Dominion Harvester of Sorrow | GE Dominion of New Plympto

[The Contingency]

HARVESTER OF SORROW - A CRISIS IN THE CORE STORY

War reignites on the jungle world of NEW PLYMPTO.
Once a proud bastion of the native Nosaurians,
the planet has fallen under the iron grip of the GALACTIC EMPIRE,
whose legions descend upon the surface with brutal purpose.

As the NOSAURIAN RESISTANCE wages a desperate
guerilla campaign, the Empire seeks to crush
all defiance underfoot, razing settlements and torching
jungle to break the enemy's will.

Meanwhile, deep beneath the surface,
mining operations for SPICE and
manufacturing of the dangerous narcotic,
JI RIKKNIT, resume with enslaved labor under constant
surveillance. Unbeknownst to the masses,
a darker threat lingers in the shadow of the planet.
A forgotten lab, secrets infected by horror.

Across the stars, whispers spread.
The SPICE must flow.
The VIRUS must be contained.
And the EMPEROR'S WILL shall be done.


​

The jungle world of New Plympto falls under siege as the Galactic Empire launches a full-scale planetary occupation. Once the site of a bitter Clone Wars uprising, the Nosaurian world again becomes a crucible of rebellion and subjugation. Imperial Army and Intelligence forces descend to crush the Nosaurian Resistance, a guerrilla force deeply entrenched in the planet's dense terrain. In a brutal campaign, flame troopers, orbital bombardment, and psychological warfare are all deployed to break the will of the native defenders. Meanwhile, deep within the scars of old Separatist mines, Imperial overseers restart rikknit egg farming and ji rikknit narcotic development using enslaved local populations. In the midst of these operations, a vast spice deposit is uncovered, one valuable enough to catch the attention of Imperial profiteers. But deeper still lies a greater horror, a long-forgotten space station tied to Project: Blackwing, once abandoned during the Empire's earlier rise. Imperial command quietly moves to secure the site. while eerie transmissions suggest something still stirs.​

---

Objective One - Fist of the Empire

The jungles of New Plympto burn. Following the swift orbital subjugation of key cities, the native Nosaurian resistance has retreated into the dense, unforgiving wilderness, launching guerrilla strikes against Imperial supply lines, convoys, and forward operating bases. Their defiance, however, only delays the inevitable as the Galactic Empire brings its fist down with unrelenting fury. Flame troopers, AT-ST walkers, and veteran stormtroopers are deployed to scour the terrain and annihilate the insurgents. Psy-ops, chemical defoliants, and scorched-earth tactics are authorized at regional command's discretion. The jungle will no longer be their shield.. it will be their grave.​

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Objective Two - The Spice Must Flow

With the Nosaurians broken and the planet under firm boot, Imperial industry awakens. Mining operations resume, rikknit egg farms churn out product, and labs return to processing the potent narcotic ji rikknit in the depths of mineral mines undisturbed. In the midst of the revitalized production, a massive spice deposit is uncovered beneath the surface, an unregistered vein of immense value. The find attracts interest not only from the Imperial military industrial complex, but also from their off-the-books partners in the Black Sun Syndicate. But prosperity breeds whispers, Imperial Intelligence intercepts coded messages, subtle disappearances, and signs of an organized revolt brewing among the enslaved workforce. A full-scale uprising would cripple shipments, shatter profit projections, and expose the Empire's black market entanglements. Dig in and root out the rebels before they launch their slave revolt.​

---

Objective Three - Foundations of Fear

An Imperial bio-research station, originally decommissioned after the Core Wars, has gone dark. Recon patrols report bizarre readings: scrambled signal readings, screams over comms, and Imperial troopers firing on their own. But the whispers grow silent, all contact has been lost. Unbeknownst to many, the Empire secretly reactivated a facility tied to Project Blackwing, an ancient bioweapon program developed by the old Galactic Empire. Thought destroyed, its recent rediscovery on the galactic stage has been repurposed under the directive of the Imperial Weapons Program. The virus twists flesh, turns the dead into the living, and leaves only madness behind. The intention was clear: a fear weapon, a biological deterrent to crush future rebellions through terror alone. But control has been lost, and now, an elite task force must enter the overrun space station to recover vital research before the virus spreads further and cleanse the site with fire.

Survive the night, if you can.







