Junction Head of the Hydra | Junction of Csilla Hex [GA], and Adrathorpe Hex [BotM]

[Ishida Ashina]

A PRELUDE TO WAR
KINOSS | FUEL DEPOT | CORPSE MOUNTAIN

THEY CALL ME A MENACE
​

Remarkably efficient, The Chiss Ishida’d been alongside rallied and separated the instant the danger klaxons sounded. The Defense Force of The Alliance followed the direction of those native to Kinoss. By the time the opposing shuttles had landed, and the chants had begun, they’d organized into squadrons and companies enough to contest the attackers. Starting with those half-naked ones.

<You’re sure you don’t want one of these?>

Instead of denying the generosity of the trooper for the second time, Ishida shook her head no and curled her lips back in a display of disgust. The one-of-these in question was a blaster the size of her thigh and part of her shin. Clunky, heavy and hardly as effective as she could be with her melee options. Although, they were doing a good enough job keeping the wild and expendable onslaught somewhat dissuaded from their advances; she could at least give them that. The plasmafire exchange was as brilliant as it was uncivilized.

And it worked as excellent cover for her to dive right into, brandishing the glowing white of her lightsaber and the strength of her steel through mindless corpses. It was chaotic. Between bites of metal, flesh, bone, deflecting stray blaster bolts, Ishida was effectively a carving tool through a swathe of countless bodies. It was helpless to see if she was doing any good, based on the sheer numbers of The Maw’s minions, but there was no time for her to do math amidst the violence –– so long as the graves marked with the Starbird remained less than the piles of Mawites that burned.

A mix of telekinetic blasts to push the numbers back, and sheer bladework was all she knew; giving herself into The Force’s protection that kept her in a delicate serenity focused on the balance between slaughter and survival.

"I don't think we'll be alone for long."

<You’re alone?> Ishida repeated in disbelief, surprised to hear anything above the constant chatter of orders being exchanged from those closer-by.

The comms had been convenient once Ishida’d been properly introduced to them. For all the deployments alongside Alliance forces, she’d been teamed up exclusively with Jedi. But the reactive nature of responding to a surprise attack meant her ability to choose her partners was eradicated but meant the device she’d been equipped with was pretty well overconnected. By no fault of her own she just..didn’t really know how to turn it off. Same sort of problem as not necessarily knowing how to speak to a pilot in an X-Wing helmet without knocking first.

Blame Hebo.

<Are we on the same planet right now?>

She hadn’t even realized the first two waves had ended and upgraded. The Alliance had managed to hold their own long enough for the tactics to adjust, and the Maw traded flesh for machines.

Instinct kicked in, and she whirled around just as the pointed end of a lance was about to make purchase on her position. In an instant, she was airborne, fast-moving feet balanced on the pointed end of the javelin and running down the length of it into the machine it was attached to. She went in feet-first, shoving her heel into the jaw of the passenger and blade-end of her sabre to skewer the driver’s countenance. With the slack in resistance, she dropped into the front seat with another twist and adjustment to take a more fatal swipe at the front-seat passenger before using the momentum collected to sling herself into the backseat and take care of the would-be gunner.

Seconds, minutes, however long it had been was meaningless. It was only worth measuring stamina remaining. Ishida felt the first tremour of fatigue roll through her body, and she twisted to peek over the edge of the heap of metal that had stopped dead in its tracks, starting to roll backward and away from the breach. There, amidst the corpses of marauders, Ishida was afforded a few seconds for precious observation.

More were coming.

More. More to their numbers. Thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty.

By the time Ishida had finished counting, the tens of soldiers were pounding the ground with the ends of their weapons. The display was so primal, so lodditish, that she felt as though she were transported back to the stories told in school. But instead of lines of legendary swordsmen, they were mutilated creatures of darkness.

She needed time to draw on the Light against this much darkness. To create something strong enough, beyond her swords, to counter all this evil.

"In return, you don't need to feign strength and bravery when you need help in the future either. Deal?"

Frustration with her agreement buzzed at the back of her throat and she hummed a note to herself of hesitation. Hesitation is defeat.

Okay, maybe she’d subtly ask.

<Because Alone is..> pant <Definitely not the word I’d use.>

ALLIES | GA | NJO | Bernard of Arca | Xian Cade | Jeffery Kizaroe
FOES | BOTM | The Mongrel | Maestus

​

​

 

[Inosuke Ashina]

A PRELUDE TO WAR
KINOSS | FUEL DEPOT | CORPSE MOUNTAIN
「KIRISUTE GOMEN」​

<Because Alone is...definitely not the word I’d use.>

<Alone is just a word.>

Especially so for Inosuke, encircled by Mawites of varying caliber. Their ragged, taunting figures formed fortress wall of writhing hostility he couldn't see beyond. Serene within those walls, Inosuke stood impassive, cerulean blazing from the metal in his dextral grasp. How far was he from Ishida? Bernard? Anyone else? Horizons hid behind eager killers. No way to measure, and no time to feel for it.

Precognitive warnings flashed over his cognition. Then, the first of them came. All fours, primateish, the Moon Child charged with reckless abandon. Inosuke stepped to the side, drove a knee forward beneath the sternum of the lunging clone-creature. It wheezed, flipped, crashed into the floor. Inosuke whirled, rose one leg, drove his heel down into the temple. Bones crunching harmonized with a slight squash.

All of that did nothing to deter the marauders mid-charge. Before the strike came, the Force portended it. Azure plasma caught a resistant piece of a marauders weapon. Inosuke's riposte came by seizing his enemy's wrist. Twist. Joints popped, dislocated. The Jedi stepped, pulled, directed his backswing through the chest of the restrained marauder. The new corpse dropped limp over the first.

Lightsaber plasma hummed through the air strike after strike, bodies dropping in kind. Visions of metallic glimmers painted vaguely in the mind, then appeared in Inosuke's peripheral. An oncoming vibroblade could have been cutting the air itself. Murmuring blue flame sundered it with a singular stroke. Inosuke lunged, meeting the now moot momentum of the marauder skull to skull. They dropped, he didn't.

Lungs expanded and contracted at hurried pace. Every huff and puff desperately clawing for air. Reprieve lasted hardly a second. A stick of red flames came from behind. A Lightsaber? Some crude mimicry? No time to consider. Don't stop. On his heels, Inosuke pivoted in a blink. Ashina steel hissed from his hip, rose with an inexplicable, sinistral vehemence. Hot, luminous red met cold, iridescent black. The weapon assailing shorted as the steel made contact, seemingly sundering directly through the plasma. Ashina advanced, met the oncoming blade-wielder with the redirected point of the hidden blade, spun around to their back.

