade, she was expending energy, confirming her suspicion that this individual was an Echani as they were prolonging the fight to learn her fighting style. Sian kept her feet planted, determined not to charge recklessly into the space he was giving up.

She understood the inherit limits of Jar'kai as her strength was divided between two weapons which meant that neither blade had the power to breach through a solid defense. If she kept up her current strategy she would only tire herself out until he found the opening he was looking for. There was little chance of outmaneuvering him in this tight corridor until something came to her attention in her peripheral vision.

Her left lightsaber swung down in a low arc aimed at his knee, attempting to force his rift blade down to momentarily pin his movement against the deck plating beneath them. Meanwhile, her right hand relaxed its grip on her second hilt, her fingers spreading into a loose open-palmed position, suggesting uncertainty.

Her gaze remained fixed on his mask to conceal her intentions and maintain the deception, while the force gathered in her palm. With a gentle telekinetic push, the roaring flames from a nearby fire at a damaged terminal surged into the corridor like a natural flamethrower, targeting her opponent to set them ablaze.