​

 

[Sid Berik]

​

NEW PLYMPTO
JUNGLE LZ SITE A7

FIRE, FIRE AND SALT​

The drop ship skimmed the trees. They were flying NOE- roughly twenty feet from the terrain features and top of the treeline. Sid leaned out of the Drop ship, his hair whipping around. Growing out in the aftermath of Coruscant, the Veteran was back in a regular line platoon. Now leading a platoon- Sid watched as the other Dropships skirted towards the LZ. The Jungle was already on fire by the time they made their approach, intermittent blaster fire in the distance. Blue streaks were returned with a fury of red bolts. The blue was in use by the rebels- and reportedly, leftover from one of the many Republic and Alliance arsenals leftover around.

Sid disembarked first, his fatigues fluttering in the wind. It was simply too hot and too dense of a jungle to wear stark white armor- the Stormtrooper Corps issued out green fatigues and black armor worn by the more specialized units or the Naval corps. Not that Sid minded not being a snowman in the jungle.

Their Dropship was at the FOB quickly- though not landing. He hovered roughly four feet above the ground, and his platoon jumped out. Sid screamed into his headset- forgoing a helmet due to the immense heat. Infact, he also went without his upper body glove, donning a T-shirt instead. He had gloves and the upper arm armor, but he needed to breathe. Most of his troops did the same. He wore a black bandanna tied around his head, already soaking with sweat.

His troops fanned out, and looked to the treeline. Other troops went to meet them, and Sid made his way to the command area to meet with a Lieutenant Varaxis. Supposedly, there was a large insurgent attack planned that they'd learned about by intercepting communications. Sid's mission was to seek and destroy the insurgents prior to them leaving their compound, and mark it for airstrikes and indirect battery fire. If all went well, Sid and his platoon could've very well cripple the enemy before nightfall.

If everything did not go to plan however, Sid's platoon would be out alone in the jungle with very little to help them. Sid marched forward, rifle at his side as he approached the Lieutenant....

 

[Zuv Ralen]

E Y E S__O F__T H E__E M P I R E
Tags:

The Mines
New Plympto



The scent of spice dust and sweat clung to the cavern air like mold, thick and acrid. Zuv Ralen adjusted the brim of his tattered trader's cowl and leaned casually on his wheeled cart, a makeshift stall cobbled together from repurposed supply crates and a few old droid limbs welded for stability. On it, dull canisters of water, threadbare garments, and stimulant patches were lined neatly beside ration bars swiped from overstocked garrisons. The "merchant" persona was simple, a fellow drifter eking out a profit by selling to desperate Nosaurians between labor shifts. But in truth, every deal was a transaction of information.

A gaunt worker approached, his scaled face sunken with fatigue but sharp with suspicion. Zuv smiled faintly and gestured to the rack.

"Barter or rations. No haggle. I'm fair, not stupid."

The Nosaurian grunted, suspiciously monitoring the vocabulator, then offered a half-used stim patch and a wrapped fungi loaf. He took a blanket and a small medpatch in return. A moment of quiet ensured, before the Nosaurian leaned in close.

"East shaft's blocked again. No engineers, just guards now. They're hiding something."

Zuv gave a subtle nod, filed the intel away behind his smile, and moved to the next. He'd heard a dozen such rumors over the last two cycles. Overworked guards, redirected labor, and too many "equipment malfunctions" near Sector 7. A ringleader was organizing dissent, likely a former militia type or active Resistance member. The ISB wanted names before this powder keg lit up, and Zuv made it his business to listen in and get those names to them.

The patrolling stormtroopers barely gave him a glance now, Zuv was forgettable, almost harmless. But he watched their rotations, studied their interactions with the prisoners, and followed the ration schedules closely. And in the shadows of these scorched tunnels, the signs of insurrection festered beneath every tired breath and stolen moment among the enslaved. When the time came, he would be ready. Names. Faces. Routes.

And then the Empire would crush it all.

 

[DT-1966]

​

[Comm-Line Encryption: VANTA-SIX | Channel AUREK-3]

The jungle stank of smoke and rot. Even inside the dropship, with metal plating beneath his boots and scorched wind screaming through the troop bay, DT-1966 could smell the de-forestation. He stood in the shadow of the open hatch as Sid Berik leaned out over the edge, eyes on the treetops. 1966 didn't need to look, his HUD was already marking heat signatures through the mist, sorting between them to determine enemy or animal passing through. The Death Trooper said nothing, he rarely did unless it was necessary.

The moment the dropship hovered into position, four feet above the scorched jungle floor, Vanta Six began their descent. DT-1966 dropped just behind Berik, landing in a crouch, rifle up, scanning the edge of the LZ as blaster fire cracked in the far distance. Green bolts from the treeline met with imperial red. Sparks etched into the trees creating embers and then open flame.