One more Moon Child came. Inosuke turned, planted his palm between its eyes with a force so great the they bulged from the skull before the rest of it flew back into the crowd. Ashina reached forward, plucked the blade out of the saber-wielder's neck. They fell alongside the rest. One second. Two seconds. Three. There were more, but none came.

There were gaps in the wall now. He could see beyond. How many? he wondered. No time to count. Slowly, Insouke wiped the blood from one face of the blade onto the fabric over his leg, and then the other. It ground and hissed as it returned to its place at his waist.

"Do you yield?" he inquired through persistent, heavy breaths.

Blaster fire hailed toward him. Of course not. Inosuke weaved, swatted, flourished. The worst of them grazed him, leaving cauterized lacerations in their wake. The others returned to their senders, some ending up belonging to the ground or sky before finding their destination. The close quarters didn't stop. Some took shots meant for Inosuke. Others met his saber in between deflections.

Bodies continued to fall.

They just keep coming.

Plasma screamed against flesh again and again.

No matter how many I-

Shots continued to hail toward Inosuke with little regard for who was in the way.



My throat is on fire...

I can hardly hear anything...
​

My heart is pounding in my skull...
​

How much of this blood is mine...?

Eyes are stinging...
​

Cannot rest...
​

"When you sit in the house of Bogan, Fukurō, you cannot let him take you."

"Are you his guest, or his vassal, Manslayer Ashina?"

"Hah! Twenty men!? All on your own!? And to think, your father is the one they call Ashina the Invincible."

That was the fuel he needed. Beneath the roof of Bogan, he would rejuvenate. Taking from those around him, all of the Dark's influence. An old Ashina technique, like the one Jedi knew as Vaapad. Accept their fury. Channel it. Black wisps of amorphous liquid floated around Ashina. That from within, and elsewhere, Bogan's influence condensed. Within the house Dark Father, in defiance of temptation, the pains of exhaustion began to fade. Yet again he remembered the old wisdom...

「FATAL」​

Inosuke bellowed an inarticulate cry as he surged forward. Recklessly, he dove through a hailstorm of red and green streaks, closing the gap between himself and the gunners. Grace and precision were now ferocity and power. Limbs flew. Heads rolled. Vaapadic wisps of dark grew with every passing stroke. The once circle of Mawites became a disorganized cluster. No longer did they block the horizon.

No longer would they live.

Some fled. Others came from elsewhere in their place. Those few who cowered or fled received mercy. Ashla held on. The rest fell, fueling Bogan's amusement. Not many of them were smart enough to flee. Even fewer understood it was an option. One horizontal swing bisected a Moon Child mid-air, made an oncoming Marauder falter. Frozen, vibroblade in hand, he gaze in terror upon the Twenty-Man Slayer.

"Flee or be slain," Inosuke demanded. His voice echoed with another, more sinister diction from within.

Sometimes one chance was all it took.

No one else who overheard took that advice. They clustered around him, trying to reform that wall. That was their choice. When one chooses to fight, fate will have its keep.

Death is the only destiny.

---

Allies: GA, NJO: Ishida Ashina | Bernard of Arca | Xian Cade | Jeffery Kizaroe
Enemies: MAW: The Mongrel | Maestus

 

[The Mongrel]

Location: Kinoss, CEDF Fuel Depot
Allies: Kyrel Ren | Darth Tennacus | Darth Senthral | Glossa | Maestus
Foes: Xian Cade | Jeffery Kizaroe | Bernard of Arca | Ishida Ashina | Inosuke Ashina

At first, the Corellian Joes held strong, even while flanked. They were brave soldiers indeed, to stand while the Chiss defenders broke and fell, holding the walls even as the Brotherhood charged into the breach. But the Firefang Wardogs changed all that. Where savage, feral Moon Children had failed, the fusion of beast and machine succeeded. Leaping up onto the walls, they pushed the Joes back with their sheer ferocity, their augmented jaws unleashing both deadly bites and jets of flame. Ordinary charhounds were deadly indeed, but these cybernetic versions...

The Mongrel could not have been more pleased.

The Scar Hounds were a young tribe, and Kinoss was among their first tests. The course of the battle here would reflect on their warlord's worthiness to lead. If they failed, The Mongrel's position would be open to challenge; his tribe would be broken apart by stronger tribes, his warriors divided among them, his name cast down and forgotten. But if he succeeded, if he proved that his Scar Hounds' tactics, culture, and organization enabled them to fight well and stand tall among the other tribes, then his legend would only grow. So far, he was off to a promising start.

As the Joes fell back, retreating inside the fortified base buildings and dragging their injured with them, the Scar Hounds stormed into the depot. They barricaded the doors, firing out at the frothing marauders and wardogs trying to break in. For now, that was where The Mongrel was content to leave them. If there was time, he was happy to be thorough, wiping out every last one of the Alliance troopers and taking their heads as trophies... but that was not his priority, for it was no the reason he had come here. He was on Kinoss to destroy the CEDF fuel reserves, and that came first.

Business before pleasure, after all.

The Mongrel led his Tarar Warbands forward, the scavenger-warriors preparing their explosive charges as they advanced. The beauty of destroying a fuel depot was that relatively little heavy ordnance was required; setting up a chain reaction wasn't hard given the volatile nature of the rhydonium they were targeting. As they walked, the marauders kept up steady fire toward all corners of the base, driving back the scattered Chiss and Alliance troopers who had survived the initial attack. Before long, forces from the far side of the base would regroup and push back...

... but for now, they had the run of the place.

Well, mostly. Standing atop a near-literal mountain of corpses they had made were a pair of Jedi, their shining blades holding back the Mawite tide. Arms, legs, and heads flew around them as they fought, their Force-magic raising them to inhuman levels of strength, grace, and endurance. Behind his metal visor, The Mongrel's eyes narrowed. If there was anyone left on the field who could derail the plan to destroy the fuel reserves, it was these mage-knights. Did he dare face two of them? Even he, who had risen so high among the Maw, might not survive.

But a true Mawsworn knew no fear in battle.

The Lord of the Scar Hounds would deal with this, no matter how great the odds... but he could not allow the Corellian Joes to take advantage of his absence, emerging from their bunker behind him. "Kill the Alliance troops," he ordered his warriors. "Burn them out of their hiding holes." At his command, the Tarar broke out their scavenged flamers, heavy weapons cobbled together from battlefield scrap. Rushing to the barricaded doors of the base where the Joes were taking refuge, they unleashed the flames at the barricades, working their way through the gaps.

The charhounds were enthusiastic to add their own fire.

Let the Joes deal with that. In the meantime, The Mongrel drew forth his dread blade, the only weapon he carried that could possibly contend with a lightsaber. Its crackling, unstable blade of dark crimson energy blazed to life, casting a strange glow over his gleaming armor. Then he set off to climb the pile of the dead, his iron-toed boots squelching as they crushed severed limbs and broken torsos with each step. He recognized the woman at the top of the pile, remembered her pale hair and blazing white blade from their confrontation about Outlander Station.

He had come so far as a warrior since then.

Mawites parted before him, allowing him to approach to Jedi and enter the deadly ring of combat that surrounded her. "I remember you, Jedi," he said, his rough voice emerging from the speakers of his mask with a harsh metallic edge. "I remember you and your master, so confident, so superior." He chuckled darkly as he leveled his blade at her, a gesture of challenge, a lone duel in the midst of the raging battle. "Yet here you are, years later, fighting the same battles. It seems your little order isn't quite so mighty as you were led to believe, if it can't defeat us."

With his other hand, he beckoned her. Come get some.

 

[Maestus]

Maestus Fury
Dragon Shield Talisman
Shield V1.0

Having arrived on the surface sometime after The Mongrel and his tribe, Maestus was bringing up the rear on the assault. She took the time she spent walking to consider various things.

Her musings were cut short, as she approached The Mongrel, and in turn, Ishida Ashina . A slow smirk formed on her lips as black eyes rimmed with red landed on the Jedi. Maestus could feel the Light emanating from Ishida. A disgusting feeling, indeed. But one not to be ignored or disrespected. The Light was powerful in its own right.

A fact that she took great satisfaction in knowing The Mongrel understood well. He had face many a Jedi in his rise to Warlord. And lived to tell the tale.

She walked up and stood beside him. Crimson hands opened her robes, revealing two hilts hanging on her belt. One, your typical lightsaber hilt. The other, longer and more ornate.

Well now. Am I interrupting?

 

[Bernard of Arca]

Objective III
A Prelude to War​

Allies: GA, Ghost Company, Inosuke Ashina , Ishida Ashina
Foes: BOTM, Kyrel Ren ​

Fog rolled over the fields in waves. The distant treeline had been swallowed whole by now. A couple dozen more paces and the fog banks would begin rolling over the first of many trench lines. White-orange helmets peeked out from the drab brown earth down in the trenches, each one belonging to a trooper of Ghost Company whose blaster was levelled at a hidden foe. Each one of them was wound up tight with tension. The distant sounds of battle echoed over the landscape. Explosions, blaster fire, even the screams of bloodshed reached the men and women dug into those trenches. Meanwhile, they sat still, waiting for a sign of movement.

Bernard felt their apprehension. Something was going awfully wrong and he had no clue where to begin to uncover any sign of a way forward. For his first command, this was proving to be an encounter far from any notion of orthodoxy. He wasn't sure if he should interpret it as an omen of good fortune or of ill luck.

<You’re alone?>

The tension that had been building in him suddenly sprung loose as he recoiled from the depths of concentration. What was Ishida doing on this comms frequency?

<Are we on the same planet right now?>

Going by the sounds of it, she was in the thick of it on one of the other fronts. He found it difficult to suppress a lop-sided smile. Of course, she would be, he could hardly think of a time when she wasn't surrounded by enemies, slicing through them like a whirlwind of plasma.

"Carter, still nothing on the scanners?" Bernard asked the Lieutenant to his right.

"No, sir," came the soldier's modulated voice.

He gave another hum as a thought began to scratch at the back of his mind.

<Because Alone is...definitely not the word I’d use.>

<What's your status?>

Though curiosity still gnawed at him, he'd need to save any questions about how she procured that specific comms frequency until after the Brotherhood was driven back. No time to waste while the enemy could strike at any moment. Something about those words she always repeated echoed in his mind, about hesitation and defeat.

 

[Ishida Ashina]

A PRELUDE TO WAR
OBJECTIVE: DEFEND THE FUEL RESERVES
KINOSS | FUEL DEPOT | CORPSE MOUNTAIN

SOMETIMES I FEEL A LITTLE MAD
​

<Alone is just a word.>

Ishida grunted back at her brother as an eloquent riposte through the commlink, and hoisted herself from the backseat and back into the carnage.

Alone was definitely not the right word.

Just out of the wreckage she’d created, Ishida was suddenly aware of an eerie stillness falling over her immediate proximity. The gnashing of teeth, revving of engines, snarling of hounds, seemed to desist and make way for heavy footsteps instead. Along with the quiet came creeping darkness. Like a rolling chill that hardened and congealed vertebrae by vertebrae.

"I remember you, Jedi,"
"I remember you and your master, so confident, so superior."
"Yet here you are, years later, fighting the same battles. It seems your little order isn't quite so mighty as you were led to believe, if it can't defeat us."

Darkness had a face, or, at least enough parts that seemed to resemble one. It had changed since she’d last seen it, but the voice remained the same, as did the imprint within the great empyrean. It soured, churning and mutating into something hideous around the body that matched its atrocity.

A wry grin cracked her façade and she gave her sharpened blade a whirl, turning in time to see the end of his gnarled sword pointing at her, challenging her. Challenging her honour. It stung in all the right ways, all the ways the Ashina, daughter to the Invincible, would respond.

Every word he said was insolent, vile, false. She was tempted to argue, to riposte with a taunt that perhaps the Jedi just needed an equal enemy –– and she was about to defend her position, but clicked her teeth shut at a flashing scold.

Peace and serenity. Remember your training, Padawan, do not let yourself be angered by vermin.

Instead, she would defend with silence and precision. And a sneer.

After all, it was she who donned the clothing soaked in the blood of their brotherhood. This was one that commanded more presence than the others. Nothing more. And he was giving her the time of day, detracting from his lead on the assault. While many of his men continued the advance, others were lent to maintaining a perimeter –– trapping her in a ring of ambitious violence.

Steadying herself, she drew in a centring breath and, one finger at a time, tightened her grip on both hilts. One Ashina Steel Katana, and one glowing white sabre. That breath released upward, to ruffle her blood-stained bangs from her eyes. The clearer vision did her opponent no favours.

But the darkness swelled beyond the warlord, and that army she’d counted moved in on their position. The crimson leader cooly siding with the patchworked devil, matching Ishida’s evaluative glare. And doing little else.

Alone, as just a word, was growing more and more inappropriate.

<What's your status?>

Busy? Engaged? What was the military term for being-challenged-in-a-death-ring?

Affording a backward glance, only to be met with the cold eyes of the Mongrel’s lackeys that encircled her, she sought the flames and location of the CEDF fuel reserves.

<The fuel reserves are close to being compromised.> Was what she came up with, before refocusing on her personal plight.