The jungle was already on fire anyway, good.. let it burn. And anyone who would defy the Empire.

He tapped DT-7747 on the shouldre and moved with the squad captain, Berik, his armor absorbing the sun's light and jungle filth in equal measure. His eyes glared through his HUD display, following their leader's hand movements like doctrine. As Berik broke off to rendezvous with Lieutenant Varaxis, DT-1966 peeled right, keeping low as the squad fanned out.

A pause.

He knelt down, vigilant..

..and ready.

 

[Vireth]

---

---

New Plympto, Core Worlds, Outlier systems;
INVASION OF THE GALACTIC ALLANCE, THE RESURGENT GALACTIC EMPIRE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Tags: Zuv Ralen | [Open]

---

​

OBJECTIVE II.

In order for there to be peace all must His embrace for the galaxy shall assemble an Empire...

Beneath the sweltering heat of a New Plympto star stood the Architect drabbed in black garb and surrounded by the indomitable, faceless and intimidating mask of the newly trained Stormtroopers sent to safeguard Vireth of Kuat as she was deployed on this intolerable jungle world to bring about the Emperor's vision.

They say the spice must flow, and with it came the necessity of a system that required an impeccable design. Vireth would deliver.

Sweat gripped the brow of the young Kuati as she seemed to wander aimlessly amid the Imperial patrols and crowds of Nosaurians that were littered about the mining camp as she explored the area with a quiet veneer which did well not to betray her disgust at the operation. At every turn she found inefficiency, danger and unnecessary risk which only hindered the work being done here. Of course, given the fact that the New Plympto system was once under the domain of the decadent alliance, suggested some reason as to why this place was in the state that it was in.

There was no doubt that had their adversaries been aware of this place then it would have been shut down. With an element of luck it had gone unnoticed by the former authority on the world and with that type of environment came the sort of decadence of which Vireth had come to despise since her youth. Thankfully this world was set to be saved by the resurgent Galactic Empire and so all that she wrong with this camp (and by extension the rest of the Core) was set to be corrected under the paradigms of the GALACTIC EMPEROR!!!!

"It is hot, miss," came the distorted tone of a nearby Raithal-Stormtrooper to her left as they continued to explore the camp.

"Then you are dismissed... You are useless to us when you are weak," Vireth replied coldly. As the trooper nodded their head (which she took to be a sign of appreciation) and departed to find rest the Architect's mind churned.

There were many ideas bouncing around that clever head of hers such as a water retention system to help in hot climates such as this and the materials that she would recommend to be requisitioned for the manufacture of an Imperial factory prison that, if her recommendation was deemed acceptable, would turn this unprofessional criminal spit into something clever, refined and distinctly Imperial in it's machinations.

Oh, yes, the spice shall flow.

---

 

[Khronas]

THE SEPULCHRE, NEW PLYMPTO ORBIT

The dark and twisting corridors The Sepulchre were home to all the services required to sustain the Dark Side Elite’s crusade against the Jedi. Armouries, training rooms, meditation spaces, berths, and torture chambers. And yet, since the Invasion of Coruscan, more blood had been spilled on one suite of rooms than all others combined, where cleaning droids worked around the clock to mop the floors that ran red.

The infirmaries.

While the delicate Jedi healed themselves in bacta or meditations, the Dark Side Elite - the Emperor’s chosen and most revered - knew no such cotteling ways. Brutal efficiency was their approach to health care, enacted with the cold precision only a droid was capable of. Severed limbs were stitched shut without anaesthesia, while trauma patients were clamped to the operating table to restrict movement during open chest surgeries.

And yet, there was not a cry or whimper to be heard. The Dark Side Elite embraced the pain, knowing it was the price they paid in their service to the Sith’ari Darth Solipsis .

Khronas was one of the patients today, undergoing a surgical procedure outlawed throughout most of the civilised galaxy. His face, badly burned by a plasma torch welded by a Jedi, was being reconstructed with metal plates and droid parts inserted directly into his ridged Siniteen skull. His right eye had been beyond repair; a hovering med-droid was affixing a mechanical replacement in place.

Throughout the procedure, Khronas remained still and mute, sinking deeper into the Force as the pain engulfed his mortal body. He focused not on the present but on the future, studying the threads of time and divining his destiny as the droids worked. Soon, he would be back on the battlefield. Until then, he studied the portents, exploring the branching futures of the galaxy.

 

[DT-7747]

​

​

| Location | Jungle LZ Site A7, New Plympto​

| Objective | Deploy​

​

The silent deathtrooper remained seated in the dropship as Vanta Six was deployed, awaiting arrival at their drop point. Since Coruscant, their helmet had been rewelded once more to hide what lied beneath, acting as a normal soldier was meant to. ​

​

When their ship had finally arrived at their destination, they stood up, promptly following the rest of the troopers and Vanta Six out as they immediately had their E-11D shouldered and scanning for hostiles, holding position as the rest of the stormtroopers deployed from the dropship.​

​

The familiar tap of 1966 on their shoulder was felt as they proceeded to move forward, following Berik's squad on the flank as they advanced to the rendezvous. While the stormtrooper moved to meet with their contact, 7747 too would drop down to a knee, securing the perimeter and lying in wait, a silent sentry on the flank opposite to DT-1966 .​

Sid Berik | DT-1966​

 

[Thomas Barran]

OPEN

AUXILIA
I

<"Savrip Soul to Rook! Samples secure, sending to Ark now.">
<"Good.... Get over here as soon as you can.">
<"Copy! Savrip Soul - out!">
​

'Ready, Slicer?'

​

The Mirialan menace would sigh as he gazed upon his own slugthrower rifle, disappointed in his waste of ammunition, but he willingly replied,'Yup, ready.... On your cue.', all the same. Clearly wishing to draw the Songsteel cavalry sabre he was gifted in his time serving with Scavenger PMC, a sword with which he had become proficient over the years, (thought mostly from his time sparring sessions with that young Tuath in his latter tenure as a mercenary) Gorm had been swallowing his pride in keeping with the tactical flow of the 1st Mawsworn Auxilia, though Rook knew well enough that the moment to unsheathe it was drawing closer with every passing second.

'Thats what I like to hear.... Now, all that remains are the archives - research notes and the like - and from what I've been able to tell by the blueprints of the place behind us, it would appear we need to fight our way up to the fifth floor, and into Zone: Green - uuuh - Four.'

​

'Good to know.', the Mirialan replied, chambering a slug as he walked toward the entrance of the station's main research-building, actively taking his turn to breach the door this time, and without any need to call it for the Darkhan's sake. Rook remembered well enough, and saw there was no reason to mention it, watching on as Gorm stuck explosives to the disabled entrance doors, and seeing for himself there would be no need for nagging of the sort. The Arkanian would awaken himself a little, pressing in after the timed blast opened the way inward to keep himself from slacking, fortunately kept on track by Slicer when he instructed,'Split off, two-prong flanking. You take four, I take four.', soon finding himself grateful for the snappy, strategic behaviours of his brigade's Keshig-Leader.

'Works for me.'

 

[UNDEAD Aron Gowrie]

Gideon Voss

TEARS OF BLACK TAR - 5
​

With the rains, a downpour of freighters would fall through the clouds above, filled with undead soldiers from the recent battle on Coruscant, filled with the standing remains of stormtroopers, GADF marines, and mercenaries of varying affiliations. This, however, was not happening by chance or random predicament, not with the blight of Project: Blackwing considered, for the undead there would find themselves clashing for viral supremacy, struggling with a blight of much stronger, more virulant origin. New Plympto's walking dead would be fated to die by the hands, the teeth and black tar of the resurgent Carlaci Corps, and without ever knowing who sent them back to their eternal resting-places.

Yet the localised, antagonistic viral strain had spread beyond the confines of the research station, and when the ships eventually crash-landed, both Voss and Gowrie would find it had spread scores of miles beyond ground zero, an expanding circle of blood, anguish and death that stretched beyond the confines of the nearest cities. The nearest of which, fortunately, was just three miles away from the research compound, a means of cutting off the horde in it's effort to swarm the rest of the planet, amputating the tail to get the proverbial lizard's attention, though there were still no guarantees the larger horde would take notice in their outward hunt for living flesh.

Not that it mattered, as the lizard's tail were already moving to surround and break into the crashed freighters, a mistake the Blackwing cadavers were all too braindead to comprehend, for each and every one of them were ruled entirely by ravenous hunger; an endless repetition of cramping, with gurgling pangs in the stomach, the chest, and even the mind itself, overruling any and all sense of self-preservation. The Blackwing-infected never stood a chance, and for as long as the Carlaci Corps had competition of the sort, nor would they - this weapon would be the Emperor's, and only the Emperor's to wield in the future.