The pair opposing her were about equal proportions, with each having a few inches on her in all directions. Their greatest differences, beyond the obvious physicals, were lit by spectral sight: One reeked of the darkside, the other was a void in Ashla’s plains.

Well now. Am I interrupting?

“No. Now this seems fairer.” Was all she said before she obliged the invitation to get some, swiftly closing the distance in.

She could have tossed one of them against the other, used the Force against the non-user and ended this quickly. But there was no honour in that, and he’d had the gull to engage an Ashina with a blade. She’d humour it.

Her trajectory focused on The Mongrel, while one hand deviated from her side –– Ashla’s telekinetic representation bubbling out in the direction of the tattooed Twi’Lek to force her back a few meters and give Ishida time to establish herself. Those weapons that had been poised in a limp X behind her came around her as she planted one foot to the left of the initial challenger –– forcing him to engage her and turn away, even if only for a few seconds, from his companion. Whether or not she took the blast. Imbued with the Force’s strength, her katana first sliced toward his midsection, followed by her sabre in quick, fluid succession.

​

ALLIES | GA | NJO | Bernard of Arca | Xian Cade | Jeffery Kizaroe | Inosuke Ashina
FOES | BOTM | The Mongrel | Maestus

​

​

 

[Tu'teggacha]

Location: Csilla System, Edge of the Csillan Belt
Allies: Marlon Sularen | TK-818
Foes: Grand Moff Vel'alari | Qellene Tyliame | Maesr Elastren | Constantine Oliva | Leon Gallo | Orn | Tren Chaar

Perseus of Kasparov, Knyght of the Maw, sensed something within the asteroid belt. His Divine Eagle's sensors didn't pick anything up in the area it was coming from - too much interference from the asteroids, dense with heavy metals - but he could feel it through the Living Force. He detected, and savored, the waves of fear radiating out from an Alliance starfighter, waves only barely kept from spilling over into outright panic. There was a pilot out there somewhere, a pilot with a strong will and a desperate situation... an easy kill for him to rack up. Perseus grinned, breaking off from his formation to go hunting through the drifting rocks.

Wasn't killing enemy aces the whole point of this little excursion?

Drifting lazily through the Csillan belt, Perseus did his best to track Qellene Tyliame through the Force, following her wounded A-Wing as it headed for the safety of the Wyvern. It was difficult to narrow down her precise position, and he was impetuous, hotheaded, impatient... so he began blasting apart whatever he saw that was even vaguely starfighter-shaped, from drifting debris to small asteroids. He let his beam cannons rend each target into two halves along a glowing, molten seam, reveling in the casual destruction. "Come out, come out, wherever you are..." he giggled, confident to the point of arrogance in an easy victory.

Meanwhile, the rest of the Kasparov Knyght contingent clashed with the Alliance B-Wings. They, too, were eager for more blood, but unlike their errant comrade they hunted as a pack. Linked through the Force and the machine alike, they covered one another instinctively, reacting to the changing battlefield with new tactics they did not have to speak aloud to share. Knyghts had fought at Csilla before, protecting the Mercy superweapon, and they had died in droves in that battle. It had taken years to replenish their ranks after that, and even now most of the Houses were not at full strength. This was their chance to avenge those losses.

The B-Wings were capable of destroying Divine Eagles; the potent arsenal they carried could, with concentrated fire, punch through the heavy armor plating that protected the elite fighters. A pair of incoming Knyghts, caught in a sustained crossfire, saw their shields fail and their engines burst, sending their wrecked craft spinning off into the Csillan Belt. But on the whole, the B-Wings were built to tear apart larger craft, while Divine Eagles were fighter-killers... and that difference was going to be very telling in the next few minutes unless the B-Wings got the cover they were requesting. The Knyghts were on the hunt...

And the isolated Alliance pilots were their prey.

 

[The Mongrel]

Location: Kinoss, CEDF Fuel Depot
Allies: Kyrel Ren | Darth Tennacus | Darth Senthral | Glossa | Maestus
Foes: Bernard of Arca | Ishida Ashina | Inosuke Ashina

In the middle of the battle, still bloody and chaotic and Mawites surged forth against the Chiss and Alliance troopers, there was an island of calm. Well, relative calm. No blaster bolts were flying and no blades were clashing, but a hushed, suffocating blanket of anticipation lay heavy over the hill of corpses. The marauders of the Brotherhood looked up the slope at the Jedi, and at their own champions - first one warlord, then two. The masters of the Chosen and the Scar Hounds stood side by side once Maestus stepped forward, both of them staring down the pale-haired Jedi.

The Mongrel knew that she thought little of him, considered him so much lesser that he was barely a threat... and that was after he'd nearly squashed her flat with a cargo crate back on Outlander Station. She made it clear with her silence, her body language, and then her words. So be it; he was accustomed to being underestimated. It was a reaction that had kept him alive through many battles against many Jedi; he knew no other person lacking Force-magic who had fought so many and lived to tell the tale. Did he kill them? No. But surviving against a Jedi was a feat on its own.

And if he could survive, Maestus would finish the job.

The Jedi came at him fast, a blade in each hand, both arcing toward his midsection. The Mongrel had expected that, too; she was the most aggressive of all the Jedi he'd ever faced, so sure of her righteousness and light-born power that she wasn't afraid to fight like a Sith while claiming to serve the light. So be it; at least she wouldn't prattle on to him about giving up his evil ways. Raising his dread blade and his cybernetic arms, he slapped aside her incoming katana and parried her lightsaber stroke. Well, that was the plan, anyway. As it turned out, he'd underestimated the katana.

Ashina steel was not like the heavy metal of his warblade, which he could have deflected aside with a brush of his forearm without suffering worse than perhaps a deep scratch. The katana's mono-atomic edge, with five hundred times the cutting power of an ordinary steel blade, sliced cleanly through his cybernetic left arm just below the wrist, sending his hand flying down the hill of bodies. The Mongrel managed to leap back as he realized what was happening, and the tip of the katana drew a long groove in his metal breastplate rather than carving him messily in half. Small mercies.

An ordinary warrior losing an arm would be paralyzed by agony, easy prey for Ishida's follow-up lightsaber strike... but The Mongrel had the pain receptors in his cybernetic limbs turned off, and felt nothing more than a dull impact and a loss of function. He was able to get the dread blade in his right hand up in time to parry the lightsaber, sending up a shower of sparks as the weapons clashed... but if that katana came for him again, he knew he was in trouble, even without knowing that the Ashina steel would probably carve right through his energy sword with its anti-dimetris conductivity.

"An impressive blade," he remarked dryly.