'Only the strong.'

 

[Vireth]

---

---

New Plympto, Core Worlds, Outlier systems;
INVASION OF THE GALACTIC ALLANCE, THE RESURGENT GALACTIC EMPIRE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Tags: Zuv Ralen | [Open]

---

​

OBJECTIVE II.

The Raithal Military Academy was first started as a mere school that began some years ago as a place of learning for architects, engineers and philosophers looking to acquire an education that would see them rise through the echelons of Kuati society back when Kuat was a hub of manufacture of offensive and defensive technologies for the Galactic Alliance.

Before the Empire.

Before the dark times.

The school at some point became aligned to the ideals and paradigms of the Galactic Emperor during the prelude to the Core Wars as a dark-side cult known as the Church of the Dark Side (who worshipped Solipsis as a deity) began to influence it towards a new direction. While it's academics were retained and subsequently funded to teach, train and educate promising students in the fine arts that came with the Dark-Imperial bloc on Carlac-- the school itself was expanded in scope and size to accommodate a greater need to supply the manpower and technology required in the war to come.

Then the worse happened.

The Dark Empire was defeated through the prolonged warfare inspired by the Galactic Alliance and an insurgency inspired by a rebellion which Vireth understood to be called 'The Foundation'. As she explored this spice camp and churned ideas regarding a new sophisticated Imperial Factory Prison (which she had studied in great depth during her days as a student in Raithal) Vireth recalled that time of uncertainty and despair as it felt like the walls were closing in around them. After all, back then, it looked like the Alliance and their Jedi defenders had won.

Look at us now.

Humming to herself in the shade (while her men also took solace and refuge from the unbearable sun from above) Vireth held a datapad in her hand while her eyes tapped into the Imperial archives in the hope of finding the necessary details to produce the requisition orders for this most ambitious of projects. Factory Prison's were expensive there was no doubt about that. But in return for the investment and time this scallywag of an operation (created by mere criminals trying to hide and avoid Alliance authorities) Vireth predicted that she could recoup that investment through her designs in an efficient, quick timeframe particularly given the links between her people and the criminal organisation called the Black Sun Syndicate.

Business was one of the lanes of academia that Vireth had studied and subsequently learned in preparation for her service to the paradigms of the Galactic Empire for her superiors stood ready to adapt or deploy their assets wherever they were needed. Margins for revenue and other mathematical equations rung in her mind. She would need to be convincing if they were to build here on New Plympto. Adaptability had seen the Dark Empire first test their adversaries in the Core Worlds. Now the true Imperial Charter reigned supreme with the annexation of Coruscant.

The Core was falling and so Vireth would continue to serve for the paradigms of the NEW ORDER would be realised a millennia after Palpatine's declaration. Tiny, insignificant places like this would serve as cogs in the machine and she would make sure that this place served them well.

---

 

[Iris Tirall]

The shuttle cut through the dark like a blade, its descent toward the Sepulchre marked by silence and precision. The great warship, flagship of the Dark Side Elite, hung in orbit over the smoldering jewel of Coruscant, still wrapped in the chaos of conquest. Even among the battle-worn fleets of the Empire, the Sepulchre stood apart: massive, angular, and mute with power. A vessel built not just to win battles, but to signify dominion.

Lady Iris Tirall stood rigid as the ramp descended, flanked by two aides in crimson and black. Her coat was high-collared, violet silk reinforced with meshweave and layered symbols drawn from esoteric rites long banned by lesser faiths. Her gait was slow, deliberate, the way a temple priestess might walk through ash after a burning. Her face bore no welcome.

She was not Force-sensitive. That distinction followed her everywhere—unspoken, but never forgotten. Among the Dark Side Elite, whose hands bled with lightning and whose eyes burned with ancient hate, she was a curiosity. A relic of a priesthood long tolerated, rarely trusted. She was not one of them.

But they knew her name.

Iris Tirall, daughter of Derix Tirall, the long dead Chief Minister of the Church of the Dark Side, immolated in the ruins of Exegol. She had been raised among ash-faced clerics and hooded surgeons, taught to revere pain as revelation and secrecy as salvation. She had been speaking liturgy before she was old enough to lie.

Now, she was a senior matron of the Church, a steward of its hidden vaults, and one of its unofficial majordomos. She wore the skull-ring of her father, still blackened at the edges.

No one met her at the hangar.