Quite literally disarmed, he played to what advantages and opportunities he did have. With his right hand, he leveraged the full power of his cybernetic limb to force Ishida's lightsaber back toward her face. He was taller than her, and heavier, and that was on top of the superhuman strength in the corded synthmuscles of his mechanical arm - an arm that could lift a grown man single-handed, or crush a human skull in its fist. At the same time, he lashed out with the sparking stump of his left arm, thrusting it at Ishida's face. With any luck, its broken conduits would blind or burn her.

But The Mongrel also knew that he'd have to be ready for his tactics to fail. If his distraction didn't take, if Ishida managed to push back against - or deflect - his overwhelming strength, if Maestus couldn't come to his aid, then he would have to go for Plan Besh: tumbling back down the hill of corpses to put some distance between him and the Jedi. He'd prefer not to do that, as it offended his dignity as a newly-raised warlord, but he a survivor at heart. He would suffer whatever indignities he had to in order to come through this battle alive, as he always had before.

Because keeping the Jedi at bay allowed his forces to plant their charges... and planting the charges would allow them to win.

 

[Sol Stazi]

ALLIANCE PATHFINDERS
CEDF FUEL DEPOT
KINOSS
Ishida Ashina Inosuke Ashina Bernard of Arca
The Mongrel Kyrel Ren Darth Tennacus Darth Senthral Glossa Maestus

"Broken saber!"

Lieutenant Colonel Stazi emptied the last of his power cell into a charging moon child. He threw the drained rifle in another's face, slowing their advance just long enough to draw his heavy blaster and fire at point blank range. Then there was no more room to maneuver and the duros slashed with a combat vibroknife in mindless rage.

"Broken saber!" he repeated when the cultists were piled at his feet.

Broken saber. An Alliance ground position was in danger of being overrun. Only superior unit discipline and Jedi wizardry had kept them alive this long. As soon as they drove off one wave another crashed against their crumbling perimeter. Beleaguered troopers were ground down through sheer attrition and while the Maw cultists paid a heavy price for each of the fallen there seemed no end to their numbers.

"Where the hell is Ghost Company?"

"Colonel, they're every-"

A stray bolt burned through the pathfinder's skull less than a meter away. Stazi cursed and tossed a thermal detonator over the wall. Agonized screams below were like music to his ears. Sparks flashed. His cybernetic arm had been hit. He tested the servomotors. Superficial damage. That just made him more angry.

"Sol'stazi," the Chiss commander's voice crackled over his comlink, "We have detected explosive charges in sectors-"

"You worry about that walker! Let me worry about the charges!"

Barely enough of them left for even a desperate counter assault but Sol didn't see any other choice. If this was going to be his last stand might as well make it one that would be remembered forever.

 

[Darth Senthral]

​

DARTH SENTHRAL

Occupation: Sith Apprentice

Objective: Confront enemies ahead

Weaponry: Double Bladed Lightsaber, and the Dark Side of the Force

Allies nearby: Darth Tennacus Enemies nearby: Sol Stazi ​

The acrid taste of hope stained the air, all that the Galactic Alliance had breathed off most definitely. Not that he had some death call out for those with hope, but he did think them fools. Drop your hopes upon the ground, only by grabbing at every chance they had could they survive. Maybe that was the Dark Side's overconfidence speaking, but Darth Senthral thought not. The Galactic Alliance stood as exactly what their name entailed, and yet the Harbingers of Doom tread near. The Brotherhood of the Maw. None would stand last aside them. Undoubtedly so. For as many Mawites fell, more would always seem to rise, proof of the unending will in them all. Not allies on the battlefield. Yet brothers in arms for a cause unmatched.

Two such raced on towards the Fuel Depot. There were bombs there, and yet most definitely there was also someone meddling. There always was, and probably always would be. A quiet halt was taken by Lord Senthral, throwing his eyes to his Master, Lord Tennacus. "The dead here surmount normal casualties. Our fellow Mawites, whether grunts or no, are not just average foot soldiers. Someone of prowess lies ahead Master." He wasn't sure how to lead them forwards, and anyways, he was not leading this one. Whether they took out the skilled enemy ahead was up to Tennacus.

​

 

[Darth Tennacus]

​

Objective: Ensure the annihilation of the depot
Affiliation: Brotherhood of the Maw
Equipment: Lightsabers - 2
Nearby Allies: Darth Senthral
Nearby Enemies: Sol Stazi

​

Tennacus monitored the situation in certain silence. The abundance of deceased was indeed substantial, but the Sith Lord announced nothing of concern. If anything, his Apprentice should have known to revel in the sight of death; for even that was not beyond the reach of the Force. The Dark Side swayed in their advantage; nothing was ever absolute. But his Apprentice was right: something with substantial capabilities had brought this death before them. He assumed the likes of a Jedi, but the Force hinted nothing of them being within their vicinity. But if they were certainly out there, Master and Apprentice alike would draw them out.

"If you take only one thing from what I have taught you, let it be that death amounts to opportunity." Tennacus looked down towards the deceased beneath them. They presented themselves amongst the wall, looming over the terrain like daunting shadows. "We may not possess our own explosives, but we have the capacity to release a storm of fire through our own methods."

Tennacus turned away from his Apprentice, looking back down towards their bodies. It was not just their own down there: there were the Alliance - several soldiers slain by the previous conflicts, merely rotting - wasting. Of those bodies which were not mangled, the Sith Lord counted at least twelve suitable to carry out the tasks of the Brotherhood. They may have failed in their own allegiance, but the Sith would make sure they would not present it in accordance to their own.

Focused, primarily on those scattered with reasonable, lethal wounds that did not compromise their integrity for service to the Dark Side, Darth Tennacus reached out towards the Force. He brought the Dark Side down upon them, reaching deep into the vessels of promising hosts, stirring animation back into their limbs. Slowly, but surely, fallen soldiers rose up from the soils, retrieving their weapons in arms, contorting limbs back into a sense of place. They were not powerful, but they would serve a purpose: to be carried towards that depot, where they could rain fire and fury upon their new enemy, and bring about a destruction that would ensure the succession of the Sith objective through whatever firepower and explosives they still possessed.

The twisted shapes stood waiting, hunched, crippled and demented by the power of the Dark Side. The Sith Lord turned his attention back towards his Apprentice. "Levitate them over the wall, and let us end this."

​

 

[Tren Chaar]

FLY ME TO THE MOON

V I S C O U N T _ L E A D E R
B-WING HEAVY STARFIGHTER​

---

---

The remaining B-wings of One and Three Flights began to regroup among the ever-shifting maze which constituted to remains of Csilla. The Viscount pilots, expertly trained and drilled during the Stygian Campaign, had all kept close to their wingmates during the opening volley from the Brotherhood starfighters. With the chaos of the initial contact settled and everyone getting a better understanding of what they were up against, the pilots regrouped into their flight groups to better cover one another and hunt down the enemy.

Chaar grunted as his cockpit shuttered. The Divine-Eagle fighters weren’t fast, but they had an uncanny ability to work in large groups and to draw your attention then sneak a fighter in behind you for a quick kill. He quickly shunted power from his laser cannons to boast the rear shield until someone could clear the enemy off him. “Three?”

Laser blasts flashed past Chaar’s cockpit, followed by the flickering light of a large explosion. “Scrap one,” Viscount Three replied as the kill was verified by the battle computer. The commander reset his power distribution and scanned the battlefield for One Flight’s next target.

There were no Divine-Eagles in their immediate area of operations, though hordes of the deadly starfighters continued to roam the Csillan graveyard hunting for targets of opportunities. Outside the debris field, an overwhelming number of Brotherhood ships were pounding away at Outbound Flight and its escorts, far more than Fleet Intelligence had anticipated. Chaar was getting a bad feeling about this.

“Lead, Ten,” came the voice of his XO over the comm net. “Need assist.” Straight to the point - just how Chaar liked it.

“Copy,” Chaar replied as he wheeled around his B-wing toward Three Fight’s vector.

GA: Tyrant Leader: Grand Moff Vel'alari | Comet Two: Qellene Tyliame | Sabre Seven: Leon Gallo
MAW: Tu'teggacha | TK-818​

 

[Viribus]

R E D _ H O R N E T
CSILLA
XESH

​

The damn bird would certainly be the death to all of them. His style of getting the door open was crude, yet effective; however, that may have compromised the element of stealth they relied on to get them further in the mission. As luck would have it there weren't any station operators near them when they made their explosive entrance.

"If there are other teams, I say we just take them out. Not interested in coming back empty handed to M."

They had a mission to do and complete, and they would deliver. They could always play ignorant if M confronted them about that issue, it's not as if they were warned ahead of time the full parameters of this mission.

"Let's get a move on, yeah? New girl can navigate us to wherever it is we need to be going."

"After you," and pushed Kingsley up in front of the entire squad, making the as the point of the squad. A team they were, but survival was all in their best interests and Kingsley was just a wild bomb ready to detonate anytime to risk their lives.

"Just try not acting stupid and use two brain cells for once." Probably a lot to ask from Kingsley.

Up ahead there was a lot of boots moving around, the noises were loud enough to hear from their end of the hallway. Security from the station acting to apprehend them or the other teams aboard? Or something completely different?

"No loud commotions yet," as in no blasters sounding off. "How far are we?"

ALLIES | GA | XESH | Maijan Paisea | Kirk Korrado | Voyana | Kingsley | Garven Piarcos
ENEMIES | MAWITES | Dakrul | Garven Piarcos

 

[Inosuke Ashina]

A PRELUDE TO WAR
KINOSS | FUEL DEPOT | CORPSE MOUNTAIN
「KIRISUTE GOMEN」​

It felt like breath didn't want to be caught.

Every sound was distant, distorted. All except the sound of Inosuke's own heart beating in his ears. Every stroke of his saber was conducted in painful autopilot. If he was ever keeping count, he lost it somewhere between this moment and the last. They kept coming, but the frequency had diminished. More dead made him a less appealing target, and efforts had split for reasons he couldn't discern.

A bleached smudge appeared on fogged vision. Darker blotches of differing colors circled around it. Inosuke squinted, trying to decipher it. Impending danger tingled down his spine. He shifted, snatched a wrist that came toward him mid-strike, broke the arm backward, sent his saber into the blurry figure. It crumpled to the floor. He kept looking.

Double-vision centered, a first sign of a second-wind. The specks slowly became clear, a flurry of blinks swiping away obscurity like cleaners on a speeder's windshield. Ishida. That delay was almost enough for a strike to find him. His foot raised, shot backward like a mule's, met the groin of a hopeful attempting to strike from behind.

Ashina moved forward, toward the other Ashina. Slow at first, picking up speed as the second wind bolstered him with an unseen source of vitality.

"An impressive blade,"

Darting between several Mawites, Ashina appeared in a bloody blur. "Find out."

With a sudden hiss, a sable blade appeared. Ashina steel. Black, metallic glimmers arced into a lethal smear. Trajectory sent for the neck.

---

Allies: GA, NJO: Ishida Ashina | Bernard of Arca
Enemies: MAW: The Mongrel | Maestus

 

[Maestus]

Maestus was caught wholly off guard by the sudden Force Push from Ishida Ashina . So much so that it knocked her back further than expected and dropped her to one knee.

The Sith Lord was not used to being caught off guard. She hissed in anger at such a failing. She put one hand down on the ground, to catch herself so she didn't topple over completely.

Her head snapped up, black eyes zeroed in on Ishida Ashina as the red rim began to flicker and snap. Maestus stood slowly, opening her black robes as she did.

Hills for two very different weapons hung from her belt. One, an obvious lightsaber hilt. Plain draftees with no decoration. Function over form.

The other hilt was longer, more decorative as well. Phil inlays and accents glistened when the light hit it.

Maestus held her right hand out. The longer more decorative hilt ripped from her belt and smacked squarely into the palm of her hand. As it touched skin, the weapon sprang to life.

No, it was not a lightsaber as one may expect. Erupting from the hilt were 6 blades of red plasma, roughly 3 meters long. A lightwhip, Maestus Fury.

Maestus narrowed her eyes at Ishida.

Now, shall we?​

 

[Qellene Tyliame]

[Flight Officer Qellene Tyliame - "Comet Two"]
[REC-AI01 A-wing Interceptor]
[Attached Carrier - ANV Wyvern, Sacheen II-class Escort Frigate]
[Comet Squadron]

[Fly Me To The Moon]
​

In atmosphere, flying and dread went hand-in-hand. Let a craft's engines falter, let its repulsors malfunction, and gravity would take over. Gravity, the cruel mistress that it was, took victims plummeting, falling, burning toward a fatal discharge of kinetic energy, a deadly collision. But in space, gravity meant little, unless one had wandered within the field of influence belonging to a planetary body. In space, allow a malfunction to claim a craft, and one drifted. Forever. Condemned to die slowly, and among the stars. Lonely. In fear. In dreadful wait.

Despite her best efforts, Qellene allowed herself to dwell on the thought, to feel the bitter air seeping into her helmet as she caught sight of lifeless Alliance fighters, careening into the void in the aftermath of silenced dogfights. Occasionally, she caught a scarred helmet within what remained of their cockpits, a cloud of torn fabric, at times seared flesh. There were some A-wings among the crowd, though she didn't recognize which squadrons any of them belonged to-- their markings had been already replaced by wide scorch marks. She couldn't help but wonder which ones had belonged to Comet Squadron.