A junior lieutenant passed her with a glance and a nod, barely masking his suspicion. The Elite tolerated her—just enough. To them, she was a partner, a nuisance, a fanatic. Too valuable to ignore, too rooted in doctrine to control. That suited her fine. She was not her father. She did not want their respect. Only to serve.

The halls of the Sepulchre were a marriage of austerity and menace. Bare steel and vaulted thresholds, braziers lit in recesses not for warmth but for symbolism. A smell hung in the air—bacta, ion burns, incense, blood. It was not unpleasant.

She passed an altar-space, temporary and crude, where a young adept of the Church had scrawled invocations in dripping ink. She paused, nodded once, then moved on. The wounded would not wait.

Her boots struck the deck with purpose as she neared the infirmary, the doors looming ahead like a tomb unsealed. She adjusted her gloves, breathed deep through her nose, and felt the old weight settle in her chest.

Lady Tirall had not come for politics.

She had come to pay her respects to the faithful who had bled for a galaxy not yet theirs.

Khronas​

 

[Meliant]

The Sepulchre, New Plympto Orbit​

Objective: Harass Coworker

The battle of Coruscant - or more specifically, his bout with Drystan Creed - had left Meliant in a sour mood. He prowled the halls of the Sepulchure like a mean-spirited stray cat, apparently determined to make it someone else's problem.​

​

He found his way into the infirmary, where some of his peers were having their crude meat-vessels repaired. Meliant stood now in front of Khronas, not so much interested in observing the operation as he was in spoiling his colleague's concentration. And view.​

​

"Well, if it isn't everyone's favorite soothsayer." He traced a finger mockingly along the right side of his visor, mirroring the siniteen's disfigurement. "Oh, what happened? Did the prophecies forget to tell you to put on a helmet?"​

​

Khronas​

 

[Sid Berik]

The meeting with the Lieutenant was short, sweet and to the point. He was a hard man, a veteran of both Coruscant campaigns. He heard of Sid’s escapades at both Tython and Coruscant and elsewhere. It was odd for Sid to receive such praise and a return of respect from the other veteran.

Their talks were small and ultimately focused on the enemy:

The enemy was going to be using a specific trailhead to conduct their ambush. Or rather, their perceived ambush. Sid walked back to his compatriots, a mix of veteran Stormtroopers in green fatigues and the eerie Deathtroopers he served with.

He crouched down producing a foolproof strategy to prevent the enemy from spying or being aware of them:

A paper map. He marked several places on the map.

“We will be using an L-shaped ambush to wipe these insurgents out. Argue all you want about the merits of the Empire if you ask me, but food and aid being cut off to workers and your countrymen isn’t high up on the freedom fighters good guy rating.” He tapped the map.

“Here.”

Another tap, a different point.

“Here.”

Once more.

“And here.”

He took a breath, wiping some sweat from his face.

“Is where the enemy is going to be moving in approximately six hours. We have to lie in wait for upwards of four hours. We will have to cross hostile territory and the jungle. There’s water and supplies here. Drop anything that isn’t ammo, water, or explosives. If you get lost or separated, trace your steps back here or lie in wait. We don’t have time for stragglers. I need everyone on their a-game. We move in ten minutes. Questions now, otherwise go prep and get ready for the mission, boys.”

He looked around, tightening his bandana.

“Let’s go get ‘em, boys.”

 

[Veno]

Zuv Ralen​

---

Veno wandered into the caverns with that commonplace confidence, though it may well have been carelessness. It was up for debate as to which it was, as to which came first and if it made the other. There was another tale for that one, but Veno was left unawares of it. His education, sparse as it was, became revolved around Imperial histories and the multitude of methods that came with ending someone's life. He was good at that, at least, and felt especially proud since the Imperial commendation came his way - destroying the planetary shield generator protecting Coruscant allowed for that much.

He came across Zuv and his makeshift stand. It would do, maybe. Veno had some amount of past interactions with the Kubindi, with the former proving the validity of his persistently frustrating personality on each occasion. If not for being a veritable killing machine, and near-to-unthinking to boot, he would no doubt be cast out. Veno made for a good dog. And like any dog, he was hungry at the best of times. He snatched up a bar of food and flicked a credit chit across to Zuv. The space over his mouth on the helmet opened, and Veno began to chew.

"So, where to, snout? East, west?" He said between bites.

 

[Vireth]

---

---

New Plympto, Core Worlds, Outlier systems;
INVASION OF THE GALACTIC ALLANCE, THE RESURGENT GALACTIC EMPIRE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Tags: [Open]

---

OBJECTIVE II.