Qellene hazarded a glance at the aft camera display, anxiety setting in as she slowly scanned the pictured field of weathered asteroids for even the smallest traces of movement. Yet again, she found nothing, and continued forward with no less fear than before.

If all went well, her E.T.A to the Alliance fleet would be five minutes from then-- at her current sparingly fueled velocity, at least. She dared not go any faster, lest the interceptor's maneuvering nozzles be overwhelmed by the sole remaining impulse drive and allow the already damaged fighter to barrel uncontrollably to starboard. In any other setting, she may have preferred such an incident over the touch of the Brotherhood's laser cannons-- at least she'd build up enough momentum to transport her to safety faster. But with the danger of asteroid fragments in the air, and with a complement of malfunctioning stabilizers...

Another glance. Qellene's spirit was beginning to fade.

"KARK!" Unrestrained shock ripped the breath from her lungs, as the bright green streams of Brotherhood beam cannons cut past her fighter's hull, blackening the metal nearby despite having made little to no contact themselves.

They weren't stray shots from the asteroids beyond. Those beams had come from behind her...

The A-wing executed a desperate spin about its yaw axis, until Qellene's sights lined up with the aggressing Divine Eagle's wide silhouette. Her hand slammed into a launch igniter, as soon as the droid brains had caught on, and watched a single brilliant missile rocket from the craft's underside-- a mere distraction to slow the enemy while she dove behind a parting asteroid.

Four minutes. Thirty seconds. The dashboard reported her new E.T.A to the closest Alliance capital ship. Though, with a Divine Eagle on her trail, much less one that had caught her amidst the rubble . . . No amount of time seemed to matter.

The asteroid blasted open the moment Qellene had rounded its uncompromised half. The enemy pilot had continued to fire with uncompromised bloodlust, clearly unwilling to give up until she had joined the rest of her squadron.

She would join them. But not in the way Tu'teggacha anticipated.

At least, that was the plan.

 

[Ishida Ashina]

A PRELUDE TO WAR
OBJECTIVE: DEFEND THE FUEL RESERVES
KINOSS | FUEL DEPOT | RING OF DEATH

SOMETIMES I FEEL A LITTLE MAD
​

Katana-first was always a good plan. The initial resistance from the warlord's defences lasted no longer than the seconds necessary for the legendary steel to bite through the layers of technology and back into the air on the other side. Leaving a wake of small, bright yellow and orange sparks where his left hand had been.

Ishida was only partly prepared for the instant weightlessness of the weapon in her right hand. If she hadn't the momentum of the follow-up, she might have been put off balance by the efficiency of the fluid swing.

As it was, her main focus was on her follow-up with her sabre, which yielded yet another surprise—this one totally opposite the other. Where her katana had succeeded ten-fold, her sabre stopped abruptly. The thick metal of the serrated blade stopping its trajectory with such a jolt that she felt the suddenness tremour up her arm to her shoulder. More sparks erupted from the collision of his warm blade and her superheated light sword.

She grunted, giving a trying push and receiving no yield. The Mongrel's stopping power had her held, suspended in this precarious pose where he'd negotiated their duel into a contest of strengths. A battle she'd lose every time, no matter how she adjusted her footing and re-centred the distribution of her weight. Such was the reality of her composition; someone small had to act differently. With more agility, more movement. She had to use other methods, other advantages, if she wanted to celebrate victory. Matching wasn't an option, nor was deflection at this proximity.

"An impressive blade,"

The nape of her neck tightened in warning as his left hand came back around, sizzling and snapping with exposed conduits that looked like mechanical nerves. He made her decision for her.

Dropping her weight quickly, she flicked her thumb against the notch in her grip and disengaged her sabre's blade. The hilt eagerly swallowed the white glow and left nothing to resist the strength behind The Mongrel's dread blade. As she dropped, she twisted to bring her katana back around toward his thigh, keeping herself close to his body in case he tripped forward after he lost her counterbalance and opposition of swords.

But as she dropped she felt a ripple in the Force before she could swing. It was so fast, so familiar, so unexpected, that she found herself yawping in surprise as her brother sailed in, basically overtop of her, and launched at The Mongrel.

Ishida already set her counterattack in motion, her swipe across the legs with her katana going through – but she adjusted to follow it further and land in a crouch on the other side of the warlord's legs. Indignant rage lurched from her stomach to her throat, coming out in a hot growl and gnashing of her teeth, and she glowered at her sibling.

The one-sided death-staring contest was cut short by another pull of her attention.

Now, shall we?​

As much as it pained her to be interrupted, to be so intruded upon, she found necessity in shifting her focus; at least temporarily.

Both brows raised in shock at the display. Beautifully deadly. She'd seen whips before, trained to fight against varying versions of them within the walls of Ten Thousand Waterfalls Dojo –– but none had been as complex as this one. The intrigue was unignorable.

Instantly, she reassessed her arsenal. Against a lightwhip, her sabre would be recategorized as effective as a shield. If she could touch the plasma with her katana, then she might stand a chance.

Three Ashina Steel shurikens met the space between the fingers that were curled around her still idle lightsabre. These supplementary, five-sided throwing weapons were to test the reactiveness and accuracy of the woman's range with the lightwhip.

> We are faster than they are. < Ishida thought, projecting the telepathic consideration through to that familial link to her kin–– The Force made his aura relative to hers glow, which made the assertion possible. > That lightwhip might turn into something we can use to our advantage if we get them tangled up and close enough. <

In an instant, she hurled them forward one-two-three, simultaneously, toward the Sith Lord's torso -- about shoulder height. At the same time, she launched forward from her crouched position with her sabre snapp-hisssssssing! to life and coming across her defensively, while the katana went in for the initial stab.

​

---

ALLIES | GA | NJO | Inosuke Ashina | Bernard of Arca | Jeffery Kizaroe | Xian Cade
FOES | BOTM | The Mongrel | Maestus

​

 

[Tu'teggacha]

Location: Csilla System, Edge of the Csillan Belt
Allies: TK-818
Foes: Qellene Tyliame | Tren Chaar

The enemy B-Wings were pulling back and regrouping, moving to assist the Outbound Flight vessels that Marlon Sularen was so determined to destroy. Many of the Knyghts were eager to pursue, but the Taskmaster's command reigned them in; heavy enemy flak fire would shred any Mawite fighters that emerged from the Csillan Belt, and he had no intention of losing craft to their hunger for glory with no real gain for the Brotherhood. Leave that to Sularen and his grudge. It would be better to keep back, conserve his forces, and simply practice area denial strategies. Anything tried to come through the belt, and...