Vireth turned her golden, dark gaze away from the datapad to look beyond the shade and cover she had taken as refuge from the hot, sweltering sun from above to think and allow her imagination to go wild.

With the way that she liked to think, as her ambitious, cunning mind drew up the designs and schematics of the factory prison that Vireth would convince her superiors to requisition and construct, she knew that it would require a name first beforehand. Without the name (which was a source of inspiration in of itself) then Vireth could not wrap her mind around how it would look and the other details that would need to be considered, analysed and assessed as she drew up the schematics here.

As she seemed to stare off into nothing, with a seemingly non-expressive, almost vacant look about her-- on the contrary-- Vireth was reading through the words that were flashing before her cybernetically enhanced eyes. A prototype of Operation Regnant, the Auric had been installed into the young woman in the months leading up to the Dark-Imperial attack which would see Kuat and Balmorra fall (with other nearby systems) into the clutches of a resurgent Galactic Empire.

Despite the noticeable drawbacks and personal cost that they had taxed upon her the positives outweighed them all.

They were serving her well.

"No, not that one," Vireth murmured to herself as her eyes unnaturally moved side-to-side as if churning through pages and layers of information being drawn from the Imperial networks that they were connected to and the sophisticated artificial intelligence created by the Imperial Security Bureau that were helping to generate working names that would not only make the prison sound intimidating but also match the dark, dystopian aesthetics of which the Raithal Academy of Structural Doctrine were working to create and inspire as the Core Worlds returned into the welcomed, resurgent clutches of the true EMPIRE!!!!!!!!!

---

 

[Ashin Cardé Varanin]

Objective Three - Foundations of Fear

An Imperial bio-research station, originally decommissioned after the Core Wars, has gone dark. Recon patrols report bizarre readings: scrambled signal readings, screams over comms, and Imperial troopers firing on their own. But the whispers grow silent, all contact has been lost. Unbeknownst to many, the Empire secretly reactivated a facility tied to Project Blackwing, an ancient bioweapon program developed by the old Galactic Empire. Thought destroyed, its recent rediscovery on the galactic stage has been repurposed under the directive of the Imperial Weapons Program. The virus twists flesh, turns the dead into the living, and leaves only madness behind. The intention was clear: a fear weapon, a biological deterrent to crush future rebellions through terror alone. But control has been lost, and now, an elite task force must enter the overrun space station to recover vital research before the virus spreads further and cleanse the site with fire.

Survive the night, if you can.

Yet the localised, antagonistic viral strain had spread beyond the confines of the research station, and when the ships eventually crash-landed, both Voss and Gowrie would find it had spread scores of miles beyond ground zero, an expanding circle of blood, anguish and death that stretched beyond the confines of the nearest cities. The nearest of which, fortunately, was just three miles away from the research compound, a means of cutting off the horde in it's effort to swarm the rest of the planet

Ashin did not like to consider her bodies disposable. She'd died often enough to have a healthy respect for the process. But she'd crossed paths with Blackwing derivatives several times - even yanked a certain citadel into orbit from Odacer-Faustin in younger years - and was clear on her odds of engaging with this situation safely. Blackwing was Blackwing, even to her.

To that end, she'd added a new body to her simultaneous exclusive coterie: while she was fully elsewhere and others, she was also fully Dramiel Curekkota, until recently a Jedi Knight of Coruscant. Ashin was still breaking in the body like new shoes, training hard, getting a feel for its five senses. She'd invested enough time into being Dramiel that losing this body would be unpleasant, so she wore an environmental seal under armourweave and anonymous stormtrooper-style plasteel. Many other countermeasures too.

Thomas Barran UNDEAD Aron Gowrie

 

[Thomas Barran]

TAGS
Ashin Cardé Varanin

AUXILIA
II

'Glare! Hey, Zabrak! I speak you! Wake up!'
'Relax, Mastiff. They're already moving in, the blast you heard was a breach-bomb.'
​

After finding the Zabrak unconscious, and with a slew of corpses around him, the Mantellian approached under the impression his junior peer was incapacitated, or worse, dead and moments away from reanimation. But just as he leaned down to check for a pulse, the Mastiff heard Glare snoring, it was enough to anger Savrip Soul that he ended up kicking at his subordinate's shin-padding in frustration, almost punishing himself for falling for his own assumptions. Fortunately for the Zabrak, however, the Mantellian always seemed to find himself gifting a deserving Keshig with a clean break, always given reason to appreciate the work and the feats of a meritous subordinate.

'Ah, chit! Hoped to catch before- ah, never mind.'
'Is all good, you can help my platoon hold the perimeter now. Or at least, that is - until the next order comes through.'

'HEEEEUUUUUURGH!!!'
[THWACK - THWACK]
'Good shooting! Quick too!'
​

'Are you fethin' kidding me? That was slow, Mastiff.', the young Zabrak growled under his ethnopattern-scraped Death Trooper helmet, returning the barrel of his slugthrower to a ground-aiming level of safety, though the rifle was soon returned to it's place at the right shoulder. Even baulking at the helmet itself as Glare finally admitted,'I'm beginning to miss the Hound Armour, must be said.', trying to aim down his scope whilst counting how long it took to make the lenses focus twice over. Adjustments like these would have been more beneficial with more time to improve familiarity with the new equipment, but the Khanate had no time to arrange field-training exercises of the sort, not in the midst of wartime's early phases.

'Cue call near Imperial.'
'Easy done, Mastiff. Watch this.... Just - watch my back for now.'
'Can defend, rearm at LZ.... More slug.'

<"All Imperial units, this is callsign: Glare, of the Mawsworn Legion. Research station is secure for approach - I repeat - secure for approach. Rally at your own leisure.">

 

[Ashin Cardé Varanin]

<"All Imperial units, this is callsign: Glare, of the Mawsworn Legion. Research station is secure for approach - I repeat - secure for approach. Rally at your own leisure.">

Ashin's anonymity in this operation was strictly a side effect of her generic gear; she didn't actually care about being identified, and answered the transmission thusly.

"This is Ashin Varanin. I am approaching."

This body had a significant advantage over most of her few concurrent forms: it had the strength of youth. Blackwing muck, black and congealed red, coated her stormtrooper plasteel to the elbow. She worked with her two old maces, Kotsirluuk and Khovesk, neither a stranger to Blackwing but both more accustomed to Drengir mulch.

She pulped her way vigorously inside the secure perimeter and, in view of Imperial troops, began running a sizzling handheld sterilizer meticulously over her gear and armour, regardless of whether she'd be contaminating it all over again in five minutes.

"This was our facility? Which way to the databanks?"

 

[DT-1966]

DT-7747 | Sid Berik​

DT-1966 stood motionless, like a shadow stitched into the edge of the jungle, his matte-black armor blending with the foliage behind him. He only moved when 7747 did, utilizing silent confirmation and hand signs, the universal signal between operators forged through dozens of deployments together.

His helmet gave off no noise. No breath.

When Sid returned with the map, DT-1966 shifted forward with the rest of 'Vanta-Six', crouching beside Berik's position like some executioner statue carved from Chandrillan marble. He examined the paper with the same intensity he'd give a tactical HUD, a low, modulated click of approval registering through the scrambled Death Trooper vox between squadmates. He pointed once, just once, to the third location Sid had marked.

"And here."

A sharp, gloved finger jab.

< Click-click.> A burst of static, followed by his digitally garbled voice:

A good choke point. Easily reinforceable with IR trip lasers and explosives to force breaks in enemy movement patterns. He turned toward DT-7747 with a single nod, then checked his remaining gear: charges, water, ammo, and field knife.

Six hours to kill. Four to wait. Ten minutes to move.

DT-1966 would make every second count.

"Let's go get 'em, boys."

The Deathtrooper followed at the ready.

 

[Zuv Ralen]

E Y E S__O F__T H E__E M P I R E
Tags: Veno

The Mines
New Plympto




"Who, little ol' me?"

The Kubaz's voice was coarse, wheezing between consonants like gravel being stirred. Still, there was something oddly affable about it, like a bartender in a war zone who'd already seen his own death and decided to make jokes until it arrived. He caught the credit chit with two long fingers, inspecting it with a tilted head before pocketing it beneath his oil-stained cloak.

"East's flooded. West's wired with enough scrap charges to make a tunnel rat twitch."

His eyes squinted behind his goggles, staring up at Veno's helmet as he leaned in a bit, nose twitching.

"So who's the mark, slicer-boy? Or did the big black boots above decide they want the whole mine gassed this time?"

Zuv produced a small, battered datapad from his satchel and passed it along inconspicuously. A flicker of static revealed a rough tunnel map, hand-annotated with blood, sweat, and paranoia. He tapped a red-inked circle marked 'Old Shaft'.

"Go north."

And with that, Zuv plucked a ration bar from a nearby crate, cracked it open with a sharp bite of his tusked jaw, and chewed it slow.