... well, the Knyghts and Thornwaves would be waiting for them.

For now, the Mawite pilots focused on hunting those Alliance craft that had not yet pulled back, Qellene among them. Perseus of Kasparov was bored and bloodthirsty, and he did not intend to let his prey escape. His Divine Eagle tore through the asteroid field, firing wildly at the wounded A-Wing, blowing up the drifting rocks in his savage attack. But the Alliance pilot, though her craft was near-crippled, was still not without teeth. Perseus grinned as her A-Wing turned tightly on its axis and launched a missile right at him, forcing him into an evasive maneuver. He was glad this foe still had some fight in her.

The missile streaked in toward his starfighter, well-aimed and deadly. It might well have killed him were it not for his special enhancements. His Divine Eagle responded instantly to his impulses, instincts he gained through the Force and channeled through cyber-augmented hands directly jacked into the craft's controls. His dodge was near-instant, allowing him to flip the unwieldy Divine Eagle out of the way just enough that the explosion didn't hit him outright. It still shook the starfighter and rattled his teeth, though, the pressure wave flipping his craft over several times as it expanded from the asteroid it'd hit.

For a moment, one critical moment, it knocked him silly. She had a little time to move.

When he recovered his senses, Perseus reached out with the Force once more, tracking his prey. He squeezed the firing controls immediately, blowing apart a good chunk of the asteroid Qellene had flown behind, and then kicked his sublight engines to full in order to pursue. Normally there would be no way a slow but sturdy Divine Eagle could ever catch a swift but fragile A-Wing, but this one seemed to have taken some hits, enough that it couldn't just go pedal to the metal and escape him. The pilot must be running out of options, and he was still closing in. "I have you now," he muttered, chuckling darkly.

Once again he moved in from behind, beam cannons blazing as he attacked...

 

[The Mongrel]

Location: Kinoss, CEDF Fuel Depot
Allies: Maestus | Glossa | Darth Tennacus | Darth Senthral
Foes: Bernard of Arca | Ishida Ashina | Inosuke Ashina | Sol Stazi

The Alliance troops were worthy foes, The Mongrel reflected. Even with their outer defenses overrun and their forces heavily outnumbered, the remaining CEDF defenders breaking all around them, they were not just holding the line but doing their best to push back. It meant a good fight, one that would either bring marauders glory or deliver them to paradise, and the Mawite warriors could ask for nothing better. He was still confident that they would be able to hold the fuel tanks long enough to plant the charges, crippling the CEDF's defensive ability, but it wouldn't be easy.

There was little time to consider the progress of the overall battle, however; the duel in which he had found himself consumed all his attention, for if he became distracted, he would surely be cut down by his skilled Jedi foes. Yes, foes, for the other Jedi atop the corpse mountain had joined the fight... and quite abruptly, striking without warning with a decapitating arc of his katana. The Mongrel was forced to throw himself to the ground, lying amid the cooling corpses of Ishida's victims, as Inosuke's blade cut a considerable clump of his long mane of hair in half midair.

By then he had already held back Ishida's lightsaber blow one-handed, the servos of his intact cybernetic arm whirring in what sounded like mechanical bloodlust as they strained to hold the dread blade up in the path of the lightsaber. They were stronger than the arm of the willowy Jedi, and the parry held. Ishida managed to evade the strange punch of his arm stump, nearly causing him to overbalance as she simply deactivated her lightsaber and let his straining arm fly forward... but her follow-up swipe at his legs went wide as he fell backwards to evade Inosuke's strike.

Nearby, Maestus drew her lightwhip, and The Mongrel grinned behind his durasteel mask. Now that was a fearsome weapon, one that could match the incredible steel of the Ashina katanas simply by merit of reach and flexibility. Two on two; time to get back into it, and see what this pair of sword-and-saber Jedi could really do. He rolled backwards over his shoulder, the bodies beneath him twisting and jerking in rubber-like ripples of limp flesh as he moved over them, and landed in a crouch. Ishida was focused on Maestus now, and that left him with the swift and silent one.

Down to one hand, and with an energy sword that evidently could not parry an Ashina steel katana, The Mongrel was at a significant disadvantage... but such situations were where he truly thrived. He was always the underdog, the ordinary man against the demigods, and was well practiced in playing the role to perfection. As Ishida threw her shurikens, he launched a weapon of his own. Popping out of his damaged mechanical arm was a wrist-mounted carbonite projector, capable of firing a supercooled beam of liquid carbonite at a close-range target.

Taking aim, the warlord attempted to hose Inosuke down with the carbonite ray. It was not a fatal weapon, merely a way to slow the Jedi and temporarily hold him in place, negating his speed advantage... perhaps for long enough that The Mongrel could get a good swipe of his dread blade right through the man's body. Given that he lacked a hand to reach into his satchel of tricks, he was going to have to make do with the weaponry integrated into his cybernetic systems, and this seemed like a good opener to attempt. After all, a stream of spraying liquid was a difficult "projectile" for a laser-sword to deflect...

 

[Tren Chaar]

FLY ME TO THE MOON

V I S C O U N T _ L E A D E R
B-WING HEAVY STARFIGHTER​

---

---

The four B-wings of One Flight sped through the asteroid remains of Csilla to assist their compatriots in Three Flight. The uncharacteristic fallback of the Brotherhood fighters which had been harrying him weighed heavily on Chaar’s mind, but no more than the thought of losing more members of his squadron. Viscount had been forged into a tight family unit during the Stygian Campaign, and the generally untrusting Umbaran would place his life in the hands of any of his pilots without a second thought.

He needed to keep them safe.

“Ten, Lead. Two merns,” Chaar announced to his XO as the ETA on his rangefinder read t two minutes.

The distance to target on Chaar’s HUD continued to tick down as the four B-wings closed toward Three Flight’s reported location. The seasoned pilots of Viscount swerved between the asteroids in silence, the preference of their commander. They skirted dangerously close to the larger pieces of debris, relying on their skills and experience to keep them alive. Smaller asteroids were a different matter - those they barrelled straight through, their starfighter’s heavy shields and hulls keeping them safe.

Chaar switched to ion cannons - with the Brotherhood engaging Three Flight at close range they couldn’t risk fatal friendly fire. The indicator on his HUD indicated that the three other pilots in his formation had changed over their weapons without the need for orders. Viscount Squadron had flown together long to know how their boss operated.

“One mern,” Chaar announced flatly, settled himself into his acceleration couch and regripped his control yoke.

The distance to Three Flight continued to tick down.

GA: Tyrant Leader: Grand Moff Vel'alari | Comet Two: Qellene Tyliame | Sabre Seven: Leon Gallo
MAW: Tu'teggacha | TK-818​